The Social Diary

by Ros Reines

  Frances had arrived first at the restaurant and had gaily flagged me down when I walked in. ‘Savannah, over here, darling,’ she had trilled, half rising from her seat to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Look what a fab table Nicholas has given us—he is always so good to me.’ As I smiled and nodded she said, ‘I’m having a Buck’s Fizz and I’ve ordered one for you as well—hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, that’s great,’ I lied (there was nothing I hated more than Buck’s Fizz). ‘It’s lovely to finally meet you after all our phone conversations.’

  ‘Isn’t it! And you are looking fantastic,’ Frances gushed, as she did a double take as she took in my brightly coloured dress with the wide belt. I had purchased it in Paddington Markets, from the up-and-coming designer section (though I suspected this label’s designers were not emerging fast enough for Frances).

  ‘I love your hair,’ she continued, still looking for the positive. But by now Frances was scrabbling around under her seat before proudly handing over a huge, shiny pink gift bag as if she was one of Santa’s most enthusiastic helpers. ‘This is the product that I promised to bring for you to try. I’m sure that you are going to love it!’ she squealed. It was an awkward moment. I felt slightly embarrassed as several people turned around to look. Was it a birthday? Nothing that gauche happened at Emerald Ville. ‘You’ll find all the latest Chantelle collections from the US.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the bulging sock and quickly stowing it under my seat.

  For a moment Frances looked disappointed by my low-key reaction to her largesse, but fortunately the Billecart arrived at that moment.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Nicholas!’ she said. Naturally, she presumed it was for her. She spun around in her seat to see who might have sent it. She even beamed hopefully across at Lady Victoria’s table. It was only after turning back to the tray that she noticed the discreet card underneath the rose. Frances was still gaily smiling as she picked it up and then read it in disbelief, her face darkening.

  ‘Oh, wait, this was for you,’ she said, pushing the tray towards me so abruptly she upended the bread basket just as I had been reaching for a grissini stick. My hand was left hovering in the air like some second rate magician. ‘It’s from that awful Lahar Kapoor,’ she announced. ‘You must have made quite an impression on him—but really, Savannah, he is not the type of friend you should cultivate.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked innocently, though I had no intention of hanging out with him, especially when every fibre of my body warned me that he was up to no good.

  ‘Oh, you’ll find out,’ she snapped, before quickly collecting herself. ‘But we might as well drink his champagne because that tastes the same no matter who sent it.’ Frances had clearly rallied and was now making the best of an embarrassing situation, as she lifted her glass towards mine to clink. ‘Here’s to your sparkling career.’

  From the corner of my eye, I could see the blinding white form of Lahar Kapoor keenly tracking our movements, so I just raised my champagne glass as if to toast him and mouthed ‘thank you’. Then I turned away because the last thing that I wanted was to give him an opening to approach the table.

  ‘Okay,’ said Frances, ‘let’s order. I’m going to have the Deconstructed Cottage Pie. Have you ever had it? It’s actually minute.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I agreed.

  Our orders dispatched, Frances quaffed the Billecart like someone who had just emerged from months in a desert. I sipped at my glass sparingly; as far as I was concerned, this was work, and I needed to stay sharp.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked as a fiftyish man with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair entered the room with a beautiful blonde who looked as though she had just stepped from the set of Days of Our Lives.

  Frances, who had been searching for something worth eating in the mound of salad leaves the waiter had brought over to our table, followed my gaze. ‘That’s Gary Rand, the property developer, and his latest girlfriend, Lara Leonard,’ Frances whispered. ‘Gary’s company has one of the contracts for the new Darling Harbour development and Lara is a former model who walked in Europe and the US—though that was several years ago. Did you see the tattoo of a fairy on one of her breasts? That dress is cut so low you can almost see her navel.’

  ‘What does she do now?’

  ‘Um, she’s very successful,’ said Frances, who had given up on her search for something interesting in the salad bowl and was now just dutifully forking up the lettuce leaves. ‘She’s brilliant at spending Gary’s money and she is renowned for her ability to blow him in the front seat of his Bentley in the time it takes him to drive from Woollahra to Rose Bay.’

  I nearly choked on my champagne. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. Sydney is a tough city to crack for even the most stunning woman once she hits her thirties. And just like pageant queens, it pays to have another talent,’ Frances explained.

  Despite myself, I couldn’t help staring at Lara. She was beautifully attired in a pale pink, clingy dress with a diamond pendant in the shape of the letter L resting on her generous décolletage.

  At this moment, Lahar decided to approach our table and there was nothing that I could do to deflect his transit.

  ‘Savannah? I do hope the champagne was to your liking.’ Lahar was at his creepy best.

  ‘It was so generous of you, thank you.’ I was at least trying to sound sincere. ‘Have you met Frances Ford, PR director for Chantelle Cosmetics?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he said, beaming at her.

  ‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure,’ Frances responded through gritted teeth at precisely the same time.

  ‘Sorry, but you must meet so many people in your role,’ Lahar smoothly covered up before turning back to me and effectively cutting her out of the conversation.

  ‘Look, I don’t know whether you have anything planned this afternoon, but Lady Victoria has invited a group of us for a drink at Hotel Hermitage in Double Bay after lunch. I think she is celebrating being a free woman again. Would you care to come along? I’m sure there’ll be lots of champagne being poured—and there’s a story I’d like to talk to you about.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said hesitantly, intrigued but also on my guard. I had no interest in spending time with Lahar, but there was no way I was going to refuse an introduction to Lady V’s influential circle.

  Frances was glaring at me across the table, shaking her head vehemently to let me know that she did not approve.

  Suddenly Lahar spun around, catching the publicist with a scowl on her face. ‘And Miss Ford,’ he said, sounding even more pompous than usual, ‘I do hope you’ll join us.’

  ‘Thank you, Lahar,’ Frances said sweetly with only a trace of sarcasm, her desire to rub shoulders with Lady V and her set outweighing her dislike of the jeweller. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Five

  The Champagne Bar at Double Bay’s Hotel Hermitage—known affectionately as the Taj—was the nearest thing to a secret hideaway for all of Sydney’s mischief makers. It was on the first floor of the five-star hotel—a space far removed from curious passers-by who might gossip about the fast disintegrating faces that they had seen there. The bar was at its best in the loose, languid hours between lunch and dinner. Then they came, wobbling in their high heels, clothes slightly crumpled, lipstick smeared or disappeared, to drink more of the stuff that was already starting to give them heartburn, or to try to shock their systems with cognac or tequila straight up.

  Some of the more seasoned socialites almost disappeared into the Chesterfield sofas, where they would try to collect themselves before staggering into the powder room to fix some of the devastation wrought by hours of drinking. When it came to the younger crowd, though, the dash to the loos was in order to sniff a few lines of coke. It was said that the residue of white powder around the basin of the ladies’ room at the Taj was so substantial that the hotel cleaners were getting through their chores in half the time. All they had to do was to Hoover it up.

 
; Lady V’s orgasmic laughter reverberated throughout the Taj after she had been quietly offered a line or two of ‘marching powder’ by a certain shady man who immediately leapt back from her as if stung by a ferocious bee. For a moment Lahar didn’t know where to put himself as Lady V sent a crystal clear message that she didn’t require drugs in order to have a good time. Her potion of choice was champagne, preferably vintage. I watched as, shame-faced, he went back to the bar and ordered a magnum of Moët, which the waiters promptly carted over to the table where Lady V was now sitting with Susie Carruthers and Freya Rice. Patricia Wren, who had already found the expensive champagne far too irresistible throughout the day, had gone home with a migraine. Susie, I noted, wasn’t even tipsy. Though she always had a glass in her hand, she very seldom sipped from it. I had also managed to stay sober so far, aware of my position as a social observer. The long afternoon had already produced enough blind items for my column to last me a month, but I was still on the lookout for a really big story. I needed to stay sharp for that.

  When I did venture into the loo, I spotted the well-known fashion designer Anthea Clarke, dressed for excess in a fitted pantsuit, standing at the vanity redoing her make-up. It was hard to tell if her smudged eyes were the result of an unsteady hand with the mascara wand or if this was the look that she was actually going for.

  ‘Oh, hello, Savannah,’ she said loudly, no doubt to warn those behind the closed doors that there was a gossip columnist in the house. The scuffling sounds in the stalls immediately died down aside from one high-pitched giggle.

  ‘So are you enjoying your job?’ she asked pointedly after I had emerged from the one vacant stall and was washing my hands.

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded, checking out my own make-up job, which thankfully was still holding up. ‘It’s a lot of fun.’

  ‘You don’t mind that everyone is a little bit scared of what you might write?’ she asked, sounding a tad belligerent.

  ‘Not at all. By the way,’ I said, glancing at the still-closed cubicle doors, ‘is it just my imagination or is there a party going on in there?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not. Terrible acoustics in here. I think you’re hearing noise from upstairs.’

  ‘Oh, of course. That must be it. Anyway, nice talking to you. See you outside.’ I almost shouted this last line, so the cocaine crew would understand that I was now leaving and they could breathe again.

  Heading into the bar area, I almost ran into my lunch date, Frances Ford, who was engaged in an animated conversation with Susie Carruthers. After lunch, Frances had all but pushed me into Lahar’s yellow stretch limo, which had been idling for several hours outside Emerald Ville, the driver waiting patiently for the Indian jeweller to appear. Frances might have abhorred the exotic businessman’s bizarre wardrobe, but a stretch limousine was her preferred method of transport, even if it was buttercup yellow, and she couldn’t wait to take her seat inside.

  I looked around restlessly. I needed something more substantial to write about beyond simply filling up the ‘No Names’ section of my column, which gave all the juice without any names attached to the naughtiness. It was where I could get away with blue murder but, unfortunately, it just wasn’t enough by itself to justify being out of the office for so long.

  Just then, glamour couple Gary Rand and Lara Leonard walked into the Taj with several men whom I had noticed dining together at Emerald Ville. Stylishly attired in fitted suits and shirts with no ties, they had tans, longish hair and exuded the kind of confidence that comes from being well travelled. One man in particular, with surfie blond hair neatly combed back from his face, a light tan and green-blue eyes, drew my attention. He had caught me checking him out across the room during lunch and winked, making me blush, and after that we had exchanged several glances. I quickly looked away now, not wanting to be caught staring (again). But it was fun to observe him holding court as several women sidled up to him. He seemed to talk to each of them intently as if he was really interested in whatever they had to say.

  The Taj was starting to fill up now and was feeling quite festive with more of the diners from Emerald Ville, as well as the regulars who invariably congregated at the bar after their long lunches right across town.

  I watched as Erica Hopewell arrived with Sylvester, both of them looking slightly the worse for wear. I waved at her cheerily again, more to annoy her than anything else and because I wasn’t prepared to play her game of ignoring a colleague whom I saw on a daily basis. True to form, she looked at me with her cold fish eyes and frowned before heading to a table for two set in an alcove.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

  As I looked around and caught the photogenic smile of the man I’d been staring at earlier on, my ‘hearthrob surfie’, I couldn’t help but notice that he was even more charismatic close up.

  ‘I’m Daniel Acton,’ he said, extending a smooth brown hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, blushing again. Drat! ‘I’m Savannah Stephens.’

  ‘The gossip columnist.’ He was grinning at me now as if my job was one big joke.

  ‘That’s right—got any stories you want to share? It’s been a quiet afternoon so far.’ My bravado was a pretty transparent cover-up for my flirtatiousness earlier on.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe I do. Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can interrogate me.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said flippantly, trying to play it cool.

  ‘What would you like?’ he asked, moving towards the bar.

  ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

  Daniel turned to the bartender. ‘A bottle of very cold chardonnay, John,’ he said. ‘Two glasses—and I’d like a Fosters.

  ‘Sure, I’ll bring it over, Mr Acton. Where are you sitting?’

  ‘Over there in the corner.’

  The slight pressure of Daniel’s hand in the small of my back as he guided me towards a small table sent an almost imperceptible current of electricity through me. Who was this man? Given my romantic track record, he was probably unavailable, I decided. And even if he wasn’t involved with someone else, he was probably on the verge of leaving on an expedition to the Himalayas or maybe he’d be spending the next year documenting the lives of monks in a Tibetan monastery. That’s the way it usually went with my romantic interests, I was like a homing pigeon for unavailable men—no matter where they were I could find them.

  I watched as a waiter hurried over with our order and set it down on the table, fussing with little silver dishes of nuts, crisps, olives and the tiny, savoury wafer biscuits that were a speciality of the Taj. Whoever Daniel was, he certainly seemed to command a bit of respect here. I glanced around at the other tables—no one else had silver dishes.

  ‘Would you like to try the wine, Mr Acton?’

  ‘No, I’m sure it’s fine.’

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No, we’re good, thanks.’

  Daniel handed me one of the glasses and then raised his glass of beer, clinking it against mine. ‘Here’s to new friends,’ he said, fixing me with a hundred-watt smile.

  ‘To new friends,’ I echoed, mirroring his winning smile. I just prayed that there wouldn’t be any more of that spinach caught in my teeth from lunch.

  ‘So tell me about yourself,’ Daniel prompted, looking as though he was genuinely interested in what I had to say. ‘I know you frequently write controversial columns for the paper. Is that the kind of journalism you aspire to or are you marking time until something else comes along? Guess it can’t be that bad—after all, I noticed you lunching at Emerald Ville today and you looked like you were having fun.’

  Daniel didn’t say it, but I guessed he was thinking that most journos were lucky if they got to eat lunch at all, never mind kicking back and sipping champagne with socialites. Still, I wasn’t offended by his less than flattering line of questioning, since he seemed to understand something about the media and to have some respect for it. Suddenly I didn’t want to let on
that I had been taken to the hot restaurant by a beauty industry publicist who wanted to flog her products and was then invited to the Taj by a seedy jeweller who had given me a lift in his limo. Why go into those kinds of crass details?

  ‘Writing a gossip column is my entree into mainstream journalism in Sydney,’ I explained. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to break decent stories in the paper.’ Why did I feel the need to tell him this? Probably because I didn’t want him to have the impression that I was just caught up in the hype of Sydney’s social scene.

  Daniel still seemed to be listening to me intently and I squirmed just a little in my seat. I was starting to feel like an impostor, which was ridiculous. I was as much of a journalist as those who worked in the press gallery.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see that you can take time out as well. And by the way, everything I say from now on is off the record, okay? Please don’t quote me.’

  I recoiled slightly. It drove me crazy when people said that. Most of the time they had nothing worth quoting in the first place. ‘Okay, I promise I won’t quote you,’ I said, unable to hide my irritation. ‘Are you particularly newsworthy? Or do you work for ASIO?’ I was getting sarcastic now, which is usually what happened when I was made to feel defensive. ‘What exactly do you do for a living, Daniel?’ I was aware of some other women staring at us from the bar—or rather giving him the once over. He almost seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the opposite sex.

  Daniel just laughed. ‘ASIO? No, nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I guess you could say that I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that.’ The hundred-watt grin was back.

  ‘Sort of like an odd jobs man,’ I teased, wondering why he was being so evasive. Was it possible that he was a big-time drug dealer?

  ‘You got it.’