by Ros Reines
Twenty minutes later I was walking into the party, and though I felt unsteady in my highest pair of heels, I made up for it by taking long strides, which I hoped would have the effect of making me look more confident. (It’s amazing what holding yourself erect and looking at people straight in the eye will do for your self-esteem.)
I’d never been to The Duchess before—a shimmering restaurant with glass walls on the fringe of the Domain, a great expanse of parkland which connected the hyperactive CBD with the playful heart of the city which belonged to the picnic people who dined out on rugs. The Duchess was a curious mix of modern design and the kinds of gilt finishes that would have done Madame Pompadour proud.
A platoon of waiters just inside the doorway greeted guests with trays of Campari cocktails and glasses of Spumante—Italian-themed in honour of the fashion house. Wafting through the room was the aroma of fried, garlicky seafood from the platters of tiny gamberi that were being handed around. My stomach lurched slightly as I breathed in the freshly cooked crustaceans. Would I ever be able to face seafood again after that vile shark expedition? I looked around for something bland to eat and found myself drinking the sickly-sweet Spumante far too quickly. It was almost refreshing. Was this job going to turn me into an alcoholic?
Oh no! Deep inside the crowd of socialites and fashion plates, I spotted Lahar Kapoor. He was hard to miss in a watermelon-coloured suit, and he was ostentatiously carrying a super-sized Gucci holdall with that distinctive red and green stripe. Why did he need to bring such a large bag to a cocktail party? Maybe he was hoping to sell some of his jewellery on the side . . . Luckily, he was deep in conversation with a petite woman who was actually wearing a beret with a veil, and he hadn’t seen me walk in.
Unfortunately, while I had been keeping Lahar in my sight as if I were on safari and he was some kind of exotic creature who might strike at any moment, someone else had been stalking me. That’s Sydney’s social scene for you.
‘Savannah, it’s so good to see you.’ It was the consummate cosmetic spruiker, Frances Ford. ‘I was so worried about you last night when you disappeared with that man.’
And I thought Daniel and I had made our exit discreetly. Was there no escaping Frances Ford? Apparently not. Anyway, what did she mean by ‘that man’? Did she know Daniel well?
‘Really?’ I said, straining to make myself heard above the din of the crowd. ‘How do you know Daniel?’
But Frances either hadn’t heard me or had decided to ignore the question.
‘I hope you have that divine Oliver working with you tonight,’ she said, anxiously scanning the room for the paper’s social photographer.
Yes, where was Oliver? No doubt getting his outfit just right again before he ventured out. Right now he was having his mirrored brooch moment and they all had to be arranged in a certain formation down one of the lapels of his quirky jackets. His favoured subjects would not care how long they were kept waiting for him, as if he were the star and not them. Just as long as he showed up some time. Mostly they were desperate to be included in one of his picture books with such arresting titles as Out! Out Again! and Forever Out! That was some serious social caché.
‘I’m sure Oli will be dying to snap me tonight,’ Frances declared. ‘I mean, do you love this Gucci ensemble I’m wearing? It’s from the latest collection—terribly expensive but I had to have it. And then I had to buy it in another colour as well. But what can you do when you find something that suits you? J’adore Gucci.’
Wrong country, love, I thought. Try: ‘Gucci è bello.’
But I simply nodded in agreement, wishing that Frances would just stop talking at me. It was making me anxious in my current, fragile state. The only thing I was really interested in was what she knew about the enigmatic Daniel.
Frances was not finished with me yet but was now coolly appraising me from top to scruffy bottom (I really should have polished those boots but then I had been hoping for dim lighting). Her eyeballs were like mini cash registers because, within seconds, it seemed that she had calculated the total cost of my outfit and found that it was probably slightly less expensive than her cosmetic bag. At least she was stellar at faking it.
‘You look fabulous,’ she cooed. ‘So chic. Is that Christian Lacroix? Divine!’
Try Christian Le Knock Off.
‘Um, not quite, it’s . . .’ I was trying desperately hard to think of a decent label and hoping that she would not inspect the tag on the inside of my collar. I wouldn’t put it past her.
But Frances was not exactly waiting avidly to hear me bumble my way through the no-name label that I had selected to wear to one of the most fashionable nights of the year so far. She was all about plugging her beauty brand.
‘I can’t wait till you see the models in the fashion show—they’ve all been made up with Chantelle Cosmetics, from that new line that I told you about.’
‘Wow,’ I said lamely.
‘Did you love the samples I gave you,’ she asked, casting another frankly critical look at my face.
‘Oh yes, thank you once again, Frances,’ I demurred. Where was that bag? Don’t tell me I had left it in the cab?
‘Wasn’t it sweet of Jenny Black to insist on using Chantelle with the Gucci clothes? You have met Jenny, haven’t you? As well as doing the PR for Gucci, she also handles several other important overseas accounts. You really should get to know her.’
Now, despite my assurances that yes, I had met Jenny, Frances had her cool little hand on my elbow and was urging me forward through the crowd. So much for my quest to appear straight-backed and assertive; she was parading me around like a pet poodle in need of the doggie parlour. I somehow had to break free from her grasp. That opportunity presented itself when art dealer and society walker Geoffrey Jardine, who was acting as the evening’s master of ceremonies, suddenly came shuttering across the room and turned on the loudspeaker. In his rich, plummy accent, he asked everyone to take their seats for the fashion show.
‘Oh, how fabulous,’ sighed an approving Frances, almost hurtling in the direction of one of the coveted front-row seats. ‘I can hardly wait for it to begin. Come on, Savannah.’
But I had already disengaged. ‘I’ll be there in a couple of minutes,’ I promised. ‘Just have to go and say hi to some people first. Save a seat for me.’
Actually, I couldn’t care less whether or not I was seated in the front row; I desperately needed something to eat and a glass of water as I was starting to spin out in the hot, stuffy room. And every woman seemed to be wearing Giorgio from Beverly Hills—it was sensory overload. I tracked down a waiter circulating through the crowd with a platter of little crackers piled high with curls of smoked salmon. I took several and then snatched a glass of Coke from another tray, hoping that it hadn’t been mixed with anything intoxicating as I gulped it down.
‘Hasn’t Erica told you that it’s not a good idea to be seen eating at functions?’
Oliver had arrived at last and he was outstanding in a red velvet jacket absolutely covered in those Andrew Logan brooches. But far from apologising for his lateness, he was not only telling me off for acting like a normal person and accepting food from waiters, but he was invoking the name of the woman who was fast heading down to the bottom of my Christmas card list. No doubt she was lurking in the shadows somewhere with a notepad so that she could keep track of my many misdemeanours and present them to the editor first thing in the morning. (‘And then—you wouldn’t believe it but I actually saw her eating. In public! She is dragging this paper into disrepute.’) Sure enough, when I looked around, there she was, glaring at me from her front-row perch right next to Frances.
I beamed at her and she looked away abruptly, as though the sight of me might damage her retinas.
‘Savannah, there you are! I’ve reserved a seat for you in the front row—do sit down before someone else snatches it. I’ve already had to shoo away Lahar Kapoor, who wanted to sit there himself. Can you imagine? In the front row in that
Santa Claus suit of his.’ Jenny Black, with her shimmering golden skin, her elegant black crepe Gucci pantsuit and her impressive shoulder-length blonde hair, which had been blow-dried to perfection, was bearing down on me.
I was worried that I might end up next to Erica, but thankfully my perch was further down the front row, away from her line of vision. In the meantime, Oliver was sulking because he had not been granted a front-row berth but had instead been relegated to a pen with the other photographers.
‘I think I’ll go and shoot the models backstage,’ he said to Jenny imperiously, leaving her in no doubt that he was displeased. ‘Have one of the waiters bring me some champagne,’ he commanded. ‘I’m thirsty.’
Jenny was biting her lip nervously. No one was supposed to be allowed backstage without the approval of her client—the company who was importing Gucci to Australia. But nor did she want to put Oliver out even further; he might retaliate by refusing to cover any more of her events.
I could see what was going on, but there was no way I was going to intervene; at least if he was behind the scenes Oliver would not be driving me nuts. He loved to get me to hold his flash up in the air as though I was auditioning to be the Statue of Liberty.
‘We’ll do the socials after the show,’ he said petulantly as he disappeared through the crowd. ‘And I’ll need you to help me with the flash.’
Had he just read my mind? Poor Oliver. There was no way I was going to be his assistant.
I had thought that dealing with an excited Frances Ford was hard core, but seated next to me in the front row was the society lawyer, Ann-Marie Reed. A large curvaceous woman, tonight she was dripping in South Sea pearls the size of ping-pong balls.
We had barely introduced ourselves before she was revealing that her house in Point Piper was the most expensive property ever sold in that area, and she drove a Bentley.
I nodded politely, not at all sure why she thought that she had to impress me with all this information.
‘My friends have a really hard time finding us,’ she confided. ‘Our home is down a private road.’
‘Is that right?’ That’s just their excuse, I thought. I bet they don’t actually want to visit you and have to listen to your skiting for hours on end.
‘Would everyone please take their seats.’
Geoffrey Jardine was becoming agitated now. Not only was everyone still talking full throttle but many had disobeyed his earlier instruction to sit down and give the runway their undivided attention.
‘Yes, please do sit down everyone,’ he directed. ‘You are about to see a fashion show that is certainly the most exciting one of the year because of this sensational label. Soon when you mention the letters GG, the last thing you will think of is a horse.’
The room echoed with laughter, which perplexed Geoffrey just a little bit because he hadn’t been joking.
‘I rarely attend fashion shows in Sydney anymore,’ my front-row neighbour, Ann-Marie, offered.
‘Oh?’ I responded.
‘I much prefer to be in Paris for the haute couture.’
‘Of course.’
We both fell silent as the show started and I saw to my surprise that sequined beanies and even beanies with veils were going to be huge next season.
This revelation was more exciting for some than others. Geoffrey Jardine was so overcome with emotion at the whole event that he insisted on following the last of the models down the runway for the finale. He probably felt that he owed it to his many admirers to give them a twirl, but unfortunately he just looked a bit like the ghost of fashion designers past in his black brocade jacket and velvet pants. His carefully coiffed reddish-grey hair was the colour of pale pink hydrangeas under the lights.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Geoffrey cried, clapping his heavily bejewelled hands together as he walked right up to the tableau of models posed for photographers at the end of the runway and tried to insert himself in their midst.
The lens men were not impressed. ‘Could the elderly gentleman please move out of the frame?’ one yelled. ‘You’re spoiling the shot.’
‘Come on, you old coot. Move away from the models.’
But, feigning deafness, Geoffrey remained resolute. He continued to cling to the clothes horses on either side of him and kissed their cheeks as though he was Guccio Gucci himself. Then he did something even more extraordinary: he bowed deeply to the crowd on both sides of the runway, waited until the formation of models was ready to move off again, then he followed them back down the runway, clapping wildly all the time and even executing another flamboyant twirl before he disappeared out of sight.
Unfortunately, with the master of ceremonies having a fashion moment, no one was left to conclude the hosting duties for the show. The guests sat there, slightly stunned, and then slowly started to gather up their goodie bags. (Those who had already peeped inside theirs had pocketed the miniature Gucci fragrances and discarded the bag and the bulky catalogues inside.)
‘Do you think Geoffrey is finally having a meltdown?’ Ann-Marie speculated. ‘I’ve heard that his business is not what it used to be. Most people want to buy modern art these days, not the stuff he sells.’
I had already started to nut out a possible column item about this evening’s proceedings and was busy jotting it down.
Guests at the ultra-exclusive Gucci autumn/winter collection launch at The Duchess restaurant in the Domain on Tuesday night were shocked when society fixture Geoffrey Jardine, the noted art dealer, took over the runway. Hired to MC the event, he instead insisted on joining the models for the finale. Jardine, who was wearing a black brocade jacket and velvet trousers, was booed by the photographers but seemed not to notice the ill feeling towards him.
Confirmed bachelor Jardine, who accompanied the newly single Lady Victoria Snow to the event, failed to return after he had disappeared backstage with the models. It left some of the fashionable guests in stunned silence.
Maybe by tomorrow morning I would be able to sensationalise it even more, depending on the reaction of the organisers, who were no doubt horrified that he had upstaged such an important fashion launch.
A small scrum of publicists, led by Jenny Black and Frances Ford, had clambered onto the runway and were rushing backstage. I was just about to follow to see what was going on when Oliver Orlan emerged from behind the curtain, looking even more disgruntled than he had before the show.
‘What’s going on back there?’ I asked. ‘Is Geoffrey all right?’
‘Who?’ he responded. Oliver was never that good at seeing the big picture.
‘Geoffrey Jardine—the art dealer who was supposed to be compering the show and not modelling in it.’
‘Oh, that strange man. I think they’re talking to him,’ he said vaguely.
‘Did you take any pictures while that was happening?’
‘Of course not,’ he said dismissively. ‘Too dull. Who would be interested in seeing that?’
‘Try the readers of the newspaper. Would you go and get some shots of the backstage action now? I promise you that it will be very useful.’
But Oliver just ignored me. He didn’t take direction well.
‘I’m going to need you to come around with me and hold the flash while I do some social shots for the paper,’ he said, also completely ignoring Ann-Marie; she was posing coquettishly on her seat, apparently ready for her close-up. ‘And can you write the names down as well?’
This was too much. I was going to have to chase the other photographers down and find out who had the best shots of Geoffrey’s runway faux pas. A photo of him bowing and linking arms with the models would be gold, along with that little turn he executed on the catwalk.
‘I’m sorry, Oliver, but since you haven’t taken the shots of Geoffrey in the finale, I’m going to have to find someone who has,’ I said tensely, turning away from him.
I was actually feeling far too weary to have to pander to the moody photographer and if I didn’t make a stand now I would be forever trai
ling behind him holding a flash aloft.
‘You can do that after you help me,’ he argued. ‘Anyway, no one will run those shots, I guarantee it.’
I gave him a withering look. ‘Sorry, Oliver, but there are some people whom I need to talk to in private for a news story I’m following up,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to manage on your own tonight. And, by the way, would you please photograph my friend here, Ann-Marie Reed?’ I gestured to my new buddy. ‘I think our readers would appreciate seeing those massive pearls she’s wearing.’
‘Oh, really?’ trilled the lawyer, clearly delighted. ‘A photo of me? Well, since you insist . . .’
I gave her what I hoped was a dazzling smile as I moved away, but I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder at the stunned Oliver and giving him one parting shot. ‘Maybe Erica will help you out by holding the flash for you when she returns from backstage?’ I said, knowing that he would be far too intimidated to ask her.
I was heading towards the photographers who were starting to pack up, still muttering about the events of the night, when suddenly Geoffrey Jardine appeared on the runway again. Snatching the microphone from a member of the event crew, he shrieked, ‘Bravo! Bravo! BRAVO!’
As the remaining guests stopped dead in their tracks to stare at him, he continued, ‘I think we should all give a big round of applause for the wonderful Gucci fashions we have just seen on the catwalk. And, ladies, please don’t all go and buy the same things at once.’
Before he could continue, Jenny and Frances had reached him. One publicist grasped his left arm and the other the right, and they gently but firmly walked him away, pretending to chat away gaily but actually steering him towards the entrance of the restaurant, where a limo with the motor running waited to take him home.
As soon as he had left, and clearly by prior arrangement, the models returned to the runway to pose for the photographers in the way they were supposed to before the finale had been hijacked by the stagestruck master of ceremonies.
Gobsmacked and delighted by this turn of events, I approached Jenny for a quote, but she would not be drawn.
