The Social Diary

by Ros Reines

  ‘Did you know that Alex and Jacqueline Evans turned up briefly but then they disappeared off somewhere with Shannon Graham and I couldn’t get to them in time before they left again?’ I confessed.

  ‘That’s okay, Savannah. I couldn’t get to them either,’ Tim assured me. ‘I wonder what they were cooking up with Shannon? An advertising campaign for their shonky properties?’

  ‘Maybe. Well, I hope that Lahar Kapoor didn’t manage to track you down,’ I said, smiling. ‘He’s still angling for an invitation to the Lovejoy wedding and is looking to create a high profile in the paper.’

  ‘Oh, I saw him last night,’ said my editor, rolling his eyes. ‘In that get-up he was hard to miss—but I don’t think he knows who I am, so I was able to avoid him.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I said with a laugh. Oh no, here it comes.

  Tim had picked up the papers again and was looking at them. He cleared his throat. ‘Now, Savannah, I don’t want you to be upset about this, but it seems you’re the subject of a very unflattering letter that is now doing the rounds of the city. Let’s call it an old-fashioned poison-pen campaign.’

  ‘What?’ A poison-pen campaign? Did people still do that kind of stuff anymore?

  ‘Take a look,’ he said, handing over what seemed to be some sort of a petition. It read:

  We, the undersigned, will never attend a party or event if Savannah Stephens is there as a guest. In the past she has brutally made a mockery of charitable functions, failed to respect the sanctity of our private homes and reported even conversations that were not intended for the public domain.

  I scanned the list of signatures, but most of them were unknown to me. I recognised Queen Bea’s name, which was understandable; no doubt she was still smarting after I had exposed her outrageous behaviour at her own dinner party. But most of the other names were mysteries. Were they made up?

  I put my head in my hands. This was a disaster! Obviously my career as a gossip columnist was over; if I wasn’t welcome at the city’s social events, I could hardly report on them, could I? Perhaps I’d get severance pay, I thought hopefully. Maybe there’d be enough for a ticket back to my old life as a music writer in the UK. But that wasn’t a very cheering prospect. I’d left London to come home and I had no desire to go back. And what about my relationship with Daniel? I had an immediate flashback to the lovemaking of the night before. Why couldn’t we still be in bed together where at least I had felt safe and protected? I had an instant pang of separation anxiety.

  ‘Now, Savannah, I told you not to worry,’ Tim admonished when I finally raised my head to face him. ‘This tacky letter is going to make you famous.’ He chuckled as he brandished the hateful missive. ‘In fact you couldn’t ask for better publicity even if you masterminded it yourself—which, by the way, I know that you didn’t.’

  What?

  ‘Sorry, Tim—I don’t understand.’ I wondered how this letter, which was dripping in vitriol, could actually do me a favour.

  ‘Look, we’re going out guns blazing,’ he said reassuringly. ‘We’re going to be making the most of it. But first, I want you to write a funny, first-person account of how it feels to receive a poison-pen letter like this one. We might even do a front-page splash with it.’

  ‘Really? Um, okay,’ I responded, still not really understanding what Tim was planning or the tone he wanted me to take in my piece. I felt numb with shock.

  Tim slowly unfolded his huge frame from the sofa and I sprang up too; it seemed that our meeting was officially over.

  ‘Seriously, Savannah, don’t stress,’ he said, patting me on the back. ‘This is all going to turn out well, you’ll see. I’m even considering coming up with a completely new name for your column.’ Having walked me to the door, he opened it for me courteously and then stood in front of it before I could escape. ‘Savannah, if you should find the attention overwhelming, please come and see me. My door is always open to you.’

  I glanced across at Janet, who was sitting pertly at her desk typing vigorously and pretending to take no notice of what was being said. However, catching my eye, she gave me a tight little smile as Tim disappeared back inside his den.

  What just happened? I wondered. My world had changed in an instant but not in the way that I had expected. Once again all the news-room chatter had come to an abrupt halt. The reporters who had been standing around in clusters, obviously buzzing over the public campaign against me, now sauntered back to their desks as if they hadn’t been discussing anything of any importance.

  I could feel them furtively glancing at me as I wearily made my way to my desk again.

  This isn’t dead columnist walking, people. Move along; there’s nothing to see here.

  You could almost sense their minds ticking over: was I being brave and covering up my despair at being sacked or had I somehow managed to keep my job against all odds? Sue and Rita, a couple of the more charitable feature writers, had tissue boxes at the ready for possible mopping-up operations, but they relinquished them as I sailed past nonchalantly. Really, I should have been an actress. The Sydney News definitely wasn’t the most nurturing environment in which to work, but at least anyone employed there for a decent length of time developed a tough hide. You only had to look at Erica; her skin was so taut that everything bounced right off it.

  And there she was, standing stock still in her office, watching the scene unfold. Was she hoping to see some tears glistening in my eyes? Or perhaps some sign of rage? Was she even breathing?

  I understood that she had been the one who had brought the petition to Tim’s attention and it was hard to shake the feeling that she might even have had something to do with this shameful screed. Erica had not exactly been a one-woman welcoming committee since I’d started working at the paper and had been positively toxic since my stories started to replace hers at the front of the paper. However, if she did have something to do with it, she clearly hadn’t thought it through properly. Instead of seeing it as grounds for instant dismissal, Tim was relishing the controversy and planning to use it to sell papers and to strengthen my name out there. I almost felt sorry for her, getting her hopes up that she’d seen the last of me only to have that fantasy deflated. I gave her a hearty wave.

  ‘I’m just going to pop down to the cafeteria to get a coffee, Erica,’ I said with a little smile. ‘Would you like me to bring you one as well? You look as though you might need a pick-me-up.’

  Erica studied my face as intently as an out-of-work plastic surgeon. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Is everything okay, Savannah?’ she asked, giving a strange impression of someone who might actually care about my well-being. ‘I just saw you in with the editor. I hope he wasn’t too angry? I heard that there was something about a letter that had been sent in?’

  Did she really not know how transparent she was? I decided to ignore this remark.

  ‘Oh, nothing to worry about,’ I said airily. ‘In fact, I think I’ve just talked Tim into giving me a raise. I saw you in there with some paperwork earlier. Are you getting a bonus too?’

  Erica actually reddened in the face. We both knew that she had been in there delivering the hate mail to him to ensure that he read it.

  ‘What? Um, no. We were just looking at the fashion spread,’ she lied.

  ‘Of course.’ I smiled again. ‘Well, if you’re sure about that coffee . . . ?’

  With a bewildered look on her face, she shook her head.

  I was relieved to find the cafeteria almost empty. When I approached the counter I saw that my favourite server Val was busy with an order of finger sandwiches for a meeting room.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ she asked, turning the sandwich cutter around to slice the bread into neat quarters while keeping the fillings intact. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’ve had the morning from hell, Val. It started out well with this new guy, for whom I seem to have fallen, but that was after the party from hell where a millionaire businessman
started to abuse me. And I was just summoned to the boss’s office because I’ve been the victim of a poison-pen letter.’

  ‘Gawd! What did it say?’ she asked, starting to plate up the snacks. ‘Was it something involving your new bloke? An ex-girlfriend, sticking the knife in? When these sorts of things happen, there’s always a pissed off woman involved, mark my words.’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ I said, eyeing off a wedge of camembert and wondering whether I should ask for it in a brown bread roll. I needed something comforting to eat. ‘The letter was signed by all these socialites—most of whom I’ve never even met. They said they would never go to a party if I was on the guest list because I’m not to be trusted.’

  Val wrinkled her nose. ‘Who’d bother to take the time to do that? You haven’t been that horrible about all those toffs, have you?’

  ‘Not really, Val. I think the letter came from someone I work with who’s trying to get rid of me because I’m cramping her style.’

  ‘Any suspicions?’

  ‘The first person that springs to mind is Erica—you know: the fashion editor who wears too much make-up and looks down on everyone. She’s hated me from the moment I walked in.’

  Val snorted. ‘I know exactly who you mean. She’s as fake as her eyelashes. She’s always down here bitching about people behind their backs. But you’re not in trouble, are you? Not for something like that?’

  ‘No. The boss was actually thrilled about it. He says it’s going to be great publicity for the paper. Honestly, Val, I expected to be shown the door not patted on the back.’

  Val clapped her hands together in glee. ‘And won’t that just piss everyone off, pet. Life has a funny way of dishing out exactly what you need sometimes—and giving others exactly what they deserve. Tell you what, though: I’ll keep my ears open for anyone talking about it down here and let you know what’s being said. Some of them are very careless in front of me. They think that because I’m a sandwich hand, I must somehow be deaf or not have a clue what they are discussing. But we pretty much hear everything in the canteen—sometimes we hear when a reporter is about to be sacked or given a raise before they even do.’

  Val had finished with the finger sandwiches now and had arrayed them so daintily on the plate that I almost felt like ordering a side of chicken and mayonnaise ribbons myself. ‘Now what can I get for you this morning, dear?’ she asked.

  Minutes later I was sitting at a corner table near the window, somewhat restored with a coffee and a camembert roll.

  This morning’s episode had admittedly left me feeling drained. I knew that the letter was essentially a fake, yet I still couldn’t help but wonder if I deserved it. It didn’t take much to make me feel guilty and insecure; it was pretty much my fallback position. Was I really such an awful person that people didn’t want to be in the same room as me? But anyone who received unfavourable attention in my column usually warranted it—Wes Heart sprang to mind.

  The sound of some of my colleagues’ voices as they started to gather for lunch snapped me out of my reverie. I straightened up, dusted the crumbs from my skirt and headed for the door. Looking across at the counter I waved goodbye to Val and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ She responded with a wink and a smile.

  I was determined not to let Erica see that this morning’s events had caused me a moment’s anxiety, so as I walked past Erica’s office I hummed a Wham! song that had been all over the radio. ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’—wonder if Daniel was now forgetting about ‘going solo?’ I could only hope. Erica was muttering to someone urgently on the phone, but judging by the baleful glance she shot my way I was sure she’d had confirmation: the poison-pen letter had been a major flop.

  I returned to my desk, still smiling beatifically to convey just how darn happy and relaxed I was, to find the phone ringing and the message light winking frantically at me.

  Daniel? I snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Is that Savannah?’ said a young voice on the other end of the line, tentative, embarrassed. ‘It’s Amy Berger calling from Daybreak. We’ve heard that you’re the victim of a poison-pen campaign and we’d like to come and interview you. Um, are you aware of it?’ she continued bravely.

  Well, duh!

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be the target of a hate campaign. ‘When do you want to come in?’

  ‘How does an hour sound?’

  I hung up, and listened to my phone messages. The first was from Daniel, sounding worried, and asking me to call him. When I dialled his number, the phone was answered immediately, as if he’d been standing next to it.

  ‘Savannah, are you okay?’ he demanded. ‘What the hell is going on? There’s this horrible letter being circulated all over town.’

  ‘I know,’ I said wryly. ‘My boss showed it to me.’

  ‘Do you know who’s behind it?’

  ‘I’ve got my suspicions,’ I responded, glancing across at Erica, who was doing little to disguise the fact that she was intently listening in. ‘How did you find out about it? Bad news certainly travels fast around here.’

  ‘Jacqueline Evans received one and she showed it to me at our meeting this morning.’ There was an icy edge to his voice that I had never heard before. ‘The minute you find out who did this, you let me know: I’ll be wanting a word with that person.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  His tone grew warm. ‘Did you make it to work on time? I feel bad that I couldn’t drive you but I had to be in Vaucluse for an early morning meeting.’

  ‘I did it with ten minutes to spare,’ I said proudly. ‘Are you feeling good, Daniel? Because I’m absolutely fabulous at the moment! Last night was very special to me.’ Great, what had happened to playing it cool? But I did enjoy having Daniel in my corner. I felt almost ecstatic to know that he really cared.

  ‘Yes, Savannah, it was good for me too,’ he teased. ‘And I’ll tell you what: I’m flying out of town this afternoon but I’m serious about sending you a ticket to join me on the weekend. It’ll probably do you good to get away. So what do you say: will you come to Ayers Rock?’

  ‘I’d love to, Daniel,’ I replied. My face was actually starting to hurt because of all the beaming I was doing—and it wasn’t just for Erica’s benefit—but my emotions had moved up a notch. I was euphoric.

  The next few days were a blur of television and radio interviews. There had been moments of levity, especially when I had appeared on Tonight, a current affairs program. The interview had been filmed in the office and included footage of Erica secretly making a face behind my back as though she had just swallowed a great big slice of lemon. She had expected that she was out of camera range but instead of that, the lens man had noticed her and actually zoomed in on her face. Hilarious!

  Of course, the next day, she tried hard to laugh it off with everyone and bluff her way through it with me. ‘Did you see me in the background of your interview, Savannah?’ she asked, forced to acknowledge my existence for a change. ‘I’d just kicked my foot on the metal leg of the desk. It really hurt a lot—that’s why I was grimacing like that. But it did look amusing on air, didn’t it? You must have thought that I was pulling faces at you.’

  I let a couple of seconds pass, taking her measure before I responded, glancing at her feet, which were now clad in fashionable black leather ankle boots. ‘Oh you poor thing,’ I lamented without a trace of irony. ‘Are you all right now? There’s nothing worse than having a bruised foot.’ (Except perhaps for carrying around a severely damaged ego.) ‘But, don’t worry, I didn’t even see you on the screen,’ I lied. ‘I can hardly watch myself on television. It makes me cringe.’ Unfortunately for her, she had definitely pulled focus from me. The TV network had been deluged by people wanting a copy of the tape, so they could show their friends.

  ‘Oh, I’m exactly the same,’ Erica agreed, no doubt relieved that I had not confronted her. ‘My goodness, look at the time. I’m running late for a job.’r />
  And with that Erica Hopewell left the building—a little black and white houndstooth cloud with those cute ankle boots. She looked as though she was going off to audition for 101 Dalmatians.

  I headed to the cafeteria for a coffee and a chat with Val. I was interested to find out if she’d heard any chatter about the letter’s author.

  ‘Oh, I saw you on TV, love,’ she said as soon as I walked in. ‘You looked really good. Did someone at the station do your make-up?’

  I laughed. Was it that obvious that I wasn’t all that talented at putting it on myself?

  ‘Thanks, Val. Don’t suppose anyone has said much down here about the letter?’

  ‘Definitely the one who seems to be the most put out about it is your up-herself mate with the cold fish eyes, the fashion editor,’ said Val, as she cranked up the coffee machine again.

  ‘Erica? She’s not exactly my bosom buddy.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. In fact, I heard her tell one of her pals that she was going to call up a couple of TV stations and complain about how boring it was to keep running stories about you. She thinks it’s time they showed something on fashion.’

  ‘Really? What a desperado.’ That was so Erica: not quite savvy enough to cover her tracks. It would have been much cooler of her just to have ignored the whole thing.

  When I returned to my desk I found that someone had left one of the Sunday lift-out magazines there, opened to the page with an unflattering profile of me. I was not surprised by the negative slant of the piece, because the journalist had made it clear from the start that she thought gossip columnists were beneath her. I glanced at the photo, which wasn’t too bad, and at a couple of the sentences that had been highlighted in the layout.

  ‘As a gossip columnist, Savannah trades on the misery of others’, caught my eye. I accidentally-on-purpose spilled my coffee on the magazine, then chucked it in the bin. Well, it was just what people said when they had been unfavourably mentioned in my column—news one day, a fish and chip wrapper the next. I could hardly take the moral high ground about being trashed in the press.