Strictly Confidential Page 11

  ‘Emma, can you give Sparkle Cupcakery a buzz and order a box for HOTMilk?’ I called across to her. ‘Something warm and fuzzy in pinks and blues, please. But cakes with a bit of bite too, yeah? This is HOTMilk, not warm cocoa.’

  Emma nodded and picked up her phone. We sent more than a hundred boxes of cupcakes a month to sweeten clients and industry contacts, so Emma had Sparkle on speed dial. I swear we financed Sparkle’s famous fundraising for schools program singlehandedly. There were kids in primary schools all across Sydney wiping crumbs from their mouths and years from their lives through obesity and heart disease and they only had us to thank. Better not point that out to the yummy-mummies-to-be over at HOTMilk.

  Of course, all of this was just icing on the cake compared with our major project for the year (and what I hoped would be the crème de la crème of my career to date now that Belle Single and Kitchen Divas was off the menu): BMW Australian Fashion Week. The jewel of the Emerald City’s fashion calendar, BMW Australian Fashion Week was a much-anticipated fixture among fashionistas. And this year’s event was our chance to cut it in the big time. You see, our darling client, designer Allison Palmer, was showing her latest shimmering collection at Fashion Week and we Bees would leave no sequin unturned to ensure her show – and the future of Queen Bee – was a success. When added to the Coco Man of the Year Awards, I was hopeful we’d see out the year in style. But first we had a diabolical amount of work to do.

  ‘Oh, and Em?’ I remembered. ‘Could you grab a thousand dollars from my account this afternoon when you’re out at the post office, please, hon?’ Emma does all my ATM transactions for me. Without her, there’d never be a note in my wallet.

  ‘Sure, love,’ came the reply. ‘But more cash? Do you have plans for this evening, Jazz?’

  Cheeky bitch. The only problem with having your right-hand girl run your diary for you is that your right-hand girl knows when you’ve got a date. Not that my love life (or lack thereof) was any secret in this office. Everyone knew that, since I dated Will, my relationships seemed to disappear faster than you could say Underbelly. And while in the gangland miniseries most everyone died as a result of the mob whereas in my love life things usually died out as a result of my job, the number of corpses left strewn around was remarkably similar.

  ‘Sure I have plans,’ I replied coyly to Emma. ‘Anya and I are having drinks with the star of the new Converse ad campaign, the Canadian singer Tom Reynolds. Oh, and Ben Gorman from Converse will be there too.’ I tried not to look too smug at the mention of Ben.

  Emma snorted. ‘Ben Gorman. Head of Sales for Converse shoes? I should have guessed. It wouldn’t be a romantic evening out unless it was work-related in some way, would it, Jazzy Lou?’

  Ben Gorman was dreamy and designer-label-conscious and directly connected to my working life in a way that was potentially disastrous if things didn’t work out between us romantically, and that ticked all my boyfriend-requirement boxes if it did.

  Em went on, ‘You do realise that an after-work meeting with Ben Gorman to align your sales and publicity strategies does not actually constitute a date?’

  I raised one I’m-still-your-boss-remember? eyebrow. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But how many people discuss strategic alignment while in the presence of crooner Tom Reynolds, the fantasy of bored housewives the world over, huh?’ The guy oozed romance from every pore. Just having him there for our discussions meant there’d be more hearts involved than a Dotti range, surely.

  Em was clearly not convinced but had enough sense not to say so.

  ‘Plus,’ I added, ‘if things don’t work out romantically between Ben and me, at the very least I can fill him in on what we’ve got planned for the opening of Converse’s new Melbourne store. The launch there is going to be amaze. At least, it will be if I ever hear back from the Melbourne office with sign-off on the final press list . . .’ I checked my phone compulsively.

  ‘Great,’ Em said. ‘So once you’ve had your highly romantic – but no doubt productive – conversation about strategy in the Asia Pacific, what else will you and Ben Gorman from Sales align, Jazz?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s strictly confidential,’ I grinned.

  Just then my phone did ring, interrupting my daydream of strategic collaboration with Ben Gorman’s range. ‘It’s Amanda from Coast Underwear for you,’ Lulu said down the line from reception.

  Fuck.

  ‘Okay, thanks, Lulu,’ I said. ‘Put her through.’

  ‘Jasmine! Hello!’ Amanda gushed, her voice dripping with insincerity. ‘I can’t believe I caught you in the office. I thought you’d be out at some fabulous media launch.’ At four-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon? Really? Did this girl actually work in PR? ‘I expected to get one of your minions, not you,’ she added.

  My minions? We might be called Queen Bee but I’m no Duchess. I spent a moment fantasising about what the Bees would do to Amanda if they heard themselves referred to as minions. Being paraded down George Street in last season’s Chanel wouldn’t be punishment enough.

  ‘Oh well, Amanda, you know me,’ I said lightly. ‘I like to be here on the front line for my clients. Otherwise it’d be like being a designer and not designing the new range. We’ve got a signature here at Queen Bee PR and people come to me for that signature look so I really need to be here when they call.’

  Was that a sneer coming down the line? Amanda and I had a difficult working relationship. She was the kind of publicist who made Lizzie Grubman look like Mother Teresa.

  ‘I’m glad you called, Amanda,’ I lied. ‘We need to nut out the scope of Coast Underwear’s involvement in the Coco Man of the Year Awards campaign. As a major sponsor, does Coast want a presence at the media call announcing the winners? And at any publicity shoots before then? And I’ll need some merch to kick off the campaign, please.’

  This was Amanda’s cue to say, ‘Sure, a dozen boxes of product will be couriered to QB HQ this afternoon.’ If only.

  ‘Oh, before we start talking product, Jasmine, I’m afraid I’ll have to run you through the Coast protocol first.’

  She was shitting me, surely? ‘Fine, shoot,’ I replied. I could hear a smattering of typing on the other end of the line and wondered what sort of manifesto Amanda was bringing up on her screen.

  ‘First, and most importantly, under no circumstances must Coast models ever be naked.’

  At this I cracked up and wondered – for the first time – whether Amanda and I might actually be able to get on for the duration of this campaign after all. I’d clearly underestimated her sense of humour.

  Or not.

  ‘Er, you know they’re male underwear models, right, Amanda?’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s not like they’re unfamiliar with flashing their bits, yeah?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Okay, well, let’s clarify exactly what you mean by naked then,’ I tried, realising we weren’t going to get far like this. ‘Can the models go topless?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Underwear only?’

  ‘It’s Coast policy to have all models wearing trousers of some kind. Even if they’re photographed in the process of removal.’

  ‘Short shorts?’

  ‘Cargos.’

  ‘A towel?’

  ‘Bathsheet size. Not standard.’

  ‘What about bare feet?’ I was getting exasperated.

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘You check whether your models can appear sans sandals, and I’ll order twenty XXL bathsheet-sized beach towels to go.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and hung up.

  Luckily Em chose this moment to appear beside my desk with a skim mocha and ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from my account.

  ‘I’ve just discovered our Coast underwear models are more Mormon than
showmen,’ I said to her. ‘I’m surprised Amanda lets them out without a chastity belt.’

  Em raised one Parlour B-manicured eyebrow quizzically but knew better than to ask further questions. Stranger things happened in this office every day.

  ‘And thanks for the coffee and funds,’ I added. ‘You’re a lifesaver, love.’

  My mobile buzzed on my desk and I steeled myself for round two with Amanda. I checked the screen through wincing eyes, expecting the worst. Shelley, it read.

  ‘Thank God!’ I answered. ‘At least you won’t try to convert me to Mormonism.’

  ‘Sweetie,’ she drawled, not missing a beat, ‘why do you need God when you’ve got me? You won’t believe what I’ve just bought. The most amaze Rodarte caramel silk-tulle dress in wood-print silk. Never mind the Mormons, this is divine! You have to have it.’

  I laughed and thanked God for the breath of fresh air Shelley always brought to my working day. ‘It sounds amazing, Shell,’ I said. ‘But why don’t –’

  ‘It is,’ she cut me off at the pass. ‘It’s got a hand-embroidered bodice, all chocolate and caramels, and a tulip skirt. It will look incred with that gold Anya Hindmarch clutch I gave you last month.’

  ‘That sounds good enough to eat, hon,’ I said. ‘But why don’t you keep it? I can always borrow it from you sometime.’

  But Shell was having none of it. ‘Pleeease. We’ve been through this whole borrowing thing before. It’s a gift. I want you to have it. Besides,’ she added, ‘turns out Rodarte looks bigger on Net-a-Porter’s website than it does in a black box in your living room. I can barely get one arm into this dress, so you’ll have to take it from me.’

  Officer, how could I resist an offer like that? Slap on the handcuffs, I was guilty as charged.

  ‘I’d love to!’ I said to Shell. ‘In fact, I’ve got a date tonight.’ I looked pointedly at Em who was within earshot. ‘And it sounds like the perfect outfit for an evening of seduction.’ I said this last sentence loud enough to be heard in the outskirts of greater metropolitan Sydney.

  ‘It is, dah-ling,’ she assured me. ‘Even you can get laid in Rodarte.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, glad greater metropolitan Sydney hadn’t caught that one. ‘Even I can get laid in Rodarte? Did it say that in the Editor’s Notes on Net-a-Porter, Shell?’

  Shelley laughed. ‘Just come by before eight to pick it up, love.’

  Tom Reynolds, Canadian crooner and the face of Converse, didn’t need to be my Facebook friend for me to work out his status.

  ‘Jock,’ I said to Anya as we sat in the wine bar at Felix waiting for Ben and his charge to arrive. I shifted on my bar stool and the caramel silk skirt of my new Rodarte dress slid luxuriously over my skin. ‘His passport might say Canuck but I bet my Miu Miu store card this guy’s more all-American jock than his Calvin Klein undies.’

  ‘CK boxers?’ Anya said dreamily.

  ‘More like briefs. Real brief. Blink and you miss it kinda stuff, I reckon. Anyone who can hold a note for that long must be lacking in stamina somewhere else.’

  Anya ignored me. She was too busy looking past me so she could spy Mr Reynolds the instant he appeared. Her strength as a publicist might have been growing every day but her weakness for celebrities was unchanged. I nearly feared for Tom Reynolds this evening. It didn’t matter who he was or what direction his star was headed, the very fact he was famous made him fair game in Anya’s eyes.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, ladies,’ Ben said moments later, sauntering up to the pewter bar with real Parisian subway tiles on the walls. He was wearing a fitted charcoal Hugo Boss suit, all narrow lapels and stovepipe trousers, tapered just so at the ankles. A skinny black tie completed the just-from-the-office look. My favourite.

  He had Tom Reynolds in tow.

  ‘All my fault, I’m afraid,’ added Tom, his long vowels dripping with charm. ‘Call me irresponsible,’ he added, shaking Anya’s hand.

  ‘Hello, Irresponsible,’ Anya swooned.

  Ben nudged me in amusement.

  I swooned.

  This was going to be a long night.

  ‘So what do you ladies do for fun Down Under?’ Tom asked, settling himself next to Anya at the bar and causing her to choke on her champagne.

  ‘Yeah, what do you do for fun down under, Jazz?’ Ben repeated suggestively, before ordering a couple of beers. ‘Got any tips?’ A smile curled at the corners of his take-me-now Gregory Peck mouth.

  ‘Well, it depends what turns you on, Tom,’ I said, forcing myself to turn away from Ben. ‘If slow and indulgent is your thing, you could try Endota Spa at Martin Place. Or, if you prefer it fast and furious, there’s always Derby Day at the Spring Racing Carnival.’

  Ben grinned and raised his glass almost imperceptibly. That smile again. It was enough to make a girl gloss over the fact Endota and Derby Day were both clients and what he thought was cheesy flirting was just a shameless plug.

  ‘Wow,’ said Tom, turning back to Anya. ‘Do you fancy either of those?’

  ‘Sure, quando, quando, quando?’ Anya said coyly, struggling not to fall off her bar stool.

  Several hours (and more than several drinks) later, the evening had alcohol on its breath. Much as I would never grow tired of Ben’s bar-side banter, I reluctantly realised it was time to bail. I had a final planning meeting for the Coco Man of the Year Awards’ press campaign tomorrow, and more than a little work to do before then.

  ‘Time is money, peeps,’ I said. ‘I should be getting back to the office.’

  Ben looked shocked. Anya just looked wasted.

  ‘Are you for real? You’re going back to work now? Who does overtime at this hour?’ Ben said churlishly.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I liked the edge that had just crept into his voice; it was more than vaguely reminiscent of the tone Will used to take whenever we discussed my workaholism. But, with several champagnes under my Hermès belt and a rapidly increasing crush to boot, my judgement was cloudy. Best just to chalk it up to Ben being bereft at the thought of me bailing.

  ‘No one’s leaving,’ interrupted our international superstar. ‘Because you ladies are coming back to my penthouse for a nightcap!’ He added a wink for good measure.

  ‘Killer!’ Anya said.

  ‘Kill me,’ I said, but low enough for only Ben to hear. I added to Ben, ‘If I go you go . . .’

  He rewarded me with that Gregory Peck grin and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet.

  ‘No, no. I’ll get this,’ I insisted. ‘It’s a Queen Bee treat.’ I went to retrieve the cash Em had slipped me earlier, only to find my wallet bare.

  ‘Shit. Where’s my money gone?’ I wondered aloud as Tom Reynolds was already staggering for the exit, weighed down with a very drunk Anya. ‘And where the hell’s Anya going?’ I slapped my black Amex on the bar and turned to Ben. ‘We have to look after her.’

  ‘Whatever it takes?’ Ben asked, quoting from a Reynolds hit.

  ‘Whatever it takes.’ I volleyed seductiveness back at his suggestiveness and we headed for the door in hot pursuit of Anya, who was all over Tom Reynolds like a rash. If fame was indeed like a sexually transmitted disease, then someone needed to vaccinate that girl. And quick.

  In no time at all, Anya, Ben and I found ourselves in the penthouse apartment of the nearby exclusive Ivy hotel for our own private Tom Reynolds concert. It was hard to believe the last time I’d been inside this sprawling suite, all dark wood and marble and overlooking the Ivy’s famous rooftop pool, was for Raven’s photo shoot with Look. How things had changed. While the Ivy, like a fine wine, was ageing gracefully, Raven had proved more of a fizzer. Last I’d heard she’d been dumped as the face of Vixenary after a series of illegal but unsurprising drug-related indiscretions. Plus her singing career was finally sunk.

  If only
the same could be said for Mr Reynolds.

  ‘Fly me to the moon . . .’ he crooned from behind his baby grand as Anya draped herself precariously across the piano lid to be closer to her dream date. I preferred the U-shaped leather couches myself. Plenty of room there for me to cosy up to Ben.

  ‘Benny, why don’t you get us all a little something to drink?’ our pianist sang, raising one hand from the keys just long enough to gesture towards the bar in an adjoining room. Benny was duly dispatched and my plans for canoodling dismissed.

  ‘And Jazzy Lou, hit the lights! We need a little atmosphere in here, baby,’ Tom directed me during the bridge. Seriously, this was like being on stage with the Jersey Boys. I left Liberace and his adoring fan to it in the sunken lounge and under the pretence of looking for the lighting remote went off exploring the rest of the recently revamped pad.

  ‘This place has everything!’ I exclaimed when I found Ben in the marble bar where he was concocting drinks.

  ‘Totes,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’m not sure I want to know why any hotel room needs eight showerheads in the bathroom.’

  ‘For real?’ I laughed, leaning against him for just long enough to scoop up a cocktail, then I left to investigate the communal shower situation for myself.

  ‘LOL! And a spa pool!’ I called back over my shoulder as I wandered through the open-plan suite, dodging the sculptural light fittings on the way. Worth remembering for later in the night if things went well with Ben. Stopping off in the luxury bedroom, I sprawled out on the bed and breathed in the three-hundred-thread-count pillowcases. Watching my reflection in all that marble, I sipped my lychee and passionfruit caprioska, the saccharine syrup sweetening my Tom Reynolds experience. This wasn’t so bad. I could put up with a little celebrity fawning by Anya if it gave me an excuse to spend more time basking in Ben’s beguiling company. And, hell, even the Broadway serenade from the lounge room had stopped.

  Shit. The Broadway serenade from the lounge room had stopped. This couldn’t be good.

  Skidding across the marble floor, slopping fruit-infused alcohol as I went, I got back to the lounge just in time to see Tom abandon his instrument with a violent crash of keys. Anya, who was passed out against the ebony lid, woke and yelped.