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  Braving the rain and sacrificing our blow-waves, we filed outside to form a conga line of cake couriers. As each shiny white box filled with a culinary work of art was gingerly passed along the line from one Bee to the next, the troops gradually emptied the back of the delivery van and filled our reception with sweet treats. It was enough to make any general proud.

  But there’s no rest for the wicked and no sooner had the cake delivery van left than a semitrailer carrying half-a-dozen Mercedes-Benz ForTwo Micro Hybrid Drives – or Smart cars – pulled up in its place. And now our day really started to get interesting. You see, Mercedes-Benz was the principle sponsor of the Coco awards. And as a key sponsor their Smart cars needed to have a huge presence at all things Man of the Year-related. So we needed to use Smart cars for every move we made. Having a media call? There should be a string of Mercedes Smart cars parked out the front of the venue. Driving a finalist to a press interview? Smart car it was. Delivering a press-release-slash-cake to all the major press outlets like we were this morning? You guessed it.

  So my army of miniskirt-clad, stiletto-wearing, P-plate-wielding Bees and I were about to be let loose on six brand-spanking-new top-of-the-range Mercedes-Benz Smart cars in the rain. Weren’t nothing smart about that. Our delivery guy clearly didn’t think so either. His instructions were to have us drive the cars off the trailer ourselves, in reverse. But one look at me and the Bees and he decided he might do this for us. Smart man, that delivery guy.

  ‘I bags the red one!’ (Alice)

  ‘OMG! Have you seen the stereo in here? It has a remote!’ (Anya)

  ‘Who needs a remote in a car the size of a matchbox?’ (Em)

  ‘Is there enough room for the cakes?’ (Me)

  ‘Why are there three pedals?’ (Lulu)

  ‘Lulu, have you ever driven a manual before?’ (Holly, strapped into the passenger seat of Lulu’s car)

  ‘No. But I’ve seen my boyfriend drive one.’ (Lulu)

  ‘Check out the sunroof!’ (Alice)

  ‘I don’t care if it’s got airbags!’ (Holly, no longer strapped into the passenger seat of Lulu’s car)

  Slowly, one by one, we manoeuvred the Smart cars out of the street and headed for our various delivery destinations. Parting ways at the end of Botany Road, we would all be meeting up at the Beresford Hotel in Surry Hills afterwards in order to prep the venue ahead of tomorrow’s media briefing. In the meantime, we had cakes to deliver.

  Swinging the car up onto the pavement at Martin Place, in the heart of Sydney’s Calibre-clad corporate sector, I dodged a few lawyers with their trolley-toting lackeys and bunged on my hazard lights. Using hazards to park illegally might not be exactly lawful in the RTA’s eyes but, believe me, for a roomful of Wake Up! TV staff who had been on set since three-thirty this morning, the delivery of a sugar hit qualified as an emergency.

  I abandoned the car – doors open and lights flashing – and headed straight for Channel Six’s main reception where Joe behind the front desk slipped me a visitor’s pass and waved me on through. Making my way through the rabbit warren of corridors and staircases at Six, I finally found myself in the producers’ suite, where they were planning tomorrow’s episode.

  ‘Cake delivery!’ I called, lifting the lid on the white box in my arms and revealing my mini Coast model in all his glory. Well, almost all his glory. Let’s not forget that strategically placed icing-sugar bedsheet covering his modesty (and my arse).

  ‘Cake? Are you serious?’ The exec producer, Bec, was first on her feet. ‘Jasmine Lewis, you are my hero. Whatever you’re spruiking, you can have the 8 am slot for it. Now come in here with that cake.’

  And that, my friends, is how to get on TV. Skip the presenters and go straight for the engine room of production. Nothing you’ve ever seen when you switch on your flat screen has made it there without the approval of an executive producer somewhere. That television producers mainly live on a diet of coffee and deadlines is no revelation to cake-bearing PRs. Feeding sugar to producers is easier than taking candy from a baby.

  I entered the room as people cleared a space on the boardroom table for me to place my sacrificial Coast cake. And that’s when they noticed him. ‘Check this out! There’s a naked man on the cake!’ someone called out.

  ‘LOL!’

  ‘Never nude,’ I deadpanned, before launching into my pitch. ‘Okay, Wake Up!, it’s the Coco Man of the Year Awards again and, just for you, I can do a couple of nice boys in-studio on the day of the winner announcement,’ I said. ‘The full list of finalists is underneath the cake and there are plenty of boys there who might tickle your fancy. Once you’ve eaten your way through the cake, just let me know which finalists you’d like and I’ll have them in the Green Room at 7.45 am on announcement day looking buff and ready to go.’

  Piece of cake.

  Emerging back onto Martin Place I bumped into the host of Six’s Newsnight on my way to the car. ‘Hey, Aaron,’ I called. ‘I just dropped off a ginormous chocolate cake with the Wake Up! production crew. If you’re quick you might just grab a slice before they devour it. I know what a sweet tooth you have . . .’

  ‘Thanks, gorgeous,’ he replied, winking and flashing his best TV-presenter smile.

  It couldn’t hurt to have Newsnight and Wake Up! battle it out for exclusive coverage of my bachelor boys. A bit of intra-network competition never hurt anyone. Not to mention the rival networks that were also on my hit list. ‘Oh, and the boys will be appearing at a media briefing at the Beresford tomorrow, babe. You should come along. If you’re not too scared you won’t measure up,’ I added cheekily, knowing I’d just guaranteed myself a Newsnight crew at the event.

  My phone vibrated inside my limited edition LV handbag (fluorescent graffiti style, of course). Whipping it out, I scrolled through my latest emails as I left the giant red Six behind me. Work email, work email, work email, email from Luke about lunch (yes, please!), work email, work email, work email. And an email from Ben Gorman. Faaark, here we go . . .

  From: Ben Gorman

  Title: Head of Sales, Converse

  Time: 12.48 pm

  Hi Jasmine,

  Just checking we’re all square after the other night at Ivy? Sorry if I pushed your buttons. Insert lame excuse about being drunk here. You’re the best PR Converse has had in a long time and I’d hate to jeopardise that over some stupid argument. Can I buy you a drink next time I see you on Converse business? I seem to recall you lost your last one.

  Cheers,

  Ben

  Yes, Ben. Yes you can, I thought cheerfully. Because if there was one thing I didn’t plan on doing it was crying over spilt caprioska. Not when my account with Converse was at stake. Sure, my flirtation with Ben was definitely over. And all before it really began. But what would I have done with a guy who didn’t work overtime anyway? That sure as hell wouldn’t have boded well for the bedroom.

  Reply: Apology accepted. I agree nothing should get in the way of the Converse/Queen Bee dream team. And as long as you send me the bill for your recent drycleaning costs, then it’s a yes to that drink. I seem to recall you caught my last one.

  I hit send as I arrived back at my car, where I whipped off my parking ticket and jumped into the driver’s seat. Honestly, who wrote paper parking tickets these days? Sydney City Council was so old-school.

  Racing past CCP Magazines on my way to Surry Hills, I wondered how the rest of the Bees were getting on with their deliveries. As if reading my thoughts, Coast’s delightful PR, Amanda, chose that moment to call me and update me on the Bees’ handiwork.

  ‘Jasmine!’ her voice shrilled out of my hands-free. ‘I’m at a photo shoot and someone has just walked into reception carrying a cake with a naked Coast doll on top!’

  Fuck me. ‘Keep your shirt on, Amanda. Your mini model might not be wearing his, but he is dressed in a bedsheet. And
some very snug-fitting fondant undies if I recall,’ I said.

  ‘Jasmine! I don’t care what baked goods his boxers are made from. He looks naked!’ she shrieked.

  I didn’t have time for this today. ‘Amanda, see for yourself. Just cut the damn cake,’ I interrupted and hung up. I’d deal with her tomorrow.

  Heading down Bourke Street, I resisted the temptation to continue on as far as the legendary Bourke Street Bakery and instead started looking out for the Beresford. Past Le Pelican French restaurant, past Emmilou tapas bar, past two Bees desperately trying to reserve a car space without the aid of a car. What the faark? Swerving to the side of the road, I pulled up next to the girls, only narrowly missing one seriously pissed-off driver who was not convinced saving a car spot with your body was a legitimate road rule.

  ‘What the?!?’ I tried not to laugh as I lowered my window to talk.

  But Holly and Lulu were having none of that. Instead they both made for the passenger seat of my car, piling in on top of each other in a space so tiny even Ikea would have trouble finding a use for it. God bless the Smart car. I should think about replacing the Aston Martin with one of these. I’d never have to suffer another passenger again.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ Lulu said from underneath Holly. ‘You wouldn’t believe what a nightmare it is to find a park around here.’

  This was true. Scoring a legal unlimited parking space in Surry Hills is like spotting authentic Louis Vuitton in the Western Suburbs of Sydney. Finding six legal unlimited parking spaces in a row out the front of the Beresford Hotel – my mission for the Bees – was like trying to buy authentic LV in the Western Suburbs. Best take your plastic elsewhere, sweetheart.

  ‘I know,’ I sympathised. Fact was, it was Mercedes-Benz and not me that had insisted on there being a neat row of Smart cars out the front of the venue when the press arrived for tomorrow’s media call. But that was only because they thought of it first. Which got me thinking. ‘Loves, where’s your Smart car?’ I asked as we sped along Bourke Street.

  ‘We dumped it near the Beresford,’ said Lulu. ‘And then went looking for a legal park on foot.’

  Christ. Today was going to cost me a Goyard-handbag-sized fortune in parking fines.

  As we drew closer to the Beresford I could see the offending car double-parked out the front, hazards flashing like a beacon to parking police everywhere. I swear I’d taught these girls everything they knew. As if proving my point, a Smart car suddenly came out of nowhere, swerving in front of me and nearly causing me to rear-end it.

  ‘Shit!’ I slammed on the brakes.

  Alice blew me a guilty kiss and sped off before waiting for my reaction. Hot on her heels, Emma skidded around the same corner and nearly took off what little bonnet my Smart car had. In the front seat, Holly and Lulu screamed as I hit the brakes for a second time and nearly sent them through the windscreen.

  ‘This is like a precision driving team,’ I muttered and motioned to Emma to pull over so I could slide up alongside her. ‘What the fuck?’ was all I could manage and Emma looked relieved there were two car doors and two bodies between us.

  ‘Sorry! We can’t find parking anywhere!’ Em offered by way of explanation for those at home who weren’t following.

  Before she could get any further there was a screech of tyres from behind and Alice (who must have set a land-speed record getting around the block) pulled up on the other side of me. ‘I’ve got a plan!’ she shouted over her blaring radio as we sat three abreast in the middle of one of Surry Hill’s busiest streets. We were going to have to borrow driving demerit points from Lara Bingle at this rate. ‘So, I’ve just done a lap round the Beresford and there’s a construction site full of hot tradies right out the front,’ she reported. While it was not unusual for my ladies to be checking out tradies, Alice’s vision was hardly Grace Coddingtonesque in its design so far. ‘And tradies clock off at 3 pm, right?’ she said.

  I checked my watch: 2.45 pm. Alice might be onto something here.

  ‘So what if we ask the tradies extra nicely if we can have their parking spaces when they finish work? If they move just two trucks, there’d be plenty of room for our Smart cars. And I’m sure they’d be happy to help a Diesel-wearing damsel in distress, right?’ Alice said, running a seductive hand over her denim-clad thigh.

  ‘Genius. I love it,’ I said.

  Alice beamed.

  ‘Get your arse over there now,’ I instructed her. ‘I always knew it would come in handy one of these days. The rest of us? We need to be ready to take the tradies’ spots at 3.01 pm. And don’t get arrested between now and then . . .’

  Several minutes and just as many laps of the block later, six very smug Smart-car drivers pulled into parking spots out the front of the Beresford. Even Lulu managed to bunnyhop her way into a park. Sort of.

  ‘Attrition by seduction,’ I said, shaking my head at Alice. ‘You’ve got a bright future in PR.’

  ‘Thanks, Queen Bee,’ Alice said. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to be here in the morning when the tradies arrive to find our cars are still here.’

  I raised one eyebrow suspiciously. ‘You told them their parks would be free in the morning?’

  She nodded proudly and for the second time that day I was only peeved I hadn’t thought of it first.

  Hot men? Check. Strong coffee? Check. A completed checklist in my hands? Check. Screw Julie Andrews’ raindrops on kittens, these were a few of my favourite things and they were all right here in front of me at the tX photo shoot this morning.

  As if by divine intervention, the morning had dawned clear skies and sunshine for the second coming of the Coco Man of the Year Awards press junket. Normally I wouldn’t do a media call the day after a stunt like our cakes, but this time I thought I’d take the chance. If there’s one thing any girl in Sydney will tell you: when you’ve got a hot guy in the palm of your hand, you seize the day. Twenty hot guys? Carpe fucking diem.

  Before the media call, however, there was this pesky photo shoot to do for the front cover of this afternoon’s edition of tX street press. Which is how, despite my sins, I found myself standing on the corner of Oxford Street, with the Intersection shopping precinct behind me, supervising twenty hot boys performing for the camera. Hallelujah.

  However, it wasn’t quite Eden in this patch of Paddington. I did have Amanda to contend with. As a proud supporter of the Coco Awards, Coast was being represented at this morning’s shoot by one of their male underwear models. And Amanda. Who was dressed for work in towering Peep Toe heels, so high she could barely teeter around on her pale skinny legs. God, somebody give that girl a spray tan, I thought idly as I watched her totter by. I’d choose orange over pasty any day.

  While my twenty bachelors gave their best Zoolander impressions for the photographer, Amanda eagerly awaited the arrival of her (never-nude) Coast model. And what an arrival it was.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Is that a coffin?’ asked Claire, the tX reporter, as a large wooden box was delivered.

  ‘He’s here!’ shrieked Amanda, managing to tear herself from the bachelors just long enough to welcome Cody the Coast model to the shoot. ‘How are you, darling?’ she called at full volume, as if the bloke in the wooden box was deaf not dead.

  Wandering over to meet Cody, I realised why. The poor guy was actually encased inside a wooden Coast gift box, complete with hard plastic frontage.

  ‘Can you breathe in there?’ I shouted.

  He smiled back at me and waved.

  ‘Are you okay to do photos from inside?’ I asked.

  Cody smiled again.

  Amanda sighed. ‘Wouldn’t you love a guy like this?’ she cooed.

  One kept in a soundproof box? Bloody hell, wouldn’t any woman?

  Standing with the early morning sunshine warming my back, I sipped my mocha and watched proce
edings closely (sans sunglasses, unfortunately, as they seemed to have vanished from my handbag). The photographer had finally ushered all twenty guys – from footballers to fashion models, surf livesavers to socialites – into one long line snaking down the median strip for the perfect group shot.

  Only it wasn’t.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted over the roar of cars on either side of the traffic island. ‘Their T-shirts have to come off.’

  ‘Settle down, J,’ said Max the photographer, clicking away happily with the Victoria Barracks as his backdrop. ‘The x in tX isn’t a ratings guide, sweetie. Let me get a couple of shots of the guys with their kit on first.’

  I shook my head firmly. ‘No, shirts off,’ I repeated. ‘That blond one on the left there isn’t wearing a Coco-branded T. As Coco mag’s PR, I’m afraid I’m exercising right of veto. All shirts off.’

  The guys shrugged and obligingly pulled off their shirts, causing passing drivers to honk and wolf-whistle and Amanda to dislocate her neck.

  ‘I oughta speak to my union about these conditions,’ Max said, winking at me, before returning to snap his semi-naked subjects.

  However, as the boys were topless, there was now nothing in this shot that branded it as Coco. And any PR worth their salt wouldn’t leave it to the subeditor to make sure their client was credited.

  ‘Amanda, any chance we could get Cody in the main frame?’ I asked innocently. Cody’s box bore a great big fuck-off Coco Man of the Year Awards rosette on it. ‘Rather than have Cody in an individual shot, why not get him in the main pic too? That way, by having him in every shot, you reduce the risk of Cody not making the cover.’