Strictly Confidential Page 14

  ‘Good idea,’ Amanda agreed. ‘Then I also reduce the risk of my boss kicking my arse.’

  I steadied myself on a nearby traffic light. Agreement from Amanda? Who knew it was possible? And all it took was an appeal to her unabashed self-interest.

  ‘Fab. Now how the hell do we move him?’ I asked, turning to Coast’s crew of on-site handlers who were pretending not to hear me.

  Twenty minutes and two hundred kilograms later, Cody was safely ensconced on the median strip with our finalists. Wooden coffin and all. Admittedly, he did look a little hot and bothered but so would you if you were lugged across one of Sydney’s major road arteries in a box.

  ‘Brilliant, boys!’ Max coaxed, snapping away while Amanda did likewise on her BlackBerry. This was her kind of Kodak moment. ‘Just a few more shots.’

  By now Cody was really starting to swelter. His face was an unnatural shade of red and beads of perspiration were visible even from where we stood on the footpath.

  ‘You – second from the end – just relax and let your arms hang at your sides,’ Max instructed a burly AFL player whose biceps were thicker than my waist. He obediently dropped his arms. Cody wiped his forehead on his T-shirt sleeve.

  ‘I want to try a shot with the guys walking across the road towards the camera,’ Max called over his shoulder, not bothering to pause from his clicking. Jesus. This wasn’t the Lane Cove Tunnel we were standing next to. Did he really want twenty of Australia’s most eligible men to step out onto Oxford Street during morning peak hour? No wonder there was a bloody man drought in this city. Cody swayed in his box.

  ‘Okay, Jazz and Amanda, I’ll need you both to stand at the top of Glenmore Road and act as a roadblock to cars coming this way along Oxford,’ Max ordered, indicating the intersection to our right where traffic was zooming past. Was my life really worth the cover of tX?

  I should never give myself ultimatums when it comes to work because I found myself keeping pace with Amanda’s Peep Toe stilettos as we trudged to the corner. Meanwhile, Cody rested his forehead against the front of his box, leaving a sweaty imprint on the glass. Amanda and I waited till the traffic lights turned red then teetered out onto the road, where we stood – arms outstretched and eyes squinted shut – and hoped that when the lights turned green the oncoming traffic wouldn’t budge.

  Cody chose this moment, in a daze of dehydration, to cool off by the only means available to him inside his sauna: he started removing his clothes.

  ‘That’s it! I’ve got the shot!’ Max called delightedly as twenty perfectly sculpted men crossed the road towards him and Cody performed a striptease. ‘I’ve totally got what I need!’

  Max might have had what he needed – artistically and more – but Amanda and I were still holding back traffic with our bare hands.

  ‘Uh, does that mean you’re done?’ Amanda called urgently to Max over her shoulder, unable to see what was going on.

  ‘Yeah, babe,’ came the reply. ‘You should probably get off the road now. Everyone else has.’

  Charming. At that, Amanda and I retreated to the footpath as fast as her Peep Toes would allow us, the onslaught of traffic close behind.

  ‘Wanna check?’ Max asked, allowing me to scroll through the images on his camera. I made a mental note to send the link to Shelley once the images were up on our blog. Burt Bacharach had it all wrong. That’s what friends are for.

  ‘Oh wow, Max. These pics look amaze!’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see them on this arvo’s front page,’ I reinforced.

  Max nodded. ‘Sure thing, sweetie. Bar H&M confirming they’re opening in Sydney, nothing’s going to trump twenty topless bachelors and Cody in his jocks for page one.’

  Just what I wanted to hear. I only hoped Amanda and her never-nude protocol didn’t catch it too.

  To the strains of Eva Simon’s ‘Take Over Control’ on the car stereo, my driver eased his car to the kerb, delivering me safely out the front of the Beresford Hotel. Having left my Smart car here with all the others overnight, I was taking no chances with parking and had instead opted for Queen Bee’s preferred valet to get me to this afternoon’s media call.

  ‘Thanks a million, Carl,’ I said, sliding out of the front seat and leaving a generous tip.

  ‘Anytime for you, Jazzy Lou,’ he replied as I made for the Beresford’s rooftop beer garden, the scene of our press conference.

  Trekking up the stairs and out onto the cobblestone courtyard on the roof, I was glad to have opted for Miu Miu wedges. Thanks, Shelley. Heels would be a nightmare up here. Proving my point, Emma and Anya, who were already setting up, had both dumped their shoes and were working barefoot.

  ‘Okay, we need to put the podium and Coco banner over here, bosh and bosh,’ I said, heading over to where they were working. ‘Then there’s enough room for the finalists to line up behind Leila Graham after they’ve been announced.’ Leila was the editor of Coco magazine. ‘Perfect photo opp. And there’s just enough space for thirty-odd journos to squeeze in front of the podium,’ I continued, thinking aloud. ‘That way the media call looks packed from where the TV crews are filming back here.’ As I gave instructions, I walked backwards away from the announcement podium and threw down a bunch of Nurofen tablets.

  ‘Also, I’ve popped a spare copy of the press release into each goodie bag in case there’s any anorexic hacks present who haven’t eaten their way through their Coast cake yet,’ I said. ‘And the mobile photo booth is on its way so all press can have their pic taken with their fave finalist.’ And then publish the images on their websites, I added mentally.

  ‘The girls from the Chronicle will love that,’ Em said. ‘Any excuse to get up close and personal with the boys from Bondi Rescue without having to feign drowning first.’

  By the time my feet were starting to ache in my Miu Miu wedges, I was worried. Very, very worried. It was ten minutes until showtime and there was only a rumour of journalists in attendance.

  I dragged Em into the stairwell. ‘Something’s wrong,’ I hissed desperately, hoping Leila and the rest of the gaggle from Coco wouldn’t hear me. ‘I know journos don’t wear watches but this is ridiculous. There’s like five people up there. If some of the dailies don’t turn up soon, I die. And not in a Rachel Zoe way.’

  Em didn’t even try to talk me down. ‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘And any telly crews that were coming should have had their cameras set up by now.’

  This was true.

  ‘I’m going to call Luke and see what’s going down,’ I decided. ‘A bigger story must have hit. There’s no other reason for the daily newspapers and weekly mags to do a no-show. And let’s not even start on TV or radio.’ Never had I seen a media conference buried like this. And I wasn’t about to take it lying down. Grabbing my BlackBerry I stormed back up to the beer garden so at least Leila would see me going down with a fight.

  ‘So where the bloody hell are you?’ I shouted at poor Luke when he answered his phone.

  ‘Oh, Jazzy sweetie, I’m so sorry I’m not there for your do,’ Luke apologised. ‘My editor’s got me staking out her pad in Double Bay. But why are you calling me now? Shouldn’t you be in overdrive bossing people around right this second?’ Subtle. Even if it was normally true.

  ‘Why the fuck has your editor got you staking out her own pad?’ I asked, confused. ‘And I would be bossing the press around, if there was any press here to boss.’

  ‘No press?’ Luke gasped. ‘Are you for real?’ And then, ‘Oh shit. That’s why. They’re all here.’

  At his editor’s waterfront unit? What the fuck? There was the screech of car tyres followed by the sound of Luke’s car engine being switched off.

  ‘I can’t even park within five hundred metres!’ Luke sounded exasperated.

  ‘What’s up with your editor?’ I demanded.

  Now Luke was confus
ed. ‘Didn’t you hear me, Jazz? All the paps in Sydney are here. It’s not just her.’

  This was baffling. Luke’s editor was better known for her sharp-tongued celeb assassinations than her daytime soirées. Why the hell had she come over all Donna Hay today of all days?

  Suddenly it dawned on Luke. ‘OMG! You haven’t heard, have you, hon?’

  Finally. This I understood. ‘No,’ I said bluntly. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘I’m staking out Belle Single’s flat, not my editor’s. Word on the street is Belle Single has a new man. And not just any man. Her BFF’s ex-fiancé! A tip-off went out that the happy couple have been holed up in her flat for days, à la Warnie and Liz, so everyone is down here trying to get the scoop.’

  Fuck. ‘I’ve gotta go, Luke.’

  ‘Chin up, babe.’

  Outrageous. One man dangles his dongle in front of Single and our twenty bachelors are blown out of the water. This stunt had to be the work of Diane Wilderstein. Why else would Belle come over all John and Yoko today of all days? It seemed a hell of a coincidence. Especially when you considered that Diane would be gagging to get some publicity coverage up and happening for Belle. Plus, anyone who was anyone in the Sydney press scene would have received our media alert about today’s conference. Anyone like Eve Pascal editor and good friend of Wilderstein PR, Lillian Richard. It wouldn’t have been hard for Diane to find out about our plans today. Seemed like it wasn’t so tough for her to ruin them either. All she’d had to do was convince Belle Single to jump into bed with her best buddy’s sloppy seconds. We didn’t stand a chance.

  But how would I tell the Bees? How would I explain that we’d been trumped by the Shire tramp? Not to mention what I would say to our clients. Swallowing hard, I walked over to where the editor of Coco was on her mobile and motioned for her attention.

  Leila nodded and wrapped up her call. ‘I heard,’ she said, solving my problem of how to start. ‘Farking Single.’ And then, ‘If she thinks I’m sending my entertainment writer over there to snap her dirty laundry she’s dreaming.’ I admired her chutzpah.

  ‘I promise we’ll turn this around, Leila,’ I said. ‘Leave it with me. We may not have got the coverage we wanted today but Queen Bee will get things back on track.’

  Leila clearly wasn’t convinced but was polite enough not to disagree out loud. ‘I’ll leave you to explain to the press that did turn up,’ was all she said before leaving with her posse from the mag.

  Turns out it only takes minutes to cancel a media call compared with the weeks involved in organising one. As we armed our bummed guests with as many goodie bags as they could carry, I promised to shoot them a media release explaining all later today. God only knew what I’d write in that. I slumped down onto a bench in the beer garden and Em plonked herself next to me and handed me a glass. I swear that girl has a bevvie for all occasions. ‘A martini?’ I asked half-heartedly, smelling the alcohol before I could taste it.

  ‘Shaken not stirred. Just like you, love,’ said Em. ‘The bartender did offer me the special of the day but I figured a “Group Hug” wasn’t really your style, with or without Zubrowka Vodka.’

  ‘No, I’m feeling a little more “Harvey Wallbanger”,’ I conceded. ‘Shit, Em. How did this happen?’ I asked, watching our bachelors file downstairs to the bar in the stuff of an NRL publicist’s worst nightmare. ‘We had the pièce de résistance of Australian hunks here today and we still couldn’t get the media to come. Was there more we could have done?’

  Em stabbed at the olive in her drink.

  ‘What’s wrong with this fucking city today?’ I went on. ‘Honestly. This is Sydney. Sydney! This is the city where being attacked by a shark might be the end of your arm or your leg but it’s just the beginning of your career as a male underwear model. The city where you might be jailed for conspiracy to murder but if you’re blonde and hot and sporting a European accent you can move from Long Bay to Double Bay faster than you can say “parole”. This is the city where your mates have modelling contracts, the models have designer clothing lines and the designers have the keys to the city. Sydney is the vain and narcissistic capital to rival all other vain and narcissistic capitals. We make London look like a UN ambassador and New York a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Since when did twenty semi-naked male models not rate in Sydney?’

  Back at QB HQ, I was still reeling from this morning’s floor-wiping from Belle Single. The Bees, however, were reeling from a surfeit of Lindt chocolates. A girl’s gotta keep morale high somehow, right?

  Staring despondently at the blank media release template document on my screen I groped for the words to explain this morning’s debacle. COCO MAN OF THE YEAR AWARDS PLAY JAKE WALL TO BELLE SINGLE’S JEN HAWKINS? Not exactly the headline I’d had in mind when we launched the campaign. Distracted, I toyed with my takeaway matzo ball soup in its plastic bowl until Lulu interrupted me.

  ‘I’ve got Amanda from Coast on the line for you, Jazz.’

  Oh, someone drive me to the Gap, will you? I can take it from there, I swear.

  ‘Thanks, put her through, Lulu,’ I said.

  ‘Jasmine, we’ve got to stop press on tX,’ Amanda said breathlessly, not even bothering with the niceties.

  ‘Pardon?’ was the best I could manage.

  ‘We’ve got to stop tX from going to print. Their photographer, Matt –’

  ‘Max,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Max,’ she repeated. ‘He just sent me through the images from this morning’s shoot and Cody is practically naked!’

  Oh, that.

  ‘So were you happy with the pics? Cody sure can fill a pair of Coast briefs.’

  ‘Jasmine, we need to stop press now!’ She was starting to sound hysterical.

  ‘Look, Amanda,’ I reasoned, ‘as much as I feel for you – what with you being the only Coast representative at a shoot where the Coast protocol was so blatantly stripped away, so to speak – we can’t hit pause at 2.45 pm on a newspaper that hits stands at 3 pm. Today’s tX will already be stocked at train stations across the city, just waiting for the tX promo girls to strut their stuff.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Amanda screeched. ‘Can’t your girls go and stop them?’

  I had a brief image of the Bees doing battle with tight-T-shirt-wearing promo girls at stations across the greater metropolitan area. Like Sucker Punch does CityRail.

  ‘No, Amanda. They can’t.’

  ‘Shit. Well, it better not be on the front cover,’ she said, which was quite possibly the first and last time I’d ever hear those words uttered by a publicist.

  ‘Right. Let’s hope we’re not page one,’ I agreed, marvelling at the parallel PR universe I’d stumbled into. Would Kyle Sandilands be capable of good press here? The mind boggled. ‘I’ve gotta go, Amanda,’ I signed off.

  ‘Later,’ came the response as Amanda hung up.

  Seriously. That girl put me off my matzo balls.

  As I toyed with my takeaway and replayed in my mind the conversation with Amanda, Em appeared at my office door, a glossy mag in hand.

  ‘Am I going to like this?’ I began, wincing in expectation as Emma proffered the latest copy of Eve Pascal magazine, its lustrous pages shining under the harsh overhead ceiling lights.

  Em shook her head, cringing.

  I braced myself and extended an arm. Em handed over the offending glossy.

  Flipping the mag the right way up I found myself face to face with one very sultry, very pouty sloe-eyed Belle Single. Seducing the brave citizens of Sydney one newsstand at a time, I thought wryly.

  ‘Belle bloody Single.’

  Emma grimaced in support.

  ‘Well, what a surprise to see her cosmetically enhanced face on the front cover of Eve Pascal. I suppose I’m meant to think it’s a happy coincidence that Belle’s smug mug features on the very issue
that hits stands the day she’s caught in a sordid tryst,’ I fumed. ‘It’s like Lillian Richard knew Belle was going to be busted on publication date. Uncanny, isn’t it?’ I added sarcastically.

  Em’s eyes widened. ‘Surely you don’t think Diane set this up with Lillian just to fuck up our press conference today? Paranoid much, Jazz?’

  I shook my head vigorously. ‘You don’t know what Diane’s like, Em. The woman probably bites the heads off orphaned kittens before she sits down to breakfast each day. Squashing my press conference wouldn’t even rate a diary note in her daily reign of terror, so hectic is her schedule of atrocities.’

  Em stifled a giggle at my hyperbole. Easy for her. She’d never had to face Diane. It was like staring down Lucifer.

  ‘Plus,’ I slammed Eve Pascal and Belle Single’s face down on my desk for emphasis, ‘it’s not like Lillian Richard hasn’t been using my headshot as target practice lately. Ever since our run-in over the Eve Pascal Awards for fashion and beauty Lillian has been gunning for me.’

  ‘And Diane was only too happy to supply the bullets,’ Emma finished for me.

  ‘Bullseye,’ I agreed. ‘Only, there’s no straight shooting when Belle Single gets involved. Her best friend’s ex-fiancé? That stuff is twisted!’

  Emma laughed. ‘You wouldn’t need to look far to find the smoking gun, would you?’ She changed tack. ‘So what do you plan to do, Jazzy Lou? Retaliate? Or do you reckon this is a parting shot from Lillian? She won’t take it further, surely?’

  I sighed. ‘No, she won’t. The Eve Pascal lot need us as much as we need them, so I can only assume that Lillian has made her point and now is the time for a ceasefire. Besides, even if Diane hadn’t arranged Belle’s bed-in for today, there was no way Lillian would have covered our event anyway. Eve Pascal and Coco are direct competitors, after all. It just sucks that they took the rest of the competition with them. I still can’t believe we held a press stop and no press stopped by.’

  Em saw the warning signs and before I could begin ranting again she started backing away towards the door. ‘Shame, Jazzy Lou, shame,’ she consoled.