Strictly Confidential Page 15

  As Em beat a hasty retreat I picked up Eve Pascal from where it lay on my desk and idly gave Belle Single a monobrow and moustache. Then I stopped myself. Why was I bothering to deface Belle when she’d done a good enough job of losing face with the public herself? Bonking her BFF’s beau? Really? As far as publicity strategies went, this one was shockingly ill-advised and I wondered what the hell Diane was thinking. If, indeed, she was the one who dreamed it up. More likely the press had already got wind of Belle’s bedroom antics and Diane had been forced to salvage the situation as best she could. Yes, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced Diane wasn’t solely to blame for Belle’s misbehaviour. That honour lay partly at Belle’s feet. Or a little higher up her anatomy.

  If my Jewish grandmother, Bubbe, worked in the Queen Bee offices, she’d say we were cursed. Of course, if my Jewish grandmother, Bubbe, worked in the Queen Bee offices, a curse would be the least of our problems. For a start, there’d be her advice about my love life (‘Get one’) and her incessant self-commentary in the third person: ‘Bubbe doesn’t understand why you haven’t met a nice Jewish boy, Jazmine.’

  Luckily for all of us at Queen Bee HQ, Bubbe hadn’t moved in. Unluckily, a curse had.

  It started with simple things. Missing samples, deliveries that were never delivered to us, lost stock. But then things stepped up a little. Entire clothing rails of product started vanishing and then reappearing for sale on eBay. Cash was evaporating from desk drawers. As were jewellery, mobile phones and any other electronic item of value. Then one day, when a client arrived for a meeting at the Queen Bee offices and left relieved of her purse, it was time to admit the ugly truth: our curse looked an awful lot like a kleptomaniac.

  Of course, what our thieving friend hadn’t banked on was the fact that I was at the office by seven most mornings and rarely left before ten or eleven at night. Consequently, I was a human CCTV system and nothing that happened in the Queen Bee building could escape my beady eyes for too long. So by the time we’d seen more stock walk out the door than at an Alex Perry sample sale, I was pretty sure I knew whose sticky fingers were to blame: Holly’s.

  Holly had brought a little WAG je ne sais quoi to Queen Bee. Sadly, it seemed she had also brought with her a knack for swiping anything not nailed down. Like cash from my wallet the day I had a date with Ben Gorman. Or my Oliver Peoples sunnies before the tX shoot. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t phoned Diane Wilderstein for a character reference before I’d hastily offered Holly a job at our Queen Bee anniversary party. If I had, I might have learned that – for once – Diane was wholly justified in getting shot of this member of her staff. Holly was a chronic thief and Queen Bee was just the latest in her long line of suckers. No wonder she’d been evasive about the reason she’d been sacked from Wilderstein PR. Fired for boardroom burglary isn’t exactly the first thing you flag to a would-be employer. But now, at Queen Bee, it was time to catch a thief and I was certainly up to the task. Because, to misquote the inimitable Karl Lagerfeld, fashion’s biggest bloodsuckers are light-fingered publicists.

  First, however, a little pre-sacking sustenance was in order. Plonking myself down at a coveted table in Kawa Cafe, Surry Hills, I scanned the boho-organic menu while I waited for Luke to arrive. Two skinny mochas later, he made his entrance.

  ‘Ma chérie!’ he air-kissed. ‘Are we channelling our inner Donald Trump today?’

  I smiled wryly. That was sweet. But not really true. Because anyone who’d spent more than five minutes in my company knew my Donald Trump was much more outer than inner.

  ‘You’re fired!’ I replied, a little too enthusiastically. I really was going to have to tone that down when I fired Holly.

  ‘So tell me, Jazzy Lou,’ said Luke, signalling for a waitress, ‘how do you know Holly’s your girl?’

  I rattled off a list of indiscretions. Given that this culminated with the sentence: ‘And then she was photographed in the social pages wearing an Allison Palmer one-off design that had been customised especially for me and is now missing from our showroom,’ there wasn’t much doubt in my mind.

  Luke looked mortified. And well he should. Allison Palmer was our favourite client. ‘Ah. That’s fairly incriminating,’ he offered.

  Yes. Yes, it was.

  ‘Will you lay charges?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I replied. ‘When word gets out, this WAG’s career will be red-carded anyway.’

  Back at the office after breakfast, I popped a bunch of Nurofen and rehearsed my ‘pack up your desk’ address. While I had no doubt I had the balls to do this, the words proved a little more elusive. ‘Holly, it’s come to my attention your clients’ products are getting more coverage on eBay than they are in the press . . .’ Or: ‘Holly, when I say I want you to adopt your client’s style, I don’t mean in a Brangelina-take-it-home-and-keep-it-forever kind of way . . .’ Even, ‘Holly, most people don’t come to work with a balaclava and hessian sack . . .’

  It was as I sat ruminating on my speech that I was interrupted by a series of loud bangs.

  Gunshots! Jesus Christ, was Holly holding up the joint? I sprinted out of my office. ‘What the fuck? Did you hear that?’ I demanded.

  The Bees looked at me like I was the one wielding a weapon. More shots were fired.

  ‘That!’ I exclaimed again. ‘You heard that, right?’ This time the Bees nodded.

  Sirens kicked off somewhere in the distance and we all rushed to the floor-length dormer windows keeping sentry over the sleepy Alexandria street outside. Nothing. Not even a casual car-jacking. This was curiouser and curiouser. While our showroom here at Queen Bee saw as much celebrity traffic as the Ivy on Robertson Boulevard, LA, the rest of downtown Alexandria wasn’t known for its bustling activity. Criminal or otherwise. Unlike Darlinghurst, where Wilderstein PR was located, and where I’d bravely taken my life in my hands every day I fronted up for work. And that was just inside Diane’s office.

  At the thought of Diane I wondered idly whether the shots outside our window could possibly have come from her trigger-happy gun finger. After all, it wasn’t as though Diane wouldn’t kill me given the chance. And she did have a shoot first, ask questions later policy when it came to human resources. Most likely, considering our proximity to the inner city, it was simply a drug-related crime. Fashion crimes tend towards the sartorial rather than the homicidal, after all.

  Holly chose that moment to saunter into the office. Fresh from a little armed hold-up of a client somewhere, no doubt.

  ‘What the –’ she began when she saw us all standing by the window, but I cut her off.

  ‘Holly? I’ll see you in my office just as soon as my phone conference is done this morning.’ I fully intended to uphold her right to remain silent, even if she didn’t.

  An hour later, as commanded, she appeared at my office door. ‘Take a seat, Holly,’ I began, idly wondering if she might walk off with the thing. I popped a handful of Nurofen and willed myself not to come over all Diane and utter the immortal words: ‘Pack up your desk.’ Instead I started with the much more obtuse: ‘Holly, we need to talk about your office behaviour.’

  Holly looked confused. She wasn’t going to help me out here. Either that or she genuinely had no idea what I was talking about. That, however, didn’t explain the Allison Palmer frock she was rocking in the weekend papers.

  ‘Okay, Holly, why don’t we start by listing some of the things that have gone missing from the office lately? You had realised things were going missing from the office lately, hadn’t you?’

  Holly nodded, giving nothing away.

  At this point Lulu phoned from reception. ‘Uh, Jasmine, I think you’d better come down here.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of an arresting conversation right now, Lu. Can it wait?’

  ‘It’s the cops.’

  Shit. What the hell were the police doin
g in my reception area?

  ‘I’m on my way down,’ I said to Lulu. I thrust a piece of paper and a pen at Holly with the instruction: ‘Write me a list of stolen goods.’

  Clattering down the stairs in my Miu Miu pumps, I imagined all sorts of scenarios waiting for me at the bottom. Holly had stolen something from the new Dion Lee collection. Or the whole collection. Or kidnapped Dion himself.

  I turned on a high-wattage smile for the policemen slouched against our reception desk. ‘Officers!’ I greeted them, my hand shooting out to shake theirs. ‘I hope my girls have been looking after you. What can I do for you?’

  The officers barely cracked a smile. ‘We’re here about an alleged drive-by shooting that took place in Alexandria this morning. Did you hear anything?’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, that!’ I laughed. ‘Yes, we had a drive-by this morning. Yes sir, we sure did.’ The officers, however, failed to see the hilarity in this morning’s shooting. I quickly went on, ‘Uh, I didn’t see anything. But I did hear shots being fired at about, oh, 9 am.’

  One officer scribbled this down in his notebook.

  ‘Any idea what the deal was?’ I asked, showing all the concern expected of a model citizen.

  ‘Drug-related, I’d say,’ one cop mumbled, confirming my initial suspicions. At least I didn’t have to worry about a murderous Diane barging through the showroom door. Not today, anyway.

  ‘Mind if we have a look around?’ the cop asked, as more officers wandered up the front staircase. In their wake I could see the beginnings of a roadblock outside.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Be my guest. I’m afraid I’ve got a meeting to get back to but if you need anything at all, please just ask one of the girls.’ The officers nodded. ‘And Lulu, why don’t you get the officers some water? They must be thirsty after working so hard to keep us safe and sound.’ I pointed to a fridge filled with Queen Bee water bottles. No point missing a PR opp, is there?

  Trekking back upstairs in my teetering heels, I was determined to see out my conversation with Holly before any more emergency services arrived. ‘So how are you getting on with that list?’ I asked as I walked through the door. ‘Can you see what I mean now about things going missing?’

  Holly sat slumped in her chair, her arms folded defensively across her chest and the piece of paper I’d given her lying blank on my desk. Fine. It was time to bust out a little Donald Trump.

  ‘Holly, I saw you in the social pages at the weekend wearing my customised Allison Palmer gown. The same gown that went missing from our showroom last week. Any idea how you came to be wearing that particular dress? No? How about the wallet that disappeared from the boardroom when the reps from Mavi were here last week? Or Alice’s iPod? What about the entire Body Science collection that went missing but later appeared for sale on eBay? Ringing any bells, Holly?’

  Holly pouted her perfect WAG pout. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ she said sullenly, waving a match dangerously close to my fuse.

  ‘Holly, don’t speak to me that way,’ I sighed. ‘It’s insulting and it’s unprofessional.’

  The pout was unmoved.

  ‘Holly, I’ve given you so many opportunities since you joined Queen Bee and you’ve responded by stealing from me – and your colleagues. I’ve got more than enough evidence to know it was you. I only thought you might come in here and be honest with me about it so we could end your contract on better terms.’ Who was I kidding? We were hardly going to be having sleepovers and braiding one another’s hair after I fired her. But now I had Holly’s attention.

  ‘You’re firing me?’ she asked incredulously. Wow. This kid might live under the same roof as an Olympic medal but she was hardly in the queue for a Nobel Prize.

  ‘Yes, Holly. I’m terminating your contract. Effective immediately. How could I not? You stole from my clients. It’s hardly PR 101. You’re lucky I’m not pressing criminal charges.’

  Holly nearly fell off her chair. ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Well, no. I said I wouldn’t. But I’m very disappointed.’

  ‘But you won’t call the police?’ She was panicked now.

  ‘No, I won’t call the cops.’ As the words left my mouth, there was a knock on my office door. ‘Stay there,’ I instructed Holly as I went for the door.

  They’re strange, those moments in life when the literal and figurative worlds merge. Where your day becomes a cartoon strip and the words in one speech bubble are simply scooped up and turned into reality in the next box along. ‘I hope Superman gets here soon!’ you say. And kapow!, there he is in the very next picture. This sensation is rather like viewing a Romance Was Born design collection. You want a fashion show inspired by the 1980s cult classic The Neverending Story? Why, kapow!, here’s a dress channelling Falkor, the giant flying dog-thing. Send an iced Vo-Vo down the catwalk, you say? Kapow! There goes a walking biscuit now. Looking for a nanna-blanket-slash-dress for the new season? Kapow! Your wish is my command. It’s like, just by forming the words with your mouth, you somehow will them into being.

  Or so it seemed when I opened the door to my office. Because standing patiently outside, notebooks in hand, guns in holsters, were two of NSW Police’s finest.

  ‘The cops!’ Holly shrieked. ‘You called the cops!’

  I didn’t call the cops. Nor did I have any idea I was opening my office door to reveal said cops. Of course they were the two very kind sirs I’d met downstairs ten minutes ago. Only, rather than explain this to Holly I simply said, ‘Constables. Nice to see you again. Please come in.’

  Before I could order an iced Vo-Vo (non-wearable) and a nice cup of tea for the officers, Holly was on her feet. She threw herself urgently in my direction, swung and launched two punches to my face in quick succession. Oh. My. God. Holly punched me? She punched me! I slumped to the floor. The officers grabbed Holly and slammed her against the door to my en suite bathroom. The room spun and I lay on the floor gasping for breath. Did that really just happen? Was I just punched by an employee? Twice? I cringed as I thought of the headlines in tomorrow’s Sun newspaper: PR KO’D BY WAG. FASHIONISTA SPOTTED EATING! KNUCKLE SANDWICH ON THE MENU. QUEEN BEE SACKING HAS STING IN TAIL. The press could never get hold of this one. At least, not unless it came from me.

  ‘You all right down there?’ One of the constables offered me a hand and pulled me to my feet.

  Blood trickled from a cut above my eye. I glared at the twenty-four-carat black diamond knuckleduster decorating Holly’s left hand. Holly glared at me. The cops, having determined that Holly was unarmed, unhurt and unlikely to deck anyone else, began to show signs of a sense of humour for the first time all day. ‘Jesus, this the way you girls normally do business here? Board meetings with a bit of biff? We see less action in Kings Cross on a bad night.’ Just what I needed. Comedy cops.

  My head continued to bleed as one cop took down our details and the other towered over Holly. But I didn’t have time for this: I had work to do. I reached for the press release on my desk to blot my bleeding face. ‘It’s fine,’ I protested to the cops. ‘I won’t be pressing assault charges.’ They looked at me dubiously. ‘Really,’ I insisted. Then I raised my bleeding head higher and uttered the words I should have said to Holly weeks ago: ‘Just pack up your desk, Holly.’

  I’d make sure she got her just deserts.

  Cruising home in my Aston Martin that night I texted Shelley: Need vodka, painkillers, bandage. On my way over, J x. My head was still pounding after this morning’s boxing lesson from Holly, but other than a few bruises, it looked like I’d survived unscathed. Nothing a little MAC makeup couldn’t gloss over.

  Which was more than I could say for Holly’s career. Whoever said revenge was a dish best served cold hadn’t tasted the piping-hot delicacies I’d whipped up this afternoon. Feeling hungry, fashionistas? Well then, why not try these tasty treats? />
  For entree, take one fresh BlackBerry, scroll through your contacts list vigorously, select the ripest, most influential members of the PR industry, then phone and offer a step-by-step description of Holly’s manic kleptomania. Serve immediately. For main course, preheat Hotmail to around 180 degrees Celsius. Wash, chop and prepare one scathing email, complete with photo attachment of Holly (for identification purposes and just for spice), then roll out to every PR office and recruitment agency in the greater Sydney region. But save room for dessert! This deliciously decadent dish is worth ditching the diet over. Blend one list of stolen items with two quotes from aggrieved staff members, add a dollop of photographs (including a glamour shot of Holly and her famous fiancé), and garnish with a pic of the police leaving Queen Bee PR (as taken on your personal phone). Then spoonfeed to your favourite social columnist. Bon appétit!

  But all this thought of food must have upset my delicate constitution.

  Because the next thing I knew I was doubled over the steering wheel with searing stomach pain. Oh, gods of vengeance, is this you? Was my payoff for seeking payback against Holly a hernia? Could you catch karma cancer of the intestine? I clutched at my abdomen and gasped involuntarily. The pain was unbearable.

  Slamming on the brakes and slapping on my hazards, I swung my door open and attempted to stumble from the car. Horns blared behind me and brakes screeched as motorists struggled to pull up in time. But I was too busy slumping over the bonnet of my sports car to notice. All I was aware of was the intense pain when I banged my already bruised and swollen face against the finely polished paintwork. This really wasn’t my day. It was going to take a hell of a lot of Nurofen to dull this pain. Someone appeared beside me and made soothing noises along the lines of ‘don’t worry’ and ‘ambulance on its way’. I was hoping for ‘stiff drink’ and ‘heavy-duty painkillers’ but beggars can’t be choosers. Then I blacked out.