The Rumour Mill Page 5

  ‘Oh, and the other thing you should know is that I’ve just had a call to say that The Voice finalists will be turning up to the event,’ Anya added, no doubt blushing almost as deep as her scarlet cropped top-do (she’d obviously tagged along to staff training at La Boutique too).

  Okay, so no pressure – much! The hottest reality stars in Planet Sydney at the moment and at the turntables would be – ta da! – Thelma from Queen Bee doing her own ‘audition’ for So You Want To Be A DJ?

  Why hadn’t I chosen a less interesting but much more stable career in accounting, or maybe even real estate? Hell, maybe it wasn’t too late to return to florist school. Anything but put up with this kind of insanity day and night.

  I hadn’t been planning to attend any parties for at least three months, and not until I had Fifi settled on the right feeding program. (Breastfeeding was not an option for me – I had ruled it out even before Fifi was born because it had never appealed to me. Life is all about knowing your own limitations – so we were all about trying different formulas until we found the one that suited Fifi best and had her contented enough to fall asleep. Right now a special organic version from Wholefoods House in Woollahra was doing the trick.) But I decided on the spot that I had to see Thelma DJ and make sure everything was running smoothly. With the press release having just gone out about not selling the agency to the Russians, it was a good opportunity to remind everyone that I was still in control.

  But what to wear with my figure looking downright lumpy? I was still too sore from the emergency caesar to be able to return to my personal training program with Noah, who had simply prescribed light walking in an attempt to get me back in shape. Fortunately, I was usually too busy to get dressed up for Queen Bee parties, plus I had learnt early on the fatal mistake of tottering around in a pair of punishing Givenchy heels and a constricting frock when I was essentially there to work and often had to move fast on my feet. As a result, no one would expect a yummy red carpet mummy. In the end I put on my Céline tee, a Bassike skirt and high-top Marant trainers – the perfect look for slipping in and out of most venues without attracting a lot of attention.

  I saw Meek & Mild’s name in lights as soon as the car rounded the bend into Rose Bay. The pink and green laser display reflected on the harbour around the A-list restaurant, and from the moment I left the car at the valet park near the entrance, I could hear the sounds.

  ‘Oh my God, Thelma, you’re totally doing it,’ said Violet, one of the newest of the Bees, standing close to the deck and rocking her tiny frame back and forth on enormous platform heels.

  Well, at least there was one satisfied customer, but even I had to admit that Thelma sounded good – no doubt helped along by the excellent sound system.

  Anya spotted me immediately, but I held up a finger to shush her as I wasn’t ready to be the centre of attention and to show them all the photos of Fifi on my iPhone. I just wanted to ensure that everything was going well and that the lovely team behind Meek & Mild (who I knew had just flown in from New Zealand the night before) were happy, then I wanted to get back in my car and head home. If Fifi was sleeping when I got back I might even have some down time to work out a new plan for the agency. Calling off the Russian buyout was one thing, but actively taking the reins back was something else again. It would def have to be a case of ‘Hold on, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.’ However, it seemed Anya had other plans for me. She hurried to my side and explained that Nicole Richie had just popped in with The Voice finalists and was being monopolised by the tiresome Wally Grimes. Meanwhile I could see my preferred gossip columnist and pal, Luke Jefferson, discreetly idling at a safe distance, waiting for Grimes to finish up. I could see that the reliably parched Luke was hell bent on getting his story, because he was clutching a cocktail but just as a prop. He had no intention of even taking a sip until he had some live quotes from Nicole all wrapped up.

  When he spotted me, I winked at him and nodded in the direction of Wally so he would know that the situ was in hand. Then I turned to poor Anya with a very sweet public smile in case anyone clocked us and hissed at her, ‘So Nicole bloody Richie! Why didn’t anyone tell me? You said that some of The Voice finalists were coming along. Couldn’t you have mentioned that the delicious, fashionista wife of one of the judges would be arriving as well? When it came to international style icons, Richie was right up there with Anna Wintour. And who let Wally Grimes near her?’

  Anya tried to explain herself, saying that the first anyone knew of it was when tiny Nicole Richie slipped in, but I wasn’t really listening to her.

  ‘Also, isn’t it a bit ambitious for Thelma to be DJing in front of Nicole? Anya, you have to ask her if she wants to slip on the headphones herself to play us some of her favourite sounds.’

  But none of this was as important as extricating Nicole Richie from Wally Grimes, and I knew that I was the only woman for the job because the Network publicists who had accompanied her to the restaurant did not seem to be making much progress in moving her on. Wally was in full flight, his big fleshy lips with just a few crumbs of a particularly delicious canape clinging for dear life onto the corners of them.

  ‘You’re so tiny,’ I heard him bleat. ‘You probably haven’t tried many restaurants here because you seldom eat at all, do you?’

  I marched right up to the group but Wally well and truly saw me coming. ‘Jazzy Lou, how lovely to see you. But shouldn’t you be in a maternity wing somewhere giving birth?’ he snarled, then purposefully turned his back to me.

  A startled Nicole glanced at my tummy, and then quickly looked away not meaning to be rude. Okay, I def was nowhere near as slim as she was, but that tummy of mine, although a bit lumpy in places, wasn’t that bad. You could tell I wasn’t about to give birth.

  ‘Nicole,’ I said warmly, pointedly ignoring Wally now too. ‘It’s so great to have you here. Please do let me show you around.’

  ‘Wait just a moment, Jasmine. I’m interviewing Nicole.’ Wally looked fit to explode.

  ‘Of course, you are,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘We’ll be right back.’

  And taking her tiny birdlike arm, the two of us sauntered off with the publicists and a relieved Luke Jefferson cautiously bringing up the rear. Wally accepted another glass of champagne from the waiter and went off to find some buddies, no doubt to complain about what a bitch I am. The problem for Wally was that his buddies were an endangered species. The way he kept selling out his friends, he had very few left.

  There had been no roped off VIP section at Catalina when I had arrived, but there certainly was one there now thanks to Anya (who never left home without several metres of golden tassels in the back of her car). Catalina’s owner, Michael McMahon, was happy to assist her to set it up, and SIPs (self important pests) like Wally Grimes were definitely not welcome.

  ‘Get me that creep’s number,’ I hissed at Anya. (Wally Grimes was not someone I kept in my phone directory, let alone on speed dial, because even though he was a well-known columnist, he could never be trusted to put information to the best use, so what was the point?)

  Anya quickly dialled the number for me and we both watched as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Fortunately, he never ignored a call, just in case one of his favourite contacts phoned to give him a juicy story. This was one man who could never afford to be out of mobile range.

  ‘Ye-es,’ he answered tentatively, while Richie started to talk to Luke Jefferson, who loved to hang out in LA and was now talking shops on Robertson with her.

  ‘Wally!’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘Nicole won’t be speaking to you again and if you attempt to bother her, this will be viewed as harassment.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he trilled. ‘Well, don’t expect me ever to write up one of your crummy events again.’ He hung up the phone first, then we all watched as he flicked it onto the video setting and started filming himself talking into the camera. Now he was walking over to the roped off area and filming Nicole before a security guard came
to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Mate,’ he said. ‘It’s time to leave.’ Then we all watched as Wally was moved away, pausing only to scoff another couple of canapes and drain his glass of bubbles, as he was escorted to the door.

  In the following day’s issue of The Echo, Wally wrote a bitchy piece about the evening, referring to our client as ‘a tacky chain store label’, and intimating that Nicole Richie had wanted to be in a special area because the smell of food was clearly making her ill. This was totally a lie – Nicole Richie had been a real sweetheart to deal with and everyone had raved about how lovely she was.

  The Voice must really be slipping in the ratings, it read, because on Wednesday night, they sent out the heavy artillery in the reed thin form of Nicole Richie, superstar wife of The Voice judge, Joel Madden, to the launch of a high street clothing label at Catalina.

  Clearly showing disdain for the clothing line, Richie declined to comment on the label or indeed anything much at all. Herded into a VIP area by a platoon of minders, she looked particularly uncomfortable when the canapes came out. The poor dear clearly hasn’t eaten a square meal in decades. (This was also BS – Nicole loved the canapes there so much, she quietly asked for a booking the following day to bring the family with her. And, as for the label, she wanted to debut it in LA, which just shows you that you certainly can’t believe everything you read.)

  He also said that she had refused an interview with the press, which wasn’t correct because Luke Jefferson’s piece, also published the next day but in The Sun (with a much higher circulation), had lots of great insights on how Nicole Richie, her husband, Joel Madden, and their children were enjoying their life in Sydney.

  Bliss. The flowers that I sent as a thank you on behalf of the client to Luke’s office were a talking point among his colleagues all week.

  ‘They were totes fab,’ Luke said over the phone. ‘But next time you decide to send me the edited highlights of the Chelsea Flower Show, how about a ticket so I can see the real thing for myself.’

  Heavens knows my old buddy deserved one.

  6

  Returning to the office just four days after giving birth to Fifi wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but then everything after the immense effort of having a baby was going to be an anti-climax, like going to see Pink and leaving after the support act. Of course, it wasn’t how I had expected early motherhood to go. I thought we’d be at home watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show on the couch as I lulled my newborn off to sleep. And if Fifi took after her mother at all, she would be asleep by the time Ellen’s second guest had appeared and the audience were up to their sixth dance move. Truly nothing made me more drowsy than watching television – not even great sex. It was the leisure moment when all the energy I had expended throughout the day came crashing down and, before I knew what was happening, I was fast asleep on the couch. But there had been no time for that with all the Russian drama. First, Ivan had been calling me to try to assure me that whatever troubles he was experiencing with Immigration were just temporary, and he was in the process of appealing any restrictions. Then Svetlana phoned me wanting to meet for lunch so she could give me the latest collection of Baby Dior that she had purchased for Fifi. I had tried to explain that the birthing experience had suddenly made me determined to run my own agency, but they were having none of it. Finally, Ivan had shown his true colours and threatened me with breach of contract, although technically no contract had been signed. Outlined in a letter from his old-school establishment Sydney lawyers, Boyd, Boyd and Macarthur, was a hefty list of damages that included the cost of hiring an interior designer to refit the offices, furniture, removal costs and damages to his professional reputation, etc etc. However, as Marshall Coutts put it, Ivan’s reputation was well dodgy to start with, and so it could be argued that it was hardly able to be further damaged.

  Disappointingly, despite the fact that we were being billed for all the expensive French antique furniture, Marshall said that we would not be able to keep it as we would be fighting the claims all the way.

  What exactly had I got myself into by having anything to do with the Shavaliks in the first place? I should have remembered the saying that if anything sounds too good to be true, it’s probably a prize on Sale of the Century. So since I now wasn’t being paid to be a lady of leisure, there was nothing for it but to head into the office and take Fifi with me. I guessed she might as well get used to the place she would probably inherit one day now that all Russian bets were off. During the day, Fifi would be well looked after by our wonderful nanny, Anna, and I could always comfort her on the spot if she needed me.

  No sooner had my Bees started cooing over baby Fifi in the office – which I am pleased to say looked immaculate, no doubt because everyone had been anticipating my arrival for days – than the phones started ringing off the hook. One look at Lulu’s grim face told me that on the other end of the line was our most challenging client of all, Teddy Gladhand. The property developer with a portfolio that included shopping centres and boutique hotels was apparently quibbling about our latest invoice. He wanted to cut it down to half of the lousy six-thousand-dollar-a-month retainer he paid us.

  The problem with this was that Teddy – a ranga with a red hot temper to match, whose blonde trophy wife Lydia was, at twenty-three, almost a third his age – was such a pain in the arse that he required round-the-clock service. This meant that whatever time zone he was in, he still called us, even if it was the middle of the night in Australia. If he didn’t make contact, the calls would be followed by emails, text messages, tweets and messages on Facebook, which came at us non-stop. If he had a loudhailer handy I’m sure he would use that too. He could conservatively be described as manic.

  ‘Hi, Teddy. How’s things?’ I said brightly, steeling myself for the tirade.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he hollered. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. I don’t think it’s very professional of you to run a business and just to be absent from your–’

  Interrupting him mid-rant was never easy but it had to be done. ‘Teddy, I’ve been in hospital giving birth to my daughter,’ I said.

  But Teddy wasn’t listening. He was so used to talking over the top of people that he was on a self-imposed two-minute delay. ‘It’s not good enough, I’m no longer paying you six thousand dollars a month because I don’t get that back in service,’ he bellowed. ‘So many other companies are after my account, including Wilderstein PR.’

  ‘Teddy, I’ve just had a baby!’ I yelled, sending a couple of Queen Bee interns fleeing to the kitchen in fear. ‘You know that big belly I was running around with? Well, I wasn’t auditioning for The Biggest Loser – that was my daughter, Fifi.’

  Teddy paused: it seemed that the message had sunk in at last. ‘Congratulations,’ he said coldly. ‘I hope mother and daughter are doing well,’ he added mechanically. ‘But I’m still not paying your fees.’

  For a moment I wished that Ivan and Svetlana really were running the show because then I could have sent Teddy some toxic blinis or something equally exotic. But it was down to me with little back-up to make him see the light. The truth was that although the money was good and constant – plus in the eyes of my accountant it was a blue-chip account – Teddy just wasn’t worth the grief.

  ‘You know what?’ I told him. ‘You can take your arse out of this agency, because life is definitely too short to have to deal with someone like you.’

  At that, Teddy went quiet, I shook the phone to see whether the line had dropped out. Teddy usually only oscillated between yelling and really yelling; staying silent was an alien concept for him.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ he said finally, just before I hung up. ‘You know you’ll regret this.’

  It was true, I did regret many things right now – especially while glancing around the Queen Bee showroom, which, in spite of the Bees’ efforts, had been decimated by celebrities borrowing clothes for Fashion Week. But losing Teddy as a clie
nt? Not so much. As I moved towards my suspiciously pristine desk, I noticed a rag of a dress hanging forlornly on a rack. What was this – a Project Runway reject? Since when did we get that account?

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Amy, sounding embarrassed. ‘That was borrowed by Lynley Booth, the brand-new fashion editor for Fashion Style. She must have been channelling Lindsay Lohan, because that’s the way it looked when she returned it. It was once a Kurt Greer sample.’

  ‘Well, we can never return it to Kurt in that state. We’ll have to buy it from him,’ I said sternly. ‘And make sure Victoria Creighton hears about it, because we can’t afford to have that happen again.’ Victoria was the editor-in-chief at Fashion Style.

  Amy looked suitably chastened. ‘I’m on it,’ she said, almost yanking the offending garment off the rack.

  ‘Send Victoria the before and after pictures of that dress,’ I said. ‘She’s going to have to make it up to us.’

  With Fifi and her nanny playing happily in the boardroom, watched over by several Bees, I could now turn my attention to other pressing matters.

  First up was a proposal that had been put together before Fashion Week to launch Salon, a small label by one of Australia’s oldest brands. Now it seemed as though we were about to close the deal, with the brand’s marketing director, Myles Woods, requesting an urgent meeting at the end of the week. He was flying in from Melbourne and wanted to meet over lunch. And he wanted that meeting to be with me. The only problem was we had promised him that a certain Sydney identity would be the brand’s ambassador. We had already sounded her out but now she had started upping her demands through her hard-assed manager, Aerin, who unfortunately no one had a line on. We would have to close the deal by COB tomorrow or start negotiations with someone totally different.