Strictly Confidential Read online

  Days after my disastrous dinner with Will, I decided it was time to bite the bullet.

  ‘I’m going to start that PR business I told you about,’ I said to Luke one afternoon over a particularly rancid glass of goon, the only alcohol my redundant self could now afford.

  Luke eyed me dubiously. I could see his brain oscillating between wanting to shoot me down in flames and being too scared to disagree with the crazy girl who had finally stopped crying for the first time in a fortnight. He opted for the latter.

  ‘Really? That’s amaze, babe.’ He slugged some wine to wash down his insincerity.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said.

  Luke put down his glass. ‘Jazzy Lou, has this got anything to do with the fact your only claim to fame at dinner with Will last weekend was the fact you inadvertently pashed an A-grade cricketer? An accidental kiss that doesn’t gloss over the fact you’re single and unemployed and have fallen off the coping wagon?’

  Ouch. With friends like these, who needs enemies? I’d seen daytime television interventions that were less harsh.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘And, anyway, I didn’t bring up Matt Ashley, Will did. He backed me into a corner.’

  ‘That so?’ asked Luke. ‘Would that be the corner you were cowering in when you turned kamikaze and threw food and wine all over the joint before storming out? Can we ever eat at Raw again?’

  I sighed in response.

  ‘Jazzy Lou, you know I want you to succeed more than anyone else in the world, right?’ Luke said, more gently now. ‘And I’d love you to start your own PR business. If only so you can give me an exclusive with all your famous clients.’

  This was more like it.

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘you can’t just go off and start your own company because you had a fight with your ex. Or because Diane sacked you. God, if everyone did that the ASX would go under from the demand for newly registered companies. Diane’s track record for firing employees puts Donald Trump in the shade. You can’t let her get to you.’

  ‘It’s not just because of Diane,’ I lied again, visualising running a Public Relations Golden Target Award trophy inscribed with my name through Diane’s heart.

  Luke topped up my glass. ‘But what about the master plan, Jazzy? You know, earn your stripes, learn the ropes, and do all those other corporate clichés before you branch out on your own?’

  I scowled.

  ‘Jazz,’ Luke reasoned, ‘you’ve only got a thirteen-thousand-dollar insurance cheque and an unhealthy collection of OPI nail polishes to your name. If the dwindling remainder of your savings wasn’t paying your rent, you’d be on the street right now. Exactly how do you plan to fund this business venture?’

  If Luke was trying to change my mind he was going about it the wrong way. Nothing says ‘do’ to a Jewish woman louder than saying ‘don’t’. Hell, we made the Bar Mitzvah Disco apparel line fashionable. If anyone could create a company out of nothing it was me. Either that or go crazy trying.

  Recognising this, Luke resigned himself to my fate. ‘So what will you call this conglomerate of yours?’ he asked.

  I stared at him incredulously. How did he know I’d already thought of a name? ‘Queen Bee PR.’

  If I was going to put up with all the aggro involved in being head honcho of my own company, then I wanted everyone to know who was boss. Regal, powerful and with a sting in the tail if you didn’t fall into line, that would be my management approach. And naturally it made sense to call the company after me, the Queen Bee.

  I did, however, mentally file my folder full of company logo designs in the bottom drawer of my mind. Just for the minute anyway.

  Luke laughed. ‘No funding, no business plan, no premises, but a name. I admire your style, Lewis.’

  I raised my wine-stained glass in the air. Mazel tov to that, my friend. Mazel tov to that.

  Over the coming months I worked like a madwoman to get Queen Bee PR up and buzzing. I cashed in my insurance cheque. I wrote a business plan and comprehensive SWOT analysis. I begged the bank for finance. I rewrote my business plan and comprehensive SWOT analysis. I secured my requested finance. I then drank a bottle of Bollinger (purchased with said finance). I got an ABN. I got an accountant. And I stopped buying Bollinger. I contacted all my local real estate agents about renting office space. None of them called me back. I invested in subscriptions to Media Monitors and Margaret Gee’s online. I created a publicity database, a press release template, a PR protocol and a publicity schedule pro forma. I set up a Queen Bee website and blog and Facebook page and Twitter account so I never once had to stop working. And I never once stopped working. I bought my PCs in bulk and second-hand. I returned my PCs when Shelley insisted on buying me brand-new Macs. I owed Shelley a world of debt. (This in addition to the world of debt I owed my bank.) I stopped lunching with Luke at expensive restaurants. But I continued drinking cheap vino with Luke in quantities that were no good for my liver. Frustratingly, I still hadn’t heard from any real estate agents. I lost hours on the kikki.K website looking at colour-coordinated stationery. I met with my accountant again. I ordered no-name stationery in mismatched colours. I looked into insurance (fire, storm, malicious damage, legal liability, business interruption, personal injury and property damage). I nearly died of boredom. I rang the still-unemployed but ever-reliable Anya (who was trawling eBay for Raven’s stolen knickers at the time) and offered her a job. I drank Bollinger with Anya when she said yes. I promised to start paying her just as soon as I started making money. I finally heard from the real estate agent and was pleasantly surprised when he a) turned out to be hot, and b) started showing me potential office spaces. I developed a marketing plan. I redeveloped a Nurofen habit. I fell in love with the Vivienne Westwood tartan leather laptop case Shelley gifted me. I researched my industry competitors. I assessed my market appeal. I continued to view depressingly expensive warehouse spaces. I began looking for, pitching for and begging for clients. I started advertising for publicists to join the company. I slept with my too-temptingly-cute real estate agent. Suddenly I started being shown amazing office spaces. I had a business logo designed. I rented out an au courant warehouse in Alexandria (if warehouses can be au courant). I registered my business name as a trademark. I made a voodoo doll of Diane. I began to receive calls from potential clients. I received a ‘congratulations’ present from Luke in the form of a red Vixenary g-string. (Hilarious.) I worked too many hours. I slept too few. I went on the occasional doomed date. I received the odd phone call from my concerned parents asking why I’d dropped off the face of the earth. I let them go to message bank. I had the warehouse fitted out. I started interviewing potential employees. I began drinking in earnest. I spent weeks looking at paint swatches with Luke for the office fitout. I ignored Luke’s interior decorating advice then immediately regretted it. I repainted the office myself at the weekend. I burned through the contacts list in my BlackBerry trying to drum up business. I schlepped to a thousand meetings all over Sydney to pitch to potential clients. I had business cards printed. I signed on my very first client. I celebrated with Bollinger in the office with my close friends. I didn’t invite my accountant. I began attending launches and any other red-carpet event Luke could sneak me into in the hope of picking up new clients (I was dressed exclusively by Shelley for all red-carpet events). I began attracting more clients. I hired two additional publicists to keep Anya company. I continued to work too many hours. I continued to sleep too few. I nearly had a nervous breakdown. But I secured even more work. I splurged on Matt Blatt suspension lights. I avoided calls from my accountant. I stopped taking Luke’s decorating advice in the form of Matt Blatt lights. I lost weight. I looked haggard. My dates kept ending disastrously. I worked even harder. I heard a rumour Diane was appalled that I’d started my own PR company. I celebrated with champagne for my staff of three (and this time I invited the accountant). I still didn’t thro
w out my Diane voodoo doll. I didn’t take a holiday. I never turned off my phone. I checked my emails relentlessly. I woke up at three on the dot each morning and rechecked them. I started making money. I had more desks brought into the office. I hired a receptionist called Lulu. I continued traipsing all over the greater metropolitan area seeking business. I started making some real money. I started returning my accountant’s calls. I was lunching with Luke again. I was still working all hours of the day and night but it was beginning to pay off. I began to think I might actually make this thing work – if only we could continue to keep our head above water. I moved out of my old rented apartment and got myself a mortgage of my own. I bought myself an Aston Martin. I received bad press over my Aston Martin. But I continued to get the very best press for my clients. Then finally, finally, I celebrated my first anniversary at Queen Bee PR. And celebrated it in style.

  ‘Jasmine will be here in eight minutes!’ a panicked voice called.

  I paused on the concrete front steps of the Queen Bee warehouse in Alexandria, in the industrial but up-and-coming outskirts of inner Sydney. I checked my watch. No one had told it we still had eight minutes to go.

  Beyond the heavy glass door in front of me – inside QB HQ – I could see a flurry of flustered activity as the Bees raced to get ready for tonight’s first-anniversary party.

  ‘She texted to say she was in a taxi and on her way back from the salon,’ the voice continued, ‘so we need to make sure all those gift bags are ready or she’s going to freak!’

  I hesitated at the door. It was true I’d just left the salon where I’d had an emergency blowdry after a long day of organising, booking, confirming, rearranging, rebooking, reconfirming and general bossing of everyone in my vicinity ahead of tonight’s event. It was also true that I’d texted the Bees to say the boss would be there on the hour and now I’d turned up eight minutes early. But most of all it was true that if I walked through the glassy entrance to Queen Bee and found the gift bags for tonight’s special guests (including media) not quite ready, I. Would. Definitely. Freak.

  I took a deep breath before buzzing myself in and ploughed on into the grand curved reception area where Queen Bee was emblazoned in hot-pink scrawl on the otherwise minimalist warehouse wall. A chandelier the size of a small Pacific island hung grandly above the reception desk. You could never accuse me of subtlety. Inside, the showroom was like an Aladdin’s cave of fashion, with nearly fifty clothing rails lined up in rows, each bearing the latest in designer threads. We received two clothing drops in summer (summer and then cruise), followed by a third drop in winter, so there was never a shortage of couture collecting about the place. The shelves around the showroom were jam-packed with accessories, each shelf dedicated to a single salient item. There was a shelf for gloves and a shelf for hats, a shelf for scarves and a shelf for watches. Hell, we even had space dedicated to thongs in summer and ugg boots in winter. Shoes of every colour and description sat on display around the room. In the far corner of the open-plan sprawl lay a treasure trove of cosmetics and beauty products. The A to Z of beauty bliss, everything from Aveda to Za. A beauty editor could die and go to heaven in there. In fact, all we needed was a cash register and somewhere to swipe our fashionistas’ hard-working Amex cards and the place really could have passed for a very stylish department store.

  ‘Gah!’ I exclaimed, barging into the warehouse-slash-office-space and causing unprepared Bees around the room to jump. ‘Since when are salads on the menu for tonight?’ I bent over the reception desk where a selection of platters for this evening’s party had recently been delivered. Platters containing row upon neat row of Asian salads, each laid out in a glossy little white takeaway box. I picked up a chopstick that lay on the platter and poked one of the offending salads, turning it over in its box to check it was similar all the way through. Disastrous.

  Surrounding the greens was the remainder of the food we had ordered for this evening. Food far more fitting for the theme of ‘sweet success’. There were luridly coloured lollies and lollipops and candy canes and popcorn served in vintage cardboard boxes, as if begging to be taken to the Saturday matinee flicks. There were sherbets and musk sticks and Jaffas and Freckles and Jelly Snakes in every colour of the rainbow.

  Then there were the salad leaves.

  ‘Why are there healthy alternatives contaminating my preservatives?’ I shouted. Honestly, this was the problem with being the boss of your own company. No one else paid anywhere near the same attention to details as you. No one else could be trusted to get things absolutely perfect.

  Emma abandoned her post where she was tying ribbons onto gift bags and headed over to placate me. ‘That’s my fault, Jazz,’ she began.

  I braced myself. Emma was one of the very first Bees I’d recruited when I kicked off the business twelve months ago, and her job title could be loosely classified as publicity Girl Friday. Only, because this business never stops, never sleeps, never pauses to even draw breath, Em’s role was more like ‘Girl Every Second of Every Day’.

  ‘When the caterer called to confirm the order,’ Emma continued, ‘I thought it sounded like a lot of sugar for a bunch of fashionistas, so I added some salads.’

  I groaned. ‘Em! The only green at this event should be on the rainbow-coloured gobstoppers. Tonight Snap and Crackle can get stuffed because we’re all about Pop! Think kitsch, think colour, think Katy Perry on crack.’

  Emma nodded in understanding.

  ‘And anyway, we don’t need to worry about providing low-fat options,’ I added. ‘This is a fashion-industry event. No one’s actually going to eat the food. Most of the people here tonight won’t have consumed calories since the mid-eighties when the Amazonian look was last in. Send the salads back,’ I admonished.

  Em nodded again and I left her to wrangle with the witlof while I inspected the rest of the preparations.

  Over in the far corner my remaining three Bees were putting the final touches on tonight’s gift bags, snakes of satin ribbon slithering on the floor around them. ‘Anya! Alice! Lulu!’ I shouted, addressing each employee in turn. ‘Those goodie bags are looking great!’

  The Bees glowed at the praise.

  Since joining Queen Bee, Anya had proven herself a much more capable publicist than she’d ever been given credit for at Wilderstein PR and, as such, was now responsible for handling several of our key accounts, with some great media coverage to show for it. Alice was the junior publicist in the office but what she lacked in experience she more than made up for with her edgy style. And QB receptionist Lulu brought enthusiasm to each crazy mission her boss set her. Like this one, for instance.

  ‘Queen Bee is renowned for the best damn gift bags in the industry, so let’s make sure our first-anniversary bags are bigger and better than ever,’ I said. ‘I want these bags to have style. I want these bags to have panache. When our guests receive their gift bag tonight they should feel like they’re being bestowed a store bag from Chanel on Castlereagh: classy yet classic.’

  ‘But cardboard?’ complained Lulu as the goods in one overstuffed bag sagged through the bottom and onto the floor.

  I ignored her. ‘Just make sure the satin bow is on the non-creased side of the bag and the custom-made tissue paper inside is folded not scrunched.’ I dusted the mess from Lulu’s collapsed bag off my Louis Vuitton two-piece number.

  Anya, Alice and Lulu got back to work while I headed upstairs onto our rooftop terrace, the scene for tonight’s celebrations.

  Here, under a perfect Sydney sunset, among the fairy lights and the candy-store trimmings, was a wonderland of pop-coloured excess. Bunting flags zigzagged across the rooftop garden, which was decorated lavishly with oversized glass jars brimming with sugar-coated sweets. Giant gingerbread men stood sentry by the doorway, where they would usher guests into the hyperglycaemic haven that lay beyond. Trays of fruity cocktails dotted every availab
le surface. And there, in the centre of the terrace, stood the icing on our anniversary cake: a giant ice sculpture in the shape of the Queen Bee logo over which sweetened vodka flowed like water. It was better than any land of milk and honey up here.

  I sighed with contentment and adjusted the banner reading: Queen Bee 1st Anniversary, The taste of sweet success.

  Everything was just as it should be. Tonight I, Jazzy Lou, former minion to Diane Wilderstein, would celebrate my first year in business as the boss of my very own PR company. I liked the taste of that.

  And to help me celebrate in style we’d invited the who’s who of A-listers, fashionistas and media influencers. Names like Pamela Stone, the undisputed gossip queen of Sydney, who was always first with the inside. So fast was Pamela with finding out the latest, she made Gossip Girl look like a piece of string between two tin cans. Also making the cut tonight was Lillian Richard, editor of Eve Pascal women’s magazine. Lillian might have been last in line when it came to hair care but she was third in line in the Richard media dynasty and a very powerful ally to have in glossy magazines. Of course we had to invite up-and-coming design sensation – and Queen Bee’s star client – Allison Palmer. Plus there was Samantha Priest too. An occasional model, frequent socialite and constant bogan, Priest would do all that was unholy to resurrect her flagging career, but the Sydney social pages – and a Queen Bee celebration – wouldn’t be complete without her.

  But tonight’s event was not solely about Queen Bee savouring its one-year anniversary. Oh no, this was only the beginning, my friends. You see, we might have just survived our first twelve months in business, but PR was a fickle world and Sydney fashion PR provided an especially slippery slope. One false move, one lost client, and our still-fledgling fashion firm could find itself suddenly so last season. And I, more than anyone, was acutely aware of the precariousness of our situation.

  With this in mind I had come up with a plan that would have Sydney eating out of our hand: Kitchen Divas.