Blaze (20 page)

‘Too much, Nina. Make the most of this break.'

To Nina's relief, Claudia was distracted as the ceiling lights dimmed and the floodlights on the runway blazed to life, synchronised with the live music.

Miche nudged Nina. ‘It's like a rock concert.'

‘Look at the stars, darling. Here they come.'

Miche fell into a trance as the models came out and
performed.
This was not as she'd imagined from the edited shots on TV . . . the laid-back somewhat haughty stroll of clothes horses. Here the models were part of the entire creation of each outfit, from their make-up to hairdo, to body movement. They
sold
each outfit, giving the clothes personality and life. No matter how wild and excessive, the girl was never overwhelmed by the fur, the feathers, the metal spikes and studs, the weight of exquisitely jewelled fabrics. They became fantasy creatures, reinvented for this moment as a fairytale image, the embodiment of a designer's imagination. They acted with their bodies, breathing life into the creations that flowed down the catwalk one after the other, the audience oblivious of the chaotic bedlam reigning backstage.

Nina knew what it was like at most of the shows. In just one room egoists, prima donnas, hysterical assistants, dressers and frazzled hair and make-up artists screamed for attention. The models smoked, many taking more than recreational drugs, and drank Dom Pérignon as if it were Perrier. A few of the girls were pushed out onto the catwalk in a state of revved hyper energy or an out-of-body stupor that all seemed part of the performance. For the younger models, it meant being thrown into a cauldron where you either survived or sank further in this sometimes murky world.

‘There's Sally,' said Claudia above the chatter, the music, the occasional bursts of applause, the intrusion of video cameras, photographers jostling and popping of flashbulbs.

Miche looked up at the sylph figure of the sixteen-year-old, who looked all of twelve. Pale skin scattered with glitter, blackened eyes ringed with circles of green and mauve, black lipstick and nails, hair extensions that fell in coils to her knees. Ethereal and death-like she floated in carefully ripped and shredded silk and tulle, the tatters caught in tiny flowers. Half-tied ribbons trailed from her hair, her satin shoes were covered in seed pearls. The child bride clutching a spray of shedding overblown roses, her fragile beauty, her apparent bewilderment and virginal frailty underscoring the wispiness of the bridal dress titled ‘
Mademoiselle du lac
'.

Miche was fascinated. The girl seemed from another time, another world. So incredibly young, so vulnerable. Had she had been swept into a milieu beyond what she knew, or could have expected? Miche wondered how she would deal with this.

Nina had similar thoughts. Young girls like Miche and this Sally Shaw were dealing with issues and situations far removed from the secure world of Sydney in the fifties, which she had known at that age. Yet, as she'd thought about it, she'd realised she had also been ambitious and dedicated to a career as a young woman. But, how different were the pressures and values. Nina thought of the protective Clara, and resolved to keep a watchful eye on Miche.

Meanwhile, Miche was pondering how quickly circumstances could change one's life. Since the loss of her mother she had been forced to address her priorities, her career and her family situation. Now, thinking about the young model, Sally, she wondered what the girl was feeling.

Sally had been a young Aussie schoolgirl, on an exchange program in France, who'd been plucked from a café by a fashion agent. Within six months, she was on the covers of the top international fashion magazines, courted by the couture houses for the photo layouts and was now debuting on the world stage of fashion before critical, envious eyes that had seen it all before. Yes, this was a story she'd like to explore. Miche decided she would take up Nina's suggestion – and use her help – to delve behind the shimmering veil of the lighted catwalk, where the clothes and their creators were the engine in the streamlined vehicle of the couture models.

These days it was a nervous group that gathered for the
Blaze Australia
weekly ideas and editorial conference. Photo layouts were looked at and stories discussed. Knowing Ali's unpredictable reaction to editorial ideas, the senior staff members were hesitant to present any. They avoided eye contact, kept their heads down and rattled through their spiels.

‘So, is that it? Not too exciting. Worthy, but dull.' Ali leaned back. ‘Let's go for a bit more pizazz. Be more outward looking, more of what's happening out there.' She waved an arm towards the window.

Larissa looked in that direction, wondering again at the beauty of Sydney Harbour. ‘Do you mean out there, as in Australia? Or the other side of the world?' she asked. ‘I'm still intrigued with the notion of what Australia has to offer.'

‘Our readers are probably longing to be in Paris or New York,' suggested Fran.

‘No, I think we're still interested in our own backyard,' ventured Jonathan. ‘So long as it's somewhere special. It is a big country, as has been observed.'

‘We certainly have the writers,' said Bob.

Ali tapped her pen on the table. ‘Hmmm. Now, about that island, Dixon's honeymoon story. I've decided we should do it . . . romance, escapism, beautiful people, maybe there's a hard edge to be found once we dig in and win his confidence. Let them think we're doing the usual . . . How'd the projected costings come out?' Ali looked around the table as Larissa suppressed a shudder.

‘I made a few inquiries, just on a spec basis,' said Fran carefully. ‘There's a bit of money on offer from the tourism people. A wine company is launching a new label – they're willing to throw in the champagne and do the launch on the island as part of the festivities in return for coverage.'

Ali turned to Bob Monroe with a questioning look. He gestured at Jonathan who flipped back through his notebook. ‘I did look into angles, just in case. Heron Island is a national park – protected species, the turtles, birds, the reef, and so on. Maybe dear Dixon could suddenly go green – become environmentally aware and have a cause.'

‘The setting and the turtles sound photogenic.' Ali glared at them. ‘Let's do it. Call Dixon's agent and tell him we think it's a wonderful idea and ask whether the airhead might have something interesting to say about endangered species or the environment. Makes it more interesting than just a honeymoon. Write something for him, Jonathan. They'll thank us, I'm sure. Pretty boy looks don't last forever. And, remember, this has to be kept under wraps. Larissa, London is interested in our Dixon. See if da Costa in New York wants to use it.'

‘It will depend on how hard the edge is. We'll need to find a deep angle,' said Larissa, knowing
Blaze USA
wouldn't run a fluff piece about a movie star's marriage – exotic locale or not. ‘Unless, of course, we break the real reason he's marrying his make-up artist.'

‘So she can give him a facial and pluck his eyebrows every day?' asked Barbara innocently.

‘That. And to prove he's not gay. And, oh yes, he wins residency in the US of A as a bonus,' finished Fiona.

Ali started to put her papers together. ‘I'm sure you'll find the angle we need, Jonathan. Bob, ask Tony Cox to find a writer to do a travel piece as well. That will cover the airline and accommodation costs.'

Reg Craven made notes, seeing opportunities for advertising tie-ins.

Ali pointed at Fiona. ‘Find the best of the current hot designers and organise to have their new collection photographed on the island. Kasha, welcome on board. You'll enjoy working with Fiona. '

The new fashion stylist nodded quickly. She knew she'd been thrown in the deep end to assist Fiona, who'd convinced Ali to let her direct the magazine's fashion pages, after Ali's chosen editor to replace Tiki had accepted more money to stay in her old job.

What Kasha didn't realise was that Fiona had wanted a young stylist who could be trained to set up the mag's fashion shoots the way she liked them. Fiona would have the creative input, Kasha would do the work to make fashion spreads happen.

‘Ali, just before we finish, I want to mention that I had a call from Miche Bannister,' said Larissa. ‘She's in Paris and wants to do a story on the collections, well, the new model, Sally Shaw. She's Australian, but Miche thinks there's more to the story than local girl makes good.'

‘Better be, or I'm not interested. Miche might be Nina's goddaughter, but she'll still have to prove herself to me.'

‘Is Miche a
Blaze
reporter?' asked Kasha to the table in general.

‘Not yet,' said Ali. ‘Tell Miche if she hooks onto something really worthwhile . . . if she hangs out with the models and unearths something meaty, to call back quickly and we'll see if we can arrange for Donald Heavney to go over there from New York to do the shoot.'

‘Why? There are photographers on the ground in Paris we could use,' said Larissa. ‘Surely that would be less costly than flying one in?'

But Ali didn't want to stamp
Blaze Australia
as a fashion magazine. This story, if the kid could bring it off, had the promise of couture covered more as a news or profile feature. ‘Donald is a fantastic portrait photographer. We used him in New York a lot if you recall, Larissa. He's creative. He made his name in fashion, then moved on. He is young, clever and quick on his feet. He's been heralded as the new Herb Ritts,' said Ali, wondering why she had to explain this to people who worked for
Blaze.

‘He's Australian too,' added Larissa. ‘Do people here realise what a lot of Australian talent there is out there on the international stage?'

‘I think where possible
Blaze
should feature the best of Australian talent,' decided Ali. ‘Readers will appreciate that.'

‘Does “where possible” mean that if there isn't an Aussie who is the best, use a foreigner?' asked Fiona with a slight smile.

‘
Blaze
only runs with the best,' answered Ali curtly. ‘Thank you all. I expect full proposals outlining the stories and logistics on my desk, soonest.'

Bob walked beside Larissa as they headed back down the hallway to their offices. ‘Sounds like your young friend, Miche, won't be getting any special treatment.'

‘She doesn't expect any. No one did her mother any favours,' said Larissa with a hint of bitterness. Back in her office she turned on her computer, opened her email address file and sent a brief message to Miche, then leaned back in her chair and swivelled it round till she had a view of the city. The scale of skyscape made it so different from New York, let alone the light, which she still marvelled at. How Gerry would love it. There was something about this sunny place and its people, their up-front attitudes and fun lifestyles that had started to intrigue her. She wondered how Miche would like it. Again her mind threw up the unanswered question that had concerned her ever since hearing Miche was coming to Australia. Despite Nina offering to open career doors in New York and Europe for her goddaughter, Miche had decided that Australia would be her future. She might forge a strong and satisfying start to her journalism career in this country. But would her search for a long-lost father give her the happiness she deserved?

 

T
he vintage cars hired to collect guests snaked down the canopied driveway to the palatial mansion on Pittwater for the unveiling of
Blaze Australia.
The grand old house, regarded as something of a mausoleum by the locals, had been transformed. It, and the defunct private zoo in the still lavish gardens, had been turned into a scene from
Arabian Nights.

Ali had argued, cajoled and finally convinced Manny to expand the budget for the launch party, persuading him that the attendant publicity would give them the equivalent of a major outlay on advertising by gaining free exposure in the media.

She had hired Tracey Ford as
Blaze
's public relations manager. Tracey was to be responsible for the magazine's public image, its social functions and media events and she was to act as Ali's personal publicist.

The theme for the launch party was A Thousand Nights in One, an exotic blend of oriental romance and Arabian ambience.

As guests arrived through the main gates to where the front lawn of the house was encircled by the driveway, a fountain with a goddess statue glowed under a spotlight that also highlighted foaming iridescent bubbles and floating flowers holding small, lighted candles. This was the centrepiece to a changing parade of entertainment – fire-eaters, jugglers, magicians, contortionists dressed as lions and leopards, masked dancers and singers.

Between the house and the gardens, braziers burned with musk and verbena. Fake, jewelled fruit hung from tree branches and the shrubbery bloomed with fat silk flowers that glittered from the twinkling lights in their centres.

Standing calmly on either side of the portico were two elephants, each magnificently decorated with a studded silk headband, a plume pinned by a large ruby-coloured stone in the centre. Ornate fabric cloaks hung across their broad backs.

From this greeting at the entrance, guests began to realise they were in for something never before seen in Australia in the way of magazine launches. The spectacle of the setting as a background to the lavishly costumed men and women stepping from their limousines was dazzling.

Valets dressed as young princes spirited away the cars as guests were greeted in the main foyer by Baron Oscar Von Triton and his thirty-year-old son, Jacques – one of the world's most eligible bachelors – elegantly dressed as sultan and heir. Between them stood Alisson Gruber, making her own entrance into Sydney's social and business community.

Ali's harem pants were gathered at the hips below a gold satin jacket, open just enough to glimpse the red jewel in her navel and the embroidered bra top. Her hair was buried beneath a tight-fitting gold scarf caught in the centre by another rhinestone in an antique clasp, with matching long earrings.