Blaze (23 page)

She moved slowly, arcing an arm, allowing the folds of the long single sleeve of the dress to cascade. A tiny hand weighed with large rings touched the wimple. She turned, she looked over her shoulder straight into the lens, a shy but challenging look, before folding herself into the foetal position in the chair where she seemed lost in its massive wooden embrace. A small impish smile replaced the child seductress and suddenly, to Miche, she looked like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes.

Bandeau finished the roll and handed the camera to his assistant who handed him a Hasselblad, which he held in front of his abdomen, framing the picture that would eventually be seen worldwide
.

Miche was mesmerised. It was like watching a ballet. And she was suddenly aware there was music playing – a contemporary, wild harp piece. Everybody involved in this shoot stood in the shadowy corners of the studio watching the dance between the photographer and model.

Then it was over and Sally slipped from the chair to change clothes.

Bandeau took the glass of Scotch from his assistant. ‘This is part of a series. The other outfits were shot at a house in the country, sleeping hounds and dead heads on the wall, blazing fire, fur rugs. And at dawn on the wild moors leading the giant hounds. You get the scenario.'

‘Yes. Sounds . . . expensive,' said Miche.

‘Who's counting when a dress costs thousands of dollars?' He shrugged, lighting another cigarette.

Miche poked her head behind the screen where bottles of champagne stood open. Sally was standing in flimsy lingerie – bloomers and a lacy corselet. Miche was shocked at the frailness of her body, her translucent skin and shadowy bones. Sally sipped champagne as her hair was raked by metal brushes, hair dryer and curling rod. The dresser handed her several pills.

‘Here you go,
chérie
, they'll keep your eyes bright.'

Sally obediently swallowed and waved her glass at Miche. ‘Help yourself. French champagne by the bucket!' She emptied her glass. ‘Where are we going for dinner, Bandeau?' she shouted, adding in an aside to Miche, ‘It's wild, we go to these crazy places for dinner, then clubs, end up at someone's place . . . it's wild,' she repeated.

‘Surely you have a few hours of sleep before you go to work?'

Sally gave a giggle as a dresser poured more champagne into her glass. ‘Work, you call this work!'

Larissa and Ali sat opposite each other doing the final rundown for the next issue.

‘Ali, I can't agree about this Dixon Landers story . . . it's tacky, his last movie has bombed and, frankly, my biggest problem is the contra deal on the island. When we take something for free, we're under an enormous obligation.'

‘Don't be so po-faced, Larissa. Reg Craven is going all out for it. '

Larissa drank some mineral water to gather her thoughts. The advertising manager was fast becoming Ali's enemy. She didn't particularly warm to Reg, a blustering salesman who favoured bow ties and a hearty but arrogant manner – especially towards women. He had bulldozed his way through the ranks from sales, to circulation to advertising. Now as head of advertising – the revenue-making side of the magazine – he held equal power to the editor, in theory. ‘And how many pages is all that contra going to take away from editorial?' Larissa finally asked.

Ali frowned. ‘I've told him he can't go over our forty-five per cent advertising–editorial balance.'

‘Ali, you know how it is. I bet they're no different over here. That guy will come in at the last moment having done a deal and sold off another couple of pages. Management isn't going to knock back revenue – especially when the magazine is becoming established in the media-buying world.'

‘I'll speak to him,' said Ali shortly. ‘So are you with me, or not? I want to do it.' Ali waited for Larissa's response out of courtesy, but as editor, if she wanted
Blaze
to cover the wedding story, it would happen.

Larissa spoke slowly, phrasing her words carefully so as not to offend Ali, who tended to take any criticism personally. ‘The advertising space aside, there is the ethical dilemma of accepting paid-for expenses in return for pretty-picture coverage in the magazine. You know what a sensitive issue this is . . . look at how the “cash for comment” blew up in the faces of those radio guys. Print at least has always made it clear when something has been paid for – “advertorials” always have
Advertisement
or
Advertising Supplement
at the top of them. The papers here have had to adjust their policies, so why should we charge in and abuse the ethics?'

‘So? We put a disclaimer at the bottom –
Blaze
staff working on this story were the guests of Heron Island.'

‘Ali, Triton editorial policy has always been no contra deals. You know how it was in New York. You can't change the rules out here and expect them not to know. And if you declare it, that looks worse . . .
Blaze
paying for the wedding,
Blaze
going along with a sham event so this guy can have a US green card,
Blaze
doing a travel feature in return for accommodation,
Blaze
doing a fashion spread to disguise the reason we're on Heron and dressing the bridal party.'

‘Listen, this has enormous potential for
Blaze
. We are doing a side deal with the record company. We allow them in on our exclusive and they can use the footage in their next video clip.'

‘They won't wait till our issue comes out, and you run the risk they'll leak pictures. It's too dangerous, Ali. Besides, it's unethical for
Blaze
to be involved.' Larissa sat back, folding her arms.

‘That's your final opinion?'

‘Yes.'

Ali paused and leaned back in her chair. She could insist on it going ahead, but there was the niggling worry that Larissa was correct in what she said. Ali believed there was still a way to do the story, sliding past the Triton policy, and come out with the scoop she wanted. It was risky because of the time frame, and guests had been known to sneak quickie pictures and sell them to a tabloid overnight. Perhaps it wasn't worth fighting Larissa over a point of honour and losing in the end. If she gave in now, Larissa would feel vindicated and be less vigilant or aggressive in the near future. Ali didn't like anyone scoring points over her, but she had to admit, the Dixon Landers story wasn't the one she'd want to stick her neck out for, if any problems arose. Maybe Ali should cast around for a truly big fish before making a stand on the issue of contra deals. The less she paid and the bigger the name, the more credit she'd accrue. Okay, she decided. She'd let this one go and plan for bigger fish to fry. Let Larissa think she was being amenable. Then Larissa wouldn't complain about her to Nina. Or watch Ali too closely.

‘If we drop it, what do we lead with instead?' challenged Ali.

‘Miche's story on Sally Shaw from Paris.' Larissa mentally crossed her fingers hoping Miche had a story.

Ali didn't answer immediately, and it seemed to Larissa she was sifting through other options and couldn't come up with a suitable alternative. Finally, she shrugged. ‘Okay. I'll talk to her. Call Donald Heavney, the photographer, and confirm we want him in Paris ASAP.'

Larissa nodded and began gathering up her papers. Ali gave her deputy a slight smile. ‘It'd better be better than good, or young Miche won't ever work for me again. Nina or no Nina.'

Larissa was saved from answering. Reg Craven loomed in the doorway so she slipped past him and headed to her office.

‘Fantastic news. I've sold a spread to the film distributors of Dixon Landers' movies. Plus tickets to the premiere of his next film.'

‘Forget it. We canned the story.'

Reg choked. ‘What! You can bloody well resurrect it then. We don't go back and say no deal to these kinda people. Advertising pays for this magazine, and pays your salary!' He raised his voice and pulled his red-framed glasses off, shaking them at Ali. ‘Editorial is there to stick on the back of ads. Get your priorities right!'

Ali stayed calm, her voice steely. ‘I have just reminded Larissa of the ethics embraced by Triton and I will now remind you.
Blaze
and Triton do not accept freebie or contra deals. This whole business has been tacky and unethical. We don't want to be seen as buying stories. Once we set a precedent for doing deals like this our credibility is shot.'

Reg Craven gaped at Ali, speechless for a moment, then managed, ‘Since when?'

‘Since I say so.'

‘Advertising has as much say in this as editorial,' said Reg, a slow red flush creeping up his neck. A warning sign to those who knew him.

‘Do you want to take it further?' Ali had her gloves off.

‘Listen, you pseudo-Yankee bitch. You might think you know it all, but what works in New York doesn't necessarily work here. We've always done deals. It's how the publishing business works. Same as all the media. Advertising rules, okay? Without us, you and your magazine don't exist!'

Ali flinched but held her ground. ‘Clients aren't going to buy space in a crap magazine. And that's what you seem to know best – crap. Lift your game, forget the footy pubs and lunches with topless waitresses. I know your type, Reg, and that's not what
Blaze
is about.'

‘Bullshit.' The remark about the topless lunch club had hit home. He'd recently lunched too long, and he'd become drunk and loud and made a pass at one of the waitresses. Next day it had been written up by the town's raciest columnist, April Showers, causing
Blaze
some embarrassment.

They eyeballed each other for a moment before Ali lifted the phone. ‘Do you want to speak to Jacques Triton and Manny Golan or shall I?'

Reg Craven leaned across Ali's desk, his club jacket falling open to reveal a paunch and red plaid braces. ‘Don't cross me again. You might be able to kick around the birds and blokes on this floor, but never forget – without advertising, you're nothing.' He thrust a finger towards the ceiling where the sales representatives of
Blaze
worked from the floor above.

Ali stood. ‘I have an appointment. Don't sweat, Reg. We're replacing Dixon Landers with a better story.'

Reg Craven stomped from Ali's office and she sank back into her chair. Suddenly she felt shaky.

Belinda stuck her head in the door. ‘Coffee?' she asked in a sympathetic tone.

‘No, haven't the time. I have an appointment.' Ali made no effort to thank Belinda, who must have heard Reg shouting. She picked up her bag and brushed past Belinda.

As the gentle ping marked the elevator doors closing behind Ali, Belinda looked in the editor's diary. There was no appointment marked.

Ali walked fast, but with no direction. Half an hour later she was sitting on a bench in Hyde Park watching the birds peck around the Archibald Fountain. Her mobile rang and she debated for a moment, then answered it.

‘Miss Gruber, it's John O'Donnell's secretary. He apologises for the short notice, but he is unexpectedly free for dinner this evening. And, as he is going overseas tomorrow, he wondered if you might like to join him?'

Ali smiled as she accepted and listened to the details of where to meet the newly widowed powerbroker.

 

N
ina's rented sedan headed through the fields of Bassigny, a bright red dot in a misty lilac landscape. She opened the sunroof and the balmy air, smelling of freshly tilled earth, reminded her how countries, places, houses, all had their own smell. She turned onto a small road that wound over a one-lane bridge into the walled village of Langres and spotting a café, parked and crossed the street.

Three old men sat in a row at the outdoor tables, heads low over folded newspapers, brows furrowed, deep in concentration like schoolboys in an examination room. A woman and a boy eating ice-cream were the café's only other customers. Nina put her head in the doorway where the smell of coffee and baking was intoxicating. The proprietor, wiping his hands on his long white apron, waved at her to be seated.

*

Refreshed from her
café au lait
and
croque monsieur
, Nina walked up the street, savouring the fact this small village appeared to be unchanged from a hundred years ago, even though it was only a few kilometres from bustling Dijon.

Pausing at a larger bistro, she read the menu fluttering outside and realised she could no doubt enjoy the finest Provençal cooking if she ate here. Too bad she'd just eaten bread and melted cheese. For the first time she wished she had someone with her. Up until now, she'd been relishing the freedom and spontaneity of travelling through France wherever the whim took her. Enjoying a superb meal was always better in company.

As she crossed the road to go back to her car, a community notice board covered with posters and handwritten announcements caught her eye. One poster had a dramatic image on it of a falcon on a woman's arm. The bird glared at the camera, its talons gripping the leather glove that emerged from a red velvet sleeve slashed with fur and gold that gave an impression of medieval grandeur. While the image was arresting, it was a name that leapt out at Nina, causing her to feel unsteady –
Lucien Artiem
.
Preview release of his new masterpiece
, Bridal Crown. Scanning the details in French of the screening of the first in a trilogy of films from the esteemed auteur, what shook Nina was the final line on the poster.
In person. Thursday and Friday evening. Cinema Dijon.

Dijon was a short drive away, she could be there and make the screening. And in that short distance she would travel back forty years.

It was high summer in Sydney and twenty-year-old Nina had just graduated from
In Home and Garden
to the
Australian Women's Weekly.
She had finished her cadetship and was writing feature articles, as well as the occasional fashion piece for Betty Keep, the fashion editor. Nina was popular among the female hierarchy, each taking a special interest in her career and all predicting the lovely young woman would ‘go far'. Fleet Street was mentioned quietly. Occasionally Mrs Keep used Nina to model for the magazine and took her to meet the couturiers who created the clothes for the fashionable set who appeared in the
Weekly
's social pages. To the fashion editor's initial surprise, most of the top dressmakers knew Nina through Clara.