Blaze (25 page)

Reg Craven felt he was being dismissed and, while he left the office without a word, he grudgingly had to admit Ali's idea of a meatier story had merit. She was just so damned arrogant. When would she realise he held a parallel position in the hierarchy, but had the advantage of being closer to the money men and that they controlled the power?

Back in his office, Reg Craven called Jacques Triton.

‘I have a potential problem, can we lunch?'

Jacques had little desire to lunch with the blustering Reg Craven, a man in his forties who gave off waves of constantly protecting his job and his butt. He listened as Reg explained the situation.

‘I think I should talk to Tony. I'll call you back.' Jacques had his temp assistant – blonde, buxom and available – contact the travel editor on the phone.

The two men chatted briefly and Tony picked up the undercurrent in what the Baron's son was really saying. ‘Lunch sounds terrific. Do I know any clubs in this town?' Tony laughed. ‘Name your scene. What say we make it dinner instead?' Tony hung up the phone looking pleased. He'd get rid of Reg as soon as they'd eaten. Then . . . two rich young men on the town! That would give him a closer contact with the Triton empire heir than Ali would ever have.

Larissa was starting to get emissaries from the staff complaining about Ali.

Trudi Fanelli, the new beauty editor who'd been Australian PR for one of the top international cosmetic companies and appointed over Barbara, was first to make a stand.

‘Larissa, on every magazine, the beauty editor is always buried under free products. The PRs send in everything from a full colour range of lipsticks to perfumes, night creams. If we want anything, we ring up and it's sent. Ali says we can't do this. We have to buy anything we write about. It seems crazy when the companies are dumping heaps of products on my desk.'

‘Trudi, it's just not Triton policy. We can't accept anything for free – it compromises us editorially. There have been too many abuses of the system over the years and it's getting out of hand. It's not coming out of your pay,' she added with a slight smile. ‘Those other magazines can be accused of taking “cash for comment” – accepting freebies and writing promotional editorial to back them up.'

‘Okay. Understood. But, Larissa, the staff have pointed out that, in the good old days when the magazines received so much stuff, they used to get a share of the products. Now we buy the products, photograph them, and Ali walks in and says to send them to her office when we're finished. Even Guy, the photographer, is pissed off. He told me he's always been able to take stuff home to his wife.'

‘Trudi, I'll have a word to Ali. But remember,
Blaze
is not a women's magazine like its predecessor. Gender is not an issue in magazines now. We're a news magazine too. And our credibility is paramount. Yes, we're glossy and we're Australian, but we're part of an international company that treats this matter differently.'

‘Don't tell me to think globally,' moaned Trudi.

‘Think smart. Clever. Different. Ali wants you to find news angles on beauty products. The cosmetics industry, like everything else, has to be able to stand up to scrutiny. Glamour still counts, but being into beauty is morally suss these days.'

‘Listen, you can't tell me that any woman is ambivalent about how she looks,' said Trudi firmly.

Larissa beamed. ‘Great. There's an angle. Go deconstruct Naomi Wolf and Germaine Greer. Vanity versus Sanity.'

Trudi relaxed. ‘Okay, I take the point. But when you have that word with Ali, drop in one from me – selfish.'

Now Trisha Forbes, the entertainment writer, was in Larissa's office.

‘It's out of control! Ali takes the best invitations. How can I do my job? I can understand Ali insisting on film and theatre critics buying tickets so they can review the shows fairly. But the PRs send me tickets for launch parties, first nights, et cetera, and Ali demands they're handed to her. I can't do my job if I don't go to these functions. And I'm embarrassed telling them my editor has taken them for herself.'

‘She's trying to raise her profile, and that of the magazine, by being seen everywhere,' said Larissa. ‘I'll talk to Tracey to make sure Ali receives invitations to everything important.'

‘Most editors leave the schmoozing and networking to their staff. It's really getting up my nose,' sighed Trisha.

‘I'll speak to Belinda and ask her to contact the consultancies and PR firms and make sure invitations are sent directly to Ali as well as relevant staff and contributors,' said Larissa soothingly. Privately she agreed with the frustrated young woman trudging from her office. Ali was working overtime at making her presence seen and heard. She was being photographed at social functions and had become a fixture in radio and TV interviews that had anything to do with the media, current social issues or gender matters. She issued press releases about
Blaze
exclusives or innovations and Tracey, her publicist, was working on a promotional campaign with Steve Vickers at the ad agency that was going to star Ali.

Larissa poured out her current grumbles to the ever-sympathetic Belinda. ‘I feel like I'm here slaving away, holding the braying staff at bay, trying to smooth over arguments hour after hour. Not to mention making sure the nitty-gritty is done in actually seeing the magazine come together. Ali isn't into production meetings. She's more into sending everyone back to the drawing board. Honestly, Belinda, sometimes I think they present the same stories again in another way because they think Ali rejects them the first time just to exercise her power.'

‘In other words, you're feeling like an ashtray on a motorbike,' laughed Belinda. ‘Listen, you're spending too much time moping without your fella. What do you do on weekends?'

‘When I'm not doing something for
Blaze,
or at work, you mean? I've been exploring Sydney, the northern beaches.' Larissa hurried on before Belinda could probe further. ‘I went up to the Blue Mountains, I browse around Double Bay and Darling Harbour, and I love the Art Gallery and Mitchell Library. I've been quietly reading up on Captain Cook's voyages . . . fascinating.'

Belinda gave her a shrewd look. ‘In other words, you're lonely.'

Larissa bit her lip. ‘Yes, I miss Gerry. A lot.' She was tempted to pour her heart out to the warm and sympathetic Belinda. The separation from Gerard was proving harder than she'd anticipated. The creative fulfilment and job satisfaction hadn't worked out quite the way she'd hoped. Everything was very similar to how they'd worked in New York, but different enough to be slightly irritating. The difference in the casual Australian attitude of ‘she'll be right, no worries', compared to the energised dynamism in the US office, made her feel she was being too much of a taskmaster. She worked long hours because she had little social and no family life, but she didn't want to become another Ali, who was always in early and the last to leave the office. Larissa saw her role as that of a mediator between Ali and the staff. Even the most ambitious of the young women made it clear they'd never make the apparent sacrifice Ali had made for her career. She had no life outside
Blaze
. Larissa longed to share Sydney with Gerard and his long-distance disinterest made her feel even more depressed.

Belinda assessed her mood very quickly. ‘I'm having a lunch for Tiki. I like to keep our
Blaze
girls in touch.'

Larissa had become friends with Tiki even though they hadn't worked together. She was sympathetic to Tiki because of her walkout over the treatment Ali had dished to her. Tiki had made it easy for Ali by walking. Larissa could imagine how tormented life would remain for Barbara, who felt she had no other option but to stay on, at Ali's discretion and beck and call.

Belinda pointed out that leaving
Blaze
had spurred Tiki into submitting the manuscript of her novel to a leading publisher who promptly accepted it. Soon Tiki would see her real ambition come to fruition – with the books carrying her name displayed at the front of her favourite bookshops.

‘It's fabulous. Every journalist swears they will write a book, few ever do it,' laughed Belinda.

‘You mean finish it. We've all started a book at one stage or another. Look in any journo's top drawer,' agreed Larissa.

‘Tiki told me her book starts in the outback and ends up in the midst of Sydney's magazine wars that started when all those editors were sacked. What else would she write about?' commented Belinda.

‘Ali pushing her out the door no doubt gave her the impetus she needed. I have to confess I've harboured the desire to write a big fat book too,' smiled Larissa.

‘This weekend, come to Sunday lunch. I'll invite Tiki too. No reason you shouldn't socialise a bit. I have several nice men up my sleeve.'

‘Belinda, I'd love to come to lunch, but please. I'm attached, I don't want to . . . lead anyone on. Put myself into a position where it's . . . awkward.'

Belinda chuckled. ‘Grow up, girl. And I thought you were a slick, glib, smooth-talking Yankee son-of-a-gun! You're as insecure as the rest of us!'

‘And why not? Ali makes me feel that way. For the first time in my life, I'm questioning why I'm doing this job. And I've always loved my work. Well, Gerry used to challenge that when I came home full of complaints so often. But that goes with the territory.'

‘So what's changed?'

Larissa spoke more to herself than Belinda. ‘Maybe me, maybe I'm changing.'

*

Ali was wearing Armani pants and jacket – black, silk, cut to fit her lean body. A dramatic antique pin of a lion sat on her lapel, the effect oddly modern. Ali hoped everything about her was modern. Dane and his boys had shaped and coloured Ali's dark hair with a deep magenta that highlighted her brown eyes with their golden flecks. He'd personally sprinkled a dusting of gold powder on her eyelids. Her nails were polished with bronze gold, her lipstick a moist plum. The severity of the suit was lightened with the tip of a black lace hanky showing in the breast pocket, the neckline plunging to a single button at the waist. A black satin camisole top under the suit was a concession to modesty.

Her skin was still pale, she avoided the sun – even daylight, a few of the staff surmised with giggles – and kept her dark Chanel glasses on top of her head, hooked on her décolletage or wore them rain or shine. It seemed to be a defence mechanism rather than an affectation. Whenever she left her office, she immediately reached for her sunglasses. As she was meeting John O'Donnell for dinner, she slipped her glasses into her bag and abandoned her daywear, low-heeled black Ferragamo pumps for a pair of stiletto sandals in black snakeskin from Dato shoemakers in Sydney. Her long, narrow feet were bare of stockings, her nails bronze.

As she followed the maître d through the elegant restaurant, her sharp features and dramatic make-up made her a striking figure.

John O'Donnell smiled. He gave her an appreciative look and rose from his chair as she was seated. They'd had dinner and two telephone conversations. Now he'd asked her to dinner again, ‘To put their discussions on a more friendly basis.' He noted the feminine touches to her outfit and was relieved. He'd initially found Ali rather intimidating.

They settled themselves with a glass of champagne each and caught up on general news.

‘Congratulations again on the launch of the magazine. I'm sorry I was out of town. It sounds like it was a splendid effort. I hear sales are booming. I'll have to give our annual executive party a rethink.'

Ali had read in the business news about the impressive top-level gathering of his company execs and invited high-flyers prior to their AGM. ‘I gather your functions are known to be technically very advanced. I'd like to tap more deeply into the information technology world. There must be new telecommunication resources that we can apply to magazine publishing. Even the book publishers are waking up.'

‘You're so right. There aren't a lot of women embracing this new field. A shame. We have made a special effort to attract corporate women with these skills. There seems to be the perception that it requires at least a Masters Degree and that it's a field men resent women entering.'

‘Women often think they're going to be ridiculed or sidelined by men if they go into a company as a computer specialist. We're supposed to opt for the nurturing, caring jobs rather than interacting with computers – let alone comprehending advanced science and information technology,' said Ali.

‘Not so. It doesn't matter what your schooling. If you have an interest, you can be trained. Perhaps there's a story there for
Blaze
– to encourage women to take control and educate themselves in IT. Companies need more women managers. But first we have to create a more female-friendly environment.'

Ali nodded. ‘Not a bad idea for a story. And what advice do you have for a woman wanting to succeed in a man's world?' she asked lightly, but her attention focused on the powerful CEO like a searchlight.

‘Do your homework, don't be afraid to ask questions, and be a woman. So many women think they have to act like a man in a man's world.' He finished his champagne. ‘Tell me how you find working with the women on your staff.'

Ali had read up on O'Donnell's company. It had a corporate culture of equality and sharing where management and staff considered themselves a team, where decisions were made by cooperative committees. It had slowed the company, made it less aggressive, sometimes to its detriment when they lost contracts because no one person could make a snap decision.

She spoke carefully. ‘I respect how you approach your business. The women and the men at
Blaze
have a lot of input at editorial meetings and in the production of the magazine, but while I'm sitting in the editor's chair, I call the shots. Women are just as competitive as men, but the old boys' network doesn't have a strong counterpart amongst younger women. We pretend, but frankly it's every woman for herself.' She gave a wry grin. ‘Nina, as you know, is on extended leave and the proprietor, Baron Triton, is tied up with their other publications abroad. So I'm running the ship.'