Blaze (28 page)

‘Yeah. These guys tell you if you don't sleep with them, they won't use you. Stuff 'em, I don't care.' Sally peered out into the Paris night.

‘So . . . what happened? Did you complain to your agency? You're only sixteen,' probed Miche.

‘The bookers didn't seem to care. Said they're not my mother. If I had a problem, to go to Françoise – she runs the Paris office. I only met her when I was signed up. But you know, the more I don't give a shit, the more they want me.' Sally seemed unconcerned.

‘If you're fucking up, you don't run to mother,' muttered Donald.

‘How long do you want to do this?' asked Miche. ‘What happens if you're not flavour of the moment any more?'

Sally leaned back in the limo's leather and took a drag of her joint. ‘I'll piss off. Do something else. Go back home.'

Donald raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, sure. You're sixteen, making more money in a good week than your father earns in a year. Your face is on newsstands round the world. You could give this up – the parties, hanging out with the A-list? Come on . . . now you do sound sixteen.'

‘What would you do, if you were me?' she shot back.

Donald grinned. ‘Go for it. Give 'em hell, babe.' He winked at Miche. ‘You're on the right end of a top story. She's too cocky to keep her mouth shut.'

Sally waved her arms. ‘Let's break out the bubbly.' She yanked a champagne bottle out of the small bar in the limo. ‘I don't care. I escaped tonight. Avoided that PR lady, anyway. She had more coke in her bag than anyone. So, let's live it up.'

‘What did you do with her?' asked Donald.

‘I introduced her to this hunk model from another agency. She fell instantly in lust, and the last I saw of them they were gazing into each other's blurry eyes.'

The car headlights and streetlights flickered into the mellow interior of the plush car. Miche caught the look on Donald's face as he watched Sally with part admiration, part sadness. He'd seen it all before.

Tony Cox and Jacques Triton were gloriously drunk. They had come to rest in the depths of the Parrot Club after another of their nights on the town. From their first social outing, the travel editor and the son of Baron Triton had connected, despite the disparity in their backgrounds. Both had a strong taste for a sybaritic lifestyle and Tony was happy to introduce Jacques to the nightclubs available to rich, trendy young professional men.
Blaze
's travel editor came from a wealthy North Shore family and, from their first exploration of the hip/yuppie/shake-it scene in Sydney, they recognised in each other the same need for extreme indulgence that bordered on saturnalia.

It had started out as a social introduction to a city, but quickly the barriers had fallen away and Jacques attracted around him a coterie of rich, fast-living Beautiful People with well-connected names. It amused Jacques that this heavyweight, social, often profligate set came with family money acquired through sometimes unclassy means.

What started as two young men out for a fun time soon sank into the heady world of lap-dancing in Sydney's more raunchy restaurants, and experiments with new drugs and pills amid the constant availability of cocaine. They set a pattern that was whispered in media corridors, and on occasion, hinted at publicly.

They had spent lunch and the afternoon in Jacques' pet eating hole, in a risqué private room where sexy, partly clad waitresses spoon-fed them, sat in their laps and wiggled their buttocks to the music, until, teasingly, they escaped the men's growing need and desire, and sometimes spontaneous orgasms. From the inebriated, titillating lunch, a visit to a high-class brothel became a regular event.

Now, hours later, club-dazed, eyes glazed, they sank into the leafy green cushions of a booth beneath the mock jungle plants and stuffed parrots. Music blared and lights flashed across the dance floor where a few couples moved independently of each other, lost in their own headspace of light and noise.

Tony finished his drink. ‘It's that time. Stay, go, nightcap, find a girl?' He resisted looking at his watch. It wouldn't be the first time he'd fallen into a cab outside a club at dawn to get home for breakfast, shower and straight into the office.

Jacques downed his champagne. ‘Where're the women? It's a desert out there. Where're the models? They're the party girls.'

Tony looked around. ‘Must be having their beauty sleep.'

‘No shortage of them in Europe and the States. Ring up one of the agencies and have them sent over by the truckload.' Jacques gave a short laugh. ‘I should start a new business here. There are always pretty girls wanting to be models. A magazine is a good place to start.'

‘And if you own the magazine, you own the girls. Hey, I like it,' chortled Tony.

They both stood and were heading through the near-deserted club when a burst of laughter caught their attention. Two attractive girls and an older man were settling themselves on the stools at the bar.

‘Hey, this is more like it.' Jacques was looking at the blonde girl. Petite yet buxom, she was striking, if a little theatrical looking. Her friend was tall, dark-haired and, to Tony, the man looked vaguely familiar. He followed Jacques, who cruised into the bar and went straight to them.

‘Congratulations, you have won party animals of the week award. We thought we were going to snare the trophy.' Jacques was all humorous Gallic charm.

The small blonde, who looked to be around thirty, gave him a cool, slightly arrogant look. She reminded Jacques of a chihuahua, tiny in stature yet big in self-confidence. ‘And what's the award?'

‘A live parrot that can sing all the songs of Simon and Garfunkel,' said Jacques off the top of his head.

‘Who?' asked the dark girl.

The man laughed. ‘Now you're showing your age, kiddo.'

‘I'll take the prize. So long as it can sing
Sound of Silence
,' challenged the blonde.

‘Give me your address and I'll have it delivered first thing in the morning.' Jacques bowed and kissed her hand.

‘Would you fellows like a nightcap? We've been celebrating my daughter's graduation as a fully fledged fashion designer.'

‘With her own label,' added the blonde.

‘This is your father?' asked Tony, quickly clarifying the situation.

‘John Bass, my daughter, Patti, and her pal, er, Tallulah.' The older man made the introductions.

‘Tallulah? You don't look like a Tallulah,' said Jacques, sitting on the bar stool next to the blonde.

‘I'm not,' she answered enigmatically.

Tony stood between the two girls as Mr Bass signalled to the waiter.

‘Champagne.'

‘The gentlemen have been drinking Moët & Chandon. The same?'

‘Why not?'

The blonde Tallulah looked at Jacques. ‘Supporting your country's wines, eh?'

‘I'm Belgian, via the US.' He gave a charming smile. ‘So who are you? Let me introduce myself.'

‘You don't need to do that, Monsieur Triton.'

Tony laughed, seeing Jacques's composure wobble slightly. ‘You have been in the social pages a bit lately, Jacques.' He turned to both girls. ‘I'm Tony Cox.'

John Bass shook his hand. ‘Should we also know you?'

‘Not at all. Though you look familiar if I may so, sir.'

Tallulah leaned closer to Tony. ‘He's CEO of Vortex Bank. The one that bankrolled the new telecommunications company.'

‘Of course!' Tony clapped his hand to his head. ‘Sorry. You were all over the business pages. I signed on. Should I buy shares? I love dot coms. It's thanks to guys like you I can dial up the newspaper, download the fruit prices in Istanbul . . .'

‘Do you two work together?' Patti, the budding fashion designer, spoke up.

‘Yes, you could say that. But we have more in common out of the office,' said Jacques graciously.

‘What he means is, he's the boss. I'm a mere hack travel editor,' said Tony.

‘Which Triton publication do you write for?' asked Tallulah with sudden interest.

‘Blaze.'

‘Oh, it's great. Do you know the editor?' jumped in Patti.

Before Tony could answer, Tallulah threw back her head. ‘Ahh! Alisson Gruber. How do you find working for the Yank Tank, Tony?'

Jacques grinned. ‘Is that what they call her?'

Bass topped up their glasses as Tony, very relaxed after so many drinks, confided, ‘Hell, yes. She breathes fire and has scorched a few backsides. I mean,' he looked at Jacques, ‘I'm not telling tales out of school.'

Jacques shrugged. ‘She isn't my favourite person. Though my father thinks she's pretty hot.'

‘She'd have to be good to run the place, wouldn't she?' commented Bass. ‘Where's Nina Jansous? I thought it was her baby.'

‘Editors run the magazine, editors-in-chief keep out of their way and read the circulation figures and balance sheets. If Ali stumbles, Nina will put someone over her and Ali will lose her power and resign,' explained Tony.

‘Seems to me there have been a lot of editors resign these past few years in Sydney. A precarious profession, from what the gossip columns say,' said Bass with a smile at the two girls.

‘Who would you put in if Ms Gruber stumbles?' Tallulah asked Jacques, smoothing her shoulder-length blonde hair.

He gave her a frankly flirtatious look. ‘Maybe me. I'm starting to like this town.'

‘So what do you do?' asked Tony. ‘And I don't believe Tallulah is your real name.'

‘It's not. And that's for me to keep a secret.' She pulled a tiny red mobile phone from her handbag. ‘I'm calling it a night.'

‘We'll come with you,' said Patti. ‘Is the car still there, Dad?'

‘Yes. Can we drop you lads anywhere?'

‘I have a hire car on call,' said Jacques smoothly. He kissed the mysterious blonde's hand. ‘I hope we meet again.'

‘We may well do that.'

‘Congratulations on your graduation, business, label . . .' said Tony to Patti.

‘Thanks. It's called Patti Cakes. Put in a positive word with your editor.'

John Bass shook hands with both men and the trio left.

Jacques shook his head. ‘Tallulah wasn't giving much away.
Tr
è
s formidable
. So, do we call up the agency and ask for a couple of girls? The last ones were fun, eh?'

‘I think I'll head home, Jacques. I have to face Ali tomorrow. I'm still trying to sell a story on Guyana to her.'

‘For travel? Who'd want to go there?' Jacques signalled the waiter.

‘The intrepid traveller. Why do the same old places that everyone else does?'

‘That's a point. What's her objection?'

‘Cost. Triton doesn't allow contra deals. Oh, we have a pact not to talk shop. Forget it.'

But Jacques wasn't listening. He put a few twenty dollar notes on the counter and the waiter stood on a chair and pulled down one of the large colourful parrots.

‘What are you going to do with that?' asked Tony as they headed for the exit.

‘Teach it Simon and Garfunkel songs,' said Jacques, grinning.

‘What! How are you going to send it to her? You don't even know her name?' Tony stared at the suave Belgian.

‘Bass. Vortex Bank. One phone call tomorrow should do it.'

Belinda's Balmain home had been a rundown cottage with a terraced rambling garden and a tiny jetty. Laurie, her husband, had extended the house, added a boatshed that doubled as a workshop, and transformed the garden. The place was now worth a fortune.

Laurie was big on barbecues. He kept a crab trap hanging from the front of his jetty and threw a line in just about every day to catch a fish, whether it fed them or the cats. But when they entertained, he went to the fish markets where an Italian fishmonger friend kept aside the fattest tiger prawns, the juiciest mussels and the sweetest Sydney rock oysters. These he threw onto his roaring hotplate and doused them in wine, garlic and a squeeze of lime. Laurie didn't believe in marinating when he had the freshest ingredients.

Larissa had been overwhelmed. ‘Belinda, you must pay a fortune for food like this. And the setting . . .' She flung out an arm to embrace the nearby sprawl of the harbour. ‘Not to mention the company.'

Belinda gave her a happy nudge. ‘I'm glad to see you've made a few friends.' She turned her attention to the newly arrived guests, allowing Larissa to recover her composure, absolving her of making any comment. In the past three weeks Larissa had enjoyed careful and discreet attention from the owner of an advertising agency – Kevin McCarthy, divorced, rich and very amusing.

‘You haven't lived till you've been cruising on Sydney's waterways,' Kevin had said at their first meeting. ‘Come out next Saturday. A few buddies and I are taking the boat up to Palm Beach. We'll pull in somewhere along the Hawkesbury for a picnic.'

Knowing it was a group outing, Larissa had finally agreed and had enjoyed the best time she'd had since arriving in Australia. The Fjord cruiser was sleek and comfortable, the company convivial with other ad men from his agency, including the brilliant young creative director and two women clients – Julia, from a financial institution, and Sonia, a product specialist from a pharmaceutical company.

Larissa had never experienced anything so exhilarating as sailing out through Sydney Heads. They turned north to run along the coastline and eventually round Barrenjoey headland into Broken Bay. The bushland hills of Ku-ring-gai National Park rose above small sandy coves, larger bays filled with picnickers and campers, sweeping back to the residential and holiday cottages off Church Point.

Kevin anchored in Refuge Bay, a small deserted cove. They rowed ashore with iron barbecue plate and steaks, an Esky – nicknamed ‘The Richard' after the
60 Minutes
reporter who travelled with an Esky of lavish food and wine supplies to Third World hot spots so he would not be without the comforts of home. Belinda had filled this cooler with bowls of salad and fresh bread. They'd swum and lazed on the tiny strip of sand then, after lunch, Kevin had taken them hiking up the hill, following a footprint-wide track made by wallabies.