Blaze (32 page)

Sally giggled as she drank, watching the dwarf undo her high silver sandals. If she noticed, it didn't concern her that she was the only guest left with the Count, the dwarf and the sax player. Before she had finished the champagne, and as the dwarf slid the sandals from her feet, the glass fell from her hand onto the floor. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets before they closed and her head lolled loosely onto her chest.

The sax player scooped her up like a broken doll in his muscular black arms and strode from the room. The Count grasped the walking stick the dwarf handed him and struggled to his feet. ‘It is time,' he announced with anticipation and glee.

‘The bitch! How dare she! Who talked?' Ali's screams echoed from her office. Belinda, uninvited, hurried into Ali's office, closing the door.

‘What's up? Can I do something?' she asked nervously. This was the maddest she'd seen Ali.

‘Do? Can you go and burn every copy of this rag this so-called columnist writes for?' She flung the Sydney CBD's favourite weekly,
Exchange
, across her desk. Belinda reached for the scattered pages.

‘Oh dear. April Showers again?'

‘If they write about
Blaze
it's fair game, even if it's wrong. But me! My personal life. How I run this place! How dare they!'

‘Oh. Did they get it wrong? Again?' remarked Belinda blandly. ‘Shall I send for coffee?'

‘Call Larissa in here,' muttered Ali. ‘Tell her I want a strategy meeting.'

Larissa had read the column and was waiting for a summons. Belinda delivered it in person.

‘How mad is she?'

Belinda rolled her eyes. ‘Steaming. What's made her most cranky is the personal dig. About the staff supposedly calling her the Yank Tank. How all the goodies and tickets and so on end up on her desk.'

‘Someone has talked. Wouldn't have taken Showers long to find out that kind of information,' sighed Larissa, gathering up her notebook.

‘Publishing is so gossipy. And it seems to be a growing trend.' Belinda shook her head. This would never have happened in the old days under Dorothy Power.

‘The April Showers column isn't just gossip. It's shrewd and influential, but biting. And the sources must be good because no one ever sues. April Showers hones in on hot issues and people. Clever writer. Funny, too. But not when you're the target.'

Belinda followed Larissa down the hall. ‘What are you going to say?'

‘Laugh it off and move on.'

‘Somehow I don't think that's what Ali wants to hear,' said Belinda.

Ali strode around her office. ‘I wouldn't be this upset if so many people didn't read the damn thing.' She drew a deep breath. ‘Lightweight.
Blaze
is accused of being lightweight.'

‘April Showers' report that we considered paying for a movie star's wedding doesn't put us in a positive light,' agreed Larissa.

‘What I want to know is – who talked? I've sent around a stiff message to the staff. Anyone who leaks anything about internal matters and is found out will be out the door, on their ass, in a minute.'

‘It is a problem. If we let it be. This is what, the fourth attack?'

‘Larissa, it's getting a bit close to the bone. I don't like being caricatured.'

In that morning's paper, the cartoonist who illustrated April Shower's column had depicted Ali at her desk, the door shut and a sign saying ‘
Out to lunch
'. Ali was depicted as a vampire, her trademark widow's peak exaggerated, fangs protruding, slurping a straw from a bottle marked, ‘
Staff blood donations
'.

‘They're not kind. Perhaps Showers will rain on someone else's parade soon. I mean, they must be scratching around for material.' Larissa lifted a questioning eyebrow.

‘People like that make up dirt when they can't find any.' Ali turned away thinking how this scurrilous campaign could damage her quest to win John O'Donnell's interest.

‘The reason April Showers' column is so popular is because it doesn't appear to dish dirt. It's clever and witty, and obviously people feed stuff to the column. It's always timely with inside stuff. If the names weren't powerful and it wasn't smart, it would be just another gossip page. At least you're not in there with soapie stars and models. You're mentioned in the same breath as a media chairman, a politician and a new American CEO.'

‘That CEO isn't going to last,' said Ali curtly.

Larissa blinked. ‘How do you know that? The Australian company is paying him several million dollars a year plus share bonus.'

For the first time this morning Ali looked faintly cheerful. ‘I have my sources too. Besides, Australians don't like Americans coming in and telling them how to run things. No offence to you, Larissa.'

‘I don't run things, you do, and you're as American as I am,' said Larissa tartly.

‘I think I might need to remind everyone I was born and raised here. I have the advantages of American knowhow but I still qualify as an Australian.'

‘It might be an idea to do that.' Larissa was annoyed. ‘Why not get one of the friendly TV people to do a profile on you. Go back to your roots, all that. I mean, where is your family?'

Larissa hit a nerve and was unprepared for Ali's vehement reaction.

‘Don't you DARE ever suggest that. My personal history, my private life, is totally private. I will not agree, under ANY circumstances to talk about it. Which is another reason this white-anting by April Showers angers me.' She hurled the paper, neatly refolded by Belinda, into the wastepaper basket.

‘Did you ask me in here to yell at me or for constructive advice?' asked Larissa icily.

Ali's anger dissipated and she slumped back in her chair sounding tired. ‘What possible strategy could we make? See what we can dig up on April Showers and attack back? I'm sick of taking the high moral ground.'

‘If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Isn't that the rule in publishing? Hire April Showers,' said Larissa calmly.

‘What?' Ali jerked upright in her chair.

‘Whoever he, she or it is, they're good at what they do. People read that column. So buy it.'

‘Larissa, when you do have a good idea, it's a great one. How much is this going to cost us?'

‘Do you care?' Ali was reaching for the phone. ‘Of course not.' Larissa walked thoughtfully past Belinda who looked up. ‘Manage to fix anything?'

‘Time will tell. I might have just invited the lion into our field of lambs,' sighed Larissa, adding as an afterthought, ‘Put it on record that Ali thought this was a good idea. Not that I apparently have them often. But there you go. Write that down and date it. See you, Bee.'

 

M
iche realised she'd overslept. It was past 7 a.m. She opened the door to go down the hall to the bathroom and brave a plunge in the wonderful tub . . . and tripped over her cleaned shoes. Jeremy. What a thoughtful person he was.

Arriving downstairs she couldn't hear anyone stirring. She checked the dining hall – it had been cleaned and tidied with the drapes drawn, blotting out the misty morning that threatened rain. No hint of the madness of last night.

She opened doors to a library, a small sitting room and a formal drawing room, until she found the airy conservatory. Several small tables by bay windows were laid for breakfast. The morning papers were spread on a small wicker table and cut fruit, croissants and preserves were set along a sideboard. She helped herself to a few pieces of fruit and sat at a table. The maid instantly appeared holding a pot of steaming coffee.

‘Bonjour mademoiselle. Voulez vous un café?'

‘Mais oui. Merci. Où sont les autres visiteurs? Les hommes?'

‘Ils ont fini le petit déjeuner.'

Already. She had slept in if the men had finished breakfast and were out setting up the shoot.

‘Et les jeune filles? Sally? Et Sophie?'

The maid shrugged. ‘
Elles dorment
.' She tapped her head. ‘
Une mauvaise nuit
.'

Miche nodded, wondering how late and how bad a night it had been. She didn't expect they would be photographing Sally this morning. Just as well. This was Donald's territory, deciding where and how to photograph the series of pictures to illustrate her article about Sally.

Miche began to feel nervous as she finished her fruit. There was a lot of effort and money behind the story she was putting together. But what was she going to write about? Should she tell everything that had happened – and was still happening – to Sally? While parts of it were funny, parts were awesome with the powerful ambience of moving at the top of the fashion world. There was a dark underside to the modelling business that scared Miche. She would be glad to leave this scene for Australia. At least she knew Larissa and Ali out there. And now Jeremy. Donald rarely went back home. He moved in the heady world of international cities and famous faces. And Sally wouldn't be returning to Australia in a hurry.

As Miche finished her breakfast, the maid began clearing her place then asked, ‘
Vos chaussures
,
sont-elles assez propres
?
Ça
,
c'ést la fange de la vigne
.'

That was too much fast French for Miche's basic vocabulary.

The maid pointed to her shoes.

‘Oh yes. My shoes. Thank you very much. They're fine.'

Miche wandered outside, taking an umbrella from the entrance.

The air was warm, a drifting rain mist beginning to lift, the light hazy and mysterious. The vineyards marched up the terraces on either side of the narrow valley. She headed down the driveway with no plan in mind and within minutes, as she went around the stables, she came across Donald and Pete. Each lifted an arm in greeting and, although they looked seedy, Donald was all business.

‘This is great. Check if this weather is going to hold. I love this light. Be bloody marvellous for what we have in mind.'

‘And what's that?'

‘Fantasy, you said. What could be more dreamlike than this?' He waved a hand at the landscape. ‘Plus our props and extras.'

Miche gave him a questioning look.

‘Chateau and cast. Trust me.' He crossed himself, throwing his eyes heavenward. ‘You do the words, babe. I'll do the pictures.'

Miche wasn't in a mood to debate. Donald was one of the world's top photographers – stars would kill to be profiled by him, especially for a quality magazine. Miche changed the subject. ‘So how long did you guys bat on for last night?' she asked cautiously. ‘I'm surprised you're even awake.'

‘Been in training for years.'

‘Those girls are wild,' added Pete. Donald gave him a glance and returned to the theme of the pictures.

‘Sally is prepared to do a Lady Godiva – jump on Poirot bareback, naked, with hair covering her tits, and ride through the dawn mist with the dwarf leading the horse. The guy still has a few of his circus outfits.'

Miche saw the image he described. ‘Hmmm. Could look effective. What else?'

‘The musician as the Black Knight. He's a good-looking guy with fantastic skin and with oil on him he'll look ebony. Might do a “rescuing the damsel in distress” scene, use the lake and the moat around the old mill by the orchard.'

‘What about something contemporary?'

‘Back in the studio for that. Turn her into a holograph as a space chick.'

‘Or spaced chick,' laughed Pete.

‘Listen, I don't think she should be doing drugs. She's too young to handle all this so soon,' began Miche. Donald held up a hand to cut her off.

‘Don't preach to me. If that's how you feel, you speak to her.'

Miche looked at Pete who gave a half-smile. ‘It's the way, this modelling is a crazy world. All the girls do it. The pressure . . . or something.' Miche was no puritan, but she couldn't help feeling protective towards Sally. She tried to think back to what she was like at sixteen. Not like Sally, who was so small, so light, so fragile, so innocent.

As if reading her thoughts, Donald grinned. ‘Listen, she's a great little Aussie kid from a country town. She's not as impressionable as you think.'

‘I'm a New Yorker and I don't know how I'd deal with all this sudden fame and attention,' said Miche.

‘Enjoy it – and sock the money into a Swiss bank account like all the girls. I need coffee. Let's go.' Donald headed for the car.

They spent the rest of the day lining up locations, choosing two inside the chateau. The first was the formal eighteenth-century sitting room with its high, domed ceiling painted in blue and gold, valuable Louis XV furniture, Greek vases and classical marble figurines from mythology. French doors led onto a small terrace and formal garden.

‘Blue filter,' said Donald to Pete, who nodded. The second choice was the library and Indian room, which was darkly lit, the floor covered in fine Persian carpets and skins of endangered rare animals. Indian tapestries hung on the walls beside trophy heads shot on safari. Stepladders leaned against tiers of tomes. In one corner centuries-old books were sealed behind locked glass doors. The air smelled of moth-eaten animals, a place where the breath of infrequent visitors did little to disperse the dust or dispel its mustiness. ‘Red filter,' said Donald. ‘Now we need to talk to Sophie about wardrobe, styling and so on.'

‘Who's doing hair and make-up?' Pete asked Donald.

‘Some chick sent by Piste is arriving this afternoon.'

At sunset Miche went for a walk. At the end of the driveway she stopped as a car swung through the gates. Jeremy leaned out.

‘Hello there, just the person I was looking for. How are you?'

‘A bit tired. Having an early night, we have a dawn start.'

‘Oh. Well, if it's not too early, Monsieur Soulvier was hoping to reciprocate for last night. Thought you and your friends might like to come over to the winery for dinner. There's a small dining room in the cellars. How about it?'