Blaze (36 page)

Ali was slightly annoyed the girl had seen her ploy and was one step ahead of her. ‘I wasn't thinking of a gossip-type column. Sure, cover people, events, places, but from a personal perspective. I was thinking of something more along the lines of “The Talk of the Town” . . .'

April wrinkled her nose. ‘Bit olde-worlde. Bitch, bite, and blitheness is more my style. It's human nature to gossip. People love to read a bit of inside dirt – especially about the rich and famous. It makes plain, everyday folk feel a bit superior.'

‘Plain, everyday folk aren't
Blaze
readers,' said Ali stiffly.

‘Who says? Nina Jansous? You have to toe the party line, do you? I could bring a breath of down-home realism to what seems to be an elite magazine.'

The girl's cockiness was annoying Ali. Or was it the fact she felt she was on the back foot? They must be the same age, yet this hard-faced blonde was making Ali feel like she was pushing forty. Over the hill and out of touch. Ali struggled to take control of the situation. ‘Our advertisers want readers with money in their pocket. People with taste and style who buy classy products. We're not into the meat pie-and-chips market. Unless you work for that kind of money,' she added with an attempt at humour.

‘Can
Blaze
afford me?' asked April quick as a flash.

Ali was tempted to tell the bitch to forget the whole thing and get stuffed, but she knew that would be inviting trouble. This whole scenario would be embellished and turn up in her column. She was saved from answering as their food was spread before them.

‘Hey, this looks delicious. What's this again?' April asked the Lebanese owner who served the food himself. He leaned close to the buxom blonde who openly flirted with him.

‘Kibbi balls in yoghurt. And next time you come, you call me and I make something really special for you. I will need a day to prepare it. You call me, eh?' He took a card from his top pocket and dropped it by her plate. ‘Bring your friend. Bring lots of your friends. We look after you real good.'

‘Righto. Tell me, you ever see any famous people in here?' asked April.

Ali glanced around at the unprepossessing establishment she'd chosen because she'd been told the food was good and authentic, the ambience different, and yet it was stuck in an industrial suburb on the way to the airport.

‘You betcha sweet life. I can't say too much but . . .' he leaned forward and mentioned several well-known business leaders and the chairman of a TV network. ‘They have secret business lunches here, they come for my food. Lot of big deals been done in that back room. Lot of romances too,' he winked.

‘Really? Gee, you must let me in on a couple of your secrets sometime, eh?' April pouted at him and gave a lewd smile.

Ali couldn't help suppressing a grin as the old man appeared to salivate and went back to the kitchen beaming. April was a smooth operator – that was for sure.

‘Well, the food looks good, don't know about the quality of his goss. Could be okay,' said April as she started to serve herself.

‘Do you ever have any qualms about how and what you do?' asked Ali mildly.

‘No. Should I? Just doing my job.'

‘You sleep well then?'

‘Yes. I don't believe I've ever caused people to suffer. A twinge, a prick to the ego, but I'm no Heather Race.'

The mention of the TV current affairs journalist with a reputation for her foot-in-the-door, inaccurate, confrontational stories, made Ali shudder. ‘I'm glad she doesn't work for me. One day someone is going to sue her and win.'

‘Yeah. Or kill themselves for being unjustly accused. It's happened before.'

‘Television will do anything to rate,' said Ali.

April gave her a hard look. ‘And you wouldn't in order to sell magazines? Where's your line in the sand?'

‘You'll know when you've crossed it,' said Ali tartly. ‘I'm more concerned with legal issues. People sue newspapers and win, it's harder to win against a TV conglomerate.'

‘I'm very aware of that.'

On this note of mutual agreement Ali nibbled a small savoury meatball then put down her fork. ‘So April – I assume that's a pseudonym – what do you want?'

‘I'm tempted. I rather like the idea of personal, in-depth pieces in the future, but for now, the gossip stuff is what I do best. It's taken me a lot of work to build up the network I have and it seems silly to throw that away, especially when it draws a lot of readers. Where am I if I lose that? I try something new and it doesn't work? It reduces my marketability.'

‘And money? How big a factor is that?' asked Ali affably.

‘Oh, huge,' said April cheerfully. ‘I have expensive tastes. I'm not into meat pies and chips either.'

‘Would this be more to your taste?' Ali pulled a letter of appointment from her Prada bag. ‘Points and figures and the bottom line summarised on the cover sheet.'

April grinned. ‘Then I'll start from the bottom up.' Her face gave nothing away as she looked at the package Ali was offering to lure her to
Blaze
.

Ali toyed with her food as April sipped water and read. After Larissa's initial suggestion, Ali had become ambivalent to the idea of hiring April. Nina's philosophy had always been not to poach rival talent but develop and nurture her own. And if they in turn were poached or moved on, Nina regarded this as a compliment and advised her editors to continue the process of discovery. ‘It means we're setting the benchmarks.' Ali knew Nina would regard hiring April as breaking a Triton understanding but Ali decided that, as long as April was out there sniping at her, the more damage she was doing. Not just to Ali, who was personally wounded, but to the magazine. And while Ali was editor, she wanted
Blaze
to be above the daggers of a jumped-up blonde with boobs taking pot-shots at her. The bigger the success of
Blaze
, the more kudos went to Ali.

April felt her eyes start to cross as she worked out the full value of the money and perks Ali was offering. It was above what she'd hoped. It meant Ali wanted her badly. April wasn't fazed by the tough young editor's stance. She knew now how her barbs at Ali must have penetrated the steely exterior. She was vulnerable – somewhere she had an Achilles heel and a secret. Ali looked like a whippet, but April had noticed she only played with her food and there was a high-strung tension beneath the slick laid-back facade. Ali no doubt terrified her staff, but April knew she would need ammunition against Ali that would give her security and protection if she went to work for her. It would only take a little time to uncover what that might be. She put down the paper. ‘I assume there is room to move here.'

‘I didn't come to haggle or negotiate. That's the deal. And, as we agreed, this meeting and offer is to remain confidential. I'm not into game playing. I think I have been more than generous in order to prevent a ping-pong match.'

‘I won't say yes or no on the spot. I'm interested or I wouldn't be here. Give me twenty-four hours and then I'll respond.' April tucked the papers into her bag and Ali hoped the details wouldn't be the lead item in April's column.

April resumed eating. ‘So tell me about New York. How well do you know it? You've been with Triton for a long time, right?'

‘I love New York. Grew up there. Do you go there much?' Ali quickly deflected questions about herself and instead lured April into talking about her travels and various dabbles in show business. Quite a number of her stories were outrageously defamatory and Ali found herself laughing frequently.

‘See, you like scurrilous gossip the same as the rest of us,' said April.

‘But I'm not publishing such trashy material, or repeating it,' added Ali. She quoted Nina's cautionary saying, ‘Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.'

Back in Paris, Miche and Donald watched the finale of the collections with Sally as the star of the show. The young model had made no reference to the night Miche had found her in the winery. Sally had appeared late for make-up the next morning. And when they'd gathered for a lunch break during the day's photo shoot, she'd made a light-hearted remark about ‘losing it last night' – at which point the Count quickly leapt in and swept her off for a horse ride.

Sophie, the stylist, had panicked. ‘If she falls and breaks a leg and can't work, Piste will sue me. She's not insured yet.'

However Donald's assistant had seen them along the road when he returned from the village looking for newspapers and tobacco. ‘They're in a carriage contraption, like an old sleigh and horses with bells.'

‘Sally had better watch out,' said Sophie. ‘She could be another of the old Count's conquests. Lures them here then, when he and his circus pals are finished with them, they're sent by train back to Paris. I've seen it before. By then she could be heavily hooked. Last model I knew who went through that scenario ended up a prostitute. She could have worked for any of the top fashion houses, but she died of a drug overdose. Her body was fished out of the Seine. Tragic.'

As Miche watched Sally on the catwalk, the photographer caught her downcast expression and read her thoughts. ‘London, Paris, Milan, New York – it's the same scene, Miche. Girls too young, too much, too soon. When all they have to sell are their looks . . . it's a dangerous gift,' added Donald.

Miche took the details of the model-prostitute who'd died and, with Claudia's help, checked out the story with the Paris police department's anti-drug unit. Donald gave her the names and numbers of several top models – some whose fame had been in the seventies and eighties – as well as a few current cover girls who were prepared to talk about their own experiences and what one described as ‘the black hole in the underbelly of modelling'.

The rumour Claudia's husband had heard in the diplomatic fraternity came to light when Miche learned how poor, pretty, very young girls were lured to Paris from Eastern Europe, Russia, South America, with promises of money and glory on the catwalks of the fashion world. Instead, they were taken advantage of by older men, who soon turned them over for fresh, young meat and they generally ended up in brothels, hooked on drugs.

While it was not a new story, it gave Miche a different slant on what had started out as a ‘sweetheart story'. How Sally, the girl from small town Australia, was a potential victim of the big bad world of money, muscle and marketing.

Miche'd been knocked out by Donald's photographs. ‘They look like stills from a Fellini or Ridley Scott movie. Wow! High fashion marries the forces of good and evil. The child bride of Frankenstein meets Dior couture. I love them, Donald!'

‘Any time, kid. I think you have it in you to discover the meat of a story. You're not just a pretty face.' He tweaked her nose. ‘Look me up in New York if you wanna good time. If not, keep in touch. I reckon we'll work together again.'

Claudia read Miche's finished article. ‘This is not a pretty picture you paint behind the scenes of the catwalk and the covers. But it is fascinating. I hope you weren't planning on a modelling career after all this,' she laughed. ‘You will not be a favourite person with the agencies when this comes out.'

‘You think it's good enough?' worried Miche. ‘It's become a bigger, heavier story than I ever imagined at the beginning. It's not what Nina was thinking of, I'm sure.'

‘Send it to Australia
.
I think it will make quite an impact,' said Claudia reassuringly.

Miche sent the package off to Larissa with a note . . .

Hi, Larissa!

Here it is. It's taken ages to trawl through a lot of interviews, research and just ‘hanging out' in the fashion scene. What a crazy world! Could you read this and see if it's okay before you show it to Ali. I'm so nervous about it. Claudia and Bernard are taking me with them to their holiday place in Nice for a week. Then I'll head Down Under. I plan to sightsee in Asia on the way. I'd like to take the break before hitting Sydney and starting work at
Blaze
. Thanks for the offer to stay with you. I accept. Can't wait to see you.

Lots of love, Miche.

Larissa opened the package that had been sent in the diplomatic bag from Paris to Canberra and forwarded to her home. She was thrilled with the photographs. As she read Miche's story, her heart started to flutter and she felt a growing sense of excitement. She went into the small courtyard where Gerard was working on a huge canvas propped against the jasmine-laden fence. Gerry had been captivated by the clear Australian light and was furiously painting bright, bold water scenes, sketched as he rambled around the harbour foreshores. ‘Gerry, Miche has sent in her story from Paris. It's fantastic!'

‘The one she did with Nina . . . the fashions or something?' He was squinting at his work, half listening.

‘Nina made the introduction, but Miche was on her own. It was to be a simple story about local girl makes good in the top fashion echelon. Miche has turned in a shocking exposé of the other side of the lights. Oh, I'm so proud of her. Ali is going to be staggered.'

‘The bitchiness behind the glamour smiles as they strut their stuff? Nothing so new in that angle.'

‘Wait till you read this. She describes the wildest dinner party in a French chateau . . . Oh boy! I can't wait to see her. She'll be here in a week or two.'

‘Ah, too bad. I might miss her.' Gerard took a step back to study his painting, not looking at Larissa who stood still, feeling suddenly cold in the late morning sunshine.

‘You're leaving?' she managed after a pause.

‘Riss . . . I have a job to go back to . . . I came for your birthday because I missed you.' He turned to face her, his arm holding the paintbrush limp at his side. ‘Come home with me, Riss. Let's get married.'