Blaze (41 page)

The women noted Larissa's red eyes and left her alone until Belinda, Barbara and Fran invited her to lunch.

‘I think we need a decent bottle of red,' said Belinda firmly as they settled themselves. She rarely went to lunch, let alone drank alcohol, on a working day. Today was an exception.

The other women quickly agreed. ‘One of the best from the Margaret River,' declared Fran. ‘You'll have to go over to see the west, Larissa.'

‘I don't know where I'm going,' she sighed. ‘I thought I'd like to see more of Australia while I'm here, now it seems I'll be tooling around New Hampshire.'

‘It's a hard one, all right,' said Belinda. It was a vague remark as none of the women wanted to advise Larissa too strongly. They could all see what a hard choice it was. For any of them. Belinda was glad of the diversion of the wine being poured. She sipped the shiraz with appreciation. ‘God, this is more like the good old days. Leisurely lunch with friends, toss around ideas, share gossip.'

‘Some damned hot stories came out of those weekly lunches,' sighed Fran.

‘Days of the long lunch on expenses are over,' agreed Belinda. ‘It used to be something of a badge of honour for the blokes to get really sozzled, insult the boss, grope a poor young woman, throw up in a cab, end up at the old Journo's Club and lose a fortune on the pokies. Then pass out on someone's floor, not able to remember a thing since lunch started.'

‘It's not politically correct any more. These young birds go to the gym after work and drink water laced with chlorophyll,' sighed Barbara.

‘That was a fad in New York for a while,' said Larissa. ‘Everyone wanted lean green bodies. Well, alkaline in their system.'

‘Ali must have an acid system,' said Barbara tersely. Belinda and Fran stared at her briefly, then broke out laughing. It was so unlike the always ladylike Barbara. She was still smarting from her sidelining by Ali and she missed her colleague, Tiki. Apart from Fran and Belinda, there was no one else on the staff of Barbara's generation.

Belinda raised her glass. ‘Here's to you, Larissa. No matter what you decide, we'll always be your friends, and we all want you to be happy.'

They lifted their glasses and Larissa shocked herself by bursting into tears. ‘I don't know what to do . . . And I don't know
why
. I don't know what to do . . .'

It was a welcome diversion for Larissa when she met Miche at Sydney Airport. They hugged warmly, both deeply glad to see the other. For Miche it was a familiar friend in a strange place, for Larissa it brought back memories of New York, of
Blaze
, of Gerry, of Lorraine – a world that seemed now so far away, so long ago.

Miche loved Larissa's cottage and, after she'd struggled to stay awake through the day, they walked up to Oxford Street for dinner.

‘This is hip. Very Greenwich Village,' said Miche approvingly. She lifted her glass. ‘Here's to you, darling Riss. I'm sooo glad you're here.' They clinked glasses and Miche braved the subject of Gerard. ‘You must miss him. I'm sorry I didn't see him. He adores you so, why doesn't he move here?'

Larissa clutched her chest in mock alarm. ‘Ah, the directness of youth. An arrow straight into my heart. I'm grappling with one of those life decisions.'

Miche merely raised an eyebrow and Larissa looked crestfallen. ‘Oh, Miche, it's so hard. I'm really confused. I like it here, except Ali is . . . difficult, as you'll discover.' Larissa paused at the cloud that passed over Miche's face as they both thought of Lorraine. ‘I adore Gerry, but I feel I've moved on in some way and I can't put my finger on it. I just know I can't go back to my old life. Having him here was so wonderful – and I know he enjoyed it too. He loves Sydney, but he felt like it was a holiday being here. Gerry wants to move to New Hampshire and on to a new life, but I don't know that I want to give up my career and be . . . mother, wife, whatever.'

‘That's not a lot of comfort to me, Riss. I thought life became clearer with age and wisdom,' said Miche gently. Then, seeing Larissa's sad expression, she sighed. ‘Why is it women always have to give up something in order to do something else? I always wondered what my mother was going on about, raving on that I was the inheritor of the breakthroughs by the baby boomers. But Nina and Mom had to fight to achieve what they wanted. They talked about saving the world, making it a better place, easier for us. Yet look at you . . . me . . . even Ali . . . our lives aren't exactly perfectly laid out on a platter. The world still seems to be run by and for men.'

‘I sort of agree,' said Larissa. ‘Until men have the responsibility of looking after the kids, the old folk or the sick, nothing will change. We still have to fight over pay, lack of child and home-care services, violence against women, the glass ceiling.'

Miche threw up her hands. ‘I'm not going to fight that one. Be like Ali. If you hit a glass ceiling, put a boot through it and to hell with anyone else. Mom always told me not to be modest, to believe I can do anything. That's how men think.' Miche sipped her wine and briefly stared into the glass as if looking for an answer to the question she had often asked. ‘When does it become simple?' she asked softly.

‘Maybe never. That's the whole female trip,' replied Larissa slowly. ‘Fundamentally, we still want a career, to be acknowledged as thoughtful intelligent beings, to be a mother, to love someone and be loved in return and live in a healthy, clean, safe environment. Why should that be so hard?'

‘Well, to a lot of men that's a big shopping list,' said Miche. ‘And another thing, any time a problem comes up in our lives – like finding legal or financial guidance, signing a contract, just putting your life in order, we think we have to find someone else's advice,' she continued. ‘And women like my mother seemed to think that using outside help was a failure on her part. I'm just starting to realise that I am talented at some things, but there are things I can't do – hey, why not spread the load?'

‘I suppose as long as women feel their status is unequal, there will be the need for organised feminist action,' said Larissa. ‘But you and Ali's age group seem to operate more as individuals, even competitors. What happened to the sisterhood that your mom and Nina were part of? I'm in my mid-thirties, have a promising career, a lovely guy. But the days of being superwoman and doing it all are gone with the power suits. It's back to the olden days – I'm supposed to choose.'

Miche spread her arms, warding off Larissa's intensity. ‘Hey, gimme a break. I'm just a kid. What do I know?' At twenty-three, Miche was excited about the future, but it worried her when all the women around her seemed to find life so difficult.

Her mother hadn't been able to cope with ageing. She'd been left with a baby and a husband who didn't want to settle down, so Lorraine had made her life working for
Blaze
, clawing her way up the ladder and raising a child as a single parent in New York City. But it had killed her.

Nina had also dedicated her life to her work. She had looked after her elderly mother, been widowed young without children and probably now had secret regrets. Ali was an aggressive ambitious bitch and, uncharitable as it might be, in her heart of hearts – despite her mother's problems – Miche blamed Ali for pushing her mother over the edge, emotionally and physically.

And here was Larissa, not much more than ten years older than Miche, unsure of how to deal with the crossroads she faced. Where did the men fit in, wondered Miche. Once again she cursed her absent father. She was beginning to realise she harboured a deep anger towards her unknown parent. Where was he when she'd needed him to give her a cuddle, read her stories, attend school functions? To teach her to dance, and what to say to boys? Fathers contributed so much to a girl's self-confidence, self-esteem. She'd always resented him for not being there when she needed him.

Larissa broke her train of thought and reached over and squeezed Miche's arm. ‘Don't take any notice of me. I'm just having a bit of a freak-out. I think you'll love it here and do brilliantly. Your story on Sally Shaw was quite excellent. Knocked us out.'

Miche looked pleased. ‘Well, I had a lot of good material to work with. It was quite an experience. And spending so much time with her was a luxury. I hope Sally doesn't feel I betrayed her confidence. I can't imagine having that sort of access to other subjects.'

‘It's likely you won't. But if you are thorough and careful and balanced, you can build up a reputation so that people want to be interviewed by you.'

‘I don't want to do puff jobs to please the subject like so many journos seem to do!' exclaimed Miche. ‘Nor do I want to be an utter bitch and rip into people just to be sensationalist. I've noticed that many writers who take that kind of tack spend half of the article talking about themselves.'

‘Good point. So what are you going to do next?'

‘Depends on Ali. I'm going in to see her on Monday.'

‘Make an appointment with Belinda,' advised Larissa. ‘Ali doesn't subscribe to an open-door policy.'

*

Miche sat before Ali's desk trying to reposition the shadowy figure that had so haunted her mother. Miche always thought of dinnertime with her late mother as ‘Time for Tales of Ali'. Lorraine always came home and bitched about the young woman she was so threatened by. Now Miche faced this same woman who was boldly wearing the mantle of the sleek, slick editor.

Ali was inscrutable behind the dark Chanel sunglasses, yet it seemed to Miche she was uncomfortable. ‘You're staying with Larissa?' asked Ali.

‘Yes. Until I find my own place. I'll share, I guess.' Miche paused, waiting for details of the job she was here to take up.

‘In Sydney?'

Miche stared at Ali. ‘Of course. Unless you plan to send me somewhere else?'

‘It's up to you. Your piece on the model Sally Shaw is excellent. I'm glad I organised for Donald to do the photographs,' said Ali, making it sound as though Donald's photographs had saved Miche's article. ‘However, I don't know that you'll find a story so suited to your, er, talents every month. We are happy to consider any suggestions or submissions.'

Miche flinched. ‘Excuse me? Ali, I understood from Nina I was to take a full-time position here. I have come all the way across the world on that assumption.'

‘Assume nothing,' said Ali cryptically. ‘Nina mentioned your talents and I am buying your Sally Shaw piece. Finding subjects so suited to your . . . interests might not be always so easy.'

Miche was close to tears, but too angry to cry. ‘I feel confident I can write well about any subject I might be given. I realise I'm not that experienced but . . . I do have to support myself,' she added pointedly.

‘We pay the going rate for articles. It's quite generous. I suggest you go and talk to Bob Monroe, our features ed, about story ideas. As far as being on staff, that's out of the question. You'll be a regular contributor depending on editorial space and content.'

‘I see.' Miche rose, furious at Ali and scared about her prospects. ‘I'll make an appointment to see Mr Monroe.'

‘Ask Belinda now. He may be free. And Miche, in your own best interests, downplay your association with Nina. You don't want murmurs about nepotism. Surviving on your own merits is always best.'

‘You bet. It's what my mother taught me.' Miche headed for the door. ‘Thanks for the time.' She didn't look back at the figure behind the desk.

Ali groped for a parting pleasantry. ‘Your article is the lead feature next issue, by the way.'

But Miche was quietly shutting the door and in minutes had been directed to Larissa's office where she burst into tears.

Larissa gave her a hug. ‘God, she's a bitch. Of course you should have a full-time job. She doesn't want you on the staff payroll so she doesn't have to pay all the loadings. You'll make more money freelancing anyway. And, you're a free agent, Miche. You can sell your articles anywhere. She may have done you a favour.'

Miche wiped her nose with a tissue. ‘I guess so. It's not what I expected. I guess I was remembering how comforting
Blaze
used to be in New York, when Nina was there. God, no wonder everyone here seems so scared of Ali.'

‘What do you mean? You've just come into the building.'

‘I watched a few of the younger girls in the hall outside Ali's office. They scurried with their heads down like frightened mice. Albeit rather elegant mice.'

Larissa laughed. ‘Yes. Ali sent out an edict that she was not to be publicly addressed by the juniors. She doesn't pass the time of the day with minions. If they walk in the elevator with her, they stand at the back looking at their shoes and wait till she leaves before moving, even riding past their floor.'

‘Well, I'm glad I have to pitch ideas to Bob Monroe and not Ali,' sighed Miche.

‘Yes. Be glad you're not an executive or senior staffer having to pitch their ideas to the playpen.' Miche looked at her quizzically. ‘I'll explain later. Come on, I'll treat you to lunch.'

It was just before daylight when Nina arrived back at the city hotel she'd left two days before. The lone concierge, who'd not been at the desk on her last visit, seemed suspicious of a foreign lady turning up at 5 a.m. He explained she could wait in the early-opening café until the day manager came on duty at six.

The dark-walled Dalmatian Café had carpet the shade of dried blood, musty brocade curtains and solid chairs and tables with functional settings. She imagined the food was as heavy and stodgy as the surroundings. It was a room designed to brood in over the thick coffee that Nina sipped as she waited, trying not to fume.

She did not see the old concierge from the apartment block where she'd been staying, hurry from the hotel manager's office.