Blaze (5 page)

He had chosen to remain in the background, an unknown, until a clash between warring super moguls in America and Britain had given him an opportunity to slip between them, steal the prize and seal the deal. The price he'd paid for these US and British media outlets meant he could no longer slide back into obscurity. Once outed as a major media player, he had managed his public persona through a screen of protecting attendants, keeping his private life above scrutiny, to become
un homme mystérieux
. Triton was a high-profile company. The man behind it was low key and discreet.

*

Nina wore a deep violet velvet gown that was almost as black as her eyes, and on her shoulder perched her trademark, an art nouveau diamond dragonfly pin – the motif that alighted daintily on the masthead of every issue of
Blaze
. She moved amongst the guests, a peck on the cheek, a gentle embrace, a warm handshake, a kissing of champagne glasses. Her throaty laugh, her voice with its strange mixture of European cadence and a hint of sun-toughened Australian vowels, charmed everyone who spoke with her. Her beauty, her intelligence and grace, fascinated anyone within her orbit.

Women surreptitiously studied Nina, trying to analyse her elegance and magnetism so that they might emulate her. Few had her slim, willowy height, wide, high cheekbones, dark eyes, full lips and a smile that stunned with its joyous delight in a face that could have belonged to a high-fashion model. Her thick, dark hair had, over the years, become a lustrous silver subtly rinsed with gold. The colour was dramatic set against her olive skin that still remained taut and smooth. She liked the small lines of life about her eyes, although she had been fortunate that the years of harsh Australian sun had not damaged her complexion. ‘Wog blood,' she'd cheerfully commented in her Australian way to a shocked make-up artist and hairstylist one day during a photo shoot. And explained, ‘In the fifties in Australia all immigrants were called wogs, unless they were from England. My mother and I came from Eastern Europe.'

To any observer of the ebb and flow of seriously influential powerbrokers and policy makers, shapers of trends and manipulators of opinion and financial markets, this group was the elite. They were placed like pieces of an expensive chess set against the backdrop of antique European furniture, master artworks and collector objects in the elegant, beautifully lit room that made the simple statement – excellent taste bred from old money.

The party setting subtly combined restrained festivity with a hint of the commercial. In the centre of each table was a bouquet of Nina's favourite Princess of Wales rosebuds arranged delicately in maidenhair fern. Perched atop each flower arrangement was a tiny translucent dragonfly with glittering glass eyes. At each guest's place was a souvenir of the evening, a small glossy book titled, simply,
Nina
. On its cover was an Erté illustration for a 1920s
Vogue
cover. Nina had revived the brilliant art deco style for
Blaze USA
's early covers. Inside was a potted life story of
Blaze
with photographs of Nina, the magazine's staff, its famous models, controversial stories and interviews, along with a selection of the most famous
Blaze
covers.

The guests had been carefully chosen – kings of the business world, academics from the sciences, arts and humanities, titled aristocracy, a royal head or two from Europe and Asia, diplomats. The A-list celebrities mingled with the chosen handful of key
Blaze
personnel. Among them, and never taking her eyes off Nina, was the magazine's dynamic features editor, Larissa Kelly.

Larissa admired Nina and had learned more about magazines since working for
Blaze
than in all her previous years in publishing. It wasn't just the flair Nina had for recognising a trend before everyone else, or the way she explored stories by never taking the obvious route, it was how she sought out the opinions of her staff. She listened, she encouraged, she managed to gently push everyone beyond what they thought they could do. She wanted you to be prepared to take risks, to take a step further than you might, experiment, stand your ground for your beliefs and accept the verdict if you didn't always win. There was always the safety net of Nina's attention and her respect for your ideas. The close-working editorial team had learned to respect each other and use humour to defuse potential explosions. Ambition was accepted and expected, but not at the cost of personal feelings or destabilising manoeuvres.

Larissa had started at
Blaze
as assistant to Ivor Dennison, the former chief-of-staff, but it had been Larissa who was the hands-on, day-to-day keeper of the keys, holder of the reins, organiser of staff and assignments. Ivor was mostly out to lunch or in meetings with his contacts and had been happy to leave the actual work to his capable assistant.

He was not alone. The coterie of male hierarchy in the print media had a consistent modus operandi – positions of administrative power were filled from what had developed over the years as an old boys' network and they came with a fat and padded salary package, based on years of mediocre experience. They hired smart female assistants who made them look good by working hard, and who were cleverly led to believe they'd eventually move up the ladder and assume the title. But the members of the club of male senior management protected each other and by the time the women assistants discovered advancement opportunities were limited, they had invested too much time, energy and talent to make effective waves.

Larissa's experience at
Blaze
was rare. On Ivor's retirement, Nina had formally promoted Larissa to the job she was already doing. For most of the female assistants on New York magazines, the only way up was to move on to other publications, working for similar men or for the few powerful women who were wildly protective of the breakthroughs they'd made and weren't about to help pull younger women through their crack in the glass ceiling.

Manny Golan, the financial vice-president, glanced around the party. The atmosphere was friendly and intimate. Despite the endless circling waiters carrying trays of crystal flutes filled with the best wine and champagne, guests were consciously on their best behaviour. Manny, squat, balding and apple-cheeked, turned to the head of the legal department, Roberto Iano, who'd just delivered, in confidential whispers, the details of Lorraine's death. He'd been contacted by the Baron to immediately investigate any legal implications or liability.

‘In the light of that little glitch, I wonder what Nina will announce tonight,' said Manny.

The financial VP didn't keep close tabs on the internal machinations or the face
Blaze
showed the world. Lorraine Bannister had been just another hefty contract package for him to oversee. His world was spreadsheets, fiscal reports and projections. It was all numbers in columns to him. He didn't want to know about staff problems in the editorial side of the company, or what cover stories were being mooted, provided they sold the magazine. Circulation figures were what it was all about. Sales, subscriptions, advertising.

Roberto was a study in contrasts to the pudgy Manny. Taller, beaky thin, hair a tad too long, and funereal expression the norm, he did try to take more of a personal interest in the staff. He knew the major contractual arrangements and the minefield of legal difficulties the magazine tiptoed around with each issue.

He sipped his Cristal champagne as he watched Ali making her way past Larissa who, at thirty-five, was seven years older than Ali. Roberto knew Larissa was more hands-on and therefore a more efficient worker. ‘Look at those two – Alisson and Larissa. I predict a showdown between them one day. That Larissa is very nice. Thoughtful kind of gal. Like dear old Lorraine.' He shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘What the hell do you suppose happened?'

‘She jumped,' said Manny.

‘Sure. But why?'

Manny shrugged and glanced back as Ali circled around a high-flyer Texan rancher–businessman, who turned and greeted her self-introduction with a throaty joke. ‘She knows a vulnerable target, that Ali. Ole Charlie has just lost wife number four. Gotta be worth a billion. For a farmer, he has a shrewd handle on where the next international futures market will take off. But he's a lost cause with attractive young women.'

‘Attractive? That young woman? Not in my book,' declared Manny, thinking of his plump, acquiescent wife and happy mother of his two sons. ‘That's a girl with balls. I prefer boobs. But I'll admit that Ali can work a room like no one else.'

While being careful not to upstage Nina, Ali had cut a smooth swathe through the crowd, welcoming the powerful on behalf of
Blaze
, barely pausing to acknowledge members of staff. There was always speculation among them about the levels of self-confidence attained by Alisson Gruber, who never hid her ambition and was not shy about pointing out her strengths. When her ideas were taken up, she was always quick to claim credit. No one suspected how much it rankled Ali that she was forever conforming to Nina's imprint, though many of the old hands could sense a tension in Ali, and they wondered which way it would take her . . . up or down? Clearly, for now, it was up.

This party was no mere social function. There was an undercurrent of expectancy when diplomat met banker, the head of the IMF met the heads of international aid agencies or bumped mildly against a senator and congressman. The head of the Department of Defense chatted to the chairman of the largest construction company in the US. And feeling their way gingerly onto the corporate stage came smaller players, such as a major movie star whose outspoken pacifist political views would have little in common with her soon-to-be table partner, the flamboyant Texas rancher.

Everyone had come at the invitation of Baron Triton, whose favour they sought to keep and encourage, and with respect and fascination for a powerful and beautiful woman. Each knew they were included for a reason and that somewhere along the line a price would be extracted. A price each would willingly pay if it meant staying within this charmed circle of power and influence.

Larissa joined Ali and introduced herself to the Texan. She managed to ignore the faint tightening of Ali's smile as the man changed the subject from himself.

‘So you two young ladies work together. What do you do? I'm Texan, so I know oil wells and cattle. I'm not up on the magazine business.' The words rolled out at a lazy pace.

‘That's right, we are colleagues,' said Ali brightly. ‘Larissa has worked for me for what . . . two years now? She is the features editor, sort of the general in charge of field troops.' Ali beamed her professional smile at Larissa who could have passed for twenty-five with her fresh, scrubbed face touched with minimalist make-up, and naturally curled blonde bob.

‘And you?' asked Charlie.

‘I'm the next rung up the ladder from Larissa.' Ali waited for the penny to drop and when he still looked at her expectantly, she added, ‘Nina is the commander, while I'm sort of the major-general. The deputy editor.'

Larissa smiled inwardly. Ali couldn't help herself, she had to stress her dominance, even over a colleague.

Before the Texan could throw them any more questions and flirt with them, he was claimed by a Swiss banker and wheeled off to another introduction.

‘Full on, isn't it?' observed Larissa blandly.

‘It's supposed to be,' retorted Ali, and gave a slight lift of her shoulders as she turned away to work another part of the room.

The delicate announcement from the butler to be seated for dinner heightened the air of expectation as the guests were ushered into the formal dining room where three long tables of twelve places formed a U shape.

Nina was seated in the centre of the middle table.

The Baron rose to make a toast. He glanced around the faces, highlighted by the candelabra and soft, recessed lighting, as he lifted his flute of champagne. ‘It is an honour to be here to pay homage to this very beautiful and talented lady,' he paused for the murmur of agreement, then continued, ‘who has been so instrumental in not only the success of
Blaze
worldwide, but in everything that Triton has achieved these past years.' He turned to Nina and gave a slight bow of his head, which those present knew referred to Nina's seat on the small, tight-knit board of Triton.

But his gesture went unacknowledged by Nina. She sat with lowered eyes, her expression soft, but inscrutable.

‘Nina's achievements are known to you, her journey to this place this evening has not been without challenges. And, as you know, our Nina likes a challenge.' He gave a wry, fond smile.

Here Nina lifted her head, looking at the candles burning in the candelabra. Their reflection in her dark pupils made her eyes flame eerily.

The Baron continued speaking in the quiet intimate style the occasion dictated. ‘And tonight is no exception as Nina is ready to take on another challenge in her life. As you know, Nina tends to do the unexpected.' He waited for the anticipated buzz of reaction, which he silenced with a lifted finger. ‘Nina will tell you of the decision she has made at the conclusion of dinner. But for the moment, please join me in toasting the occasion of her birthday.
Nina
,
ma chérie
.
Nina
,
bonne anniversaire
.'

There was a scraping of chairs as the guests rose and chorused, ‘To Nina. Happy birthday,' then sat down.

Nina felt herself smile in automatic response, but her mind remained mesmerised by the candlelight as she felt the sound of her name resonating through her until it touched that deep, inner part of her. Her very soul.

‘Nina! Nina child. Such a dreamer! Come.'

Her mother, Clara, was calling her.

Clara looked like a Christmas tree. Festooned with ribbons, scraps of lace, a velvet wristband stuck with pearl-headed pins, a spray of colourful, long hatpins decorated with jewelled knobs pinned to her lapel, clusters of silk flowers arranged around a soft brimmed hat that flopped over one eye.