Armani Angels (6 page)

‘
I
have no idea what they were thinking,' Laura said. She sounded terse, almost rude, but Gemma knew to read sheer exasperation into it. She knew how she felt. Laura sighed heavily. ‘Look, I'm sorry, it's just that I'm overwrought and sick of this whole thing. I don't know what Matty's problem is; it's not like he talks to me.'

‘Oh, I know what you mean,' Gemma said. ‘I can't remember the last time Tyler uttered a whole sentence . . . unless reciting the lyrics to My Chemical Romance songs counts?'

Laura laughed. ‘Ah, you too. It's truly music to slash your wrists by,' she quipped.

Gemma smiled in spite of herself and plugged the kettle in to make a cup of tea.

‘It helps to laugh, but to be honest I'm struggling,' Laura admitted. ‘This was the last straw for Matty and he knew it, but I don't even know what that means. If I ground him, he just ignores me and goes out. What can I do? He's bigger than I am.'

‘What about his dad?' Gemma asked.

Laura's voice tightened. ‘No dad, just me.'

‘Oh, okay,' Gemma tried to cover the awkward moment. ‘But I know what you mean about them being so big all of a sudden. Tyler is almost 185 centimetres and walks around like his world's about to end.'

‘Yeah, Matty too. The last time I saw him happy was when . . .' Laura paused, ‘well, probably at Christmas three years ago.'

‘You know, we should probably meet and talk this through properly,' Gemma suggested, moving to the front hallway to continue her conversation as Stephen came into the kitchen looking for a snack.

‘Yeah, sure, might help. Can't hurt. I thought I'd have a handle on life by the time I was older and wiser but I feel like I'm more of a dozey twenty-year-old than ever.'

‘Don't I know it,' Gemma responded with a chuckle. ‘I have your email from the class list. Let's set up something for next week.'

The women hung up and Gemma stared out of the window. Laura Gillespie sounded like a solid, down-to-earth woman, with quite a dry sense of humour; joining forces with her was definitely a step in the right direction.

Mercedes clicked down Toorak Road to the outdoor mall where her salon sat. As usual she assessed it as she arrived. The early-morning sun flooded the front window. It might be time to update the logo. She loved the name, of course, ‘
Coiffure by Mercedes'
would never change, but the lower-case sans serif font was so early-this-century. It needed to take on a Parisian elaborate look. She'd ring her graphic designer.

She walked in. Gabby, her receptionist, should have been greeting her at the front desk. She must be in the back office doing the books. Mercedes tsked. She had a very important client first-up, the host of the new morning talk show, and Mercedes needed to make sure the client was greeted properly by the staff on arrival.

Mercedes had been desperate to provide the salon-to-the-stars ever since her father had bought her the underachieving place ten years ago. Thanks to Gemma's arrival at the salon, her dream had come true.

The salon decor suited Mercedes's personality; it was luxe and Versace-esque, all in black, white and grey. Elaborate black acrylic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, white flokati cushions dotted the grey leather waiting-area couch, the client chairs were black leatherette with shaped backs and rolled arms. The black-and-white-checked granite floor added to the high-end appeal of the place. Her clients loved it here. They knew she was important and it made them feel right at home.

Mercedes had achieved her goal. A successful business, respect in her industry and a great income. But she still wanted more.

She picked up her mobile. Was it too early to text Gemma to see what functions were coming up later that week? Gemma made her crazy. She had everything and she took it all for granted.

Mercedes had once aspired to a high-flying PR career, but as with everything else in her life, she'd wanted it all with minimal work. She'd dropped out of her Marketing degree in her first year to marry wealthy financier, Michael Di Marta. He had promised to set her up in her own PR firm. But the engagement had fallen through when he'd caught her in his office giving a BJ to one of his rather attractive junior executives.

With her new, glittering life ripped out from under her, Mercedes had been forced to return to her Italian family, distraught. Of course she didn't divulge the details of the break-up to her ever-indulgent papa. After wiping her tears, he insisted she work with her cousin, Carmel, the family's greatest success story to date, to get her hairdressing apprenticeship. Carmel had successfully opened salon after salon in Melbourne's outlying Eastern Suburbs and as good a stylist as she was, she was an even better businesswoman.

Mercedes had no choice but to work in Carmel's latest salon as an apprentice. When she'd finally succeeded at hairdressing (even discovering that she quite liked the trade, even though it was beneath her), her dad bought her a small, failing salon in Toorak. Mercedes's father, Tony, like many of the Italian immigrants to Australia in the 1950s, had worked very hard since arriving. And although not what Mercedes would deem wealthy, he and his wife Francie, with their five children, had scrimped, saved and bought properties in Melbourne's outlying suburbs very wisely. He may have been a hardworking plumber but he was also a smart property investor and he'd always had enough money to pamper his only daughter.

Cleverly Tony put Mercedes into partnership with his brother's business-savvy daughter, Carmel, who helped turn the business around and kept the salon in the black. Mercedes aimed high in attracting top-end clients who were prepared to pay big money for the illusion of a more prestigious service. Together the women quickly grew the salon into a million-dollar business and expanded into the retail space next door.

But Mercedes was ruthless in her ambition. She wanted to be a part of the social scene, not just on the fringe. She wanted what Gemma had: crisp, brightly coloured invitations to the best events delivered by hand, begging her attendance. She wanted Gemma's popularity and reputation. Sometimes she was so envious of Gemma's life, she could taste it in the back of her throat.

That night, back in her two-bedroom Anderson Street apartment, Mercedes stared at the full-length mirror. Little Donatella, the white ball of fluff, rolled playfully at her feet. Mercedes ignored her and glared at the figure glaring back at her. What to wear?

She was glad she had texted Gemma who did in fact have a function on that night. A restaurant opening, Wild, in South Melbourne. Mercedes loved these occasions. Her poisonous thoughts from earlier were replaced with visions of canapés, champagne cocktails and potential suitors.

She hadn't been friends with Gemma for long. They'd only met three years ago when Gemma had rushed into Mercedes's hair salon for an emergency style-ectomy. She'd had a red-carpet do on that night and her regular hairdresser had poodled her normally sleek brunette Pob (Posh Beckham bob). The poor thing had looked ridiculous, and Mercedes was thrilled that hers had been the salon that celebrity Gemma Bristol had chosen. She'd felt she'd won the lottery. In the same way designers need movie stars to wear their gowns for the resulting cachet, Coiffure by Mercedes's reputation would stratosphere once the word got out who her new client was.

She flicked through her formal wardrobe. Mercedes loved the European designer sales; she figured most of Melbourne wouldn't know she was wearing last season. Black Versace top with gold trim and black jeans? Nope, not formal enough for the restaurant's opening. Black leggings, strappy sandals, silver mesh Comme des Garçons off-the-shoulder top? She preferred pants to skirts as she was very proud of her long, lean legs and tight, gym-toned butt.

But Gemma wasn't going to be wearing pants. She only wore pants to the office. She wore skirts and dresses whenever she went out and always seemed so very elegant and well groomed. Mercedes often felt a bit slutty-looking next to her, even though she knew that Tramp was the new chic.

Mercedes had always been a determined social climber. Embarrassed as she was by her modest Coburg Italian upbringing, she'd fought to enter the WASP world of high society as soon as she'd moved out of Casa Italia and into her hip IKEA-decked South Yarra flat.

Mercedes's childhood had been less than acceptable to her high aspirations. Her family was the only one with fruit trees and vegetables in the backyard. And her dad's pride and joy, Galileo and da Vinci, the two white lions that flanked their front door, almost made her weep with shame. ‘You're such a wog, Dad,' she'd whine during her sensitive teen years while squeezing lemon juice into her hair to make it blonder and begging her mum to buy her coloured contact lenses to change her chocolate-brown eyes to a more private-school blue.

So to be mingling with Melbourne's upper echelon was a dream come true. Of course, her salon had gone absolute gang busters as soon as Gemma had started patronising it and then many of Melbourne's socialities had followed her like the lemmings that they were.

Mercedes pulled out a Willow dove-grey dress. Wriggling into it, her thoughts went to Chantelle. She's such a common little upstart, she thought. Chantelle made Mercedes nervous because, although she was so painfully, obviously stupid, Gemma listened to
her
instead of taking Mercedes's advice.

Take last week for example, at the Bubble Bar. It was a brilliant idea to pitch for the Breast Cancer Society's account and a much more viable use of billable hours – and think of all the functions that Mercedes would get to attend. But bloody Chantelle and her bleeding heart distracted Gemma from Mercedes's great plan.

She reached back and pulled up the zipper. She'd never worn this dress before. She'd only bought it because it reminded her of Gemma. It was a figure-flattering chiffon that flared out at the hip. The neck was high and showed no cleavage at all. This was not a Mercedes look. She pulled on the strappy silver sandals and shook her head. Not good enough. She changed them for pewter court shoes. Frump pumps, she called them. God, she couldn't even remember the last time she wore a court shoe. To complete the look of simple elegance, she fastened a string of faux chunky pearls around her neck. She looked at the result. She had to admit it wasn't as dowdy as she'd expected. She cocked her head to one side. No, it wasn't working. Her hair and make-up were all wrong. She still had the head of a Bratz doll.

Five minutes in the mirror toned down the glittery chocolate eye shadow, but her hair was still an enormous backcombed, tousled tangle of long curls. The simple elegance of her new look only highlighted the Effie-ness of her coiffure. Which was probably why she had so many wealthy European clients.

She got out the straightening iron and analysed her forehead while she waited for it to heat up. A fringe, like Gemma's, was much more grown-up than this young-girl mess, she thought. She combed it forward and cut herself a sleek, straight fringe level with her eyebrows. Much nicer, much more sophisticated. After twenty minutes with the straightener her overall look was now far less Donatella Versace and much more Gwyneth Paltrow. Or even Gemma Bristol for that matter.

‘I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.'

Julian gripped the steering wheel and glared at the static line of cars snaking down Punt Road as if by sheer will he could make them all disappear.

‘You sound like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
.' Oscar's deep chuckle demonstrated little concern for Julian's situation. ‘Telling yourself over and over is only going to make it feel worse.'

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Pop Psychologist.' Julian turned to glare at his partner. ‘I wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't taken so long in the shower this morning.'

‘Oh settle, petal. Don't get your knickers in a twist,' Oscar said, flipping through his iPhone to look at the day's appointments. ‘Excellent, my first client's not till ten. I am sooo cruisy!' He flashed a grin at Julian while he reclined his seat and watched the passing pedestrians. ‘God, this car's small. Why don't you get a bigger one?' Julian's Mazda MX-5 was the asset he was second most proud of – his abs were the first – he liked to call the car by its American name, Miata, because it sounded more sophisticated.

‘It's hardly my fault you're a man mountain,' Julian replied in a snoot as he looked over and took in Oscar's almost two-metre frame folded into the compact space that was the front seat of the convertible.

‘Oh and it's mine, is it?' Oscar said.

‘Look, I'm so sorry I'm in a pip this morning,' Julian said. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘I've got a decision to make as soon as I get to work and I can't decide what to do.'

‘Share,' Oscar said, looking at Julian's profile.

‘You know Gemma Bristol?'

‘Celebrity gal about town? PR consultant to the stars? We love Gemma.'

‘Yes,' Julian agreed, ‘we do love Gemma, even though she's a wee bit scary. Well, one of our generous supporters is an English girl called Chantelle Portsmouth, who's really quite nice but honestly you should see what she wears. Last time, the python-skin stilettos . . .'

‘Focus, sweetheart,' Oscar grumbled.

‘Oh, yes, sorry, where was I? Gemma.' Julian tooted the car ahead of him whose driver had missed the light turning green because she was applying lip gloss in her rear-vision mirror.

‘So anyhoo, Chantelle rings me up yesterday morning and tells me that Gemma Bristol wants to give back, do good, make a difference, blah blah, you know how it goes with these mega-rich dames with too much time on their hands.'

‘Do I what? I deal with that sort every day.' Oscar was a solicitor specialising in family law at a prestigious law firm and, as a handsome gay man, had predominantly female clientele.

‘Yes, so you know the type, always looking to help out and desperately wanting to be on our committee which, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you, is a hand-picked group of well-connected women with very strong ties to the Melbourne establishment. And you know how important those contacts are to the Dame's cause.'

‘Absolutely. So what's the problem?'

Julian glanced over and saw that Oscar was checking Facebook on his iPhone. He clucked in annoyance at not having his partner's one hundred per cent attention.

‘Well, almost every week someone from Melbourne's social set asks to join us, to spruce up their social résumé by riding on our coat tails, and we just can't have it. Whenever we let someone new in, they just end up causing drama.'

The traffic was finally moving smoothly and Julian indicated to turn left at the Toorak Road lights.

‘How so?' Oscar asked and then burst out laughing.

‘What's so funny?' Julian asked, looking enquiringly at his partner's handsome face.

‘Oh my God, Ian and Liam have adopted a gorgeous puppy, and . . . they've named him Oscar. The hide of those boys!'

‘Will you listen to me, you Facebook tart?' Julian demanded.

‘Sorry, sorry.' Oscar touched his partner's elbow gently and put his phone in his pocket.

‘Well, where was I?' Julian huffed. ‘Oh, that's right, the committee crawlers.' He scratched his smooth pate. ‘We often get the type who just want the prestige of being on the Dame's committee and don't actually have anything worthwhile to offer. Plus many of these women have never done a day's work in their life, so they're not much use to us.'

‘Well, that's not Gemma,' countered Oscar. ‘She's fairly high up in the PR firm where she works. I saw her on the TV the other day representing some idiot footballer who'd been sprung with two underagers. She'd have great skills.'

‘Yes, and that's why I'm in a quandary,' Julian replied. ‘Do I risk introducing new blood to the committee in the hope that her contacts and skills could help us? But what if she just wants another feather in her cap so she can boast to her friends what a bleeding heart she is?' Julian began to nibble at his nails as he turned the issue over in his mind.

Oscar gently pulled his partner's hand away from his mouth. ‘Why not ask the Dame? Surely it's her call in the end, sweetie.'

‘Well, this is more my area. You know I only take ideas to her that I agree with. After all, I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout. Should I suggest Gemma Bristol? It could be absolutely brilliant. Or a disaster.' He slammed his foot on the brake as a cyclist shot out of a side street.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,' he cried, shaking his fist at the lycra-clad rider.

‘Sweetheart, calm down,' Oscar soothed. ‘Why don't you meet with Gemma first and find out what her motives are?' Oscar suggested, then grabbed his satchel as Julian pulled the car over to the side of St Kilda Road.

‘Yes, you're right,' Julian agreed as Oscar unfolded his massive frame onto the footpath. ‘That's probably the only solution. I'll do that. Thanks, sweetheart.'

Oscar blew a kiss in farewell.

‘No problem, pet – good luck. I'll see you at home tonight.'

‘Thanks for listening. Bye.' Julian drove off, no longer panicked about being ten minutes late for work.

Gemma strode into the Melbourne Wine Room at the grand, artfully dishevelled George Hotel in St Kilda and surveyed the room. She ignored the suits who all glanced at her entry, checked her out then went back to their European beers having assessed, rated and imagined, for a brief moment, coitus with her.

A job interview? How ridiculous, Gemma thought as she went up to the bar. She scanned the extensive wine list.

‘A glass of the Stumpy Gully chardonnay, please,' she asked the bartender and looked once more around the room while she waited for Julian. The decor was a celebration of the roaring twenties watering hole, honouring history yet modernising it to make it retro hip. The brass sloped handles on the original timber double glass doors were gleaming. Two wine barrels loomed above the entrance's portico. Original white tiles evoked images of the six o'clock swill of old but the opposite wall in its luxe chocolate hinted at a greater sophistication. Gemma loved the place.

You'd think they'd jump at my offer to work with them, Gemma thought. It's voluntary after all. I should be interviewing
them
. I could think of half-a-dozen causes that would leap at having me on their fundraising team.

When Julian had called her this morning to ask her for a meeting, she'd been quite mystified. And why wasn't she meeting with Dame Frances? Surely she was the one who made the decisions, not some lackey. If they insisted on a second interview with Dame Frances herself, Gemma had decided she'd just ditch them. She was too busy for such nonsense.

She glanced at her watch. He wasn't late, yet, but give it fifteen seconds.

‘Hello, Gemma,' a soft voice said. She looked up. ‘I'm Julian Goodstead.' His hand was outstretched. It was a small hand and very smooth. But a firm grip. She assessed. She approved. Julian was very tanned and bald. He wore a beautiful black sports coat teamed with khaki trousers, white shirt and an excellent striped tie using all three colours. She smiled and sat down, indicating the empty chair opposite for him to follow suit. She saw that he had the most magnificent dark brown eyes; they were enormous and fringed with ridiculously long black eyelashes. She found it hard to take her own eyes off them.

‘I'll have the Gewürztraminer, please,' Julian said in answer to the waiter's enquiry.

‘Sooo,' Julian said, ‘the great Gemma Bristol!' He flapped his open palms in mock adoration. ‘Such an honour to finally meet you in person. I
love
your work.'

‘It's kind of you to say,' Gemma said and thawed considerably. He was quite sweet. ‘I must say, I'm a great fan of your work. You and Dame Frances are unbelievable.'

‘Oh, thanks,' Julian said in an aw-shucks kind of way. ‘I can't tell you
how
embarrassed I am at having to have this meeting with you. It's just mortifying – fancy asking the likes of Gemma Bristol to come and meet with little old me. But it's the Dame's wish; she's pretty inflexible, very set in her ways. And all I can do is say yes, Dame; no, Dame; three bags full, Dame.'

‘Think nothing of it. I completely understand, Julian.'

‘Oh, that's so lovely of you.' He picked up the glass the waiter placed at his elbow. ‘So tell me, Gemma. What is it that you're so generously offering us?'

‘First of all I want to impress upon you that I'm not one of those society girls who just wants to join so they can brag they're on your committee.'

‘Ohhh, nooo,' Julian squealed. ‘Perish the thought. That would have never occurred to me.'

‘I really feel a strong urge to give back, to help, and I know that you guys do it in such a major way. What are your figures nowadays? Did I read somewhere you're up to $100,000 per year?'

‘$227,456 last year,' Julian said, a smug smile teasing his lips. He crossed his legs and clasped his left knee with both hands.

‘You see, that's remarkable. That kind of funding actually makes a difference to those underprivileged children. You can really
do
something. You genuinely help and that's what I'm interested in.' Gemma put down her glass and gave Julian a serious look.

‘Well, that is most admirable.' Julian nodded, sipping his wine thoughtfully. ‘But as you can understand, there is quite some competition to join our committee. And the dynamic is important as well. Though of course we are so flattered that you would even consider us.' He put down his glass.

‘So what can you bring to us? What is it you can help us with? One of the biggest assets for any such committee is an exhaustive list of rock-solid Melbourne establishment. Do you have that?' Julian sat back to appraise Gemma.

‘Well, no,' Gemma smoothed down her bob as she sat forward, ‘I don't really mix with the Lady Ellingsworths, the Lord Heatheringtons and the Beillor families, but I do have an extensive network of the younger set, the money more than the prestige. And I have an enormous database of the everybodies. I can break it down demographically too, offer you mailing lists in income streams, by location or even marital status, which is quite handy to enable you to target your specific market.'

‘Hmmm, I don't know that Dame Frances places much value on what she calls “corp talk”.' Julian frowned. ‘But I do like your network of the next generation of the monied class and I'm sure the Dame will too. Anything else?'

‘Well, I am also giving you my time,' Gemma said, ‘I can dedicate several hours a week. Oh, and I do have tremendous IT resources at my availability through my PR firm.' She motioned to the waiter for a second drink.

Julian drained his glass and nodded to the waiter. ‘I guess that would be helpful. We desperately need to update our technology. I've been trying to convince the Dame that we need a website.' He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. ‘Yes, I think this could work out very well indeed. I shall highly recommend to the Dame that you come on board.'

‘Oh, that's great news!' Gemma said and smiled broadly at him. Presuming Dame Frances accepted Julian's recommendation – and Gemma suspected he could be very convincing – she was in. She knew her excitement was a bit over the top, but she couldn't help herself. Dame Frances was a legend. A living legend. To be knighted by the Queen in 1993 had been a well-deserved honour and the woman had presided over Melbourne ever since. It would be a huge learning curve to work with her.

Julian let himself into the flat. Binky jumped from a high shelf into his arms. He flicked on a couple of lights, put the cat on the floor after receiving her welcome-home hug and went into the kitchen. A bottle of merlot sat on the bench begging to be opened. Who was he to say no? After all, it was Friday night. He poured a generous splash into one of his favourite stemless ‘O' Series Riedel glasses.

Gemma Bristol ticked all the boxes. She brought excellent skills and a modern take on charity fundraising. She had a will of steel, he thought, which begged the question, did he really need to be working with two alpha females?