Blaze (24 page)

Mrs Keep asked to meet her mother, was entranced with Clara and wrote about the wonderful milliner with photos of Nina modelling her mother's hats.

This brought Clara more work than she could manage and with her new prestige, she raised her prices and began saving a nest egg for Nina.

Nina decided to extend her writing away from the fashion world and she began taking an interest in the cinema. With girlfriends from work, she regularly visited the small movie houses on the edge of the city that showed foreign films, and she became a keen reader of a movie magazine published by the owner of the Savoy cinema. When he asked Nina if she'd like to review a film once a month, she accepted with delight, writing under the name of Emily Grace.

And so ‘Emily' had met Lucien Artiem, a young French film-maker who was living in Australia for six months and studying with Franco Paquot, a European cinematographer who had fled Hungary after the war and settled in Sydney. Franco had taken on a few students and Lucien was considered a star pupil. He had made several films of his own as a learning exercise and was determined to become a director of photography.

When Nina discovered that one of Franco's films was being screened she went along to interview him. And it was there she met Lucien. He was twenty-three, she was about to turn twenty-one.

He was sitting in the small studio Franco used for students. It was set up for filming commercials for cinema and the new medium of television. Lucien worked for a newsreel company, filming in Sydney and the bush, the special events, accidents or offbeat humorous segments, which were shown in the newsreel theatrettes or the big theatres as a support to the feature films. Whenever he had free time, Lucien sat with Franco, taking movie cameras to pieces and reassembling them and learning about lighting techniques, which Franco told him was the key to being a top director of photography.

While waiting for Franco, Nina was ushered into the studio where Lucien was framing a close-up shot.

She introduced herself – ‘I'm actually Nina, not Emily' – and asked what he was doing.

‘An experiment. I want to film a dragonfly taking off from this daisy.'

Nina gave him an incredulous look. ‘You can direct dragonflies?'

‘Through a camera, you can command or create the universe,' he said flippantly.

Nina was fascinated. She watched as he went to the freezer of an old refrigerator and took out a jar containing a large dragonfly.

‘Is it dead?'

‘No, sleeping. Well, a sort of coma.' He looked at Nina. ‘May I?' And before she could answer, he tweaked a strand of her hair. Carefully he glued one end to the leg of the dragonfly, the other end he pasted to a table. Then he placed the unconscious insect on the petal of the daisy. Looking through the camera, he made several adjustments. ‘I've set the exposure to the length of your hair and framed the shot to that distance. Poor little bugger won't be able to fly out of shot. Now, a couple of clouds before it wakes up.'

Nina watched as he turned on a chugging smoke machine and a small fan that blew puffs of smoke across the blue background. Then, as he went back behind the camera, the dragonfly began to stir. Nina heard the button on the camera click and the motor begin to whirr.

The dragonfly unfolded its wings, fluttered them, looked around to orient itself and, gaining its bearings, gracefully lifted off, its wonderful wings glimmering in the studio light. It flew in a small circle, then aimed for heaven, only to find it was tethered to earth by Nina's hair. The camera rolled as the dragonfly plunged and spun and circled before landing once more on the daisy to reassess the situation.

‘Oh, that's so cruel. Let it go,' cried Nina.

Lucien turned to her in surprise. ‘Why? It's not in pain. Confused, maybe. It looks brilliant through the lens, it's flying against a summer sky with little clouds.'

‘No it's not. Let it go,' said Nina angrily.

Lucien shrugged. ‘It's an experiment.' He turned off the camera, broke the thread of hair and lifted the dragonfly, which suddenly sprang free, flew at Nina and landed on her shoulder. She looked at its large pop eyes and burst out laughing. Lucien cupped his hand around the insect.

‘Come with me.' Together they went outside and he opened his hand. The dragonfly, feeling the warmth of sun, the vibration of the air, lifted lightly and then dipped and dived in a small dance before it flew away. Lucien turned to Nina. ‘Happy now?'

Nina found it difficult to express how she felt about that moment when the shimmering insect had danced against the sunlight. ‘I'll never feel the same about dragonflies again. They are meant to be free spirits. Thanks for letting it go.'

Lucien was tempted to say something else but gave a smile. ‘That's okay. I have my shot.'

Nina frowned. ‘Is that all you think about?'

They were interrupted by Franco and she disappeared to do the interview without speaking to Lucien again.

Two days later, a card arrived at her office with an exquisite watercolour painting of a dragonfly. He'd written,
‘I will never forget the dragonfly alighting on your shoulder . . . Like it, you are immortalised for me as a creature of poise and delicacy. I hope I see you again.'

They did indeed see each other again – at the opening of Franco's film in Sydney. And so began a friendship that quickly blossomed into a deep attraction.

Lucien was Nina's first true love and Lucien loved her deeply in return. But not enough to hold him to her. After four months, his visa ran out and he had an offer to return to France and work as a camera assistant on a Truffaut film. At the same time, Nina was offered a promotion at the
Weekly
. The clash of careers was heart-breaking. But neither was prepared to walk away from the path they'd chosen. They compromised, promising to stay in touch, to visit and ‘see what happened'.

Nina turned onto the Lyons Road. She'd planned to drive through Dijon anyway . . . but should she stay on this evening and see the film and Lucien? The thought of him resurrected so many memories. He'd become famous as a film-maker – an auteur, writing, directing and photographing his appealing, quirky art house films. He had been labelled Europe's answer to America's Woody Allen and John Sayles, but serious cinema critics put him in a league with the masters he admired – François Truffaut, John Cassavetes, Jean-Luc Godard and Ingmar Bergman.

In the early years after they'd parted, she'd followed his career at a distance. But she'd heard little of him for ages. They had seen each other once in those early years, but even now her heart ached thinking about it, and she pushed the memory from her mind.

Instead, as her career progressed, she'd met the handsome, older, Doctor Paul Jansous at a dinner party. He was quietly humorous, gentle and caring. It was comforting to have a protector, a man who adored her, a wealthy man who could give her the best in life. He'd courted her and quite soon they'd married. It was a stable if stolid pairing, but Nina was unprepared for the shock of becoming a widow in her early thirties when her husband had collapsed with a heart attack while playing tennis.

In time her thoughts had turned to Lucien, but just as he knew little of her personal situation, so she knew little of his. In the end, she'd decided against disturbing his life by contacting him. Instead, Baron Oscar Von Triton had stepped in to fill the gap in her life with the offer to buy
Blaze
, the magazine that she'd started and made her so successful in Australia. She was ready for a new challenge so she had persuaded him instead to go into partnership and launch
Blaze
in America.

As she had so often through her life, Nina decided to let her instinct decide what she should do, what was best, when the moment arrived. She drove on along the Lyons Road through the sunny afternoon.

*

Belinda sat opposite Ali's desk in a straight-backed chair taking notes. She felt like a secretary out of a fifties B-grade movie with Ali playing Joan Crawford.

‘And send a further staff memo that invitations to commercial promotional events are to be vetted by me.'

Belinda glanced up in surprise, then resumed scribbling as best she could without the knowledge of shorthand. For all Ali's high-tech leanings, her inter-office communication was outmoded. It seemed another way of keeping herself above the rest of the staff and reaffirming her authority.

Tony Cox, the young travel editor, was first to query the edict.

‘Ali, I have an offer to go to Guyana – it's starting to become something of an eco-adventure holiday destination. A number of young Australians out there are setting up tourist operations. There'd be a lot of interesting stories from a part of the Americas that's written about by the freelancers whose stories we buy. I'm wondering what you think . . . with regards to this.' He fanned the air with her last memo.

‘We have axed a story on Heron Island off our own shores, why would we involve ourselves in the expense of going to South America? Especially as it is company policy not to accept any free contra deals,' she answered airily.

Tony spoke patiently, not wanting to rile his editor, but finding it hard not to lose his temper. ‘It's a form of advertising for the client, interesting copy for us. So long as we say this trip was paid for by so and so, readers can make their own judgement as to how biased the coverage may be.'

‘Not every reader makes that leap,' said Ali blithely. ‘So what's being paid for?'

‘Air, accommodation, internal stuff. Travel infrastructure in Guyana is still a bit . . . loose.'

‘Doesn't sound like the sort of place our readers would want to visit. They'd be more into up-market safari stuff.'

Tony decided to save the details of the delights of the former British Guiana. ‘Advertising thinks it's an excellent idea.'

‘Reg Craven doesn't have the say on what we cover just because he can sell a couple of ads. I don't imagine too many five-star hotels are in Guyana. We have to maintain a certain standard of quality of advertisers. If this was going to bring in a lot of money or a lot of kudos without compromising us . . .' Ali paused, then added, ‘we have to be very careful about protecting our credibility.'

Tony didn't say anything at the obvious recent turnaround in Ali's attitude. He'd heard how she'd originally pushed to cover the movie star wedding on Heron Island before Larissa had convinced her of the danger of contravening Triton policy . . . though Ali liked to give the impression it had been her idea to stick to ethics.

But as she hadn't dismissed it out of hand, he ploughed on. ‘Guyana is exotic, different, has spectacular scenery, a ton of natural assets – waterfalls, big rivers, fishing, hunting, Amerindian culture, diamond and gold prospectors . . .'

‘Yes, yes. Would someone like me enjoy it?' asked Ali, and Tony realised she was serious.

‘I'm not sure. You seem, um, very New York . . . Guyana's charm is, well, somewhat primitive.'

‘Perhaps I should check it out.' She cocked her head.

Tony hesitated, the impact of the memo sinking in. ‘Do
you
want to go out there?'

‘I can't spare the time. Rio sounds more to my liking. When that kind of trip comes up, I'll take it.' She was brisk. ‘I'm yet to be convinced we can afford to send you to Guyana. I'll think about it.'

‘Ali, I edit a travel section. I know we commission most of our stories from freelancers, but sometimes I actually go places. It's in my contract. And someone has to pay!' he said in exasperation.

‘I'll talk to Reg shortly.'

Tony left her office and went straight to the advertising manager before Ali called Reg.

Ali watched him go, knowing he'd be trotting straight down the hall to Reg. These boys stuck together. There were definite divisions in the office – the older women of experience, the young female challengers, the male management hierarchy, the editorial men who tended to side with the older women . . . and Ali. Ali was a force unto herself. It was not just the way she worked, it was the pattern of her life. Ali was a loner. And she had long ago trained herself not to analyse the reasons why.

After talking with Tony, Reg went to Ali's office armed with figures and a strong argument. He was pleased he had ammunition to fire. It annoyed him how she was able to see through his arguments and refused to be intimidated by him. Though he saw it as respect. Reg considered his power and role at
Blaze
superior to that of Ali. He kowtowed to senior male management. Women were expected to know they were below him on the executive ladder.

He spoke through stretched lips, but to Ali his tone was condescending. ‘We have to attract advertisers with content that's different, special, a deal no one else has. We could pull in advertising to support a South American feature. If we have to, an advertorial. Fran in promotions can whip up a few deals.'

Ali cut in curtly. ‘I've already knocked that idea sideways, Reg.'

‘It's not up to you where we spend or do not spend our advertising budget. You stick to content and editorial, I'll find the money to pay for the bloody magazine.'

His face was turning red with annoyance, his bow tie seeming to tighten round his neck where veins stood out. She knew he was itching to make one of his usual comments such as, ‘Let us men run the show, you make the pretty pictures.'

Ali remained unruffled. ‘I haven't said no. I've asked Tony to come back with story ideas, a list of what arrangements are being made and what it will cost us. We need to drum up something of note other than stay at such and such a lodge.' She looked thoughtful. ‘Guyana, isn't that where the Reverend Jim Jones and the Jonestown suicide mess happened back in the late seventies?'

Reg shrugged. ‘Maybe. Doesn't sound like a reason to go on holiday there.'

‘No, but there must be a damned interesting follow-up story after all these years. Leave it with me.'