Blaze (56 page)

A woman answered and Miche was surprised when she called Jeremy to the phone. ‘Hi. This is Michelle Bannister, remember me, we met in . . .'

‘Miche! Of course I remember you. Where are you?'

‘In Sydney. Sally gave me your number. I just rang on the off-chance. I didn't think you'd be around, I was going to leave a message. It's super to talk to you.'

‘Yeah, it sure is. I'm having a smoko. How're things with you, where are you, what're you doing?'

‘Smoko?' she queried with a chuckle.

‘Morning tea, Oz-speak. I'm at the vineyard. Working out among the vines. So, fill me in on you.'

‘I was hoping to be working full-time on
Blaze
, but at the moment I'm freelancing. Staying with a friend of my godmother's.'

‘Hey, you shouldn't have any trouble finding work. I saw the story you did on Sally. It was . . . very fair. I mean, you didn't hide anything, but you could have ripped into her and made her look stupid. I felt so sorry for her. I bet it was a real eye-opener for a lot of people. And Donald's photos were fantastic. I didn't want to hook up with her . . . I was surprised she even rang me.'

‘She's lonely. A bit lost, I think. And mixing with a fast crowd, as my mom used to say.'

The reference to her mother reminded him of her loss. His voice became softer as he asked, ‘How are you coping?'

‘I'm doing okay. Thanks for asking.' Then she changed tack slightly and forced her voice to sound upbeat. ‘I'm thinking of searching out my lost father.'

‘I remember we talked about that. Where are you going to start? Can I help? I mean, I don't know how, but if you want to bend my ear or something, I'm a good listener.'

‘I remember.' She was smiling. Larissa was right. Picking up the phone and calling him now seemed the most natural thing in the world.

‘So how are you going to start?' prompted Jeremy.

‘I have a copy of his birth certificate and my parents' marriage certificate. I can go through the Salvation Army, or the electoral rolls.'

‘Yipes, that'd be a job. You have time to do all this?'

‘I want to do it in conjunction with a story I'm writing.'

Jeremy thought publicly plunging into uncharted personal waters a risky idea, but more personal feelings pushed this view to one side. ‘So when are we going to see each other? Seems to me I promised you a tour of an Aussie vineyard.'

‘I'd like that. I haven't seen anything outside Sydney. Where are you?'

‘The Hunter Valley . . . it's a terrific area. Two hours drive north, lots of vineyards, places to stay, eat . . . I'll send you a list of places. Or I can find someone to put you up, if you like?'

‘Thanks. I'd love a few days break to be out of the city. We can do lunch?'

‘We'll do that. Give me your number, we'll plan this properly, okay?'

Miche gave him her number. It was like finding an old close friend and the pleasure was enhanced as she remembered how attractive he was.

That night she told Larissa. ‘I guess I'm going to take a little trip. Mull over my story idea.' She gave a grin. ‘Gives me an excuse to hang around with a very cool guy up in the Hunter Valley.'

‘The Hunter! I've heard that's very stylish,' enthused Larissa. ‘I'm happy for you, honey. You need to build up a circle of friends here. As for your proposed mulling, are you having trouble with your story? Is your conscience telling you to drop the finding the father angle?'

‘Reduces the strength of my story somewhat if I drop it,' said Miche, reflecting on Bob's encouragement to write the story of her search.

‘What's most important in all of this?' asked Larissa. ‘Think about it. Selling family soul-searching for the sake of a magazine article? Digging up painful memories for a possibly even more painful present? Listen, put it on hold for a few days. Go visit this guy up in the Hunter, have fun, then come back and make up your mind. I'd be off in a flash to check out this hunk of a man if I were in your shoes,' said Larissa a little wistfully.

Miche knew Larissa was thinking of Gerard. She was enjoying the idea of Miche teaming up with Jeremy. ‘You missing Gerry, hey?'

‘Sure am, damn it. It's the old story, somewhere along the line it always does come down to a choice,' she said bitterly. ‘All the women I know who have careers have had to compromise in one way or another.'

‘You have regrets? What have you had to give up?' asked Miche. ‘Gerry is waiting for you back in New York, you're having a terrific time out here . . . I mean, I know you miss him, but . . . this has to be a great experience, right?'

‘If I were your age . . . maybe.' Larissa's shoulders slumped. ‘I'm miserable, Miche. Gerry served me an ultimatum when he left – I didn't really believe him. But he's sticking to it and that means I either leave here or lose him.'

‘That's so unfair of him,' exploded Miche. ‘If he loves you, he should wait. Let you do your own thing. Anyway, when you go back, you'll be in line for an editor's job!'

‘He doesn't want me to be a New York editor. He wants a wife in New Hampshire. With babies.' She rubbed her eyes. ‘God, I've been through all this with him. He's moving whether I stay or go.'

‘But that's unfair,' repeated Miche with greater anger. ‘I can't think of any other way to describe it, Riss. But then, maybe it's a good thing. Maybe you should stay here. There must be heaps of men who'd grab you in a shot. Tell him to go to New Hampshire, you're staying here.'

Larissa gave a rueful smile. ‘Easier said. And the problem is, I do love him, Miche. And I really believe he loves me. He just wants to move on with his life. There's a clock ticking in him too.'

‘He doesn't love you enough then.'

Larissa suddenly felt a hundred years older than Miche. What did Miche know about the agony of finally finding someone who you could spend all your life with? What did she know about the scary years of thinking you'd never find anyone, that you would age alone? And then the scramble to zoom ahead in your career while younger, energetic, fearless young women surged in your wake, nipping at your heels. In order to stay in front, targets like marriage, a settled life and babies could easily drop off your radar. Then one morning you'd wake up, treading water, to find you'd been overtaken in the night. And that person by your side was looking at other women. A younger and attentive woman, prepared to throw up her career to meld her life with his. Miche was right. It was unfair. Damned unfair. So what was she to do? Choose to go to him or take a punt and go it alone?

‘Why do I feel it's over when I'm facing my late thirties?' she wondered aloud.

Miche didn't have an answer. But some survival instinct kicked in – she had a decade and a half to go. She'd make sure she wasn't in the position Larissa was in now. No way. She reached out to give Larissa a hug. ‘Stop fretting. You look fantastic, you're doing a terrific job, everybody loves you. And you have a suitor or two out there if you want them. Your call, Riss. Go home to Gerry and do what he wants. Or stay here and do what you want.'

‘Ah, sweet bird of youth,' smiled Larissa. ‘You make it sound so simple.' She stood up and closed the discussion. ‘Let's go out. My treat. Italian, Greek or Vietnamese?'

*

Since Ali's return to Sydney, the women on staff had been trying to work out what was different about her.

‘There's an aura about her that's new,' said Fran. ‘As confident and self-assured as always, but more . . .'

‘Relaxed,' suggested Barbara. ‘Like she knows something we don't.'

‘But we do know, don't we?' said Fiona, who'd been told by Tony about the rumour Ali was sleeping with the Baron.

‘No. We don't know anything,' said Belinda with a warning note in her voice. Whatever she thought privately, her duty was to protect her boss. Then they all packed up files and notebooks and headed to Ali's office from the cafeteria where they'd been having lunch together.

The editorial group was gathered around the sandpit on Ali's terrace.

Ali stood to introduce a slim young man with soft features, doughy skin, a wide Cupid's bow mouth and small, even teeth. On closer inspection, his eyes were possibly outlined with dark pencil, mascara on his lashes. To offset his prettiness, he had a closely shaved head and wore one gold earring that he thought gave him a rakish, dangerous air.

‘This is Eddie Kurtz. He is our new director of promotions for advertising.' As all eyes swung to the crimson-faced Reg, she continued, ‘This is a parallel position with Reg, our director of advertising. Eddie has been working with me to create new account campaigns, seeking out new, non-traditional clients where possible.' She glanced at Reg. ‘In addition to the work of the existing advertising and sales team.'

‘So why do we need him?' Jonathan muttered out of the side of his mouth to Bob.

‘Eddie, would you like to present your first effort to the village please.' Ali sat down.

Eddie Kurtz was on his feet, ready to address the little plastic men. Unlike the rest of the staff, Eddie appeared unfazed at facing the pit, as Ali's ritual was known. He immediately became a performer, playing up to the moment with a campy, theatrical air.

Larissa was quick to realise he was using this as a shield to hide a smart, shrewd mind.

He bowed to the toy villagers. ‘Darling hearts, I'm here to report that the ad spread for Small World Travel has been a HUGE success, not only for the financial buy, but in creating a buzz in advertising and marketing circles. Because of the favourable response to the travel company campaign, there's interest from other companies to buy Big Space in
Blaze.
No hints now, but I have a killer I'm working on – you'll die when I tell you who it is. Just waiting for the ink on the dotted line.' He fluttered his fingers and several staff smiled as he did a little twirl and sat down.

Reg leaned forward and spoke in a furious low voice. ‘Listen you little . . .' He bit back the word and settled on . . . ‘dickhead. I'm head of advertising. If there's any advertising to sell, I'll do it.' Reg turned to Ali. ‘What the fuck is he here for anyway? What kind of a title is director of promotions for advertising? You have a promotions lady and I'm advertising. What's he do?' He jabbed a finger at Eddie without looking at him.

‘Dear village people,' chirped Eddie, leaning forward towards the sandpit figures. ‘I DO, darling hearts. I don't talk, I don't wank, I don't promise and bullshit. I go out and DO,' finished Eddie, quite enjoying the stoush.

‘Eddie has one of the most creative minds in advertising sales,' explained Ali. ‘You're a top salesman, Reg, but Eddie conceptualises, works out a campaign style and strategy to persuade a client to advertise with us because they see results beyond just buying space on the page and letting their agency whip up an ad. Eddie delivers the whole box and dice to them. It's the difference between selling and packaging.' Ali leaned towards the sandpit. ‘What do you guys think?' She waited, then straightened up. ‘The tribe says let Eddie have his head. What he brings in benefits the whole magazine, Reg,' said Ali affably.

The other staff all stared into the sandpit village with growing discomfort, avoiding looking at Reg, Eddie or Ali. While Reg wasn't popular, he was devoted to his job and was always the swaggering braggadocio. To see him sweating, bordering on humiliation, was unnerving.

Reg went a deeper scarlet, seeing the rise of Eddie as a threat to his power. He jumped to his feet. ‘This is a load of bullshit.' He kicked the sandbox, scuffing his expensive Bally shoe and stormed indoors.

Ali took no notice and continued around the circle. Bob Monroe, the features editor, was next.

He'd learned not to look at Ali and fixed his gaze at a point near the middle of the pit. He was buggered if he was going to actually speak to a two-inch plastic figure. ‘Jonathan has done a terrific story on Australian radio's formidable queen.'

‘Ooh, do I know him?' joked Eddie.

Bob took no notice. ‘Dottie Heath. She's reigned the airwaves for three decades, the first woman broadcaster to win a breakfast slot, take drive time through the roof, broadcast from outside the studio at wild locations. She's notched up a lot of firsts, still has millions of fans. But she's been given the heave-ho since hitting the big five-0.'

‘Why? You can't see wrinkles on radio. TV has never accepted older women in this country, but Dottie still looks fabulous anyway,' remarked Barbara, who had once done a beauty spread with the remarkably glamorous and honey-toned radio journalist.

‘They can't use her in promotions though,' pointed out Fiona, who thought it disgusting such an old woman had been hanging onto a job someone young and trendy should have. ‘She looks old. And boring.'

‘They say she's taking on new challenges. I think her ratings had slipped, the station just fudged. She says she was syndicated all over the country and had over two million listeners – The Queen Rules. But if you break down the figures and analyse them, another story emerges,' said Bob. ‘It seems she's getting some very sharp younger competition. And her station has decided it's time to down-age.'

‘What's the angle of the story, Bob, and why has Jonathan written it himself rather than one of his contributing writers or our own Kaye?' asked Larissa.

‘She wouldn't be interviewed by a woman. They've been so bitchy in the past – envy, of course. And Jonathan says he's gradually won her confidence and so she agreed to a revealing interview. He's done a soft piece, woman turning fifty, at a crossroads, what's next, given her life to the job. Now feeling vulnerable . . . talks about losing her only child. First time she's opened up. She's never given personal interviews, always the consummate professional.'