Strictly Confidential (16 page)

Heading down Bourke Street, I resisted the temptation to continue on as far as the legendary Bourke Street Bakery and instead started looking out for the Beresford. Past Le Pelican French restaurant, past Emmilou tapas bar, past two Bees desperately trying to reserve a car space without the aid of a car. What the faark? Swerving to the side of the road, I pulled up next to the girls, only narrowly missing one seriously pissed-off driver who was not convinced saving a car spot with your body was a legitimate road rule.

‘What the?!?’ I tried not to laugh as I lowered my window to talk.

But Holly and Lulu were having none of that. Instead they both made for the passenger seat of my car, piling in on top of each other in a space so tiny even Ikea would have trouble finding a use for it. God bless the Smart car. I should think about replacing the Aston Martin with one of these. I’d never have to suffer another passenger again.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ Lulu said from underneath Holly. ‘You wouldn’t believe what a nightmare it is to find a park around here.’

This was true. Scoring a legal unlimited parking space in Surry Hills is like spotting authentic Louis Vuitton in the Western Suburbs of Sydney. Finding
six
legal unlimited parking spaces in a row out the front of the Beresford Hotel – my mission for the Bees – was like trying to
buy
authentic LV in the Western Suburbs. Best take your plastic elsewhere, sweetheart.

‘I know,’ I sympathised. Fact was, it was Mercedes-Benz and not me that had insisted on there being a neat row of Smart cars out the front of the venue when the press arrived for tomorrow’s media call. But that was only because they thought of it first. Which got me thinking. ‘Loves, where’s your Smart car?’ I asked as we sped along Bourke Street.

‘We dumped it near the Beresford,’ said Lulu. ‘And then went looking for a legal park on foot.’

Christ. Today was going to cost me a Goyard-handbag-sized fortune in parking fines.

As we drew closer to the Beresford I could see the offending car double-parked out the front, hazards flashing like a beacon to parking police everywhere. I swear I’d taught these girls everything they knew. As if proving my point, a Smart car suddenly came out of nowhere, swerving in front of me and nearly causing me to rear-end it.

‘Shit!’ I slammed on the brakes.

Alice blew me a guilty kiss and sped off before waiting for my reaction. Hot on her heels, Emma skidded around the same corner and nearly took off what little bonnet my Smart car had. In the front seat, Holly and Lulu screamed as I hit the brakes for a second time and nearly sent them through the windscreen.

‘This is like a precision driving team,’ I muttered and motioned to Emma to pull over so I could slide up alongside her. ‘What the fuck?’ was all I could manage and Emma looked relieved there were two car doors and two bodies between us.

‘Sorry! We can’t find parking anywhere!’ Em offered by way of explanation for those at home who weren’t following.

Before she could get any further there was a screech of tyres from behind and Alice (who must have set a land-speed record getting around the block) pulled up on the other side of me. ‘I’ve got a plan!’ she shouted over her blaring radio as we sat three abreast in the middle of one of Surry Hill’s busiest streets. We were going to have to borrow driving demerit points from Lara Bingle at this rate. ‘So, I’ve just done a lap round the Beresford and there’s a construction site full of hot tradies right out the front,’ she reported. While it was not unusual for my ladies to be checking out tradies, Alice’s vision was hardly Grace Coddingtonesque in its design so far. ‘And tradies clock off at 3 pm, right?’ she said.

I checked my watch: 2.45 pm. Alice might be onto something here.

‘So what if we ask the tradies
extra
nicely if we can have their parking spaces when they finish work? If they move just two trucks, there’d be plenty of room for our Smart cars. And I’m sure they’d be happy to help a Diesel-wearing damsel in distress, right?’ Alice said, running a seductive hand over her denim-clad thigh.

‘Genius. I love it,’ I said.

Alice beamed.

‘Get your arse over there now,’ I instructed her. ‘I always knew it would come in handy one of these days. The rest of us? We need to be ready to take the tradies’ spots at 3.01 pm. And don’t get arrested between now and then . . .’

Several minutes and just as many laps of the block later, six very smug Smart-car drivers pulled into parking spots out the front of the Beresford. Even Lulu managed to bunnyhop her way into a park. Sort of.

‘Attrition by seduction,’ I said, shaking my head at Alice. ‘You’ve got a bright future in PR.’

‘Thanks, Queen Bee,’ Alice said. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to be here in the morning when the tradies arrive to find our cars are still here.’

I raised one eyebrow suspiciously. ‘You told them their parks would be free in the morning?’

She nodded proudly and for the second time that day I was only peeved I hadn’t thought of it first.

Hot men? Check. Strong coffee? Check. A completed checklist in my hands? Check. Screw Julie Andrews’ raindrops on kittens, these were a few of my favourite things and they were all right here in front of me at the
tX
photo shoot this morning.

As if by divine intervention, the morning had dawned clear skies and sunshine for the second coming of the
Coco
Man of the Year Awards press junket. Normally I wouldn’t do a media call the day after a stunt like our cakes, but this time I thought I’d take the chance. If there’s one thing any girl in Sydney will tell you: when you’ve got a hot guy in the palm of your hand, you seize the day. Twenty hot guys? Carpe fucking diem.

Before the media call, however, there was this pesky photo shoot to do for the front cover of this afternoon’s edition of
tX
street press. Which is how, despite my sins, I found myself standing on the corner of Oxford Street, with the Intersection shopping precinct behind me, supervising twenty hot boys performing for the camera. Hallelujah.

However, it wasn’t quite Eden in this patch of Paddington. I did have Amanda to contend with. As a proud supporter of the
Coco
Awards, Coast was being represented at this morning’s shoot by one of their male underwear models. And Amanda. Who was dressed for work in towering Peep Toe heels, so high she could barely teeter around on her pale skinny legs.
God, somebody give that girl a spray tan
, I thought idly as I watched her totter by. I’d choose orange over pasty any day.

While my twenty bachelors gave their best Zoolander impressions for the photographer, Amanda eagerly awaited the arrival of her (never-nude) Coast model. And what an arrival it was.

‘Jesus Christ! Is that a coffin?’ asked Claire, the
tX
reporter, as a large wooden box was delivered.

‘He’s here!’ shrieked Amanda, managing to tear herself from the bachelors just long enough to welcome Cody the Coast model to the shoot. ‘How are you, darling?’ she called at full volume, as if the bloke in the wooden box was deaf not dead.

Wandering over to meet Cody, I realised why. The poor guy was actually encased inside a wooden Coast gift box, complete with hard plastic frontage.

‘Can you breathe in there?’ I shouted.

He smiled back at me and waved.

‘Are you okay to do photos from inside?’ I asked.

Cody smiled again.

Amanda sighed. ‘Wouldn’t you love a guy like this?’ she cooed.

One kept in a soundproof box? Bloody hell, wouldn’t any woman?

Standing with the early morning sunshine warming my back, I sipped my mocha and watched proceedings closely (sans sunglasses, unfortunately, as they seemed to have vanished from my handbag). The photographer had finally ushered all twenty guys – from footballers to fashion models, surf livesavers to socialites – into one long line snaking down the median strip for the perfect group shot.

Only it wasn’t.

‘Stop!’ I shouted over the roar of cars on either side of the traffic island. ‘Their T-shirts have to come off.’

‘Settle down, J,’ said Max the photographer, clicking away happily with the Victoria Barracks as his backdrop. ‘The x in
tX
isn’t a ratings guide, sweetie. Let me get a couple of shots of the guys with their kit on first.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘No, shirts off,’ I repeated. ‘That blond one on the left there isn’t wearing a
Coco
-branded T. As
Coco
mag’s PR, I’m afraid I’m exercising right of veto. All shirts off.’

The guys shrugged and obligingly pulled off their shirts, causing passing drivers to honk and wolf-whistle and Amanda to dislocate her neck.

‘I oughta speak to my union about these conditions,’ Max said, winking at me, before returning to snap his semi-naked subjects.

However, as the boys were topless, there was now nothing in this shot that branded it as
Coco
. And any PR worth their salt wouldn’t leave it to the subeditor to make sure their client was credited.

‘Amanda, any chance we could get Cody in the main frame?’ I asked innocently. Cody’s box bore a great big fuck-off
Coco
Man of the Year Awards rosette on it. ‘Rather than have Cody in an individual shot, why not get him in the main pic too? That way, by having him in every shot, you reduce the risk of Cody not making the cover.’

‘Good idea,’ Amanda agreed. ‘Then I also reduce the risk of my boss kicking my arse.’

I steadied myself on a nearby traffic light. Agreement from Amanda? Who knew it was possible? And all it took was an appeal to her unabashed self-interest.

‘Fab. Now how the hell do we move him?’ I asked, turning to Coast’s crew of on-site handlers who were pretending not to hear me.

Twenty minutes and two hundred kilograms later, Cody was safely ensconced on the median strip with our finalists. Wooden coffin and all. Admittedly, he did look a little hot and bothered but so would you if you were lugged across one of Sydney’s major road arteries in a box.

‘Brilliant, boys!’ Max coaxed, snapping away while Amanda did likewise on her BlackBerry. This was her kind of Kodak moment. ‘Just a few more shots.’

By now Cody was really starting to swelter. His face was an unnatural shade of red and beads of perspiration were visible even from where we stood on the footpath.

‘You – second from the end – just relax and let your arms hang at your sides,’ Max instructed a burly AFL player whose biceps were thicker than my waist. He obediently dropped his arms. Cody wiped his forehead on his T-shirt sleeve.

‘I want to try a shot with the guys walking across the road towards the camera,’ Max called over his shoulder, not bothering to pause from his clicking. Jesus. This wasn’t the Lane Cove Tunnel we were standing next to. Did he really want twenty of Australia’s most eligible men to step out onto Oxford Street during morning peak hour? No wonder there was a bloody man drought in this city. Cody swayed in his box.

‘Okay, Jazz and Amanda, I’ll need you both to stand at the top of Glenmore Road and act as a roadblock to cars coming this way along Oxford,’ Max ordered, indicating the intersection to our right where traffic was zooming past. Was my life really worth the cover of
tX
?

I should never give myself ultimatums when it comes to work because I found myself keeping pace with Amanda’s Peep Toe stilettos as we trudged to the corner. Meanwhile, Cody rested his forehead against the front of his box, leaving a sweaty imprint on the glass. Amanda and I waited till the traffic lights turned red then teetered out onto the road, where we stood – arms outstretched and eyes squinted shut – and hoped that when the lights turned green the oncoming traffic wouldn’t budge.

Cody chose this moment, in a daze of dehydration, to cool off by the only means available to him inside his sauna: he started removing his clothes.

‘That’s it! I’ve got the shot!’ Max called delightedly as twenty perfectly sculpted men crossed the road towards him and Cody performed a striptease. ‘I’ve totally got what I need!’

Max might have had what he needed – artistically and more – but Amanda and I were still holding back traffic with our bare hands.

‘Uh, does that mean you’re done?’ Amanda called urgently to Max over her shoulder, unable to see what was going on.

‘Yeah, babe,’ came the reply. ‘You should probably get off the road now. Everyone else has.’

Charming. At that, Amanda and I retreated to the footpath as fast as her Peep Toes would allow us, the onslaught of traffic close behind.

‘Wanna check?’ Max asked, allowing me to scroll through the images on his camera. I made a mental note to send the link to Shelley once the images were up on our blog. Burt Bacharach had it all wrong.
That’s
what friends are for.

‘Oh wow, Max. These pics look
amaze
!’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see them on this arvo’s front page,’ I reinforced.

Max nodded. ‘Sure thing, sweetie. Bar H&M confirming they’re opening in Sydney, nothing’s going to trump twenty topless bachelors and Cody in his jocks for page one.’

Just what I wanted to hear. I only hoped Amanda and her never-nude protocol didn’t catch it too.

To the strains of Eva Simon’s ‘Take Over Control’ on the car stereo, my driver eased his car to the kerb, delivering me safely out the front of the Beresford Hotel. Having left my Smart car here with all the others overnight, I was taking no chances with parking and had instead opted for Queen Bee’s preferred valet to get me to this afternoon’s media call.

‘Thanks a million, Carl,’ I said, sliding out of the front seat and leaving a generous tip.

‘Anytime for you, Jazzy Lou,’ he replied as I made for the Beresford’s rooftop beer garden, the scene of our press conference.

Trekking up the stairs and out onto the cobblestone courtyard on the roof, I was glad to have opted for Miu Miu wedges. Thanks, Shelley. Heels would be a nightmare up here. Proving my point, Emma and Anya, who were already setting up, had both dumped their shoes and were working barefoot.

‘Okay, we need to put the podium and
Coco
banner over here, bosh and bosh,’ I said, heading over to where they were working. ‘Then there’s enough room for the finalists to line up behind Leila Graham after they’ve been announced.’ Leila was the editor of
Coco
magazine. ‘Perfect photo opp. And there’s just enough space for thirty-odd journos to squeeze in front of the podium,’ I continued, thinking aloud. ‘That way the media call looks packed from where the TV crews are filming back here.’ As I gave instructions, I walked backwards away from the announcement podium and threw down a bunch of Nurofen tablets.

‘Also, I’ve popped a spare copy of the press release into each goodie bag in case there’s any anorexic hacks present who haven’t eaten their way through their Coast cake yet,’ I said. ‘And the mobile photo booth is on its way so all press can have their pic taken with their fave finalist.’
And then publish the images on their websites
, I added mentally.

‘The girls from the
Chronicle
will love that,’ Em said. ‘Any excuse to get up close and personal with the boys from
Bondi Rescue
without having to feign drowning first.’

By the time my feet were starting to ache in my Miu Miu wedges, I was worried. Very, very worried. It was ten minutes until showtime and there was only a rumour of journalists in attendance.

I dragged Em into the stairwell. ‘Something’s wrong,’ I hissed desperately, hoping Leila and the rest of the gaggle from
Coco
wouldn’t hear me. ‘I know journos don’t wear watches but this is ridiculous. There’s like five people up there. If some of the dailies don’t turn up soon, I die. And not in a Rachel Zoe way.’

Em didn’t even try to talk me down. ‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘And any telly crews that were coming should have had their cameras set up by now.’

This was true.

‘I’m going to call Luke and see what’s going down,’ I decided. ‘A bigger story must have hit. There’s no other reason for the daily newspapers and weekly mags to do a no-show. And let’s not even start on TV or radio.’ Never had I seen a media conference buried like this. And I wasn’t about to take it lying down. Grabbing my BlackBerry I stormed back up to the beer garden so at least Leila would see me going down with a fight.