Strictly Confidential (3 page)

As I opened the back door, the photogs were still calling Raven’s name, so I waved before jumping into the revving vehicle and burying my face in my hands.

The cabbie didn’t need an explanation. Although he’d probably never heard of Raven, he sped us away from the pap pack. Once we were safely away from the club, I took off the sunnies and tied my hair back, instantly de-Ravenising myself.

‘Can you please go around the block a few times and then head back to the club?’ I requested, crossing my fingers that my hostage hadn’t high-tailed it in the meantime.

As I had hoped, the photographers had dispersed as soon as they got their shot, so after a few laps in the taxi the coast was clear enough for me to venture inside to retrieve Raven. Slipping the driver a wad of notes to sit and wait out the front, I clattered inside Kit and Kaboodle for the second time that morning.

Racing up the stairs and into the toilets, I tried to bury the awful scenarios that were racing through my head. What if Raven wasn’t there? What if Raven was there but in a coke-induced coma? What if Raven was there and was wondering why her publicist had cruelly stripped her down, stolen her clothes and left her locked in a dingy toilet?

I needn’t have worried.

‘Did you find any coke?’ was her first question as I pushed open the cubicle door. Her pupils were the size of serving platters and the occasional droplet of blood from her nose stained Teri Hatcher’s face on my T-shirt.

Relieved, I dragged Raven to her feet and bundled her out into the early morning air. Around us, addicts slumped in back lanes, while the young and the beautiful emerged from nightclubs all along the street. Raven, sans shoes, and me, sans sleep, fitted in perfectly. Never mind Wisteria Lane, this was one crazy neighbourhood.

If ever the Sartorialist was likely to be in Sydney, today was going to be the day.

I couldn’t tell you how many working hours I’d lost to planning what I’d wear the day the influential blogger popped up in the Pacific on one of his visits Down Under. (A Jil Sander maxi skirt in orange, with a tight white Bassike tee and toting a matching Chanel 2.55 was my current favourite ensemble, incidentally.) But Murphy’s law said the Sartorialist was never going to be around when I was at my Jil Sander best. Oh no. Just as buttered toast that will always land face down and Joan Rivers will always land face up (all that collagen must surely make her facial features the lightest, most buoyant part of her anatomy, right?), the Sartorialist was sure to be in town on the day I looked like a train wreck.

As I sat slumped in the front seat of a taxi at 6 am, glancing furtively around for any signs of his iconic camera, I prayed today wasn’t my shot at internet infamy. Not the way I looked off the back of three hours’ sleep. Not having spent the remainder of my night wrestling Raven out of a cab and into her suite at the Park Hyatt, where I removed her makeup, fed her water and painkillers and put her to bed. Not when I had only a couple of hours to turn myself around and haul my arse back to the office to face Diane. I tried to push all thoughts of the Sartorialist out of my mind because, with my luck, just thinking about the style-savvy snapper would be enough to conjure him up.

As we pulled up in my driveway that morning, I half-leapt, half-fell out of the taxi in my rush to get inside. Going to pay, I fumbled through my bag for my wallet and found . . . nothing. What the fuck? Smiling apologetically at the cabbie I sat back down on the front seat to rummage properly. Makeup bag? Check. BlackBerry? Check. Business cards, Raven’s publicity schedule, spare business cards? Check, check, check. ‘I know my wallet’s in here somewhere,’ I said aloud, trying to reassure myself as much as the driver. It’s not like Raven would bother pilfering from a non-celeb (or ‘street person’, as she preferred) like me. As my hands felt frantically around the interior of my oversized Louis Vuitton Speedy 40 I felt a slit in the iconic brown lining and my hand wrapped around my wallet. Perf! Cursing ole Louie for his intricate design work, I reefed my wallet out of my bag and slipped the cabbie his fare. And then some. ‘Sorry, bud,’ I said and finally headed for my front door.

Once inside, I made a beeline for the bathroom and a steaming hot shower. No time later I was schlepping through Paddo with my laptop, pausing only to inhale a skim mocha. Takeaway coffee was an indulgence in which I rarely partook, preferring to put my spare change towards the eBay piggy bank, but sleepless nights chaperoning cokehead celebs was a sound excuse to splurge. Taking a swig of my mocha, I threw five Nurofen tablets down my throat for good measure. I know, I know, Nurofen tablets, like designer shoes, are generally best when they come in pairs. Not in odd numbers and certainly not in clusters of five. But, again not unlike designer shoes, I found the effect the pain-relief medication had on my mental state was both soothing and uplifting. Serenity in a tab, if you will. Even if there was no actual chemical reason for it, a small handful of Nurofen could calm my nerves and allay all tension much more effectively than booze or illegal pills could ever hope to do. Plus, of course, Nurofen wielded the added bonus of being a hell of a lot cheaper than the aforementioned designer shoes. And so I scoffed them regularly and excessively and had been doing so for four years now, the exact same four years that I had been working at Wilderstein PR. A fact that was no mere coincidence.

At the thought of my employer, those butterflies took up residence in my stomach again. As I waited for my Nurofen panacea to kick in I contemplated what lay in wait for me at the office. Had I pulled it off? What was Diane going to say? Would everyone believe it was Raven in the photos?

Thankfully, Oxford Street in the morning is always a welcome distraction and today proved no exception. Heading towards the imaginary but all-important barrier between Paddington and Darlinghurst I watched the prostitutes call it a night and hobble home, the bottoms of their acrylic heels worn down to a nub of plastic the size of a twenty cent piece. A man walked past talking violently to himself; two guys in tight white singlets skipped down the footpath singing Kylie Minogue songs to one another. There were still people stumbling out of bars, with loosened ties and beer-stained shirts, making me feel marginally better about my own sorry state.

Better, that is, until I reached Wilderstein PR.

As I stared up at the imposing building before me, all metal and glass and as shiny and severe as Anna Wintour’s signature bob, I felt my stomach sink. Despite having worked there for almost four years, I would never get used to running the gauntlet of the Wilderstein wilderness each morning. It was a jungle in there. A jungle where every elevator stop and every encounter in the foyer was just another opportunity to be eaten alive.

At the top of the food chain are the Wives. So called (in my mind, at least) because the treatment I receive from these women each day is not unlike the response you might expect if you’d just strolled into work having slept with each of their husbands. Repeatedly. And enjoyed it. The Wives are kings of the jungle here and you fuck with them at your peril. In fact, if David Attenborough ever got bored of stalking the savannas of the Serengeti and instead stumbled into the microcosm of Wilderstein PR, he’d probably classify the Wives thus: ‘As easily identified by the lavish designer handbags worn on their bony arms as by the ice-cold stares on their frozen faces, these women are the undisputed matriarchs of the industry. With BlackBerrys surgically attached to the sides of their heads and their bodies covered with distinctive luxury labels, these creatures habitually refuse to remove their sunglasses before midday. And only ever after imbibing an espresso or two.’

And while the Wives don’t like to get their manicured hands dirty with the day-to-day drudgery of publicity schedules, these women run the business and provide the (very Botoxed) public faces of their company’s campaigns: schmoozing clients, pampering the press and lunching like it’s 1985.

As for their prey? When not dining with potential clients, the Wives generally feast on the less experienced in the industry: the Young Wives. The Young Wives are power-hungry wannabes and are easily identified in the wild as they dress almost exclusively in fashion-slave black, as if headed to the older Wives’ funerals. Mostly made up of publicists and senior publicists, the Young Wives are partial to fronting up for work dripping in accessories in an attempt to make them appear larger and more threatening to the predatory Wives. As if trying to differentiate themselves from the older species, the Young Wives say things like ‘totes’ and ‘cute’, yet just like the more powerful predators, their facial movements never match their words.

Then, of course, there are the Teenage Brides. These junior publicists and admin assistants are best known for parading in the office environ looking like they’re off for a day at the races. Clad in skin-tight dresses, short skirts, pink lipstick and the odd fascinator or beret, the Teenage Brides make for easy prey.

So that’s who’s who in the zoo. Of course, when it comes to PR – Public Relations, Press Reps, Promo & Rumour, whatever you want to call it – we’re all fighting for the same space on the same social pages and in the same gossip columns of the very same newspapers. Not to mention the fact each and every one of us is trying to nab each other’s clients in order to climb the slippery rungs of the PR career ladder. In the dog-eat-dog world of publicity, it really was a wonder I got out of Wilderstein alive each day.

There was only one thing Diane hated more than failing to achieve quality media coverage for a client, and that was losing her luggage.

Me? I could think of at least half a dozen worse fates that might befall a person in the name of work. Losing a night’s sleep babysitting a cokehead celeb in the Cross. Or losing your dignity impersonating said celeb. Even losing the will to live when your boss found out. But losing your luggage? Not even in my top ten.

Diane, however, was neurotic about it. So much so that she refused to take any luggage on her flights and instead had all her belongings couriered between destinations when travelling. Regardless of location. Just one month into my job my sweaty palms had had to sign for a
$
987.35 express delivery from Diane’s summer holiday in Spain (complete with duty-free cigarette and alcohol purchases). A fee Diane hadn’t batted a Botoxed eyelid over. In fact, Diane habitually had her bags picked up the night before she boarded a flight, ensuring nothing but a Louis Vuitton carry-on and her handbag (the label of which depended on the day; given today was Thursday, my money was on her large quilted aged-calfskin Chanel tote, from the Paris-Byzance collection) was at the mercy of our international airline services.

So it was no surprise, then, to see a FedEx courier turn up at the frosted-glass double doors of the office shortly after I arrived at work. Even before I signed the release I knew what the delivery was. Diane’s luggage from Melbourne. Of course, whichever minion accepted the delivery was duly obliged to go through the luggage and send certain items off to the drycleaners. However, contain your excitement. This wasn’t nearly as voyeuristic as it sounds. Not risking our grubby fingers fondling her fashion valuables, Diane put everything in specially ordered vacuum-sealed bags labelled
CLEAN
,
KEEP AWAY
and
NEVER!
I’d only once peeked inside
NEVER!
and had been disappointed to discover the Pandora’s box of Diane’s luggage simply held a selection of not-yet-released age-resistant face creams. Creams I hopefully didn’t yet need and would
NEVER!
be able to afford anyway.

Deciding to dump Diane’s laundry on my way to the
Look
shoot with Raven, I left her luggage to one side and turned my attention to my emails. Only one hundred odd since last night. Fantastic. I scanned through them and pulled out the relevant ones.

From: Caroline Monae

Title: Stylist,
Look
magazine

Time: 07.52 am

Hey Jasmine. All prepped for today’s shoot. Clothes have arrived, all in
‘
rock chic
’
as requested and we also received the underwear you sent over. Just confirming Raven will be on site at 9 am. And will she need anything else?

Reply:
Caroline, hi. All good for today. Should be on time. Yes there are extra requirements, unfortunately. My apologies. Double the water, triple the Berocca and can we please have some vodka on standby just in case? We all know the transformative power of hair of the dog, right? Most importantly, I need to collect all confidentiality agreements from staff before we start, please. See you soon!

From: Will

Title: Boyfriend

Time: 8.07 am

Hey babe. Just got up and saw your text. Why you up so early? Let me guess – at the office already? Wanna grab a quick bite tonight before you start at the bar? Italian? Xxxxxx

Reply:
OMG. Long story. Text you later OK? Mwa xxxxxx

From: Harry Serino

Title: Client–Managing Director for Converse

Time: 07.01 am

Morning! Received the images from last week’s shoot but they are only hard copies. Is that strange? Can you please call the photographer, get the disk, talk them through with Diane and get back to me ASAP. We know which ones we like and are keen to see if you pick the same. I have total faith in you, kiddo. HS

Reply:
All over it, Haz. Just quietly, I don’t really trust your creative opinion. Kidding! Will come back to you in no time. JL

PS How did Lisa go with finding a dress? And stop calling me kiddo!

From: Marlita Nikolovski

Title: Talent manager, Raven