Strictly Confidential (7 page)

The muffled sound of hope curling up its toes and dying came from Anya’s direction.

Just then, Diane’s door swung open seemingly unaided, as if by the sheer force of her foul temper and expensive Balenciaga perfume.

‘Jasmine!’ she shrilled.

Oh, God. I scuttled towards her office, bowing and scraping as I entered.

As I stood in her sprawling office suite, Diane looked me up and down, her sunglasses perched on her nose as ever. Must be concerned about her macula, I mused. She frowned as if reading my thoughts.

Don’t speak until spoken to, don’t speak until spoken to.
My mantra played over and over in my head as I sweated it out under her glare.

‘Sit,’ she indicated.

I sat.

‘Jasmine, perhaps you can solve a little puzzle for me?’ she said.

I gulped nervously. Her Blixzed nails rapped on the desk between us.

‘Perhaps you can explain to me,’ she began again, ‘why one of my best clients – one of this company’s most lucrative and most important clients – had certain goods stolen from them?’

My eyes widened. I couldn’t help it. How on earth did she know? She must have seen me flick the knickers off my desk yesterday when she came to talk about the drycleaning, and now, having not sacked any hapless member of staff lately and clearly suffering withdrawal symptoms as a consequence, she planned to exercise her HR rights on me.

We sat in silence as Diane waited for me to drop myself in it.

I scrambled to think how I could avoid dropping Anya in it.

‘Ringing any bells, Jasmine?’ she prodded. ‘Perhaps cast your mind back to yesterday’s Vixenary shoot with Raven?’

I gulped again. It was a Mexican stand-off in here but my back was flat against the wall and we both knew it.

Without warning, Anya materialised in the doorway and the world began its now all-too-familiar trick of slowing on its axis.

‘It was me,’ she said, falling on her sword in one fell swoop.

Diane’s neck snapped around. ‘What?’ she demanded.

‘It was me. I took the g-string from yesterday’s shoot,’ Anya said again. ‘It was . . . it was lying on the floor and I knew Vixenary wouldn’t miss it and clearly Raven didn’t want it because she just left it sitting there and I’m such a big fan of Raven, oh and Vixenary too, I just love their new Sabotage range, and all I wanted was a memento of the shoot,’ she raved like a dead person walking.

I couldn’t sit and watch this. ‘Diane, it’s my fault,’ I intervened. ‘The underwear ended up in my bag after Anya showed it to me in the office yesterday and then my bag was stolen last night. We’d have the knickers here now if I hadn’t been robbed on my way home from Mrs Sippy.’

Diane sniffed incredulously. ‘What you’re saying is,’ she spoke slowly, articulating every syllable, ‘I’m unable to phone Vixenary and say the g-string is on its way back to them as we speak?’

Jesus Christ. As if Vixenary even knew it was missing. Moreover, why had I bothered playing the I-was-friggin’-robbed-on-the-way-home-from-slaving-my-guts-out-for-you sympathy card? Everyone knew the woman didn’t have a soul.

‘Yes,’ I said at the same time as Anya mumbled, ‘No.’

Diane got the picture. ‘OMG,’ she said.

I was yet to get through a meeting with Diane without at least one OMG.

‘Well, pack up your desk, Anya. I won’t tolerate thieving by my staff.’

Anya just nodded dumbly.

‘What?’ I cried. ‘This is ludicrous. As if Vixenary care about a
g-string
. I bet they don’t even know it’s missing. And it’s not Anya’s fault my bag was stolen. We’d still have the stupid thing here now if it wasn’t for me!’

Diane pondered this last comment as I put down the shovel from digging my own grave. Anya began sobbing quietly in the corner.

‘This is ludicrous,’ I repeated for good measure, although a little softer this time. ‘How did you even know?’

And now Anya had been sacked. I felt awful.

Yet Diane waved away my question with a flick of her manicured hand, dismissing us from her office without feeling the need to explain her actions. ‘Anya, security will be here in twenty minutes to escort you from the premises. Jasmine, count yourself lucky you’re not going too,’ was all she said.

As I comforted Anya on our dazed trek back to our desks, I pondered my so-called luck.

‘Showwwwww me the moneyyy!’ I announced, flinging a flimsy piece of paper onto the table in front of Luke as he sat sipping his Sugar Daddy cocktail in a padded booth at the Victoria Room. The British-Raj style bar was so Luke, all gilt wallpaper and slow-whirling ceiling fans. I was sure he secretly fantasised about meeting his very own Mowgli here among the jungle palms.

‘I’ve always been more of a
Risky Business
aficionado than a
Jerry Maguire
man,’ Luke said in response.

I picked up my cheque again and wafted it under Luke’s nose. ‘This,’ I waved the cheque some more, ‘is going to make me so successful that soon you’ll only be able to talk to me through my publicist.’

Luke raised one eyebrow.

‘Like Donald Trump says,’ I went on, ‘if you’re going to be thinking anyway, you might as well think big.’ I punctuated this with a swig of Luke’s cocktail.

‘That a fact, big shot?’ Luke asked, sliding his drink back across the table and out of my reach. ‘Well, if you plan on being that successful, you won’t need a Sugar Daddy then. And how exactly, Jazzy Lou,’ he went on, ‘do you plan to rise up, phoenix-like, from the dust of working for Diane, huh? Tell me, I’m intrigued.’

I laughed and then paused for dramatic effect. ‘I’m going to start my own business,’ I said.

Silence.

‘OMG, shut up!’ was Luke’s eventual reply.

‘Totes,’ I said. ‘What I have in my hot little hand may look like a simple insurance cheque but this, babe, is my destiny.’

Luke rolled his eyes at my hyperbole.

I helped myself to more of his drink as I explained. ‘You know how my Louis Vuitton Speedy was so cruelly ripped from my loving arms just recently? To say nothing of my BlackBerry, laptop and a small fortune in cosmetics? Well, the insurance cheque for the theft has come through and I’ve decided to put it towards starting my own PR company. Booom!’

Luke grinned. ‘Ah-maze!’ he said, stealing his glass back and raising it in a toast. ‘If anyone can make it in this town, it’s you, Jazzy Lou!’

Now it was my turn to grin.

‘So talk me through it.’ Luke retrieved the cheque that was lying between us on the table. He squinted. ‘I may have failed HSC Business Studies but isn’t this a little light for starting a company?’

This was true. ‘Agreed. But I don’t plan to go out on my own just yet. I’ll invest it for a couple of years while I keep schvitzing away for Diane and learning her tricks of the trade. This is just step one in my grand master plan.’

Luke looked impressed.

‘Besides,’ I added, ‘you’re talking to the girl who currently earns less than six hundred bucks a week then dumps more than half of that into rent. I know how to make moola stretch, babe.’ I took another sip of Luke’s drink.

‘So I see,’ he said wryly. ‘And you think Sydney can handle another boutique fashion PR firm? This town is looking more
Absolutely Fabulous
than a BBC remake.’

I laughed, snorting Sugar Daddy. ‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘Babe, over three hundred and fifty thousand Sydneysiders read the
Daily Telegraph
’s
“Sydney Confidential” gossip column each day but only two hundred thousand-odd ever glance at the
Australian Financial Review.
Here,
Australia’s Next Top Model
outrates the world news. Hell, there can
never
be enough fashion PRs to satiate this city.’

‘Game on, then, Jazzy Lou,’ said Luke.

‘Game on,’ I agreed. ‘All I need to do is invest this baby safely for a few years while I plot my escape from Diane.’

‘Speaking of, how is Cruella De Vil?’ Luke asked.

I groaned and told him about poor Anya’s sacking. In the weeks that had passed since she had copped the bullet, I’d done my best Florence Nightingale impersonation to nurse her back to vocational health. We’d spent several nights in retreat in her flat, updating her CV and downloading job ads. We’d cold-called and hotmailed until our little black books of industry contacts ran dry. And, while nothing had come of it yet, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Anya rejoined the ranks of the PR army of Sydney. She was a gun publicist, after all. It was only when it came to celebs that her brain was shot.

Diane, meanwhile, soldiered on unscathed. It was as though the fall in employee numbers only served to boost her morale – she was never so happy as in the weeks after she’d sacked someone. Another notch in her belt, another badge on her chest. And so I avoided her like the plague. When she arrived at work each day I made sure I wasn’t riding in her elevator. When she left the sanctity of her office you wouldn’t see me for dust. It wasn’t brave but I was no hero. My tactic of avoidance, well, it allowed me to battle on another day. I didn’t plan on joining the walking wounded of Wilderstein just yet.

‘Diane’s a dictator!’ said Luke, as if I didn’t know.

‘Defs,’ I replied, before changing the topic. ‘Now, babe, what’s new with you?’

Luke grinned sheepishly. This could only mean one thing.

‘No!’ I cried. ‘Who is he? What’s his name? Where did you meet him? I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me the whole time I’ve been going on about work!’

Luke rolled his eyes. ‘It would take more than a new boyfriend to distract you from work talk, Jazzy Lou.’

He had a point. ‘So?’ I prompted.

There was that sheepish grin again. ‘So,’ started Luke. ‘His name’s Reuben –’

‘Cute,’ I interrupted.

‘And he lives in Double Bay and we met buying piccolo lattes at Bar Indigo and he’s got the most
incred
collection of Italian silk bow ties, Jazzy Lou. His uncle imports them.’

I laughed at the dossier Luke presented: name, real estate, coffee preference, fashion. That’s Sydney in a sentence right there.

‘So when do I get to meet him?’ I asked, just as my (replacement) phone vibrated on the table, announcing a text. It was Shelley:
My love, why does Marc Jacobs make everything so fucking small? Even his damn shoes don’t fit! Have a pair of new season linen brogues for you. 2 die for. Swing by sometime for a pinot gris and a fitting. Mwah, Shell xxx

I laughed and held up the screen for Luke to read.

‘I see Shelley’s still singlehandedly propping up the Australian economy, one size zero at a time,’ Luke said, when my phone buzzed again.

This text was from Will.
Sitting at Lucios in Paddington, an open bottle of $95 chianti in front of me. On. My. Own.

Fuck.

‘Fuck!’ I said, slamming my palm against my forehead. ‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with Will tonight at Lucio’s! I totally forgot! He’s going to
kill
me!’

‘Uh-oh,’ Luke said. ‘Tell him to try the black handkerchief pasta with cuttlefish and mussels. Love, love, love it.’

‘Thanks for your culinary advice, Bill Granger, but I think you’re missing the point here. This was supposed to be my I-know-I’ve-spent-more-time-getting-my-hair-extensions-changed-than-I’ve-spent-in-your-company-lately-but-let’s-go-out-and-I-promise-I’ll-make-it-up-to-you dinner. And I forgot!’

‘Ah, take the chianti home in a doggy bag and give him a blow job,’ Luke advised. ‘Works for me all the time.’

I didn’t have the time (or inclination) to ask whether he meant as the blower or blowee. I’d not even met Reuben yet, after all. Instead, I rolled my eyes, pocketed my insurance cheque and headed for the door, blowing air kisses back at Luke as I went. ‘Sorry to love you and leave you, babe,’ I shouted over my shoulder.

‘Good luck, Jazzy Lou,’ he called after me. I was gunna need it.

Flagging down a taxi on Victoria Street, I launched myself into the front seat and breathlessly directed the driver: ‘To Windsor Street, Paddington, please. And step on it!’ I’d always wanted to say that. Next I scrolled to Will’s number, crossing myself as I hit dial. It was hardly Jewish but, hell, neither was Christmas and that had never stopped me. Holding my breath as the dial tone kicked in, I got . . . nothing. And not just by way of divine intervention. There was no response from Will either. Not a thing. He must have been ignoring me. You don’t sit in a restaurant drinking chianti by yourself and not hear your phone ring. I shot him a text:
I am so, so sorry babe. B there in 5. Max. Save some vino for me xxx.

As we sped up Victoria Street my mobile vibrated in reply. It was Will.
Don’t bother
, was all he said.

Ouch.

I turned apologetically to the driver. ‘Um, sorry. Change of plans. Can we head for Cascade Street instead, please?’ It was time to go home. Ignoring Luke’s sage advice about BJs, the only licking I planned to do tonight was of my own wounds. If by the expression ‘licking wounds’ you mean soaking in a bubble bath, drinking a cleanskin and watching reruns of
Gossip Girl
. Because that’s where I was headed.

My phone buzzed again. Will:
Unless u want 2 skip dinner n just meet at my place?
I scrolled down to check there wasn’t more. Something witty and loveable and vaguely boyfriend-like. Nothing. Unbelievable. What did he think I was, a St Kilda football club groupie? I hit delete and fumed quietly as we careered up Oxford Street. After spending my day in the office dodging the fire-breathing Diane, I did not have the energy for a showdown with Will tonight.

My phone went again.
Don’t worry bout coming over. Ul only get here in time 2 have 2 turn round n leave in the middle of the nite on sum crazy mission for ur boss.
Well, that was just charming. Even if it was probably true. Taking a deep breath, I punched in my reply:
Look, I’m sorry I missed dinner. And I’d still like to see you tonight. But how bout we grab a drink at the London or somewhere near Lucios? Am in a taxi now and can b there super soon x

‘Sorry!’ I turned back to the poor taxi driver. ‘Scrap that! Better make it Windsor Street again.’ By now we were careering down the back of Paddington, well past Lucio’s and the London. Slamming on the brakes, the driver swung the car across the neat white lines down the middle of the road and headed back towards Windsor Street. He was wearing an expression I hoped was faint amusement, although I couldn’t quite tell in the dark.

My mobile sprang to life again. It was Will:
Think I’ll pass.

Now, this was beyond. If I hadn’t been secretly relieved to be off the hook, I’d be seriously pissed off by now. Fact is, I had a red-carpet event with sporting superstar Matthew Ashley tomorrow night and more than a sneaking suspicion Matt would test my mettle. He might have been a cricketer but this guy was better known for the speed with which he moved through bases. From first to fourth faster than an in-swinging googly, if you believed the tabloids. I’d need to be on the ball.

But back in the taxi my driver was going to kill me. ‘Uh, you won’t believe this,’ I said, ‘but I think we’re heading for Cascade Street again. Sorry!’ The tyres screeched once more as the cabbie swung the car around. This time no amount of darkness could shield me from his expression. ‘Sorry,’ I repeated sheepishly.

Then my phone buzzed again. It was Shelley:
Just opened that bottle of pinot gris if you’re around. M-J is waiting for you . . . S x.
Oh, Marc Jacobs! Patron saint of disenfranchised women the world over! Who else could bring me back from the precipice of romantic doom but Marc Jacobs? I hit reply:
Hold that thought. And that corkscrew. Am on my way!

Saint Marc, here I come.

‘Actually, you’d better make that Woollahra,’ I said to the driver. ‘I can feel a conversion coming on.’