Strictly Confidential (8 page)

‘Matt Ashley wants to be the male Paris Hilton of Sydney.’

This was according to Luke, who’d never met the guy. And while I couldn’t claim to be a fan – of Matt Ashley or of cricket (hell, I couldn’t pick a silly mid-off from a middle stump in a line-up) – I did think that was a bit unfair.

After all, just because you’re blond and successful and in the public eye doesn’t mean you’re courting controversy. Or that you’re vacuous. Or narcissistic. Or any of the other adjectives levelled at the Hilton heiress. So I was busy sticking up for Matt Ashley in a text war with Luke when I arrived at the Sydney Cricket Ground for tonight’s event.

And then I met Matt.

‘Hey, babe!’ Matt Ashley lumbered over to introduce himself, all toothpaste-ad smile and boyish charm. This was the stuff to make any WAG melt.

‘Hi, Matt, I’m Jasmine Lewis from Wilderstein PR. Great to meet you.’ I stuck out my hand.

He swept me up in a bear hug, the sheer force of which briefly stopped the passage of air to my lungs. Asphyxiation by fast bowler. Awesome. You don’t read that in a coroner’s report every day.

‘Great to meet you, babe,’ Matt enthused. ‘Geez, why is it all you PR chicks are hot? Is it in your job description or something?’

This was hardly a Shakespearean sonnet.

‘Yeah, it’s all part of our client care,’ I said dryly, safe in the knowledge my sarcasm would miss its target. ‘Now, I’ve got your publicity schedule here, Matt. The only timetabled interview tonight is with
Sports Daily
in half an hour. But
TVNN
Sports
have a crew here so I’ll try and get you some face time with them before the night’s out. You’ve got your watch on, yeah?’ Matt was the ambassador of Lacoste watches and Lacoste was the reason I was standing in the heritage-listed members’ pavilion at the SCG. Lacoste was hardly our most lucrative client, but the fact they flew Diane to their team conference in Hong Kong twice a year, all expenses paid, seemed to cement their position eternally on our client list. Duty-free is Diane’s favourite term, after bottom line.

‘Oh, shit! My watch!’ Matt swore, grabbing at his naked left wrist.

‘No drama, I bought a spare,’ I said chirpily, reaching into my handbag. I’d worked with sportsmen before.

Slapping the watch onto his arm, its warranty tag swinging on its band, Matt turned towards the Victorian red-cedar bar which was already heaving with bleached-blond pierced guys wearing the iconic green and gold.

‘Getcha a drink, J?’ Matt asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not yet, thanks. I want to check in with
Sports Daily
in the media room. But I’ll be back soon.’ I added, ‘Don’t get into any trouble before then, okay?’

Matt winked and my stomach sank. ‘Sure, babe,’ he said, disappearing into the throng at the bar.

As I bumped my way towards the packed media room the eyes of cricketing greats stared down at me from every wall. This place screamed ‘boys club’ louder than a Cranbrook reunion. Turning the corner to step across the threshold and into the den of media, I was accosted by a guy wearing fashionable three-day growth and a pair of Tod’s loafers. Hmm, this weren’t no sports jock.

‘PR flunkey?’ he asked.

I spied a Canon camera in his hand, hidden casually behind the doorframe. ‘Paparazzi,’ I identified, smiling. ‘What can I do for you, my photo-journalist friend?’

‘You’re Matt Ashley’s minder, right?’

I hesitated. ‘You mean his Public Relations and Media Strategist?’ I corrected.

The pap grinned. ‘Sure, whatevs. But you’re here with Ashley, yeah?’

I hesitated again. ‘How do you know that? I only met Matt five seconds ago.’

The pap laughed. ‘You’ve never been worked over by a paparazzo before, have you, Flunkey? I’ve walked past you and the target five times already tonight and you still haven’t got face recognition.’

The pap looked smug but the only word I heard in all that was ‘target’. Matt was his target. ‘You’re after Matt Ashley tonight?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Fab!’

The pap looked mildly amused. ‘Don’t you even want to know why, Flunkey?’

I thought for a split second. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just make sure you get his left arm and his watch in all your shots.’

He shook his head. ‘Shameless.’

I paused to ponder for a minute what it meant to be called shameless by a paparazzo. There is no tick-box for this on the ‘What I want to be when I grow up’ questionnaire they give you in careers guidance classes at high school. Nor can you enrol in ‘Selling your soul 101’ in your communications degree at Sydney Uni. An oversight, surely. Because it was at moments like these that I wanted to whip out a camera of my own, take a quick Polaroid, inscribe the back with
Career-defining moment #66
and add it to a montage on a cork board in my office at work. If only I had an office, that is.

Remembering I was meant to be tracking down
Sports Daily
, I swapped business cards with the pap and pushed inside. But not before I offered him some nice ‘natural’ shots with Matt during the evening. This, we both knew, was a promise to tip off this guy and his Canon just as soon as Matt was away from the crowds and in a position to be snapped unwittingly. After all, what self-respecting magazine runs a posed celebrity shot when there are paparazzi-style snaps on the table? As a PR, if you jump into bed with the paparazzi your product is guaranteed to be in print the next day.

‘I’ll be ready and waiting to get those shots. You just say the word, Flunkey,’ he said as I left.

‘Done, my paparazzi pal, done.’ And I headed into the scrum of the media room.

Later, back at the bar, two media interviews and three champagnes down, I was beginning to think the evening might actually be a success. Matt had provided the press with several column-inches’ worth of sound bites. ‘It was a team effort, we all gave a hundred and ten per cent and cricket was the winner on the day. By the way, have you got the time? Oh wait, let me check my new Lacoste watch.’ Yada yada. But it was enough to keep me on the payroll for another day.

Plus, Matt and his teammates had waited till the
end
of the speeches before getting totally rollicking drunk. Some sort of record, I’m sure. In fact, the night was already winding to a close and their chants of ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi’ had only been going relentlessly for, oh, about an hour or so now, much to the delight of the suits all around us.

Matt was just introducing me to yet another green-and-gold-clad bloke, this one roughly the height of a Harbour Bridge pylon, when I decided it was time to make a break for it.

‘J, this is Brad, the other fast bowler,’ Matt said.

‘Nice to meet you, Brad, but I –’

‘Hi there, Jay is it? Why are you PR chicks all so hot? Is it in your job description or something?’ Brad asked.

Spare me. ‘Actually, Brad, I’m afraid I was just leaving,’ I said. I turned to Matt. ‘Want a lift back to your hotel room, Matty?’

I hadn’t meant for this to sound suggestive but Matt’s face lit up like a tween at a Blue Light Disco. And I’m ashamed to say I didn’t disabuse him of his delusion.
Whatever gets you out of here and in front of the lens of the paparazzi, bud.

Grabbing Matt’s hand for a speedy exit, I dragged him through the crowd of greying private-school boys and down the long flight of stairs towards the gates out the front. In my spare hand I clutched the paparazzo’s business card and dexterously punched his number into my phone.

‘Yeah?’ he answered.

‘It’s your PR flunkey here,’ I said quietly. ‘Elvis is leaving the building.’

‘Roger that,’ he said, his tone immediately businesslike. ‘Main entrance, Driver Avenue?’

‘You got it,’ I said, checking over my shoulder to ensure Matt couldn’t hear me from where he trailed behind. ‘Taxi,’ I mouthed to Matt and indicated to my phone.

To my photographer friend I said, ‘Oh, and left hand, remember? I need you to get that watch in the shot.’

‘Got it,’ he signed off.

As we approached the bottom of the staircase I dropped Matt’s hand. Surely he could negotiate the final few stairs himself. He staggered towards the gates, looking more drunken sailor than professional cricketer, then paused and looked up at me with dopey, bloodshot eyes. ‘Shit, J! I left my publishityschedule behind!’ The words came out in a mush of slurred consonants, like a bad Sean Connery impersonation.

I tried to hurry Matt past the exit turnstiles. ‘That’s okay, Matty,’ I said. ‘You’re almost done for the night. We’ve just got to get you out of here and into a taxi looking vaguely respectable and then I get to keep my job.’

As I said this, he slumped sideways into a wall. I was beginning to regret my call to the paparazzo.

‘Whoa, up you get, bud,’ I encouraged, reaching over to fix his baggy green cap, which was now dangling precariously off one ear, in a vain stab at making him look sober.

Big mistake.

As soon as I got close enough to him, Matt grabbed me by my arm and pushed me up against the wall, his beery mouth closing in over mine in a slobbery drunken kiss.

Oh. My. God.

‘Are you mad?’ I cried when he finally came up for air. I shoved at him but he only nuzzled up closer, his tongue sliding back into my mouth.

This was beyond revolting. I shoved again. Hard. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I cried when he paused for a second time. I ducked and left him pashing the brickwork, which gave me time to back away through the turnstile.

‘J?’ he asked, confused.

‘Thanks, Flunkey!’ came another voice.

Now I was confused. Gasping for air, I stumbled further away from Matt and caught sight of the person behind the second voice.

Fuck. My photographer friend. ‘You didn’t . . . that wasn’t . . . did you?’ I was struggling to find the words to form my sentence when I saw Matt coming back for round two. ‘No, Matt!’ I shouted, grateful for the turnstile between us. ‘Stop!’ I instructed desperately. Both to Matt and the pap.

Matt stopped in his tracks, looking hurt. ‘J?’

I held up my hand in a stop signal as if training a dog. ‘Stay there.’

Without waiting for a response, I ran over to where the pap and his camera had stood just seconds earlier. ‘Where are you?’ I called into the darkness. ‘Hello?’ And then, ‘You better give me those pics right now!’

Nothing.

Turning again, I caught sight of him in the streetlights, bounding along the pavement, rapidly putting metres between him and the scene of the crime. He waved his camera in the air in thanks. Bastard. I was going to have to warn Diane. But first, I had Romeo to deal with. I stalked over to where Matt was slumped against the SCG ticket booth.
You’re hardly gunna pull a crowd in that state, Matty
,
I thought wryly to myself. I nudged him half-heartedly with my shoe as I considered the long line of eager taxis across the road.
Now, how do you suppose I get one drunk cricketer to cross the road?
I wondered. And why did my life so often sound like a bad joke? I reached for my phone while trying not to consider the punchline. It was time to call Diane.

But before I could phone in my own execution, my loving boyfriend did it for me. A text, sitting neglected in my inbox, greeted me as I slid open my phone.
Jazz
, it read,
I’m done. Will.

Shit. Dumped by SMS. And before he even had the chance to see the happy snaps of me and Matt. I kicked the ticket booth and howled. ‘I’m done too, Will. I’m done too.’

It’s funny, I’d dedicated a lot of thought to leaving Wilderstein PR. I would spend hours at my desk dreaming up fantastic feats for terminating our relationship. Was a skywriter too much? I would ponder. A graffitied message on the Opera House a little unlawful? How about a banner on Anzac Bridge? As for the message, well, that was the easy part:
OMG. It’
s
you, not me. I quit, Diane.
Pithy, professional but with a personal touch. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to put any of my master plans into action because Diane beat me to the punch.

The morning after my introduction to the gentleman’s sport of cricket, I made my way to work. While I didn’t expect a hero’s welcome, nor did I expect the reception I got when I arrived. It seemed the tickertape parade hadn’t yet kicked off as I stepped out of the lift at Wilderstein PR and slunk towards my desk. On my way I was careful to avoid all the glances around the office that were carefully avoiding me.

It was there, at my desk, that I was reacquainted with the events of last night. Reacquainted, that was, by way of my face smooshed up against Matt Ashley’s mug and spread across a DPS in the
Sun
’s
gossip pages, under the banner
BRASH ASH IN PASH AND DASH
. Hilarious. The subbies at the
Sun
had been working overtime on that one. As had the smart-arse who had Blu-Tacked this fine piece of investigative journalism to the screen of my PC. At least the pap had managed to get Matt’s watch in the shot.

I sat at my desk and idly waited for Diane’s door to fly open and her ghoulish face to appear and order me into her office where she would shriek at me like a banshee. A custom that really was becoming tediously familiar. My groundhog day of being ground into submission. Still, the monotony of routine did nothing to calm the nerves in my stomach. Such a shame I was one of the few non-bulimics in fashion PR; butterflies like this would be a dream for regurgitation, surely. As I contemplated things that make you vomit, Diane appeared from nowhere, as if summoned by my very thoughts.

This was going to be ugly.

I stood, ready to follow Diane back to her lair for my disembowelment, but she was having none of that. She clicked her fingers at me and pointed to the floor to indicate I should stay where I was. This was going to be a public showdown. High noon and all that. I instinctively reached for where my gun holster should be.

‘Oh. My. God,’ she snarled, acronym abandoned in her fury. ‘Never in my life have I been so humiliated.’

I didn’t like to point out that it was
my
face plastered across this morning’s tabloids like a Siamese twin to Gen Y’s answer to Shane Warne.

‘What
do
you have to say for yourself?’ Heads swivelled as people gave up any pretence of not eavesdropping. A few stood for a better view.

‘I didn’t kiss Matt Ashley, Diane.’ I knew I had limited time before the ole gunslinger pulled the trigger. I didn’t intend to mince my words.

She arched an eyebrow so high it nearly flew off her Botoxed forehead.

‘I didn’t,’ I persisted. ‘He kissed me. Attacked me, actually. He was drunk. Very drunk. I managed to get him outside for a paparazzi shot for Lacoste and he pinned me to a wall.’

That eyebrow shot higher. It really was amazing how she got that much movement despite a truckload of botulinum.

‘I see,’ was all she said.

A ringing phone went unanswered somewhere as the whole office stayed glued to our contretemps. Tumbleweed rolled past.

‘Pack up your desk, Jasmine,’ she sighed, as though my being there and breathing the same air was draining for her. ‘I can’t have my publicists getting more headlines than my clients.’

I stared at her incredulously. Had she just fired me? Was I being sacked? My brain raced to catch up. I had never been fired in my life. I didn’t know how to act fired. I was used to being promoted, or congratulated, or made McDonald’s crew member of the month. Hell, I’d never even got a detention at school. I’d had far too earnest and middle-class a work ethic to wind up in detention. I had no prior experience of being fired and I wasn’t sure I was up to it.

‘I said I didn’t kiss Matt Ashley!’ I shouted like a petulant two-year-old. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ I gesticulated wildly, throwing one unfortunate arm towards the
Sun
article like a game-show host pointing to the jackpot. Matt Ashley’s tongue down my throat at 300 dpi resolution was perhaps not the best piece of evidence I could have picked to support my case. Good work, Calamity Jane.

Diane sighed her pained sigh again. ‘Of course I believe you,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not like Matt hasn’t accosted one of my publicists before.’

My mouth fell open.

‘But I’m afraid that’s not the point, Jasmine.’

It wasn’t?!

‘The point is Lacoste are displeased with the coverage they’ve received, so heads must roll. Your head.’

My mouth stayed open. Someone was going to have to Hollywood tape my bottom jaw to its upper counterpart because it was going nowhere on its own.

Diane sighed one final time. ‘Security will be here soon, Jasmine, to escort you from the premises.’

And with that, Diane Wilderstein turned on her Bally heel and stalked out of the saloon.