Eddie propped up the portable mirror on the roof of the car and dabbed at his face with powder. The boys at the Yellow Brick Road had done a terrific job – the new haircut, the very subtle make-up – just for on-camera, of course. He licked his lips to make them shine and took up his place outside the entrance to Catalina’s Restaurant. ‘Ready when you are, Ms de Mille.’
Christine, his producer, stepped forward with her clipboard. ‘This is just a brief intro to set up the party segments for later. Be excited, this is an exclusive. Reality is taking you into the A-one of A-list parties.’
Eddie waited until the soundman nodded and the cameraman lifted a finger. ‘Rolling.’
Eddie waited a couple of seconds, then began. ‘Darlings, here we are outside the most fabulous restaurant in this most gorgeous setting . . . you’ll see all that when we go inside. You are coming to the A-plus party of the minute as our guests. Remember the launch party for Blaze magazine? Well, that went down in history as one of the best ever . . . so let’s see what they’ve whipped up to outshine that event tonight as the city says farewell to its star editor, Ali Gruber.’ He started to turn, then swung back to stare straight down the camera. ‘Stick with me, sweeties, and you won’t fall in the harbour!’ Then he pranced out of shot up the steps.
‘Cut. God, he’s sickening. A total natural,’ sighed the producer, aware that so many people were lousy performers in front of a TV camera.
‘He just loves what he’s doing, so it comes across,’ said the cameraman hoisting the tripod onto his shoulder and picking up the camera. ‘I’ll set up overlooking the water, put up a light or two and you bring the talent out there as Eddie snares them.’
‘A lot of people won’t do that, there will have to be grabs on the run, taps on the shoulder jobs. Eddie’s good at it, charms them no end. He asks frivolous stuff and people don’t seem to notice he’s actually making them drop their facade and reveal more than they should.’
‘True‚’ acknowledged the veteran cameraman. ‘Not exactly mastercraft journalism, but great for a giggle, and that’s all a lot of the customers want.’
Ali’s farewell party had finally come together quite impressively, thanks to Nina’s team at the office marshalling a heavyweight guest list from the media, show biz, the arts and high society. It had been fanfared with a huge, flattering spread in a Saturday paper and they’d finally agreed to allow Reality’s new star talent, Eddie Kurtz, and his camera crew in to capture the atmosphere. There was something about TV lights that gave any party a higher rating, particularly among the guests, most of whom would kill for a few seconds on camera.
Ali was first, pausing to stare into the bright lights. Her sleek figure was draped in a pashmina shawl, sparkling sequins sprinkled on the soft cashmere worn sari-style over her head and wound around her throat. Her long black dress was strapless and outlined every inch of her pencil body. Her shoes – ‘Manolo, eat your heart out,’ was Eddie’s line to camera – had jewels across the toes and, in the high, sculptured heels of clear acrylic, tiny plastic fish were suspended. Her make-up was dramatic – the Yellow Brick Road team had gone to town with gold eyelids and heavy kohl eyeliner that swept upwards to give the effect of large, topaz cat’s eyes. Her lipstick was blindingly red. Ali had decided that if she had to make a public exit it would be a grand exit with impact.
After Ali had made her entrance in the glare of flashbulbs and camera lights, Nina appeared in a simple white pants suit, her dramatic dragonfly pin sparkling in her upswept hair. Around her throat was a strand of pearls and diamonds, a gift Lucien had ordered from a jeweller in Broome. She was followed by Jacques, who was adorned in tight black pants, a white T-shirt and black and white plaid silk jacket, with Tony Cox in tow wearing a red vest over a full white pirate shirt and black pants.
Most of the senior management executives of Blaze Australia waited inside the entrance, an informal reception committee.
‘I wonder if they’d all be here if it weren’t for Nina,’ mused one of the lower-rung Blaze staffers watching on the sidelines.
‘It’s a lot more informal than I expected, no string of heavy speeches planned. I’m surprised Nina allowed a film crew in though.’
‘Ali’s idea‚’ said her companion staffer. ‘She and Eddie were pretty close. She wasn’t thrilled when he left, now she’s acting like she pushed him in front of the camera.’
‘If he’d flopped on TV, she wouldn’t have wanted to know him.’
Nina was stopped briefly by John O’Donnell, who kissed her cheek. The two corporate contacts had been friends for years. ‘It’s lovely to see you back in town, Nina. I heard you were staying in Europe.’
‘I will be spending more time there. As well as in London with Lucien. We’re very happy. And you, John?’ She gave him a certain look that told him she knew, or had guessed, how involved he’d been with Ali.
‘I’m all right. I still miss Carol. I guess one does a few silly things while grieving. But I’m on track now. I’m retiring, may stay on a board or two, but I plan to travel. Sailing round Greece this Christmas. Stuff like that.’ He gave a half smile and a shrug.
‘Keep in touch, I have a project going on back in the old country you may be interested in having a look at. Come and stay with us in France. I mean it. And take care, John dear, you’ll be a vulnerable target for a bit.’ She squeezed his arm.
‘I’ve learned my lesson. I’m trying to age gracefully,’ he smiled.
Miche hugged Nina. ‘You look sensational, Nina. Now, here he is . . . my father.’
Gordon shook Nina’s hand. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you. Thank you for all you’ve done for Miche . . . and for Lorraine,’ he added softly.
‘And this is Jeremy‚’ said Miche.
Nina took his hand. ‘So you’re the young man who made it all happen. Well done. You’ve brought a lot of happiness to all of us.’ Nina turned back to Gordon. ‘It’s wonderful the way events have worked out. It’s a delightful reunion and I know it will bring both of you a lot of pleasure. Being godmother to Miche has been a joy for me, I do hope you’ll come with her to Europe to visit us.’
Gordon smiled. ‘Lovely idea, but young Jeremy might have something to say about that.’
‘Ah,’ said Nina with a wink, ‘I imagine he will.’
Eddie, with camera in tow, was moving fluidly among the guests enjoying pre-dinner drinks. He’d been told to be out by the time everyone was seated. ‘Monsieur Triton, are you going to give me a teensy hint about the new editor of Blaze Australia?’
‘Of course not,’ said Jacques, who had no more idea than Eddie who Nina was planning for the job. Nor did he much care.
‘Oh, boring. Give me your news then,’ chirped Eddie.
‘Now Nina Jansous is back from leave, I’m returning to New York and then possibly Europe,’ drawled Jacques, as though he was telling Eddie about a ferry trip across the harbour.
Tony was not so laid-back. ‘I’m leaving too. I’m off to New York, going to work for the Tritons there . . . well, for Jacques . . . in a new secret enterprise,’ said Tony, preening before the young women attracted by the camera crew.
‘Secret!’ screeched Eddie. ‘You’ve tickled my curiosity! That’s a word I love . . . tell me all about the secret.’
And if Jacques hadn’t given Tony a hard look, he would have told Eddie all about it – even on camera.
Eddie took the cue, ‘Oh‚’ he cooed after a pregnant pause, ‘one of those sorts of secrets, is it? Thank you, darlings,’ and scanned the room for his next target.
Tony was still very swept up in the heady world of Jacques Triton. With Nina back in the driver’s seat looking very closely at all aspects of the magazine, Jacques was making a quick exit from town. He liked having smart, fun, agreeable – never say sycophantic – pals around him. So Jacques had invited Tony, his new best mate, to move to the US and work for a vague e-commerce company Jacques and his New York friends had been creating. Tony saw glamour, the jet set, the life of an international playboy looming. Had anyone pointed out to him that he was no more than a groupie doing Jacques’ bidding, Tony would have instantly dismissed the idea. By the time he realised he’d sacrificed his individuality, career and wellbeing to Jacques’ hedonistic lifestyle, it would be a long way home to Australia.
April Showers was in a corner talking to John O’Donnell when Eddie sashayed up. ‘Well, if it isn’t one of my oldest and dearest . . .’ Eddie angled himself for the camera and kissed the air either side of April, who gave him a forced smile and a look that said, watch what you say.
‘Hi, Eddie, congratulations on making it in show biz. Telly suits you – quick, slick, knock you off at a flick,’ said April.
‘You’re the megastar, darling. You’ve blossomed from the columnist bitch to the feature witch. Who are you ripping into next month?’
She wagged a finger at him. ‘Be careful, Eddie, could be you next. I’m the new senior feature writer at Blaze,’ said April whose smile hadn’t moved.
‘Congratulations to you too then. I’m not worried about you doing a Heather Race on me, sweetie.’ Eddie made an exaggerated aside to the camera. ‘I have all the goods on this lady, darlings. Ooooh, believe me.’
‘Fine,’ said April a little uneasily. ‘You read me and I’ll watch you.’
‘You do that, sweetie. Millions do, tra-la,’ he wiggled his fingers at her in a limp wave and sauntered off. The cameraman and his assistant glanced at each other knowingly. That little exchange would be edited out.
The evening ran smoothly. Nina made a short, elegant speech praising Ali and attributing the landmark arrival and success of Blaze Australia to Ali’s flair and acumen. She then called upon the head of the biggest consortium of companies that advertised heavily in Blaze to propose the farewell toast.
The corporate heavyweight made a short, silky speech, and everyone raised their champagne glasses – ‘To Ali’ – and the formalities were concluded. The noisy partying continued.
John O’Donnell sought Ali out and kissed her cheek. ‘I hope this is what you want, Ali dear.’
‘Not exactly. But I’m afraid you can’t offer me what I want either,’ she said with sudden candour, and added, with warmth in her voice for the first time that evening, ‘You really helped me. I’m grateful for that. Thanks.’
‘You also helped me through a difficult time. I appreciate your discretion and I think I understand what drives you. Good luck to you, Ali,’ he answered gallantly.
Before anyone noticed, Ali had left. Nina suddenly looked around and sent Tracey to check with Tom the limo driver, who reported he’d taken Ali back to the Blaze offices an hour or so earlier.
Nina glanced at her watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven. There isn’t really anything for her to do back at the office . . .’ her voice trailed off and she looked worried. She didn’t want to say anything, especially in front of Miche. For suddenly, Nina couldn’t help thinking about Lorraine. She glanced around the room, wondering who to confide in.
Her eyes fell on Reg Craven and she asked the waiter to bring him to her table.
Reg was feeling very pleased with himself and had strictly limited his drinking on this evening so that he could gain maximum enjoyment out of observing every nuance of the farewell to the woman he hated most – Ali. Also, he knew he needed to re-establish his standing with Nina. He didn’t care who Nina appointed editor next, no one could challenge or upset him the way Ali had.
Jacques, with Tony permanently attached to his side, was leaving the country and taking his shady dealings with them. So Reg was ready to reoccupy his territory and standing in the company. He’d spent a part of the evening schmoozing with Miche and her father. It occurred to him Birchmont Wines should be advertising in Blaze, no special deals because of Miche being Nina’s goddaughter, but perhaps there could be a crossover promotion deal. Maybe Blaze could hold a classical music evening or something posh at the Birchmont Estate, which he’d heard was pretty swish. Yes, that could be a beneficial connection. When the waiter approached, he was elated that Nina had asked him to join her.
As he approached the table, Reg was struck by Nina’s serious face, and for a moment his heart sank. No, Nina would never say anything critical in public. He smoothed his moustache. ‘A delightful party, Nina. Very impressive round-up of guests. But then, Blaze on top of an invitation helps, doesn’t it?’ he said, making the point the guests had come because of Blaze and not Ali.
Nina picked up her tiny Hermès handbag. ‘Reg, I want to go back to the office, I wonder if you’d accompany me?’
Reg did a double take. ‘Now? I mean, of course, Nina. Is there a problem?’ Reg couldn’t imagine what could have gone wrong on a Friday evening with still plenty of lead time before the next edition’s print schedule.
Nina spoke quietly. ‘It’s Ali. She’s such a dark horse, you never really know what she’s thinking. I’m a bit concerned because she slipped out of here without letting anyone know. Tom says he took her back to the office.’
Nina began to walk slowly through the dwindling crowd, nodding and smiling to people as she went. ‘I don’t want to upset Miche, I’ll just tell her I’m going home – I needn’t mention via the office. The car’s out the front, Reg.’
Reg patted his pockets making sure he had everything – phone, glasses . . . He nodded and headed for the door.
The limousine stopped outside the building, which had a few lights scattered throughout various floors. They caught the lift to the Blaze editorial offices and stepped out into the softly lit reception area. Without saying anything, Nina turned towards Ali’s office, her heart tightening as she saw the light under the door.
She called out, ‘Ali! Are you there? It’s Nina.’
There was a muffled noise. Nina opened the door that led into Belinda’s office and saw the light and heard movement in Ali’s office. The door was locked. She rattled the handle and raised her voice. ‘Ali? It’s Nina.’
‘Why are you here, Nina?’
‘I was worried about you when you slipped away and came here. Can we talk for a minute?’
There was a pause, then, ‘Are you alone?’
Nina hesitated.
‘For God’s sake, I’m not going to jump,’ snapped Ali.
Nina threw a relieved glance at Reg. ‘Why the locked door, Ali? What are you doing? I just called in on my way home with Reg.’ Nina tried to sound conversational.
‘Reg! Is that bastard out there?’
Reg grimaced and gave a shrug indicating, ‘See what I’ve had to put up with?’
‘Ali, this seems silly, please come out,’ said Nina, sounding a little exasperated now.
‘Nina, send that prick home. And I don’t need to see you. I’m tidying up my office. Clearing out, if you must know. I’m on a plane to New York tomorrow.’
Nina looked at Reg.
‘I’ll be off then. See you round, Ali. Good luck with the new job,’ said Reg trying to keep the smirk out of his voice.
There was no answer but a thump that sounded like something going into the rubbish bin. ‘I’ll take a cab home, Nina. Thanks for a nice evening.’ Reg strode away. He went to his office to call a cab. He was tired now. He was sick of working with women – bloody neurotic hysterics most of the time. Why couldn’t Nina just go home and leave Ali to whatever she was doing? Ali was smart enough to know when not to hang around. Nina was such a mother hen.
He pushed open his office door and gagged.
His office was a shambles, everything was upturned, everything on his desk had been swept to the floor, including his computer. Files hung open, books and papers were thrown around, then his heart raced as he saw a huge overflowing pile of shredded paper. A quick glance at his files and drawers and he knew that Ali had run all the paper in his office through the shredder. It lay like spaghetti confetti all over the carpet. ‘Bitch!’ he screamed, falling on his knees, picking up a strand of paper. On it he could make out only a few letters, but he knew it was bound to be something important.
He started dragging the snowflakes of paper into a pile, cursing Ali, knowing it was a payback for his dumping on her sandpit.
His mobile phone rang and he scrambled to his feet, pulling it from his pocket. It was his wife. ‘Reg, you have to come home at once . . .’
‘I’m on my way, I was delayed. Nina asked me to come back to the office. I’m still here. Christ, what a mess . . .’
‘Reg, don’t give me that,’ her voice was weary, strained. She’d heard similar excuses over these past months when he’d come home smelling of Scotch and cloying perfume. ‘Tina isn’t well. I’m worried, it’s that appendix playing up again.’
‘I’m on my way. I’ll call a cab. Jesus, Lori, you can’t believe what that bitch, Ali, has done to . . .’
‘I don’t give a damn! I’m fed up with you ranting about that woman. She’s leaving Blaze. You’re not. Your kid is sick. Come home, for God’s sake. We need you,’ shrieked his wife.
Despite the hysteria and anger in her voice, it was music to Reg’s ears. ‘I’m coming, honey. I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry. Tell Tina Dad’s on his way. If she has to go to the hospital, I’ll take her. I love you, Lori. Look after our girl. I’m on my way.’ Reg poured out the breathless words as his anger at Ali slipped away and he surrendered to the warm feeling of concern for his family. He hoped it wasn’t too late to reunite with them. He’d been an arsehole. He’d make up for it. He punched in the cab number, gave them the address and, without looking back, left his office and caught the elevator downstairs.
Nina’s limousine still waited at the kerb. Reg stood in the shadows till the regular taxi slowed and, seeing him waiting, pulled up. Reg sat in the front and gave his address. He didn’t give Ali another thought.
Nina came outside alone a few minutes later. Tom opened the door for her and wearily she slid into the back seat, leaning her head on the soft leather.
‘Long day and evening, eh, Ms Jansous?’
‘Too long, Tom. Has Mr Craven left the building?’
‘Yes. Caught a taxi a few minutes ago. You working back late?’
‘Not really. Just a last goodbye to Ali. She’s packing up. Leaving tomorrow instead of next week. She’ll call you in the morning.’
Tom didn’t answer. Driving Ali Gruber to the airport tomorrow would be no different from when he drove her to her first day of work at Blaze in Sydney. After six months of driving her almost every day, he knew her no better.
Nina slipped between the white damask sheets, too drained to pick up the phone and talk to Lucien. This evening had been a strain and the final confrontation with Ali had put a cap on it. Ali had not packed up her office, but had stripped it by flinging everything in a giant rubbish bin she’d wheeled in. She’d said she’d been tidying up loose ends, ready to start afresh. Nina chided her gently for disappearing from the party and causing her concern, but Ali was adamant no one would have cared even if they’d noticed.
‘I’m sick of being in your shadow, Nina. I think it’s time I made a move.’
Nina had tried to reason with Ali. ‘This is not the moment to make such decisions, Ali. Give your new position six months and you’ll be able to think more clearly about where in the world of the Blaze network you want to go. An editorship could come up.’
‘I’m not prepared to wait thanks, Nina. I’m resigning from Blaze. The letter is on your desk, with a copy to Baron Triton.’
‘I see. Then there’s no point us discussing it at this time of night. I’ll deal with it and be in touch through the appropriate channels. This seems an emotional decision, so I will allow every opportunity for you to change your mind.’ Nina was not about to argue with Ali who nonetheless seemed sober, calm and determined.
‘I’m not changing my mind, Nina. I’ll send you my contact details when I have them.’
Nina fretted a while longer, becoming cross at herself for losing sleep over someone as selfish and ambitious as Ali. But she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She remembered the scared yet tough and eager teenager who had pestered her for work, any kind of work, at Blaze in New York. How she had watched Ali slash and burn her way to the top. Ali had never allowed anyone to grow close to her. Now Nina wondered if there’d been a point when the girl was crying out for love and attention, but it was so deeply buried beneath the aggression, no one had noticed. She couldn’t help thinking of the parallels with Lorraine. Ali was still young, she would continue to fight for what she wanted. But, wondered Nina, how long would it be before Ali would be pushed aside by a new-generation Young Turk, and would she end up like Lorraine, bitter and lonely?
Ali dialled New York, the Baron’s direct line memorised long ago. ‘Oscar dear, it’s me.’
‘It must be late. How was the party?’
‘As one would expect. I told Nina I was resigning from Blaze.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘She is giving me every opportunity to change my mind.’
Baron Oscar Von Triton gave a low chuckle. ‘Always so thoughtful. Dear Nina. And did you tell her your future plans?’
‘She didn’t ask. And I’m not sure myself,’ added Ali lightly, but with an edge to her voice.
‘Chérie, I told you – no promises. Career-wise you will have many choices. Let us spend a little time on the yacht and in Europe first.’ Anticipating Ali’s interjection, he said, ‘I know, I know, you still want to carve out a career, go where no bright young woman has gone before, or something like that?’
‘I want you to be proud of my achievements, Oscar. And I want to do it on my merits.’
‘But being with me may help a little, perhaps?’
Ali laughed with him, but her eyes were icy dots. He was indulging her, sure she would find the lavish lifestyle more enjoyable than writing or perhaps, publishing. Ali had big plans, but she knew she had to go slowly and carefully with the Baron. There was no promise of a ring or formal commitment either, but give her time. Once she was established and had eclipsed even Nina Jansous, anything could happen.
‘My driver will meet you at JFK. Sleep well, my dear Ali.’
‘I certainly will.’
Ali stepped into the rear of the limousine without a word. Tom handed her a manila envelope from Belinda as he went to put her luggage in the boot.
Ali glanced inside at several letters and papers from the accounts department. She put them in her handbag and settled back to watch the city slide past the tinted windows. It meant no more to her than the day she’d first arrived.
It wasn’t till they were well over the Pacific and she had eaten the specially ordered and cooked gourmet meal that Ali went through the mail Belinda had left for her. A few personal notes from corporate clients wishing her well, tax papers, and one sealed letter addressed in handwriting she didn’t recognise. Inside was a folded press clipping that turned out to be the recent weekend newspaper article about her and a handwritten letter. The steward arrived with coffee just as she was unfolding the letter and she didn’t notice a smaller piece of paper drop to the floor.
Ali took a sip of coffee then started reading the letter before she realised who it was from. But having begun, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. In the dim privacy of the first-class cabin she felt stripped naked without even the protection of her dark glasses.
Dear Alisson,
I read this article with a mixture of pride and sadness. How well you have done. Despite the terrible handicap I inflicted on you all those years ago.
I can’t blame you for never wanting to speak or write to me. But I want you to know – and maybe when you are ready – to understand how it came to be.
It should never have happened. It was a dreadful, horrible accident. I had a drinking problem long before, but the mine closing and no hope held out to me was too much to bear and I broke. And in doing so, I lashed out at your mother. I didn’t know how hard I’d hit her or that the fire would break out. They told me at the trial you tried to save her. God, I wish that it had been me who was taken. But Ali, the time behind bars, hard as it was, set me straight. I will never come to terms with what happened, but I have been dry for some years now, and have put my faith in the Lord for many years. I live quietly with an old cat by a pretty bay on the north coast. I couldn’t go back to the Hunter area. I make a modest living as a wood-turner, selling my work at markets. I learned the craft in the nick. I read a lot, another good habit I picked up in prison, and find some poetry quite moving. I’ve included a verse from one poet I particularly admire. The work sprang to mind when I read the newspaper article about you and decided to write this letter. The poem says it all. It may help you understand me.
You are leaving Australia again and going on to bigger things, I read. Well done. If at some stage you feel moved to at least acknowledge this letter, it would give me great joy. Even a postcard perhaps.
God bless you, daughter.
Your father,
Alex Vidal
Ali looked in the envelope for the poem he said he had included, but it was empty. She studied the address at the beginning of the letter, then very deliberately tore the pages into small neat squares and pushed them far down into the seat pocket. She leaned back and turned on the headset to listen to Maria Callas and shut her eyes.
The jet streaked into fast gathering night. To the east, a distant streak of lightning for an instant ripped across the night sky. Then all was darkness once more.
The next day, in Los Angeles, a matronly woman cleaner methodically worked through the first-class cabin. She removed the torn letter and a few foil chocolate wrappers from the seat pocket where Ali had been sitting, and tossed them into a plastic rubbish bag, then reached under the seat for another piece of paper. The only thing that stopped her immediately consigning it to the rubbish bag was the handwritten poem that took up most of the page. She leaned against the seat and read . . .
A Dead Past
Spare her at least: look, you have taken from me
The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;
The Future too, with all her glorious promise;
But do not leave me utterly alone.
Spare me the Past – for, see, she cannot harm you,
She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud;
All, all my own! and, trust me, I will hide her
Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud.
Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;
She sleeps, she will not wake – no fear – again:
And so I laid her, such a gentle burden,
Quietly on my heart to still its pain.
Leave her at least – while my tears fall upon her,
I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;
As dear as ever to me – nay, it may be,
Even dearer still – since I have nothing more.
By Adelaide Anne Procter (circa 1858)
The cleaner folded the poem carefully and put it in her pocket. ‘So beautiful, so sad,’ she murmured. Then resumed collecting rubbish.