Miche had set out a work area on an old table in Larissa’s sunroom that faced the small walled courtyard. Her laptop, borrowed from Dan, notebooks and tapes were spread around her. She slowly flipped the pages of her notebook, re-reading the interview with Dr Friedman, the trauma specialist. On the next page she found the details of the hotel in Elizabeth Bay where Sally was staying. Underneath it was the number for Jeremy that Sally had given her. Miche felt badly that she hadn’t returned Sally’s calls, but the Jacques and Tony party scene was not for her. From what Sally had intimated, it was pretty wild. She drew a little box around Jeremy’s phone number, then doodled loops and squiggles for a minute, deep in thought. Finally she put down the pen and reached for the phone.
A woman answered and Miche was surprised when she called Jeremy to the phone. ‘Hi. This is Michelle Bannister, remember me, we met in . . .’
‘Miche! Of course I remember you. Where are you?’
‘In Sydney. Sally gave me your number. I just rang on the off-chance. I didn’t think you’d be around, I was going to leave a message. It’s super to talk to you.’
‘Yeah, it sure is. I’m having a smoko. How’re things with you, where are you, what’re you doing?’
‘Smoko?’ she queried with a chuckle.
‘Morning tea, Oz-speak. I’m at the vineyard. Working out among the vines. So, fill me in on you.’
‘I was hoping to be working full-time on Blaze, but at the moment I’m freelancing. Staying with a friend of my godmother’s.’
‘Hey, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding work. I saw the story you did on Sally. It was . . . very fair. I mean, you didn’t hide anything, but you could have ripped into her and made her look stupid. I felt so sorry for her. I bet it was a real eye-opener for a lot of people. And Donald’s photos were fantastic. I didn’t want to hook up with her . . . I was surprised she even rang me.’
‘She’s lonely. A bit lost, I think. And mixing with a fast crowd, as my mom used to say.’
The reference to her mother reminded him of her loss. His voice became softer as he asked, ‘How are you coping?’
‘I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking.’ Then she changed tack slightly and forced her voice to sound upbeat. ‘I’m thinking of searching out my lost father.’
‘I remember we talked about that. Where are you going to start? Can I help? I mean, I don’t know how, but if you want to bend my ear or something, I’m a good listener.’
‘I remember.’ She was smiling. Larissa was right. Picking up the phone and calling him now seemed the most natural thing in the world.
‘So how are you going to start?’ prompted Jeremy.
‘I have a copy of his birth certificate and my parents’ marriage certificate. I can go through the Salvation Army, or the electoral rolls.’
‘Yipes, that’d be a job. You have time to do all this?’
‘I want to do it in conjunction with a story I’m writing.’
Jeremy thought publicly plunging into uncharted personal waters a risky idea, but more personal feelings pushed this view to one side. ‘So when are we going to see each other? Seems to me I promised you a tour of an Aussie vineyard.’
‘I’d like that. I haven’t seen anything outside Sydney. Where are you?’
‘The Hunter Valley . . . it’s a terrific area. Two hours drive north, lots of vineyards, places to stay, eat . . . I’ll send you a list of places. Or I can find someone to put you up, if you like?’
‘Thanks. I’d love a few days break to be out of the city. We can do lunch?’
‘We’ll do that. Give me your number, we’ll plan this properly, okay?’
Miche gave him her number. It was like finding an old close friend and the pleasure was enhanced as she remembered how attractive he was.
That night she told Larissa. ‘I guess I’m going to take a little trip. Mull over my story idea.’ She gave a grin. ‘Gives me an excuse to hang around with a very cool guy up in the Hunter Valley.’
‘The Hunter! I’ve heard that’s very stylish,’ enthused Larissa. ‘I’m happy for you, honey. You need to build up a circle of friends here. As for your proposed mulling, are you having trouble with your story? Is your conscience telling you to drop the finding the father angle?’
‘Reduces the strength of my story somewhat if I drop it,’ said Miche, reflecting on Bob’s encouragement to write the story of her search.
‘What’s most important in all of this?’ asked Larissa. ‘Think about it. Selling family soul-searching for the sake of a magazine article? Digging up painful memories for a possibly even more painful present? Listen, put it on hold for a few days. Go visit this guy up in the Hunter, have fun, then come back and make up your mind. I’d be off in a flash to check out this hunk of a man if I were in your shoes,’ said Larissa a little wistfully.
Miche knew Larissa was thinking of Gerard. She was enjoying the idea of Miche teaming up with Jeremy. ‘You missing Gerry, hey?’
‘Sure am, damn it. It’s the old story, somewhere along the line it always does come down to a choice,’ she said bitterly. ‘All the women I know who have careers have had to compromise in one way or another.’
‘You have regrets? What have you had to give up?’ asked Miche. ‘Gerry is waiting for you back in New York, you’re having a terrific time out here . . . I mean, I know you miss him, but . . . this has to be a great experience, right?’
‘If I were your age . . . maybe.’ Larissa’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m miserable, Miche. Gerry served me an ultimatum when he left – I didn’t really believe him. But he’s sticking to it and that means I either leave here or lose him.’
‘That’s so unfair of him,’ exploded Miche. ‘If he loves you, he should wait. Let you do your own thing. Anyway, when you go back, you’ll be in line for an editor’s job!’
‘He doesn’t want me to be a New York editor. He wants a wife in New Hampshire. With babies.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘God, I’ve been through all this with him. He’s moving whether I stay or go.’
‘But that’s unfair,’ repeated Miche with greater anger. ‘I can’t think of any other way to describe it, Riss. But then, maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe you should stay here. There must be heaps of men who’d grab you in a shot. Tell him to go to New Hampshire, you’re staying here.’
Larissa gave a rueful smile. ‘Easier said. And the problem is, I do love him, Miche. And I really believe he loves me. He just wants to move on with his life. There’s a clock ticking in him too.’
‘He doesn’t love you enough then.’
Larissa suddenly felt a hundred years older than Miche. What did Miche know about the agony of finally finding someone who you could spend all your life with? What did she know about the scary years of thinking you’d never find anyone, that you would age alone? And then the scramble to zoom ahead in your career while younger, energetic, fearless young women surged in your wake, nipping at your heels. In order to stay in front, targets like marriage, a settled life and babies could easily drop off your radar. Then one morning you’d wake up, treading water, to find you’d been overtaken in the night. And that person by your side was looking at other women. A younger and attentive woman, prepared to throw up her career to meld her life with his. Miche was right. It was unfair. Damned unfair. So what was she to do? Choose to go to him or take a punt and go it alone?
‘Why do I feel it’s over when I’m facing my late thirties?’ she wondered aloud.
Miche didn’t have an answer. But some survival instinct kicked in – she had a decade and a half to go. She’d make sure she wasn’t in the position Larissa was in now. No way. She reached out to give Larissa a hug. ‘Stop fretting. You look fantastic, you’re doing a terrific job, everybody loves you. And you have a suitor or two out there if you want them. Your call, Riss. Go home to Gerry and do what he wants. Or stay here and do what you want.’
‘Ah, sweet bird of youth,’ smiled Larissa. ‘You make it sound so simple.’ She stood up and closed the discussion. ‘Let’s go out. My treat. Italian, Greek or Vietnamese?’
*
Since Ali’s return to Sydney, the women on staff had been trying to work out what was different about her.
‘There’s an aura about her that’s new,’ said Fran. ‘As confident and self-assured as always, but more . . .’
‘Relaxed,’ suggested Barbara. ‘Like she knows something we don’t.’
‘But we do know, don’t we?’ said Fiona, who’d been told by Tony about the rumour Ali was sleeping with the Baron.
‘No. We don’t know anything,’ said Belinda with a warning note in her voice. Whatever she thought privately, her duty was to protect her boss. Then they all packed up files and notebooks and headed to Ali’s office from the cafeteria where they’d been having lunch together.
The editorial group was gathered around the sandpit on Ali’s terrace.
Ali stood to introduce a slim young man with soft features, doughy skin, a wide Cupid’s bow mouth and small, even teeth. On closer inspection, his eyes were possibly outlined with dark pencil, mascara on his lashes. To offset his prettiness, he had a closely shaved head and wore one gold earring that he thought gave him a rakish, dangerous air.
‘This is Eddie Kurtz. He is our new director of promotions for advertising.’ As all eyes swung to the crimson-faced Reg, she continued, ‘This is a parallel position with Reg, our director of advertising. Eddie has been working with me to create new account campaigns, seeking out new, non-traditional clients where possible.’ She glanced at Reg. ‘In addition to the work of the existing advertising and sales team.’
‘So why do we need him?’ Jonathan muttered out of the side of his mouth to Bob.
‘Eddie, would you like to present your first effort to the village please.’ Ali sat down.
Eddie Kurtz was on his feet, ready to address the little plastic men. Unlike the rest of the staff, Eddie appeared unfazed at facing the pit, as Ali’s ritual was known. He immediately became a performer, playing up to the moment with a campy, theatrical air.
Larissa was quick to realise he was using this as a shield to hide a smart, shrewd mind.
He bowed to the toy villagers. ‘Darling hearts, I’m here to report that the ad spread for Small World Travel has been a HUGE success, not only for the financial buy, but in creating a buzz in advertising and marketing circles. Because of the favourable response to the travel company campaign, there’s interest from other companies to buy Big Space in Blaze. No hints now, but I have a killer I’m working on – you’ll die when I tell you who it is. Just waiting for the ink on the dotted line.’ He fluttered his fingers and several staff smiled as he did a little twirl and sat down.
Reg leaned forward and spoke in a furious low voice. ‘Listen you little . . .’ He bit back the word and settled on . . . ‘dickhead. I’m head of advertising. If there’s any advertising to sell, I’ll do it.’ Reg turned to Ali. ‘What the fuck is he here for anyway? What kind of a title is director of promotions for advertising? You have a promotions lady and I’m advertising. What’s he do?’ He jabbed a finger at Eddie without looking at him.
‘Dear village people,’ chirped Eddie, leaning forward towards the sandpit figures. ‘I DO, darling hearts. I don’t talk, I don’t wank, I don’t promise and bullshit. I go out and DO,’ finished Eddie, quite enjoying the stoush.
‘Eddie has one of the most creative minds in advertising sales,’ explained Ali. ‘You’re a top salesman, Reg, but Eddie conceptualises, works out a campaign style and strategy to persuade a client to advertise with us because they see results beyond just buying space on the page and letting their agency whip up an ad. Eddie delivers the whole box and dice to them. It’s the difference between selling and packaging.’ Ali leaned towards the sandpit. ‘What do you guys think?’ She waited, then straightened up. ‘The tribe says let Eddie have his head. What he brings in benefits the whole magazine, Reg,’ said Ali affably.
The other staff all stared into the sandpit village with growing discomfort, avoiding looking at Reg, Eddie or Ali. While Reg wasn’t popular, he was devoted to his job and was always the swaggering braggadocio. To see him sweating, bordering on humiliation, was unnerving.
Reg went a deeper scarlet, seeing the rise of Eddie as a threat to his power. He jumped to his feet. ‘This is a load of bullshit.’ He kicked the sandbox, scuffing his expensive Bally shoe and stormed indoors.
Ali took no notice and continued around the circle. Bob Monroe, the features editor, was next.
He’d learned not to look at Ali and fixed his gaze at a point near the middle of the pit. He was buggered if he was going to actually speak to a two-inch plastic figure. ‘Jonathan has done a terrific story on Australian radio’s formidable queen.’
‘Ooh, do I know him?’ joked Eddie.
Bob took no notice. ‘Dottie Heath. She’s reigned the airwaves for three decades, the first woman broadcaster to win a breakfast slot, take drive time through the roof, broadcast from outside the studio at wild locations. She’s notched up a lot of firsts, still has millions of fans. But she’s been given the heave-ho since hitting the big five-0.’
‘Why? You can’t see wrinkles on radio. TV has never accepted older women in this country, but Dottie still looks fabulous anyway,’ remarked Barbara, who had once done a beauty spread with the remarkably glamorous and honey-toned radio journalist.
‘They can’t use her in promotions though,’ pointed out Fiona, who thought it disgusting such an old woman had been hanging onto a job someone young and trendy should have. ‘She looks old. And boring.’
‘They say she’s taking on new challenges. I think her ratings had slipped, the station just fudged. She says she was syndicated all over the country and had over two million listeners – The Queen Rules. But if you break down the figures and analyse them, another story emerges,’ said Bob. ‘It seems she’s getting some very sharp younger competition. And her station has decided it’s time to down-age.’
‘What’s the angle of the story, Bob, and why has Jonathan written it himself rather than one of his contributing writers or our own Kaye?’ asked Larissa.
‘She wouldn’t be interviewed by a woman. They’ve been so bitchy in the past – envy, of course. And Jonathan says he’s gradually won her confidence and so she agreed to a revealing interview. He’s done a soft piece, woman turning fifty, at a crossroads, what’s next, given her life to the job. Now feeling vulnerable . . . talks about losing her only child. First time she’s opened up. She’s never given personal interviews, always the consummate professional.’
‘You mean it’s all mushy, nice stuff?’ asked Ali grimly. ‘Surely there’s something less than perfect. It can’t all be good.’
‘It’s a very candid, let’s say a very positive, piece,’ said Bob carefully.
‘Sounds terrific,’ said Larissa.
Bob glanced at his notes. ‘There’s another thing. A request came in to me from outside. A researcher at Reality. Asking questions about you, Ali. Personal questions, they seem to be researching a piece . . . the guy was vague,’ finished Bob, anticipating Ali’s reaction.
‘I presume you said nothing,’ snapped Ali.
‘More than his life is worth,’ hissed Eddie in an undertone.
‘I’ve already dealt with that,’ snapped Ali.
‘Just thought you’d like to know there’s something afoot.’
‘I had Tracey call Reality’s executive producer. That bitch Heather Race hit on me on the way to the airport.’
‘Do you think that was wise, Ali? Asking them to pull the plug could be a red rag to a bull,’ suggested Larissa.
‘I only speak about Blaze. My personal opinions or history are off limits to the media. And that goes for everyone on the staff.’ Ali glared around the circle.
‘If you don’t talk to them at all, Ali, they don’t have a story,’ said Bob quietly. ‘You give them one quote and that’s a licence to run with anything they have on you.’
‘I’m not doing anything. April is out gunning for Heather.’
‘The story I wanted to do?’ said Jonathan with a pinched look. ‘I didn’t realise it was to be a massacre. Whatever happened to the code of ethics?’
‘Cool it, Jon,’ chided Bob. ‘Your talents are in other directions.’
‘I can see I’ll have to ask my wife to show me how women sharpen knives.’ Jonathan made a brave effort at humour, but his hurt anger was plain to see.
Ali stood looking rattled. ‘The tribespeople say it’s time to go.’
They all filed solemnly past the sandpit, bobbing heads at the unmoving plastic people.
‘They don’t look like happy campers, do they?’ hissed Eddie to Fran.
‘Us, you mean?’
‘No. The mob in the pit. I think a head might roll in telly land if they start taking pot shots at Ali.’
‘Well, they’d have a lot of ammunition,’ whispered back Fran, and Eddie dug her in the ribs in delight.
‘Ooh, naughty girl! I wouldn’t worry, I think Ali has her rear covered.’
Ali sat in her office with the door closed, which signalled to anyone who might approach, Do Not Disturb. She made a phone call, spoke for a few minutes and waited.
The woman on the other end of the phone returned and spoke to Ali. ‘I’m sorry dear, the information we have on Ali Gruber only goes back a few months, since she was appointed to edit Blaze. It says she’s Australian, but there’s no reference to what she did here or about her background. All our old files are on microfiche in archives and can only be accessed by staff people. Unless there’s anything that can be found under the Freedom of Information Act. I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You’re the second person to ask about her in a week.’
‘Fine. Thanks anyway.’ Ali hung up, satisfied but concerned about that second person.
‘I don’t give a shit if the Pope is in there, I’m going in.’ Reg stormed through the door, past the protesting Belinda and marched up to Ali, shaking his fist across her desk. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you mess with me and you’ll be in deep shit. If you think that little poofter is going to take over my territory, you’d better think again.’
Ali smiled. ‘C’mon Reg, you’re not scared of a little competition? The more the merrier. The bigger accounts we land, the bigger impact we make, the more money we build up for the magazine.’ Ali knew very well that Reg received a bonus pegged to the amount of advertising he sold each year. By Eddie eating into the market, he was hitting Reg in the hip pocket.
‘You might think you can call the shots while Nina is away, but the boys upstairs aren’t going to stand for this. You don’t hold the purse strings, baby doll, they do,’ snarled Reg. He was a member of the informal club of senior male management and they all loathed Ali. She was tolerated because circulation was rising. The minute she put a foot wrong, she’d be gone. He made no attempt to disguise his feelings. The gloves were off.
Ali didn’t blink. ‘I’m not worried about the sixth-floor boys, Reg. If I have a problem, I’ll talk to Oscar about it. Was there anything else?’
Reg reeled from her desk, but turned at the doorway. ‘Don’t expect me to play along with your stupid games any more. I have as much power here as you do. You want to see me, come to my office.’ He slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall.
Belinda tapped at Ali’s door and was relieved when she answered as if nothing had happened. ‘I just wondered if . . . you needed me.’
‘Thank you, Belinda. If you can fix Reg’s temper it would be nice.’
‘I guess he’s not happy with all the . . . er, changes.’
‘Life moves on, Belinda. Keep up or ship out,’ said Ali blithely.
By the time the Reality story was ready to air, Sally had disappeared from the Haven Clinic and moved back into her favourite hotel, the Vanguard in Elizabeth Bay, under her usual pseudonym. She telephoned Tony. He was interstate, but back that evening. Then she called Jacques. He was away too. Miche was uncontactable at Blaze and Sally couldn’t find where she’d put Miche’s home number. Sally hunkered down and ordered room service. Then she rang Heather Race at Reality. Heather was out and when she came back she found Sally’s strung-out message on her voice mail. She didn’t bother returning the call.
Miche was thinking hard about looking for her father. She had the number of the Salvation Army but couldn’t bring herself to make the call. She hadn’t slept properly for several nights, and was haunted by nightmares. Shadowy figures pulled at her body, out-of-focus faces swam before her, and then she was in her mother’s arms as Lorraine jumped from the terrace of Blaze into the New York night. Miche woke with a start each time, just before they hit the ground.
Miche confided in Larissa over breakfast. Larissa looked pale and drawn. She wasn’t sleeping either.
Miche sighed. ‘I’m having nightmares. I feel like a jilted lover one minute, a lost little girl the next. I can’t go off on a trip to see Jeremy feeling like this.’
‘It’s just what you need to do,’ advised Larissa, adding, ‘Jilted is the right word. While your father didn’t exactly leave your mother at the altar, he ditched you both and hasn’t gone out of his way to make amends. No wonder you feel like that. But Miche, to be fair, there are always two sides to every story. You need to hear his side of it before you can pass judgement. I’m not making excuses for what he did, but you need to know why. Until you sort this out – find out whether he’s good, bad or indifferent – and let it go, you can’t settle down and move on with your life.’
Miche nodded, but didn’t answer for a minute. Then she looked at the sad-faced Larissa, ‘And what are you doing about your life?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She headed for the shower.
Three nights later, a Reality promo went to air screaming of ‘the folly of beauty and the beasts’. It showed Sally waving a glass of champagne saying, ‘Up their arses.’
Jeremy rang Miche. ‘Jesus, what have they done with Sally? That Heather killer-bitch Race has done her over. Where is she?’
‘It hasn’t gone to air yet, maybe it’s not as bad as the promo makes out.’
‘Sally struck me as being pretty easy to manipulate. Surely she’d be putty in the hands of a pro like Heather Race?’
‘That’s why I’m afraid,’ confessed Miche. ‘This sort of thing makes me ashamed to be part of the media.’
‘Oh, that’s a bit tough. Surely they’re not all like Heather Race? Wait and see what it’s like. Anyway, what else would you do for a career?’ Jeremy suddenly asked.
‘You know, Jem, I’ve been thinking about that. Listen, let’s talk after the show goes to air. I’d better speak with Larissa.’
‘Riss, how on earth did they find her?’ Miche said, furious at Heather Race’s sensationalist story on Sally and at the same time fearful for the vulnerable young girl. ‘I thought she’d gone to a clinic. What happened? I feel somehow responsible for her.’
Larissa felt sick and mumbled that she’d check it out.
The nauseating feeling was caused by the knowledge she’d been instrumental in setting up the story by trading off the whereabouts of Sally to make Heather agree to an interview with April. And, more worryingly, no one knew where Sally was. There’d already been a call from one of the papers asking if Blaze had a contact. Apparently Sally had stormed out of the clinic with her overnight bag, jumped in a cab and dropped out of sight. Her parents hadn’t heard from her, nor her agency, nor Reality.
‘Where she shacks up is nothing to do with us. She agreed to be interviewed, we’re not her keeper,’ the Reality producer commented when Miche rang.
When the Reality program had gone to air, the publicity in that day’s papers ensured a big audience. Heather Race’s story opened with Sally sitting on her bed, waving the glass of champagne. ‘I haven’t done anything really bad . . . it’s hard to say no.’
Next came a close-up of Heather wearing a concerned face and asking gently, ‘What did you do, Sally, while you were living the wild life in Europe?’
‘God, what didn’t I do. Those photographers and agency people rape you. Those old guys in the modelling business in Europe feed on new young blood . . .’
They cut back to Heather looking slightly shocked. ‘How wild is the feeding frenzy? What kind of situations did you fall into?’
There followed an edited version of Sally laughingly describing the chateau party with the horses, dwarf clown and naked black sax player. It was edited to leave out the subtle, funny comments, leaving in all the ribald and raunchy bits from the anecdotes Sally had told Heather, believing it was an off-the-record chat before the actual interview started.
The reporter’s voice-over managed to mention that particular shoot had been for the recent Blaze story on Sally. Then followed more interview with a cutaway showing Heather looking suitably horrified. ‘What do your parents think?’
Sally sounded flippant as she was shown saying, ‘Not my scene any more. They think I’m having a holiday at a health farm.’ Then, lifting her glass she’d added, ‘Good health.’
The next sequence had Heather talking over pictures of the clinic gates, the grounds, inside the clinic, showing cold, bare rooms with hospital beds, a pharmaceutical dispensing room, doors labelled ‘Private. Therapy Session in Progress’ and ‘Detox Unit’.
Her commentary was delivered in a hushed voice-over. ‘In this place, down these quiet halls, behind closed doors, a number of the rich and famous we know so well, are being treated. They’re here because they have dangerous and severe disorders, from bulimia and depression to drug addiction and anorexia, to name a few. Patients – they call them clients – are often rebellious, their behaviour unpredictable, and one only can hope that the treatment they receive here, at this resort retreat, will help vulnerable and tragic cases like young Sally Shaw. Sally is a girl still in her teens who has lived so hard, achieved so much. She had a meteoric rise, now she could crash and burn out. I’m Heather Race and this is Reality.’
In her hotel room, Sally threw her glass at the TV set screaming, ‘You tricked me! I didn’t say that like that . . . you’ve cut bits out!’ Sobbing, she flung herself around the room feeling violated and devastated. What would her mum and dad say? Oh God, she looked so awful. To see herself so harshly filmed without the benefit of careful make-up and flattering lighting, she looked haggard, gaunt and sick. It was frightening. ‘Please, I’m not like that,’ she sobbed. Grimly she picked up the phone and made a brief urgent call.
Miche was alone in the house and, as the Reality segment on Sally ended and they went to a commercial break, she felt like rushing to the bathroom and throwing up.
Her phone rang and a horrified Belinda was on the line. ‘That dreadful woman . . . poor Sally . . . they made her out to be such a bimbo!’
‘Well, she has been led astray and been in that flighty world,’ said Miche, also close to tears. ‘It’s so frustrating. She was so keen to tell her story in a sober way to help other girls.’
‘This’ll stop a lot of parents sending their kids out to be models,’ said Belinda firmly.
‘Sally and I talked it through. She trusted me. Someone should have warned her not to trust that TV reporter.’
‘Ha! Remember this is Reality. They don’t know the meaning of the word trust,’ snapped Belinda. ‘Anyone is at the mercy of super-bitch Heather Race.’
‘Sally is very impressionable, very easy to manipulate. I’ve heard about how unscrupulous and unethical TV people can be, but these people have gone even further. I just know how they work – they brought in the booze to give her and they cut up all her words like a jigsaw and pieced them together the way they wanted.’ Miche sighed. ‘The worrying part is, I don’t know where Sally is. If she saw that show she’ll be . . . I don’t know what she’ll do.’ Miche could hear other calls coming in. ‘I’d better go, Belinda, in case it’s Sally.’
But the other calls were from staff at Blaze, expressing their dismay. Several were working late and they’d watched it on the office monitor.
Miche decided to again try the hotel in Elizabeth Bay where Sally had stayed. She’d rung already and they had no one registered under Sally Shaw. Wildly, Miche tried to think of the fake name Sally had used in Paris. Donald the photographer might remember, but he could be anywhere in the world. Miche closed her eyes and tried to think . . . world, planet, moon . . . an image sprang into her mind. A pink moon. That was it, that singer from the seventies – Nick Drake. Sally had played his music when they drove from Paris to the chateau, Pink Moon. She’d called herself Miss P. Moon.
She dialled the hotel and asked for Miss P. Moon. There was a silence as the receptionist clicked on the computer keys. Miche held her breath.
‘Ah, yes, Miss Moon . . . I’ll try her room. Oh, I’m sorry she has put a stop on calls.’
‘Is she there, in the hotel?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give you that information.’
‘Look, this is important. I think she could be really upset . . . can you send someone up to her room? Just to check on her, please, she had a bit of a shock this evening . . .’
There was an awkward pause and then, ‘I’ll do what I can, Miss. Do you want to leave a message?’
‘Yes. Tell her Miche rang and . . . loves her. And I’ll give you my mobile number. Could you please ask her to ring me and let me know she’s all right.’
Miche hung up the phone feeling hollow and fearful. She called Belinda back to get the number of Jacques Triton.
He sounded surprised, yet pleased to hear from her. Miche cut off his small talk. ‘I was wondering if you’ve heard from Sally Shaw, there was a piece on her tonight on . . .’
‘I saw it. Very cutting and spiteful. Unfortunately that’s how she is, eh?’ His rolling French ‘Rs’ sounded bored.
‘No, that’s not how she is,’ said Miche firmly, stopping herself from adding, ‘With decent people who don’t offer her drugs.’
‘Come on, Michelle. Don’t be stuffy. She’s a good-time girl. She knows what she’s doing. We saw her a week ago. She was pretty wild and wired.’
‘With your help, I suppose. She’s only just seventeen and is very vulnerable. I feel a bit responsible for that nightmare on TV tonight. She’s gone to ground and I’m worried about her. Do you know where she might have gone?’
The friendly tone evaporated. ‘I ’ave no idea, and why should I care? I have no association with this girl any more. Ask Tony Cox what he knows. Goodnight.’ Jacques hung up the phone, leaving Miche seething. Bastards, while the girls are around to party and rave and sleep with, they count for something. Out the door and they mean nothing. She hunted down Tony Cox, who at least sounded slightly concerned.
‘Well, hell yes, Jacques and I did spring her from that clinic one night for a bit of a buzzy outing with a couple of other models.’
‘Have you heard from her since?’
There was a pause and Miche pressed her point. ‘Tony, this is important. I really think she’s going over the edge.’
‘Christ. Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing here . . .’
‘What, please tell me, Tony. I’ll keep you out of this.’
‘You’d better. Promise me. This conversation hasn’t taken place,’ said Tony with an edge to his voice. ‘Okay, okay. Now what do you know? Time is important.’
‘She rang me a little while ago. An hour maybe. Babbling about a TV story. She wanted some stuff. I wasn’t going to go near her. But I gave her a dealer’s number.’
‘Oh, God. Who, where?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
Miche’s voice was rising. ‘Would she go to him or he to her?’
‘I would think he’d go to her. She didn’t sound like she was up to going anywhere. She was pissed as well as stoned.’
‘Oh, my God. Okay, thanks Tony.’ Miche dropped the phone in its cradle, grabbed her wallet, rushed to her car and drove as fast as she dared to Elizabeth Bay.
She left her car at the front and raced into the lobby to the reception desk. ‘Please, can you help me? I think a friend of mine is in the hotel and could be in trouble.’
It was just after ten-thirty. The hotel restaurant and bar were full, people were chatting in the lobby, everyone looked so prosperous, fashionably dressed and comfortably carefree. Miche felt like shouting at them as they insisted she wait downstairs while the hotel security and the duty manager went to check on Miss P. Moon.
Karen Charles was the resident manager on duty at the Vanguard Hotel that night. It was a classy hotel that dealt discreetly with its share of guest dramas. This was Karen’s first potential crisis. She was only twenty-seven and since doing a hospitality course at college, had worked hard to climb the management ladder.
‘So who’s the guest?’ asked the security man as they stepped out of the elevator on the eleventh floor.
‘A model. Young girl who made it big overseas.’
‘What, she eat a piece of meat and fall over in shock?’
Karen didn’t answer as she followed the striding security man to Suite 1101. He rang the buzzer then rapped on the door. There was no answer, so he used his pass key and opened the door calling out, ‘Miss Moon? You in here? It’s security.’
Karen followed him into the suite, flinching at the mess in the living room. Clothes and magazines were scattered about, glasses and empty champagne bottles were everywhere and a couple of unfinished bottles had tipped over and spilled red wine on tabletops and the carpet. Chocolate and peanut wrappers from the mini-bar were tossed on the floor. ‘Heavens, did one person make all this mess?’ wondered Karen aloud.
The security man headed for the bedroom, which was even more of a shambles – the sheets hanging off the bed, a pillow on the floor, empty bottles and several barely touched room-service trays of hamburgers, chips and cake.
‘She’s not here,’ remarked Karen, relieved she didn’t have to confront the occupant about the mess.
But the security manager pushed open the bathroom door and gave a short exclamation, ‘Oh, shit.’ He turned back to Karen. ‘Call Triple 0. We need help up here.’
Karen glimpsed the figure of a young girl, or was it a child, lying on the floor. She didn’t need to see the pills, the needle or the coke spoon to know something was badly wrong. She grabbed the phone by the bed and punched reception. ‘Quick, call an ambulance. Tell them the back door. Suite 1101. Hurry, oh God, tell them to hurry.’
The security man stepped back into the bedroom. ‘Tell ’em not to hurry. She’s checked out.’
‘What? You mean she’s . . . dead?’
‘Very.’
Karen’s hands flew to her face. She’d only been appointed a duty manager three months ago and this was a first for her. ‘What will I do?’
‘I’ll call the cops. We have to keep this quiet. Phone the girl on reception and tell her to keep her mouth shut. No publicity. Who is this bird again?’
‘Her real name is Sally Shaw, a model. She was using a pseudonym. Didn’t want any publicity.’
‘Yeah, well, neither do we. The police will move her to the morgue and go through her stuff. They’ll want to talk to that girl downstairs. We’ll move all this, and them, out as fast as possible.’
Karen nodded, glad the older security man knew what to do. She glanced back towards the bathroom. ‘Drugs, I suppose. Did she have too much?’
‘Of everything I’d say,’ sighed the security man as they went back into the living room. ‘Too much, too soon and too young to handle it.’
He sat down and flicked on the TV as he waited for the police to arrive from the Kings Cross station up the road.
Ali switched off the light in her office and looked in on Larissa and the art staff working on the layout. ‘I’m off. I have an appointment.’
Larissa decided not to ask her if she’d seen the Reality piece on Sally earlier in the evening. Ali was unlikely to be sympathetic. And she’d probably complain about them watching TV in the office, though everyone had been glued to the set during their dinner break.
Ali was distracted. She could put this off no longer. She had agreed to see John O’Donnell at his home later this evening.
As Tom dropped her outside the Vaucluse mansion she told him to be on call. ‘Pick me up at 11 p.m. unless I call for you earlier.’
‘Yes, Ms Gruber.’ Tom made no comment. But he was surprised – she normally spent the night. It was already after 9.30 p.m. Tom had been pleased about Ali’s growing friendship with the influential CEO. It put him up there with the other limo drivers when they hung around the airport together boasting of the prestige of their passengers.
Dinner for two was set up on the terrace by the pool. Candles burned and a single red rose lay on her napkin tied with a silver ribbon.
John O’Donnell kissed her, and after opening and pouring the champagne, the butler quietly left them alone.
They chatted about Blaze, but Ali kept turning the conversation back to him. ‘So what else? With you? What’s happening in your neck of the woods? You’ve been quiet lately. Brewing up a mega deal?’
‘Actually I was going to talk to you about that.’ Ali leaned forward expectantly – she loved to know what he was planning. Sometimes there was an opportunity for her or for Blaze, though she never told him that she had bought shares on several occasions, based on what he’d told her. He’d be accused of insider trading and everything would be blown out of the water. But he continued slowly, looking into glass. ‘I’m taking a bit of a sideways step. I’m removing myself as executive chairman and CEO and the board has agreed I take the position of non-executive chairman.’
‘Which means . . . ?’ Ali didn’t like the sound of this.
He looked up and gave her a loving smile. ‘It means I’ll have a lot more time to myself. I won’t be so hands-on every day. I’ll have a life. After Carol died, I went on every board that asked and carried a far too heavy workload. It was a means of distracting myself. But now . . .’ he was still smiling at her.
Ali thought he looked soppy and ridiculous. ‘For God’s sake why? You’re still young enough to run the company for another ten years! What are you going to do? Start another business?’ she asked hopefully.
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Ali dearest. Surely I don’t have to spell it out. I want to spend more time with you!’
‘No, John. We’ve been through this. I never thought you were serious about it, or I would have put my foot down. You can’t opt out, especially because of me. Look, I’m really devoted to my career. I can’t travel with you, do things you want to do like cruise the Greek islands for three weeks . . . lovely as it sounds.’
He stood and took the rose from the small table and handed it to her. ‘Would this make a difference?’
Ali looked at the rose and back to him in growing frustration. ‘What’s with the roses all of a sudden? Am I supposed to clench it between my teeth and dance the flamenco for you?’
He chuckled, not hearing the anger in her tone. ‘Hey, now that’s an idea. No, here, look at the ribbon.’ He pointed at the fine silver ribbon and she saw the end was tied in a delicate bow, threaded through a beautiful sapphire ring. He pulled the ribbon and slipped off the ring, lifting her left hand and wiggling it onto her third finger. ‘I want to marry you, Ali. You’re fun, you make me happy, let’s enjoy time together. I can give you a luxurious life.’
Ali stared wildly at the ring. She hated blue. Where was the pink Argyle diamond set in platinum? God, what was she thinking? She didn’t want to marry this man.
Thinking she was too overcome with surprise and joy to speak, he rushed on, saying all the words she didn’t want to hear. ‘You can quit your job, you won’t need the money, we have this house, we’ll buy a holiday home, travel, buy a dog, buy a boat, whatever you want.’
Ali found her voice. ‘That’s not what I want, John.’ She pulled the ring from her finger and thrust it back at him. ‘I like my job. I still have mountains to climb. I want to be bigger and more powerful than Nina Jansous. I want to choose my own life. This has been fun and wonderful knowing you, but I can’t go through with this. I’m sorry if you didn’t see it coming, but . . .’
He blinked and sat back in shock, the diamonds around the sapphire shining in the candlelight on the table between them. ‘What do you mean, Ali . . . once you slipped through my defences, you knew I was falling in love with you. I thought you loved me back . . .’ He paused as her words sunk in. ‘See what coming?’
‘I thought you realised . . . that our relationship was changing . . . me being away . . . seeing less of each other. My time in New York . . .’
‘I thought you were busy, the pressure . . .’ he began slowly, all the delight fading from his face.
Ali continued to sit and stare at him, struggling to find the words. ‘It’s been special, really lovely. I always want you as a friend . . .’
John O’Donnell sat back, his face hardening, feeling very, very foolish. ‘I don’t think so. Is there someone else? Some young man? You told me you didn’t want babies . . .’
‘And I don’t.’ She tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I’d never fit all my clothes in here.’ It was a joke, but she meant it. Ali’s extensive designer wardrobe would never fit into the late Mrs O’Donnell’s modest dressing room. But John O’Donnell was unamused. ‘Look, John, I’m a career girl. And no, there isn’t anyone else.’ Ali began to worry that she’d lose this valuable contact. ‘Please, try to understand. I’m not ready to settle down. I’m about to turn thirty, I have a lot to do. Please, stay friends with me. I need you. I value our friendship. I really do, John.’
His face was set. ‘Only while I’m in the chair, right? While I’m O’Donnell with influence, you want to see me. When I’m O’Donnell, retired CEO, you don’t want to know me. You just loved my seat, the position I held, Ali. No matter who was in the seat, it would have been the same.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘I hoped by asking you to marry me, you would realise I wasn’t playing with you. I never wanted you to feel cheap. It seems I’m the one that now feels cheap. And used.’ He turned away. ‘I think you’d better go. If Tom isn’t available, I’ll have Roger drive you home.’ He hurried from the room.
‘John, please, let’s not leave it like this . . .’ Ali felt panicky. Had she totally burned this bridge?
She pulled herself together. She could always win John O’Donnell around again. Maybe she had only imagined that Baron Triton had any interest in her. She was alone in the room. She fumbled for her mobile phone to summon the driver.
As she heard her car arrive outside the mansion and the butler open the door, she stood and looked down at the twinkling ring. For a moment she wanted to grab it, but turned away. She hated blue.
Ali didn’t feel like going home. She told Tom to take her back to work. Lights burned in several offices as people worked late to meet deadlines and prepared for tomorrow’s editorial meeting. Larissa and the art department had left.
Belinda’s desk was neatly cleared. Ali could see past it that the lights were on in her office. She’d speak to Belinda about that. And there was a strange and ugly smell about the place.
When she stepped inside the door she stopped, sniffed and gagged. Glancing quickly around, she couldn’t see what was causing the vile smell. The lights were also shining out on the terrace. Holding her hand to her nose she rushed outside. No one was there. But the smell was overwhelming. Then she saw it.
There was a large red stain on the terrace, running from the sandpit. And as she edged closer, she saw the source of the smell – a bucket lay on its side spilling blood and rotten animal excrement over the model village as if a putrid volcano had erupted, smothering them all.
Ali wanted to vomit, but anger overcame her heaving stomach and she rushed inside, grabbed her bag and picked up the phone, yelling at the startled operator, ‘Get fucking Reg Craven on the line. I don’t care where he goddamn is!’