Armani Angels (14 page)

When Gemma arrived home that night she was still shaking with the enormity of what had taken place at Dame Frances's penthouse that morning. Sacked from the UP- Kids Special Fundraising Committee. Challenged! Publicly! How embarrassing!

She sat in the garage trying to still her breathing. What was happening? Everything was spinning out of control. She had so much going on. It was no wonder her personal life had deconstructed edges. It was no wonder Tyler was lost and confused.

She was later home than usual because she'd had so much to catch up on in the office, thanks to wasting her time with socialites who couldn't choose between taupe or white tablecloths. What had she been thinking, joining them? But now she could at least do the event her way. It would be bigger than Sydney's Cointreau Ball, bigger than anything Melbourne had ever seen. She would show the Dame how fundraising was done.

She barely made it in the door, she was so exhausted. She kicked off her pumps, put her satchel next to them and limped into the kitchen. Tyler was slumped on the couch texting vigorously on his phone.

‘Hello, my darling boy. How are you?' She brightened up at the sight of him. So tall and lean and lanky. He was such a praying mantis. Surely it must hurt his bones as they stretched out in such rapid growth.

‘Hi, Mum,' Tyler said, but didn't put down his phone.

‘It's eight o'clock. Have you eaten?' Gemma asked. She went to the fridge to find the chicken cacciatore she made last night for tonight's dinner had been left untouched.

‘Yeah, a bit. Last night's pizza.'

‘Do you want some chicken?' she asked, getting out bowls to dish up.

‘Nah.'

Stephen walked in the room. ‘Oh, you're home,' he said with little enthusiasm.

‘Yep.' She wasn't in the mood for faux niceties, but she sucked it up and tried anyway. ‘How was your day?'

‘Shit. We lost the Wacky Wally account to 3GB.'

‘Oh, bugger,' Gemma said, ‘that was quite a big one.'

‘Sure was, and it wasn't my fault, either,' Stephen said as he poured himself a large glass of merlot. ‘The new chick didn't know how to handle the client. She might look hot in a business suit but she has no fucking idea.'

‘Stephen!' She indicated their son on the couch in earshot.

‘He fucking swears – don't you, mate, eh, eh?' He jollied his son along as though they were pals. Naturally Tyler rolled his eyes and shifted his position so his back was towards his father.

‘Well, I had a horrible day too.' Gemma picked up the bottle and poured herself a somewhat smaller glass of wine. ‘Do you want chicken?'

‘Yes! I'm starving,' Stephen said.

She ignored the fact that he could have zapped his own dinner when he'd wanted it and put two cling-wrap-covered cacciatore dishes into the microwave.

‘I got sacked from the UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee.'

‘Oh, well that's good,' Stephen said.

‘Good? How's being sacked good?' Gemma asked with hands on hips.

‘It was bullshit, you running around giving your time to that bunch of tossers. It ate too much into family time. I'm glad. Now you can concentrate on home for a change.'

‘Stephen, I'll have you know I'm taking on my own Chocolate Ball in competition with Dame Frances. She challenged me to a duel.' It sounded quite immature when she said it out loud.

‘You versing the great Dame? You don't have a hope in hell. She's a legend at fundraising. Why do you even think you could compete with her?' Stephen chuckled into his glass.

‘Because it's what I do. I'm a function manager – I organise high-end events. It's my job.'

‘Oh, big deal. It's more than holding a function, you know; it's fundraising. That's different. You don't have the Dame's iron-clad network of loaded philanthropists desperate to throw money at you in exchange for social standing.'

‘It's so much more than that. What would you know anyway? You couldn't organise a root in a brothel.'

‘Yeah, well, I beg to differ.' He gave an infuriating, insinuating wink. ‘Give it up, Gemma, before you fail.'

‘I'm not going to fail!' she yelled at him. Her fatigue was killing any attempts at creating a peaceful home environment.

His smarmy smile was his only comeback.

‘You're such an arsehole,' she hissed.

Tyler shoved himself off the couch, pushed his phone into his pocket and, picking up his jacket from the back of the dining chair, headed down the hall. ‘This is so fucked,' were the last words the couple heard before the slam of the front door.

Gemma turned back and glared at Stephen.

‘Hey, it's not my fault,' he said.

Charity Challenge

By Priscilla Simcoe

Priscilla's Socials,
The Age

In what could only be described as a do-gooder duel, charity queens Dame Frances Davenport and Ms Gemma Bristol have declared war.
Priscilla Simcoe
has the scoop.

It hasn't been smooth sailing, as readers of this column will already know, after the recent appointment of PR guru Gemma Bristol to the UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee.

Ms Bristol and Dame Frances have been at it hammer and tongs as neither will concede the other is conducting the important business of fundraising correctly.

A recent fracas left the committee weak at the knees with Dame Frances stating it was her way or the highway, while Ms Bristol declared her tech-savvy to be crucial to the success of the cause.

However, in a new development, tempers flared and name-calling replaced name-dropping, and the committee split at the seams when Ms Bristol was declared unfit to continue as a member of the elite squad. Dame Frances challenged the young gal about town, Gemma Bristol, to a duel. The famous Chocolate Ball, traditionally held in early December, will go ahead with the Dame at the helm but with a twist. Gemma Bristol is also to hold a Chocolate Ball in direct competition with Melbourne's grande dame and on the very same night. The spoils of war will go to the philanthropist who earns the richest purse at the end of the night.

May the best Lady Bountiful be victorious.

The sky outside Gemma's office window was deceptive in its blueness. She knew it was camouflaging what was actually a bitter, cold Melbourne day.

Gemma used to be so in control of her life and now look at it. It was a shambles. Everywhere she turned each once well-ordered pigeonhole was a catastrophe. Work was difficult while she was heading up the office, but if she could only focus she'd be able to get stuck in and quite enjoy it. But distractions left, right and centre were threatening to unravel what had once been the most solid part of her life.

Her marriage was a sham. What she'd originally taken for confidence and charm in Stephen had evolved into insecurities and bullishness. Or maybe for the first time she was just seeing him for what he had always been. Her friends liked him – he could be so charming around others – but she'd seen him treat his staff with such rudeness. She knew she wasn't taking him for granted, as Mercedes so often suggested. Stephen had a cruel streak and it worried her. Was there really any point in continuing with the relationship?

And then there was Tyler. Just when she thought she'd gotten through to him, something would set him off and he'd put up the wall of indifference again. She would give anything to turn back the clock to when he was ten.

The thought of putting on a huge function and challenging Dame Frances gave her the absolute willies. She was never nervous about an event but this was different. Going publicly head-to-head with such a highly revered woman was just ludicrous. And, as much as Gemma wanted to win, she certainly didn't want to do it at the Dame's expense. She didn't want to embarrass herself or Dame Frances.

It wasn't about beating the Dame or making her look foolish; it was about proving a point that the times had changed and there was no future for anyone who didn't move with them. Deep down she also wanted a little bit of revenge for being sacked from the committee for doing nothing more than what she was paid a generous salary to do on a daily basis: to be at the cutting edge of the modern age and generate interest in a product in the most effective way possible. And she got fired for that. How dare the Dame fire her?

A new-found surge of enthusiasm for the project welled. She'd show them how it's done. And, besides, raising hundreds of thousands for such a good cause was a perfect way to feel in control again. To give something back and really make a difference. She was determined to pull her life back on track and this event was going to be the catalyst.

Gemma spun her chair from the window back to her desk and looked at the clock. She pulled her hairbrush out of her bottom drawer and gave her bob a few quick strokes. Then she checked her face in a mirror and reached for her Prada make-up purse. She applied a sprinkle of bronzer and then swiped her lips with her Rouge Dior Blossom lipstick. As she applied the fresh coat, she chastised herself for going to an effort to groom herself before what was a standard Skype call, but with communications so visual nowadays, one needed to look one's best. Besides, it was Peter Blakely she was calling.

She walked over to her office door, closed it, adjusted the scoop neck of her silk Moschino top and sat at her desk. She looked behind her at the background the camera was about to witness. The flowers were looking a bit sad, she decided, shoving them out of the sightline of the webcam and replacing them with an empty Kosta Boda vase and her copy of Strunk and White.

She clicked on the Skype icon and waited for the video to appear with an expectant half-smile on her face.

‘Gemma,' Peter's voice came through before the video hooked up, ‘you look great.'

‘Hi, Peter. I can't see you yet – oh, there you are.' Her half-smile broadened into a full one. He's the one who looks great, she thought.

‘It's good to see you,' Peter said and leaned forward into the webcam.

‘You too, Peter. How goes it?' she asked.

‘Oh, you know, same ol' same ol'. You?'

‘Frantic. You got any news on the Melbourne CEO?'

‘Well, yes, I do have a bit more on that front. But I'll fill you in later this week. Actually, I need you in New York again very soon.'

She sighed inwardly. It was once a thrill to sit on a plane for twenty-two hours each way for a face-to-face meeting in the world's most glamorous city, but she was beginning to find the travel a little bit tedious. Especially as it ate into so many other priorities in her life.

‘So, what did you want to speak to me about?' Peter asked.

‘I've been presented with an opportunity,' Gemma began.

‘Oh, yes,' he grinned. She grinned in return. They were both PR masters. Gemma had what a layman would call a problem, and ‘opportunity' was the spin the PR industry usually placed on it.

She continued, ‘And I thought it would be a great chance to share.'

‘Oh, really, so it's a case of “an
opportunity
shared is an
opportunity
halved”?'

‘Yes, something like that,' she laughed. ‘In Melbourne, we recently gave up our pro bono client, because we discovered it had links to people smuggling.'

‘Oh, jeez, ya gotta hate that,' he said.

‘Yeah, it's hard to find good charitable institutions these days,' she said. ‘So I've stumbled across this great charity, a local mob raising money for street kids. It's been around for decades, has an excellent reputation and one hundred per cent of profits go to the cause, so I can vouch for the authenticity . . . Anyway, our intent is to hold a big function to raise money for them.'

‘Well, it's your call, Gemma: you're the acting head.'

‘Yes, I guess you're right. I just wanted to get your advice, really. Do I need to run it by Dirk Ciepielewski at HQ?'

‘You know IQPR procedure when it comes to our charitable budget; you get one per cent of the company's net profit to spend. And if you can pull it off, and I'm sure you can, it will look pretty damn good at the next management meeting in January.'

She leaned back in her chair. ‘God, I hope you guys have found a CEO by then. I sure hope I'm not acting head by January.'

‘Oh, they're working on it, don't you worry about that. Have you crunched the numbers?'

‘Of course, presuming we get a lot of the cost base donated by sponsors, then conservatively I'm looking at $300,000 profit. But up to $500,000.'

‘Wow,' he said, ‘that's fairly impressive. How did this all come about anyway?' He cocked his head to one side and loosened his tie.

She took in a deep breath and told him the whole story about the grande dame of the fundraising scene and the embarrassing conclusion of her brief stint on the committee with the ridiculous duel being set.

Peter Blakely laughed out loud. He could hardly contain his mirth. ‘You're kidding; you're in a high-profile charity face-off?'

‘Yes, I know, it's completely mad.'

‘It's brilliant. Imagine the publicity that will come from it. Oh, trust you, this isn't just a function; it's media fodder gold!' He laughed again, slapping his thigh.

‘Yes, it's hilarious,' she said drily. ‘I can't believe I'm in this situation, but I'm determined to pull it off and bring some serious money to this wonderful cause. Honestly, how I get myself into these things, I'm such a doofus.'

‘You're not; you're perfect. And listen, I want to help you out however I can, too. You just let me know. Have you got a good team?'

‘Yes, I will be putting in a lot of voluntary overtime and I have a pretty good committee.' She grimaced on the inside as she thought of Mercedes and Chantelle.

‘Well, I'm here for you whenever you want an ear.'

‘Thanks so much, Peter. That means a lot to me.' She smiled. It felt good to be supported.

‘No problem whatsoever – or as you Aussies would say, no worries, mate. Listen, I've got a meeting. Talk soon, 'kay?'

‘Thanks, Peter. Bye.' They signed off. She was still smiling as she thought back over the conversation. Peter Blakely thought she was perfect.