Armani Angels (15 page)

The limo coasted up the gravel driveway. It was a blowy spring day but the rain was holding off. Dame Frances was feeling quite pleased with her new aubergine Escada suit and the fact that she continued to maintain her size-fourteen figure.

She'd been through the running list en route with Julian and all seemed to be in place for the Fashion Luncheon at William Robertson's family compound. The white two-storey mansion was gleaming. Pillars stretched from the generous front verandah to the slate roof.

The car pulled over to wait for a white Lexus to disembark. Dame Frances craned to see who it was. Oh, thank the powers that be. It's Lillian Frank. She smiled in relief. It was now officially a success before it had even started.

‘It's a shame Miranda Winkle couldn't make it,' she said to Julian. ‘I almost thought that was her.'

‘Yes, she's busy, I believe,' Julian replied.

‘She hasn't come to many functions lately, has she?' Dame Frances said.

‘I guess not.'

‘Did we end up selling all the tickets?' she asked, although she knew the answer.

‘Not quite, but we do have 140 guests, so that's good.'

One-forty. ‘Sixty short,' she murmured. ‘Julian, that function I was invited to – the new fragrance at David Jones – have you replied?'

‘I was about to send your “no, thank you” this afternoon.'

‘I'll go,' she said.

‘Really?' he asked. ‘Isn't it beneath you? You don't usually go to small product launches. Don't you want to retain your high standing?'

‘I haven't been invited to many things lately. I have to keep my face out there, Julian, I have to keep my profile up. Besides, there will be cameras at the function, won't there?'

‘Yes, Dame Frances,' Julian started packing up his notes and slipping them into his satchel as their limo pulled up to the door. ‘Their PR has just updated me. There will be cameras.'

‘Well, that's all right then.'

Enormous urns of greenery flanked the large timber stained-glass door. A red-coated valet leaped to open the rear door so Dame Frances could alight. Her silver dragon-headed cane emerged first followed by her two black leather low-heeled pumps simultaneously. Just how a lady should exit a vehicle.

Julian rushed around from his side in order to escort her. ‘Well, Julian, we're on,' she announced.

Twin staircases encircled the vast marble foyer that was milling with well-dressed women of a certain age. A huge Ming vase was in the centre of the space bursting with foliage and long stems of Asian flowers thrust forwards, reaching for the eighty-globe crystal chandelier that draped from the ceiling two storeys above.

The pre-luncheon reception was being held in the circular space. The hubbub of female voices was high-pitched with laughter and gossip. Bobbi Robertson-Black, as the hostess of the venue, stood sentry at the entrance and immediately greeted Dame Frances.

‘Dame Frances, you look amazing,' she exclaimed and kissed the air a few millimetres from Dame Frances's proffered powdered cheek.

‘Thank you,' Dame Frances replied. ‘Is everyone here?'

‘Yes, I believe so, we're about to move into the ballroom.'

‘Where's
The Age
? That upstart Priscilla Simcoe isn't here, is she? I want a word with her, the little minx. Where is she getting her information from?'

‘I honestly don't know, Dame Frances. It's quite disturbing. And no, she's not here. Priscilla was originally invited, of course, but Julian informed her that she wasn't to come, didn't you, Julian?' Bobbi said, her voice high with nerves.

‘I most certainly did,' Julian assured the women. ‘I just hope this slight doesn't cause further malice in the social pages.'

‘She can't write about something she's not at,' Dame Frances said. ‘So, what media is here?' She looked around the room for the telltale flash of cameras.

‘Well, without Priscilla there's not much social media left,' Julian explained. ‘It's not really newsworthy enough for the regular media to be interested.'

‘Not newsworthy enough,' the Dame turned her Medusa stare onto Julian. ‘Not newsworthy enough? How can you say that? We are announcing the Chocolate Charity Challenge today. How can that not be news? Did you send the box of chocolates and my handwritten note to the editor of
The Australian
?'

‘Yes, Dame Frances, of course. They just don't go in for this sort of thing.'

Dame Frances snorted her distaste of a newspaper that didn't understand her importance.

The ballroom was to their right. At that moment the enormous concertina doors were pulled back by the waiting staff to reveal a resplendent room awash with spring blooms (Gemma hadn't been churlish enough to pull her donation after her sacking), the tablecloths a soft beige.

‘Excellent decision on the tablecloth colour,' Dame Frances said, taking in the scene. The gilt, carved-back chairs matched the gold-etched presentation plates. Randomly placed multicoloured table napkins in fuchsia, yellow, jade and cyan enhanced the brightness of the spring blossoms.

As the crowd flowed through into the ballroom, many women stopped to greet the Dame.

‘You look fabulous,' ‘Great room,' ‘Lovely work,' ‘You've done it again' – the soothing accolades were like balm on Dame Frances's tender nerves. This was what she lived for. To see her guests enjoying themselves, admiring months of hard work and spending their prolific bucks on the charity made her feel at peace.

Dame Frances, as usual, had personally selected the luncheon menu: prawn cocktail for entree, followed by beef Wellington, then finally crème caramel. She considered each dish as it was presented to her. Was it old-fashioned, perhaps? The dishes weren't on the menu when she'd had the meeting with the caterer. But they'd been happy to comply with her wishes. They had actually recommended salmon but every time she had salmon nowadays it was barely cooked and she had to send it back. Imagine the kitchen here having 140 salmon dishes sent back. And they'd wanted to serve an Asian soup. First of all it would be too spicy, and soup is never hot enough, especially at a large function like this, so she'd nixed that as well.

Besides, she had to admit she didn't quite understand the rest of the menus she'd perused: ceviche, san choi bao, grissini . . . When did everything become so ethnic? When Monty was alive, she'd baked on the nights they would stay in – she had always been able to hold her own in the kitchen, knew her way around a lamb shank or a cauliflower cheese – but since he passed twenty years ago, she only made herself a simple meal of an evening and it would seem the culinary world had passed her by. She wondered what Gemma would have said if she'd been at the menu meeting. She probably would have argued and they'd be sitting here faced with a cold grilled baby octopus. She shuddered.

‘Everything okay, Dame Frances?' Julian came over from his table at the back of the room. It was a tricky set-up. Dame Frances insisted that he be by her side but also insisted that she be at the top table, which obviously needed to have only the top guests placed at it, so he tended to spend the events running back and forth the entire room's length.

‘Yes, how's the running sheet?' She put her spectacles on her nose and looked at Julian's notes. ‘Right, it's time in five minutes for me to speak?'

‘That's right, Dame Frances, I've checked with the sound guy and he's ready for you.'

Dame Frances rose and made her way down the room keeping to the left of the long catwalk, feeling secure that should she trip, she would be able to grab hold of the stage. Reaching the end of the room, she laboured up the four steps to the podium. No handrail. Ridiculous. She looked out at the room. She should have had Julian introduce her and settle this mob down. It was an impossible task to get a gaggle of women to shut up. They squawked and carried on as if they hadn't had a conversation in months.

Julian saw her concern and was by her side in a flash. ‘Shall I?' he asked.

‘Please,' she said, ‘I don't have it in me.'

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' Julian began to no avail. It was as if the six strategically placed speakers weren't operating, for all the good they were doing. The sound technician turned up the volume.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, may I have your attention?'

The nattering and socialising seemed, if anything, to get louder. No one was interested in halting the fascinating conversations they were having about themselves.

Dame Frances got irritated which, in turn, gave her an idea. ‘For heaven's sake, give it to me.' She shouldered Julian away from the mic and said two simple words into it: ‘Door prize.'

It was as if she had just come on stage in a gimp mask. The room instantly became silent.

‘Thank you for your attention, ladies and, of course, gentlemen. Hello, Simons.' She wriggled her fingers at the only men in the room, the caterers, Simon and Simon. Julian, of course, didn't count. The women duly laughed. ‘Before drawing the door prize, I have a few things I need to say.' Polite smiles were affixed upon faces as they waited for the opportunity to win stuff.

The Dame knew how crucial it was to highlight her generous sponsors in order to keep them on side for next time. Also her high-profile guests needed to be mentioned, but which order to introduce them in? It was a prickly minefield of egos and loyalties.

Dame Frances then outlined the fashion designers they were about to see with special mention of those designers that were giving away the outfits in the raffle to be held later that day. She could sense the natives were getting restless as the whispers were starting up. Did they really think she couldn't see them from this vantage point muttering to each other? And did they really think a menu held in front of a gossiping lipsticked mouth was going to hide it? She made a mental note to place the whisperers at the back of the room next time.

Eventually Dame Frances handed over to a representative of UP-Kids who spoke for ten minutes about the great work UP-Kids was doing, about the plight of the underprivileged children in Melbourne and about how important the contributions from Dame Frances's UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee were.

He had wanted to do a PowerPoint presentation to show the audience some images and video so they could get a sense of just how important the work was. But Dame Frances had pooh-poohed the idea as unnecessary bells and whistles, fearing that a ‘slide show' would be boring and the AV requirements too complicated.

Finally she got her microphone back. ‘I especially need to thank all of you here who are devoted to this very important cause. Without you, my loyal supporters, UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee wouldn't be able to support such a worthy cause.

‘And now, I have a particularly important announcement to make.' The rustles stilled and the women listened expectantly as it sounded like a scoop of gossip was about to be dropped.

‘You're lucky to be the first ones to hear that today I open ticket sales of the annual Chocolate Ball.' The sense of disappointment in the room was felt even by Dame Frances. She hurried on in order to keep their interest. ‘This year, it is called the Rum Ball, and we will have a very special entertainment spectacular and many distinguished special guests. You're able to buy tickets before they officially go on sale, so don't wait as it's sure to be a sellout.' A smattering of applause followed Dame Frances's announcement. ‘And to spice things up, ladies, this year's ball is to have an unusual edge. We've entered into a challenge. It's a friendly little competition between PR professional Gemma Bristol, who recently chose to leave our committee, and myself. Gemma will be holding a wee function on the same night as a bit of a lark.' The women murmured; this sounded interesting. ‘Of course, I know you're all my faithful followers and you won't be enticed to the other side, as it were.' The women laughed – as if they would dare. ‘So here's to healthy competition!' she concluded.

She swiftly moved on to what they were so eager to hear. ‘Now the winner of the door prize. A hamper of goodies from L'Occitane goes to table twelve, seat seven.' A loud cheer went up from the table as the lucky winner stood to gracefully accept her prize that was ferried over by Julian.

‘And now, ladies and . . . gentlemen,' she wiggled her fingers at Simon and Simon again to repeat her earlier gag and received a similar rustle of laughter, ‘please welcome Melbourne's finest designers with Spring/Summer 2011.' She left the stage and made her way back to her seat as the house lights came down and the spotlights illuminated the first foal-like teenager on stage wrapped in a sarong and bathing suit.

*

After many congratulations and accolades Dame Frances and Julian took their leave. The limo slid down the drive away from the last straggling guests. She turned to Julian. ‘Well, what do you think?'