Armani Angels (26 page)

Mercedes walked into her flat and slammed the door behind her. Donatella yipped and yapped at her ankles in excitement. ‘Shut up,' she said and scooped the dog away with her foot. She slapped her handbag on the table and slumped onto the couch.

So the bitch knew about her and Stephen. Now what? Why was she feeling so upset about this development? She had Stephen to herself now. Isn't that what she wanted? No! She wanted Gemma's life, not some second-hand husband.

Mercedes stood up and moved into the kitchen. She opened the fridge. She took out a plastic container with the remainder of last night's edamame salad. She stood at the counter and stared across the living room to the trees of the Botanical Gardens lapping up the sunshine. She sucked the soybeans out of their pods, tossing each vegetable carcass into the lid of the box.

No, that wasn't fair on Stephen. She liked him well enough. He was fine. Very good-looking, and he'd soon get half of a magnificent piece of property, so that was a good start. But without Gemma, Stephen Bristol was nothing. Just some radio station sales manager. A big loser, really. He was only enticing as Gemma's husband; now that they were sure to break up what would he be then? Mercedes Fiorucci's boyfriend, that's what. A big fat nobody.

Mercedes sat down at the granite-topped dining table and dropped her head onto her arms. She banged the surface of the table and gave a strangulated groan as the realisation hit. Not only had she sacrificed her entire social life, but she'd also just evicted herself from
the
social committee of Melbourne. And even more importantly, she wouldn't get to be a VIP at the most exciting social event that Melbourne had ever seen – the Mal-Teaser. Her stomach sank further and further. This was all bloody Gemma Bristol's fault. If she could only hold onto her man, none of this would have happened.

The cogs spun in Mercedes's mind. Well, if I can't have Gemma's life, then neither can she. There was only one thing left to do.

Mercedes reached into her bag and stared at her BlackBerry as she formulated her final and nastiest move.

The Grand Royal Hotel had seen better days. In its heyday it had glittered as the jewel in Melbourne's crown, accommodating royal, wealthy and famous visitors. Grace Kelly had stayed there, as had a very young Queen Elizabeth.

But that was before Melbourne's boom when grander, more beautiful hotels had pushed the grand old lady aside. The enormous building still boasted graceful nineteenth-century architecture on the outside. But the building's interior had lost its lustre.

As Julian entered the formal foyer under the weight of a box of programs, he admired the wrought-iron balustrades that wound up a twin circular staircase lined with intricate engraved glass panels. Broken panels had been replaced with plain domestic glass. He walked across the mosaic-tiled floor, ignoring the few chips and missing pieces.

The double French doors to the Grand Ballroom were directly ahead. As he walked in, he tsked in sadness that what once had been imposing majesty had crumbled into hulking fatigue. The velvet drapes that fell from the room's fifteen enormous French windows were worn and thinning. The tables were not yet set and their chipped MDF tops accompanied with tarnished gold metal on vinyl chairs did not help lift the flatness of the space.

Of course the committee had had no choice. The only other spaces large enough to accommodate such a grand sit-down function were more utilitarian and suitable for conventions. And Julian thought to himself, it wouldn't take much titivating with his team of stylists, keeping the lights turned low and the glam turned way up to make the space positively ‘glamorarchi'. Even overwhelmed with fatigue, he was actually very excited about tomorrow night. He knew it was going to be a huge success.

Julian looked up at the ceiling. Twenty crystal chandeliers hung from ornate plaster mouldings, highlighting the commanding scale of the room. He frowned at the few blown globes and cobwebs that floated in the air. He made a note to remind the function manager to have everything fixed by tomorrow night.

‘And furthermore, young lady, I don't see how 400 seat covers are going to work on 500 chairs.' The Dame's officious voice floated down the room.

Julian deposited his box on the first table he passed and walked towards the voice. He approached one of the timber parquet screens that hid a waiters' station. He could hear a weak female voice justifying the quantity of seat covers.

‘Good afternoon, Dame Frances, Isabel,' he announced his presence as he rounded the corner.

‘Finally,' the Dame snapped. ‘It's a disaster. There are only 400 seat covers.'

‘But that's what you ordered last week, Dame Frances,' the young woman from the linen hire company pleaded. ‘And that's our entire stock of the gold-coloured covers.'

‘We didn't have 500 guests last week, now we do, fifty tables of ten,' the Dame said in anger. Julian knew she was actually angry at herself for neglecting to update the linen numbers. ‘Fifty tables of ten, do you understand?'

‘I can take them back and replace them with calico?' Isabel suggested.

‘Calico!' the Dame practically spat. The girl may as well have suggested hessian.

‘What else do you have in quantity, Isabel?' Julian asked.

‘I'll check.' Isabel's hands were shaking as she flicked the pages of her manual. ‘Silver?'

‘The theme is black and gold, and you should know that.' The Dame stamped her cane. She turned to Julian and rolled her eyes in a see-what-I-have-to-deal-with manner.

‘Oh, look,' said Isabel, ‘black chair covers with gold bows and there are 500 in stock. But I have to check that they're not already booked.'

‘Do it,' the Dame said and while Isabel quickly tapped away on her mobile Julian and Dame Frances turned to walk through the room.

‘Well, what do you think of the space?' Julian asked. He was tentative, as he didn't want to put words into her mouth.

‘It's fabulous,' the Dame announced, after looking around. ‘I've already had words with the function manager about the state of the chandeliers.'

‘Excellent,' Julian said, crossing it off his list.

‘Yes, she's a tired old thing but still smacks of majesty. And after we decorate, and the tables are set with the fabulous centrepieces, it's sure to be improved greatly,' the Dame said. Julian grinned at her and she winked back. He knew she was just as pumped as he was about their extravaganza. Once the final ticket sales had come in and he'd been able to fax out a press release noting the fact they had sold out to all media, the Dame's attitude had been transformed.

‘Hellooo,' a booming voice reached them from the rear of the room. They looked up to see a large-bellied fellow in a singlet top and inked biceps peeking through a hidden doorway. The oak panelling across the whole north wall had several concealed doorways for staff and large item access.

‘Can I help you?' Julian asked.

‘You ordered a dance floor?' the fellow boomed back.

‘Yes, thank you,' Julian said. ‘It needs to be installed here in front of the stage.'

‘Right.' The man pushed open the double oak doors and the dank concrete service tunnel behind him came into view.

‘Well, that's something,' the Dame grumbled, the brief window into her excitement shut for the time being. Julian knew how the Dame operated: she couldn't let people think that she was enjoying this, otherwise they'd slack off. ‘Where are the hotel staff members anyway? They were setting up the tables and chairs and then wandered off about ten minutes ago. We need this room set up tonight so that we have the time all day tomorrow for the committee and styling team to decorate.'

‘I'm sure they're just on a break, Dame Frances. They'll be back soon.' He turned to look at her. He swallowed, he needed a favour. ‘Dame Frances, can I ask you about the dress code for tomorrow night?'

Although the evening's theme was to be pirate, the dress code was formal, as it had been for fifty years. The Dame was not about to break tradition just because she'd decided to go all-out for this contest with Gemma. Besides, she'd attended themed-dress balls in the past and it was embarrassing to wear dress-ups after a certain age – very few guests ended up participating and it made the overall look too shabby.

‘It's clearly marked on the invitation, Julian: formal.'

‘Yes, I'm aware of that. It's just that my friends want to be pirates.'

‘Pirates? That's ridiculous, everyone else will be in black tie,' the Dame said.

‘Yes, but we kind of like puffy shirts and pantaloons and the wigs and the whole Johnny Depp thing and they've been planning their outfits all week. Do you mind terribly?'

‘But, Julian, the dress code,' the Dame appeared aghast.

‘Look at it this way, Dame Frances: won't a table of men in puffy shirts and pantaloons add to the theatre of the evening? It will be like they're actors involved in the staging of the event.'

Dame Frances looked at him as she considered his request.

‘Well, all right then, if you must be pirates, so be it. Honestly it's no wonder you people have such a flamboyant reputation!'

‘Oh, goody,' he exclaimed and clapped his hands. ‘Thank you so much.'

The two stood in silence while the Dame gazed around the room as if she dared it to be anything other than magnificent on the night and Julian began flicking through his notebook to ensure he'd covered everything.

‘It has to be good, Julian,' the Dame said in a small voice.

He looked up. She'd never voiced concerns about a function before. Her steamroller confidence usually flattened any hint of anxiety.

‘It will be, Dame Frances, it's going to be wonderful. For heaven's sake, you've secured Opera Australia to perform three numbers from their
Pirates of Penzance
production. It's been all over the press. We've had people begging to buy tickets. This is the grandest and most over-the-top function you've ever held. I really think it's going to be amazing.'

‘But, Julian,' her bony fingers enveloped his hand, her eyes locked onto his, ‘it
has
to be perfect. It
has
to be the event of the year. Everybody needs to be blown away. And I
have
to beat that upstart, Gemma Bristol. This is my legacy, Julian; this is it. I need to prove myself as the best in town because as of tomorrow, it will be all over. This is my swan song. I haven't told you yet, but during the speeches tomorrow night, I'm announcing my retirement.'

‘Oh, Dame Frances, that will be huge news,' Julian said. ‘I was hoping you'd changed your mind.'

‘No, this is it, Julian.' She pulled out a chair and sat down, two hands covering the silver dragon head of her walking stick. ‘I have to say goodbye somewhere and there's nowhere better than this.'

‘I need to leak this to the media in order to get them here to cover it,' Julian said.

‘Do what you must but try to keep the announcement a mystery,' she said, and then after consideration continued, ‘it's a good idea to tell the media, though.'

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Dame Frances?' Julian asked. He placed a hand on her shoulder. Her cashmere-clad clavicle was sharp to his touch.

‘Yes, Julian, it's time. It's just so important that this is the best party these people have ever attended. I really need to go out with a bang. On top.'

He sighed, saddened by her sudden collapse in self-esteem, then suddenly she stood and tapped her cane decisively on the timber floor. ‘But what could possibly go wrong, Julian? I'm Dame Frances Davenport and every one of my soirees over the last fifty years has been a knockout.'

‘That's right, Dame Frances. It will be the shimmering, glittering, piratey affair that you need it to be and people will talk about it for years to come.'

Isabel walked over to them, beaming. ‘I got the gold and black chair covers. I'm just having them sent now.'

‘Good,' the Dame said. ‘Tell me, Isabel, how many black and gold striped tablecloths have we got?'

Isabel consulted her notes and, looking pleased she'd found the answer, said, ‘Forty.'

‘Oh, dear God, give me strength.' The Dame flung one hand out in frustration and looked up to the cobwebby chandelier that swayed directly above her head.

The bare warehouse-style space of The Shed was being transformed into a hot and sexy mega nightclub.

Hundreds of metres of bronze-coloured hessian fell from the ceiling to break up the room into large salons. Golden sheers, hiding the industrial aluminium frames, unfurled across the two-storey-high windows in order to lightly flutter in the river breeze wafting from the long verandah.

Muscular workers were installing the ebony podiums that would provide stages for the naked chocolate life- sized statues throughout the main room. As a last-minute flash of creative genius Gemma had doubled the number of podiums and had booked statue mimes, covered in chocolate-coloured body paint, to stand on every second one, and to move slightly throughout the evening. It would provide a dramatic theatrical flair.

Gemma stood and stared at the room as the army of workers pulled it together. Something's missing, she thought. What is it? Her PR sixth sense whirred into overdrive. Something's not here.

‘Chantelle,' she called out. Chantelle's new extra, extra bright blonde head poked out of the back room; she was supervising a team as they filled the thousands of goody bags.

‘I'm here, Gemma.' She teetered over in her very high silver stiletto sandals.

‘Chantelle, what's missing?'

‘Lip gloss,' she said immediately.

Gemma smiled. ‘It's always lip gloss with you.'

‘Well, you always need lip gloss. Here, have mine.' She reached into her gold Chook Leaf postman's satchel.

Gemma pushed away the offering. ‘Not me . . . the room. What's missing?'

Chantelle scanned the venue.

‘We have to make it be like tomorrow night, get the vibe going, then I'll be able to tell,' Chantelle said.

Gemma spoke into her earpiece, ‘AV guy?'

‘Yes, Gemma?'

‘We're doing a run-through, kill the house lights, please, and bring up the party lights.' Within seconds the house lights dimmed and the party lights came up.

‘DJ?'

‘Yes, Gemma?'

‘Chuck on a track, will you, please?'

‘With scratching?' the crackly voice asked.

‘Oh, whatever, no, just a song.' Lady Gaga soon filled the room.

‘What is it?' Gemma tapped her toe and shouted over the high decibels. ‘What isn't here that's supposed to be here?'

They stared at the ghost party, imagining dancers, shoulder to shoulder, gyrating to the beat and others milling about the bar, glowing teeth and dark tans under the UV light spots.

‘Got it!' Chantelle clicked her fingers and spun around to Gemma. ‘The giant disco ball is missing. There're no little fairy speckles.'