The Social Diary Read online

  ‘Anyone could see that.’ I stared right back at him with a grim look of my own.

  ‘Really, Miss Stephens? And would any of the other guests be prepared to back you up on this in court?’

  ‘I’ll give you a list,’ I responded defiantly, but really I wasn’t sure that anyone else who’d been at Queen Bea’s place that night would be willing to testify as to her drunkenness. Plenty of people had seen her standing at the door, practically catatonic, but I wasn’t sure that they’d swear to it in a court of law.

  Now it was Tim’s turn to weigh in. ‘I think we are getting a bit ahead of ourselves here, Rog,’ he said, giving me an encouraging smile. ‘Mrs Bonney’s lawyers are just making noises at present. I doubt that she would wish for it to come out in court that she ordered all her guests to leave, and there’s no denying that this happened; her neighbours heard the commotion in the street. If push came to shove, I think a printed apology would probably suffice and perhaps some generous coverage of Entre Nous’s next major event?’

  ‘But the story was correct,’ I said, outraged. I didn’t think that I should have to kowtow to the snobby old nymphomaniac. Maybe Sean Munro would testify that she had unsuccessfully tried to get him into bed?

  My outburst earned me a menacing glare from ‘Rumpole’ of the news room.

  ‘You would be extremely lucky if we get away with a simple apology, Miss Stephens,’ he admonished. ‘From what I have just heard, I doubt that you would be able to sustain questioning on the stand. In fact, Miss Stephens, you look like the sort of person who would crumple in front of a judge and a jury.’

  ‘Ah, well, Mr Coutts, looks can be deceiving,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. Where had that come from?

  For a few moments, no one said anything. A little shocked by my own outburst, I studied my hands and noticed the botchy job I had done painting my nails the night before. I never seemed to have the patience to just sit there and let them dry properly so there were ridges in several of them.

  Tim broke the silence. ‘On reflection, I think you’re right, Savannah. A grovelling apology in the paper is probably exactly what Mrs Bonney is hoping for. We should definitely stand by our story. Everyone in the Eastern Suburbs knows that Beatrice Bonney loves a drink and has on occasion arrived already sozzled at lunch. I say the most we agree to do is run a small paragraph acknowledging that she was not herself when she hosted the dinner because of the stress involved in fundraising for disadvantaged children. That allows us all to save face. But let’s not even agree to that unless her lawyers keep pressing the issue.’

  I thought that this sounded fair, and at least it didn’t make me out to be someone who embroidered the truth so early in my career on a mainstream newspaper.

  Judging by his open look of distaste, Roger was not impressed with the way the meeting was going. He snapped shut his folder and rose from his seat, barely glancing at me.

  ‘Yes, well, I shall see what I can do about that, Tim, but my gut feeling is that Beatrice Bonney will require a cash settlement. In fact, I would be very surprised if that is not the way it goes.’ There was another deadly look in my direction. ‘However, I have some much more pressing matters to attend to this morning, so we shall talk again later.’

  After the lawyer had all but stormed from the office in a ferocious black cloud, Tim Shaw grinned at me. He looked absolutely delighted. ‘Don’t worry about him, Savannah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Lawyers are there to help us and not to pander to the subjects of our stories. It’s all just an overreaction as usual.’ He winked at me again as he leaned back in his chair, which seemed in danger of toppling over backwards beneath his large frame. ‘You’ll just have to get used to dealing with our in-house team of lawyers because, if you do your job well, you’re going to be seeing a lot more of them. And from the ructions you’ve already caused in the social scene, it’s obvious that you’re becoming a force to be reckoned with.’

  He suddenly shot forward, slamming his big, fleshy hands on the desk and almost causing me to jump. ‘No matter what anyone says, don’t think of yourself for one minute as just a social columnist,’ he thundered. ‘That’s old school.’ Now he was staring at me, almost daring me to contradict him.

  I blinked at him, which is what happens when I’m nervous, and nodded vigorously. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’re a journalist, a diarist in the great tradition of Samuel Pepys. I want you to slice and dice Sydney society, starting off with the shonky Alex Evans.’

  I nodded vigorously again, trying to look like I had it all under control. ‘I’m on to it,’ I assured him, not very convincingly.

  ‘Really?’ He was looking at me steadily now as he started to crack the knuckles on his hand. ‘Take me through the steps you have already been through to infiltrate his circle.’

  ‘Oh, heavens,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’

  Four

  And that was the problem: when it came to tracking down Alex Evans, I really didn’t know where to start. I hadn’t yet encountered anyone who knew him—but I felt sure that the golden-lit room at Emerald Ville, with its spectacular floral arrangements which soared above the heads of the diners, was the kind of place he was likely to frequent. Emerald Ville sparkled like the city that was its inspiration. It was where the power hungry came to feed: their appetite for status, glamour and conspicuous consumption was only assuaged by being seated in the middle of the dining room by Nicholas—the restaurant’s softly spoken but remarkably firm maître d’.

  On the cusp of seedy Kings Cross, Emerald Ville was Sydney’s hottest restaurant. Until now, old-fashioned snooty French restaurants were still considered the ultimate in sophistication—but here was an establishment daring to charge over thirty dollars for a beautifully arranged plate of fish and chips!

  ‘At that price, it must be an eighteen-carat gold fish, Nicholas,’ teased Freya Rice while perusing the menu. The witty Perth zillionairess, whose husband Tom had practically discovered iron ore in the backyard of their rundown property in Koolyanobbing, Western Australia, was one of the most amusing women on the scene. She was fond of telling the story of how that ‘shack’ of theirs had now been turned into an imposing homestead, while the family now lived in one of the best mansions in Peppermint Grove, one of Perth’s most salubrious suburbs. Freya caught up with her pals in Sydney as often as possible. You could always tell when she was in the room because of her raucous outbursts of laughter.

  Emerald Ville was so buzzy, thanks to regulars like Freya, that it was booked out for weeks—although, of course, some people could always get a table there. The finance industry whiz kids with their blonde girlfriends in plunging French couture were guaranteed to be squeezed in, along with the entrepreneurs who had flown in on private jets from all over Australia to be seated at one of the prized centre tables where they were on display to tout le monde. As long as they flashed the cash around, they would always be given special treatment.

  Partying well in this town was as much a skill as knowing which businessmen to back, but being messily drunk was a major faux pas, as one well-known fashion designer had discovered. Nelly Jones found the invitations slowing to a trickle after she was discovered by an early morning jogger passed out on a footpath in the back streets of Double Bay still clutching a half-full bottle of champagne. What really got everyone going was that she had invited the man who found her back to her place to keep partying. He not only declined the offer but was on the phone to my office soon afterwards to tell all about the encounter. Alas, Nelly had been much too pissed to notice that the man she had propositioned was not only gay but he worked at a leading hair salon and knew exactly who she was and whom to call.

  Unfortunately for her, the story had been too good to ignore—especially since Frederic had taken a sly photo as proof that it really did happen. We didn’t publish the snap, which would have been devastating for Nelly had it hit the newsstands, but I did manage a page-five story: FASHION STAR FOUND UNCONSCIOUS
IN MILLIONAIRE ENCLAVE. I’d felt sorry for her and indicated that her condition was a mystery—possible amnesia?—but really everyone could read between the lines.

  ‘She never could handle her booze. Is she on uppers as well?’ pondered one interior designer. ‘There must be some kind of drugs involved.’

  Either way, no one encouraged Nelly Jones to attend a long lunch at Emerald Ville for quite some time, because that’s where her spree had started.

  Hosting a table close to the centre of the action today was the vermilion-haired Lady Victoria Snow, who had crammed her voluptuous frame into an acid green Versace that well and truly brightened up the room—the South Head lighthouse could not have done a better job. Little wonder those seated at tables around her, including even the most stunning young women, just faded into the background. The atmosphere was also frequently punctuated by bursts of Lady V’s spirited laughter, which was both sexy and contagious. Really, she sounded as if she was about to climax, which never failed to prick up the ears of certain men who hadn’t heard the sound of such wild, abandoned feminine pleasure in quite a while.

  Lady V was celebrating today with a group who included the ebuillient Freya Rice, Patricia Wren—former private secretary to New South Wales government minister Kenneth Hunt—and Entre Nous’s still mildly shell-shocked vice-president, Susie Carruthers, who was secretly plotting a coup to take over the leadership of the committee from Queen Bea. She felt the president was totally destroying the committee’s good work, especially with all the ‘ghastly’ press she’d had. But before Susie could pull off the coup, like all astute politicians she needed the numbers—and preferably those weighted with some serious titles. It was wonderful how having a ‘Lady’ or ‘Sir’ in front of one’s name opened so many doors. Sitting there in her sublime Gianfranco Ferré suit, Susie was ready to lunch long and hard in order to woo Lady V and her social cachet to her side.

  However, the real reason for this week’s festive get-together was that Lady V’s divorce from her fifth husband—Sir John Snow, a lively septuagenarian—had at last been finalised. She was keeping the waterfront mansion plus all the heirloom jewellery which had belonged to his late mother, Rosemarie Farnsworth, the sugar heiress (who was always known by her maiden name). This included her dazzling diamond and emerald necklace and the Cartier Panthère brooch which had once graced the neckline of the Duchess of Windsor’s gowns.

  Lady V was also clinging for dear life to her title—even though its European origins were a little vague (she had always drifted off when her husband tried to explain it to her). But a title was a title. She had informed her divorce lawyers that as she already had an entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage, including a priceless steamer trunk, engraved with her name, relinquishing it was never going to happen. (Goodness me, it would absolutely destroy the leather.) Unless, of course, she was lucky enough to score another knight of the realm for husband number six, and then it would be dumped in a flash. Lady V was already working on that and would soon be on her way to London on a husband-finding expedition—even a dotty old lord was a possibility.

  ‘I believe that some champagne is in order,’ hooted the prissy Patricia Wren, who had no intention of paying for it herself. Notoriously stingy, she usually stepped out in her ‘uniform’—one of three black and white tweed Chanel suits, which she had purchased with the wardrobe allowance she’d been given to deter her from wearing those ‘miserable twinsets and plaid skirts’ (as Kenneth Hunt described them) which had been her staple at official events.

  ‘Champagne? Of course,’ agreed Lady Victoria. She winked coquettishly at Nicholas, still conveniently hovering at another table close by. ‘We’d like a couple of bottles of the best, Nick,’ she announced in her plummy voice, aware that she was one of only a few regulars who dared to shorten the maître d’s name. Lady V’s overfamiliarity with Nicholas was a form of Emerald Ville snobbery, which included never having to ask for a menu because he would tip her into the right dishes like a stockbroker advising on mining shares.

  ‘After all,’ she added with another wink, ‘this is no time for half measures.’

  ‘You’re darn right there, darl,’ said Freya Rice, thumping one jewel-laden hand down on the table to emphasise her point. ‘Make them magnums, Nicky boy. I’ve got a mother of a thirst coming on.’ Freya Rice always was one to cut to the chase.

  Lady V beamed at the maître’d. Today definitely had all the makings of one of the epic lunches at Emerald Ville. You could sense it in the air.

  The only champagne to order was Billecart-Salmon, preferably vintage, and there were probably more expensive bubbles drained here on a week day lunchtime than there were in the whole of the rest of Australia. In fact, there was a non-stop procession of the pale pink champagne bottles majestically arrayed in silver ice buckets and sent by one group of diners to another, although most tried diplomatically to ignore its transit.

  Another of the unwritten rules was that it wasn’t good manners to turn around and stare at each arriving patron—no matter how fabulous their stature or unusual their appearance might be. Unfortunately this code was totally ignored by me. Hell, it was part of my job and I was always on the lookout for the elusive Alex Evans, whose circle I was, of course, supposed to have infiltrated already.

  I certainly couldn’t stop myself from spinning around when my nemesis, Erica Hopewell, appeared at the doorway and gave something like a grimace when she spotted me. The fashion editor had arrived with Sylvester (he never used a last name), one of her coterie of camp designers. Unfortunately, both of them looked a tad washed out in their black ensembles—Erica was in a cape dress with patent leather detailing while Sylvester (well entrenched in his French nobility period with his remaining auburn hair scraped into a ponytail) was wearing a short-sleeved cashmere knit and black jeans with a massive gold chain around his neck. Not even the exquisite shaft of sunshine from the Emerald Ville skylight could warm up the pair’s pasty complexions. Hangovers were such a bitch.

  Swanning past my table, Erica ignored me, of course, despite my half-hearted attempt at a cheery wave. But, then, Erica only addressed me in extreme situations—like when she needed something. (‘If you’re going to the cafe, could you please bring me back a cappuccino? There’s a love.’) But she was flat out belittling me to others the moment that I walked away. In fact, Erica was such a genius at backstabbing that if it ever became an Olympic sport, she would definitely win gold. I tried not to take it personally, aware that Erica was super sensitive about getting older and losing her powerful grip on the Sydney social scene. Until I had come along in a flourish of front-page scoops, she had been the one at the receiving end of all the attention.

  I watched now as Erica and Sylvester headed to one of the back tables in Emerald Ville with the designer throwing a small hissy fit at Nicholas when he realised that they would not be seated front and centre. But the maître d’ just smiled gently and shrugged his shoulders. They weren’t exactly in Siberia but they were certainly close enough to feel a chill in the air.

  Despite being seated so far away, I was pretty sure that Erica would have seen the trajectory of the bottle of Billecart-Salmon which had just now landed on my table. I could just sense her eyes boring into my back and the filthy look on her face as the bottle in its ice bucket, borne aloft by Nicholas like some bizarre sporting trophy, was set down right in front of me. And, embarrassingly, there was a sad-looking red rose resting on the tray next to it. The flower had been plucked from one of Emerald Ville’s lavish floral displays by the owner of Collier jewels, Lahar Kapoor, who was hard to miss today in a blazing white suit and a canary yellow tie.

  ‘Oh my gawd, I can’t believe it. How sweet!’ exclaimed Frances Ford, breaking into a huge smile as Nicholas set the champagne down on our table. As the public relations director of Chantelle Cosmetics, Frances was used to being feted by one and all. She had many sycophantic friends and acquaintances who were desperate to ensure that they were on the invitation list for
her famously over-the-top scent launches, which were always gushingly referred to by social writers as ‘the party of the week’. On one occasion—for the launch of Paris Nuit—she’d had Centrepoint Tower transformed into the Eiffel Tower, and another time she had had a stretch of the Parramatta River decorated to look like the Seine then ferried her guests along it in a motor launch. There was seemingly no limit to her creativity or her budget.

  Frances had invited me to lunch today ‘to get to know each other’, but mainly because she wanted some coverage on a forthcoming Chantelle nail polish launch.

  ‘I’m bringing you some product,’ she cooed over the phone when she had confirmed the date. ‘Believe me, this nail polish will be the biggest thing to come to Australia since lip gloss was invented.’

  Woo hoo, stop the press. I had only agreed to meet her because she suggested Emerald Ville on the phone, which was the perfect hunting ground for a gossip columnist trying to track down a certain elusive millionaire. And, who knew, maybe Frances was in with Jacqueline Evans. A slender blonde woman with wide blue eyes that made her seem younger than her years, Frances was especially excited to be dining in Emerald Ville today because Lady V was in the room and we had been given a table close by.

  ‘Oh, look who’s at the next table,’ she had stage whispered to me. ‘Don’t stare, but it’s Lady V.’

  Unfortunately, I had turned around just as Susie Carruthers was peering at our table and we locked eyes. It was an awkward moment as we hadn’t spoken since I’d had to inform her that the piece on Queen Bea was about to hit the streets. I had felt guilty about letting her down, but of course my first responsibility was to entertain my readers and please my editor so that I could remain employed.

  Frances Ford did not notice the uneasy exchange between Susie and me as she was still so pleased by her ace spot in the dining room—really at Emerald Villa it was all about position. But no doubt she thought it was because she was definitely looking her best today with her new fluffy blonde hairstyle and her lemon and gold suit with enormous shoulder pads.