Maddie reddened and stared at her drink, hoping a nice sink hole would open up and swallow her. “Does a Lebanese friend count?” She gave a pained chuckle.
“Terrible joke.” Natalii glared at her and folded her arms.
“I don’t have any.” Maddie’s admission made her feel like the worst loser. “No gay amis.”
“How is that possible? This is Sydney! Mardi Gras, Oxford Street! You work in fashion!”
“I lost touch with my exes. And I worked a lot of night shifts.”
Natalii studied her for a few moments before apparently deciding she was sincere in her loser status. “Okay.” She whipped out her phone. “I shall be the one to find us some fun.” She tapped a few buttons and made some swipes across her screen. “First, we go to Butch and Femmes.” A tap. “Then Lady Luck. Then Pinkheart.” Tap, tap. “Then Grrl Fantasy. Oui? They are all within walking distance. Your Oxford Street has much convenience.”
* * *
It was past three in the morning by the time Maddie crawled out of the last nightclub. Natalii and her exotic accent had been popular with the clientele, and even Maddie, to her embarrassment, had to dodge phone numbers waved her way. She hated being the centre of attention, but with Natalii next to her, it was hard to avoid.
“Tsk, non,” Natalii had declared sternly at one woman who tried to practically hump Maddie’s leg on the dance floor. “Mon ami is off the table. She loves a scary woman who would drown you in masses of dead blooms. She is not for you. Go!”
“I don’t lovvve her, Nat,” Maddie said, slurring and feeling more than a little merry for all the free drinks that had come their way. “I mean, I don’t think so. But thanks anyway.”
“So you keep telling me. But there is too much of the protesting. Not just on your lips but in your eyes. And now it is time we go home. But first, I have something I must do.” She pulled out her cell phone and made a call, speaking in rapid French. “It is done.” She gave a taunting smile and eyed Maddie. “Outside now. We must wait for the ride and then…skyfire.”
Skyfire? Maddie’s pleasantly buzzed brain turned that one upside down and all around, unable to fathom what it meant. She followed Natalii outside and shivered against the cold. Her jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and leather jacket were no defence against Sydney’s frigid, early morning air.
Within fifteen minutes, a limousine turned up and, hot on its trail, a clutch of paparazzi on motorbikes and in cars.
Véronique Duchamp slid out of the back seat and tottered over on skewer-thin stilettos, screeching at her daughter in French with a sprinkling of English. Maddie worked out only about two words in every ten. The gist was something about her daughter ditching the ball and asking if this was where she’d been all night. And then, in sharp English, who the gutter wench was beside her.
Gutter wench?
“And so it goes, ma chérie,” Natalii muttered to Maddie with an expression that was both amused and rueful. “Maman disapproves of me. And you. Of course she would hate you much worse if she knew your boss’s name. Worse still if she knew what it was you were really up to tonight, oui?”
“Up to?” Maddie swallowed. “What do you mean?”
Natalii whispered in her ear. “You think you are the first to try and get to my mère through me? Tsk, Madeleine, I thought you realised I was smarter than that. No one can use my hotel’s gym without actually staying there. So your motives? Already I knew. But you were also honest about knowing me. I could see you were so confused about your lady. Your eyes? They are so…what is the word…wistful when you speak of her. So I got a fun evening, and I think you got an education on what else there is out there. And now, I give you a gift of the skyfire.”
With that, Natalii took her in her arms, dipped her, and kissed her thoroughly as the frenzied paparazzi snapped pictures. Flashes lit up the street. Out of the corner of her eye, Maddie was dimly aware of Véronique stabbing her finger towards Maddie as she shrieked at them.
Natalii let her up and winked.
Maddie stared back in a daze, at last understanding what skyfire meant. Fireworks.
“To make your lady of the many flowers green.” Natalii grinned against her ear. “Something to make her think about what she is missing, yes? You are very welcome.” She cupped her cheek. “Au revoir.”
And with that, she was gone, sliding inside the limousine after her mother, who was still berating her and being thoroughly ignored.
“Hey, love. Dave Stevens, Daily Tele,” a masculine voice said near her ear. “Can we get your name? How long have you been on with Véronique’s kid? What’s she like in bed?”
* * *
SYDNEY CONFIDENTIAL
French Connections
It turns out the eccentric and elusive French designer Véronique Duchamp, in town for Australian Fashion Week, may not be one to party, but her daughter certainly is. Natalii Duchamp, 31, hotly tipped to be taking over her mother’s global design empire this year, was spotted romancing a mystery woman outside Grrl Fantasy. The Oxford Street nightclub, famous for plenty of celeb lesbian hook-ups, saw Ms Duchamp pucker up with the redhead, pictured above, while her mother offered a shrill, French and English running commentary that dented all eardrums and didn’t sound in the least bit flattering. (Unless “gutter wench” has a new meaning.) So who is this lucky lady being wooed by Ms Duchamp? Let us know. We’re all ears, dears!
* * *
“You are SO unbelievably dead!”
Maddie groaned, pulling the phone away from her ear to better manage the chai latte, garment bag, and bulging folder of “highly urgent” proof sheets she was juggling, as she rushed down Elizabeth Street.
“I mean it,” Felicity continued. “She’s on the war path. She fired two models at the Whale Beach shoot before seven—one for being too tall and one for being too too, whatever the hell that means—and I think Aleisha is about three seconds away from a nervous breakdown, because how’s she supposed to manage a shoot showcasing different swimwear body shapes with only one model? Perry’s trying to calm Elena down. So where the hell are you? Where’s her damn calming tea? And, oh yes—what on God’s green earth were you thinking!”
“Hey,” Maddie said in protest, “Natalii kissed me! And I’m almost there.”
“Do you think I care who braided whose hair? It was unprofessional! You let that French devil spawn try to swallow your tonsils in front of cameras, and Elena threw the Tele so hard across the room I think the headline is now imprinted on the glass.”
“She what!”
“Oh God! No! She’s just threatened to fire Perry. We’re all doomed. No one’s safe. Get your pathetic ass up those stairs in two minutes or so help me, I’ll kill you myself. Oh, and for the record, I’m not helping you clean out your desk. Because you brought this on yourself. You and your stupid wandering lips.”
Maddie sighed. “But I didn’t…” She waved her pass at the security guard. Her call ended just as the elevator opened.
She scurried into the steel box, pushed the button, and waited impatiently as it counted up the floors. Okay, so she might be about to be unemployed. Again. She needed a strategy. Something not involving catering. With her parents. She wouldn’t ever be that desperate.
Her mind went blank.
Crap.
When the elevator opened, she raced out. The editorial staff milling around their desks stopped mid-conversation and averted their eyes. Great. So no chance they hadn’t spotted the twenty-seven news stories and forty-one blog references that had circled the globe about the Sapphic-smooching daughter of fashion’s most elusive family.
Not that she was counting.
That wasn’t even the half of it. Simon had been sending her text after text. “I left you alone for five minutes!” he’d bleated at her in the first message that seemed to gasp all on its own thanks to all his shocked emoticons. It was followed by, “Okay, five hours, give or take. But not the point! Mads, call me!”
She had not. Nor had she returned the calls from her parents, her brother, or Lisa, the gossipy former Hudson Metro News secretary in New York. That one read:
OH! So THATS why u didnt like Jake? :)Whatevs floats ur boat. Call me!
“Finally!” Felicity said in a hiss, as Maddie rounded the corner. The chief of staff snatched the tea out of her fingers. “She’s only asked for it, like, ten times.” Felicity scrambled into Elena’s office like a highly strung poodle, teetering on her nose-bleed-high Manolo Blahniks.
Maddie put down the folder of proof sheets and hung the garment bag she’d picked up for her boss in the small closet outside Elena’s office. She plopped in her seat and turned on her computer.
“Ms Grey…” a voice floated from the other room.
Maddie’s head snapped up at the use of her surname. Uh-oh.
Felicity exited Elena’s glass office with an I-told-you-so look.
