Call of the Night Parrot E-Book

Janelle Victor

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Art of Influence
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 447

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

A hidden past. The chase begins.

In the world of high society, Bernadette Bodelle, a tenacious Monuments Woman, unravels layers of historical art crimes. Her life becomes irrevocably intertwined with the mysterious death of Solange Lanquetin, a French-Australian designer with secrets tied to the Nazi art plunder. As Bernadette digs deeper, she, along with a cast of powerful influencers, are drawn into a perilous quest for lost cultural treasures. Amidst the glittering facade of the social elite, the elusive Australian Night Parrot whispers of hidden truths. Every revelation brings Bernadette closer to the brink of a dangerous disclosure. If she pushes further, what long-buried secrets will emerge? 

'Call of the Night Parrot' is the first book in Janelle Victor's mystery series. If you love art, intrigue, and high-stakes mystery, then you'll love Janelle Victor's thrilling exploration of heritage and deception.

Unravel the mystery today.

Leseprobe

CALL OF THE

NIGHT PARROT

A novel by

JANELLE VICTOR

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2024 by Janelle Victor

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission.

Enquiries should be made to the author.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

ISBN 978-0-9756328-0-2 (ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9756328-1-9 (paperback)

For my Mum who has always believed in me, and my Dad who would have been totally confused about the whole concept of an influencer.

Table of Contents

Chapter One - DEAD BIRDIE

Chapter Two - SHEPHERDING

Chapter Three - STARTING SOMETHING

Chapter Four - CLASH OF EGOS

Chapter Five - BRANDED

Chapter Six - INFLUENCED

Chapter Seven - STARSTRUCK

Chapter Eight - POISON IVY

Chapter Nine - BUTLER DADDY

Chapter Ten - MONUMENTS WOMAN

Chapter Eleven - JUDGEMENT CALL

Chapter Twelve - INNOCENCE LOST

Chapter Thirteen - COERCIVE CONTROL

Chapter Fourteen - ALMOST PERFECT

Chapter Fifteen - LIGHTING THE FIRE

Chapter Sixteen - GASLIGHTING

Chapter Seventeen - WORKPLACE DYNAMICS

Chapter Eighteen - HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

Chapter Nineteen - SECRETS

Chapter Twenty - WHAT HAPPENS ON TOUR…

Chapter Twenty-One - LET’S TAKE A CLOSER LOOK

Chapter Twenty-Two - BLOODLINE

Chapter Twenty-Three - THE KEEPER OF SECRETS

Chapter Twenty-Four - FINAL FINESSING

Chapter Twenty-Five - PREDATORS

Chapter Twenty-Six - DEATHLY DECISION

Chapter Twenty-Seven - OPHELIA

Chapter Twenty-Eight - WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT

Chapter Twenty-Nine - PAYBACK TIME

Chapter Thirty - THE POLICE REPORT

Chapter Thirty-One - A NEW BEGINNING

Chapter Thirty-Two - FINDER OF SECRETS

Chapter Thirty-Three - GREEN CIRCLE COLLECTION

Chapter Thirty-Four - ANONYMITY OVER ACOLADES

“Given that cultural property is one of the principal mechanisms by which we create, maintain, and describe identity, it is unsurprising that parties to international and intranational armed conflicts recognise the strategic value of cultural property. To threaten the cultural property of the opponent is to threaten its identity and it is this poignant link between cultural property and cultural identity that so often imperils the former in the service of the latter.”

The Hague Convention 1954

Chapter One - DEAD BIRDIE

EVEN IN DEATH SHE APPEARED CELESTIAL. Her slender frame was cloaked in a striking crimson kimono that draped delicately in the sparkling water. It gave the impression of a luminous halo. Honestly, only she could pull that off. They were all thinking it.

The reaction of the guests although disturbing was predictable. The elegant women clutched designer bags to their chests as if to ward off death itself. The men straightened their ties and smartly signalled for drivers.

Those left behind seemed entranced, the whole scene surreal. Her body gently suspended, her eyes open to the night sky. The siren’s song that had once charmed many was silenced, though perhaps now was even more menacing. For she was taking with her a secret – the possible key to recovering hundreds of cultural treasures from the Second World War.

Sonja moaned in irritation, ‘Cancel the Ikebana Collection.’ This death was to be such an inconvenience for her and thousands of other women. The kimono cape now weighing down the lifeless woman was the signature garment for an upcoming fashion collection.

‘Even for you Sonja that is out of line. I actually think Solange might be dead.’ Her assistant spoke back to her like a despondent teenager embarrassed by the behaviour of a parent. She stared in disbelief at the older woman.

Sonja held up her hand, indicating the conversation was over. Strumming her chin with long bejewelled fingers she considered the old adage that there was no such thing as bad publicity.

Orpheus was first to react which was most unusual as he was the least likely out of the crowd to perform any heroics. Aware of the fortune he had spent getting his hair styled for the event and mindful his clothes were on loan from an Italian designer with a name so difficult to pronounce that he dedicated the afternoon to practicing the articulation; jumping into a chlorinated swimming pool at night was not his first preference. Pressured to perform, he dived into the freezing water splashing it in a wide arc and surfaced almost immediately shouting profanities about how cold the water was before diving again to scoop up the floating body of his colleague Solange. In a panic he fumbled while trying to secure a hold on her, grabbing at the voluminous fabric of the cape and eventually deciding the best method would be a headlock as he attempted to re-surface. The unexpected weight of his clothing and tightly laced shoes made treading water clumsy, alarmed he considered letting go of Solange as he didn’t think his lungs would hold out for much longer.

Eventually Orpheus edged his way to the steps as the fabric of the cape began enveloping him. Coughing and gasping for air, the attention was now all on him. Shivering and more than a little repulsed, he stared at the lifeless slumped body, the skin on her face already starting to take on a grey tinge revealing a sinister bruise on her cheek. He flinched at the long black hair that had wrapped itself around his forearm and slapped it away like the poisoned tentacle of a bluebottle. Once detached from his catch he unceremoniously pushed the body away and scrambled backwards clearly terrified at what had just occurred. However, in the fog of shock his thoughts turned to his smart watch and phone as he contemplated that if they weren’t the latest waterproof models their only chance of recovery was a bag of dry white rice.

When replaying the video footage, the authorities remarked how it was a miracle that Orpheus did not become the next fatality. He had taken in so much water after his theatrical rescue that he then spent the next twenty minutes comically dry retching into the manicured hedges. This wasn’t the only thing the state-of-the-art monitoring system picked up; it had also captured Sonja’s callous comment. They had all heard it in disbelief, over and over on the replay.

The whole retrieval actually took less than thirty seconds – despite the dramatic embellishments that Orpheus would later flourish the rescue attempt with. It seemed half the crowd had now disappeared, and the other half were filming him as he coughed and vomited. He noticed the aloof and demanding French woman Bernadette on her phone barking orders in her native tongue, something about airports while staring right at him.

‘Is everyone just pissing off or has as anyone called for help?’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake she is dead. What is wrong with you people?’ The response was inaudible, people were just staring at him. He had expected to be crowded by well-wishers, congratulated for his bravery, and patted on the back. He had also anticipated that someone qualified in first aid would push him aside to attempt resuscitation, but the scene was very different. Solange was still lying across the pool steps, the underwater lights creating an eerie silhouette around her. No one would go near the body, like covering up a dirty little secret everyone was more focussed on their own well-being. They had all come to the embassy with the intention to be seen, to get their photo in the social pages and to hopefully get invited to future events with the red-carpet guest list of diplomats and socialites.

Something like that just doesn’t happen at a place like this. And that is exactly what the Ambassador was saying to his security detail. Lockdown had already commenced at the Embassy.

Chapter Two - SHEPHERDING

THREE YEARS EARLIER, Bernadette stood in her penthouse apartment watching for her guests to arrive. Often the most successful people do more listening than talking. This was certainly Bernadette’s style. She could feel a change in the air, and it was time to set some traps.

The nervous energy in the small group was obvious as they gathered at the entrance. At the briefing prior to their arrival, Janine had barked at the photographer and lighting assistant to be on their best behaviour. She knew their reputation for being a little flamboyant and sassy. Today she did not need any more attitude, the hairdresser and makeup artist were already delivering that in spades.

Like a secret whispered between friends Janine had been thrilled she had been selected to conduct the interview, a handshake and nod from a family friend ensured she got the scoop. Despite the staged pretence of the interview complete with scripted responses she wasn’t perturbed. It seemed the more elusive and influential the subject, the more controlling of their image they were – especially the older women she noted. The success of this interview would be a highlight of her career… other than getting an exclusive on the other First Lady of France.

Deciding what to wear had kept Janine distracted in the days leading up to the interview and in the end, she decided it would be best to keep it simple; black waxed tight pants and a silk blouse - the uniform of most French women. The finishing touch and so very chic were the highest patent leather stilettos in her wardrobe. She had fussed over her hair and nails for almost an hour. The desired result looked like she had made no effort at all.

Reminiscent of the trepidation of heading to see the school principal, Janine shot a look at the troop, prompting them to stub out their cigarettes on the sidewalk. She mustered them and gave a final warning before pressing the button on the intercom. Even this, a series of brass domes set into a scrolled wrought iron frame with ink-black numbers beside them was a statement of Parisian elegance that entranced her. Even the buzzer for goodness sake. She couldn’t wait to see the apartment.

A decade earlier Madame Bernadette Bodelle had commissioned France’s best architects and artisans to create a penthouse apartment in the 7th arrondissement. To be exact it was actually the two top floor apartments remodelled into one. It was a place of solace. The entire top floor was hers like a spire for a sentry to keep watch over her beloved Paris. This location was selected not only for the stunning view of her neighbour, the Eiffel Tower and her evening sparkling show, but for Bernadette more importantly, the locality for her life’s passion. The Musée d’Orsay and Musée Rodin were amongst her favourites, where the cultural icon herself was warmly greeted and just simply slipped in the side door like family. She always shook her head in awe at how the tourists seemed to obey the barricades in place, forcing them to snake along slowly toward the main entrance in all weather conditions for hours on end. The spell was already cast on them before they had even entered.

The location of the penthouse was also selected for the position on the Rive Gauche, the left bank of the river Seine - a scenic enchantment and home to many foreign diplomatic embassies plus several delightful boutique hotels. Simply perfect for entertaining visitors or arranging renowned pastry chefs to create the delights she would serve to guests at her many soirées. A French hostess just doesn’t make her own desserts.

Without any of them knowing, Bernadette had been observing the group from the moment they arrived near the building. The cameras were discreetly built into the facade. All passers-by were filmed during their daily activities, whether it be simply chatting on the phone or craning their necks in an effort to photograph the outside of her postcard worthy apartment. She watched the theatrics of the group and could see their leader Janine Roche, the journalist with whom she had granted the interview. She was scolding the others like a primary school teacher and her charades clearly indicated she was directing their behaviour while all the time preening her hair to keep it looking wind-swept.

Bernadette simply pressed the release button from inside her apartment and the front door clicked open. She always enjoyed the look on people’s faces when she did that as they were always leaning in towards the intercom, nervously expecting to speak. The group entered cautiously. She watched them from the next set of cameras. Their behaviour changed and they all seemed to walk a little differently as if they were aware they were being scrutinised and observed.

Marvelling at the interior of the elevator as they entered, it was elegant yet unusually eccentric. Distracted by their own reflections and the detailed features of the lift, they panicked momentarily as they started to ascend. They hadn’t selected a floor, but they didn’t need to, as Bernadette had programmed the elevator to take them to the highest of the eight floors. When the lift slowed it chimed ever so elegantly and they felt they may have been transported through time. The door opened at its own pace, there was no rushing to be done here. It seemed to signal the mood, take your time, breathe it all in, you have arrived. They stepped out and immediately stopped to marvel at what lay before them and to take in the fragrance of vanilla, lime, and pear.

The first thing that struck Janine was the polished parquetry flooring and she looked down at her choice of footwear. Those heels would make this floor look like a hailstorm had hit it. Then her eyes met another pair of shiny stilettos, bright cherry red and clearly worth more than the car she dreamed she would one day own. Trying to take it all in she just seemed to stare at Bernadette while the tentacles of apprehension started to wrap around her. The others formed a neat line and shuffled in behind Janine as if for protection.

Bernadette had a thirty second rule when she met people, and before they even spoke, she had classed each by how she would deal with them to achieve her desired outcome. In a way she had become a mirror to everyone else’s vanity, and she was able to work any meeting to ensure she achieved her aims. Bernadette held out her hand and greeted each of them personally in a most elegant way. They felt like they were meeting royalty. Well, they were. The sovereign of French culture and design – the Madame Bernadette Bodelle. This woman had ensured the protection and longevity of true French heritage and style, her reputation preceded her.

Despite her own dominating footwear statement, she glanced at their shoes and that one look was the instruction to remove them. Without a word Janine conveyed the same message to her team and they awkwardly began to fumble about. Now a stiletto heel shorter, Janine felt even more intimidated, exactly as Bernadette intended. The hairdresser and make-up artist were both feeling this was a sweet gig. No effort required, this woman had style and she was sorted. Nothing further for them to do but marvel at this house and this woman. Hopefully she would supply food and drinks.

Bernadette kept them gathered in their neat line and spoke to them. ‘Welcome to my home it is indeed a pleasure to host you today. I am honoured you would like to feature me for this article and now please join me for a tour and then we will have refreshments in the salon.’ Such an official greeting. Like children on a school tour, they moved about in a herd, as Bernadette effortlessly led them through the apartment, gliding in her heels. They really didn’t know where to look as there was so much to take in. The fine furnishings, the colours, the art, and of course that view!

In the salon, a prominent chair caught their eyes. It was an ornately carved antique Louis XV armchair upholstered in duck egg blue, clearly for the lady of the house. The others were to sit on the plump feather filled cream sofas. She had worked her magic again; she would have the upper hand and have control over this interview. The makeup artist had to stop herself from curtsying when she approached Bernadette and pretended to apply pressed powder. The hairdresser didn’t dare move from her seat but gave an approving nod to Bernadette and a discreet thumbs up, whispering across the room. ‘We’re cool… all good!’ Of course, as predicted and to their delight, the canapes and hors d’oeuvres were tastefully laid out on an adjoining table.

Janine sat at the edge of her seat and spoke in a confident voice – she had been rehearsing. ‘Once again Madame Bodelle, thank you for your time and generosity in granting us this interview. It really is an honour.’

Bernadette was a chameleon, however not in the least bit malleable. She was the “finder of secrets”. Elusive, enigmatic, and tantalisingly mysterious. She wasn’t one for selfless publicity, the fact she had allowed this interview at all was extraordinary. Poor child, thought Bernadette, but she didn’t ease up, and she didn’t ever let her guard down. There was always too much at stake in a situation like this. There was an awful lot of information about herself she did not want revealed and a savvy little journalist like this was just the type of person who would have researched and continue to research all she could about her. It was always possible that Bernadette’s secret would be revealed, blindsiding her publicly. This was not going to happen. Not ever – there was just too much to lose.

‘I just wanted to confirm you agree to me recording the interview using a small device.’ Janine leaned forward and placed the digital voice recorder on the coffee table.

Bernadette wanted to recoil, she hated those things and always felt it was a trap. But she smiled and just waved her hand in a nonchalant way.

Janine switched the device on. ‘Thank you again Madame Bodelle for your time. Before I go on, I also wanted to clarify that the interview is to be part of a feature article on women of France, those living legends who have dedicated their professional lives to their country.’ Janine’s eyes looked pleading; it seemed as if she were receiving the keys to a precious vault.

She continued cautiously with a brief disclaimer, ‘You also understand the article will be released on the open media market through our agency? So… it may appear in other magazines or online.’

‘Yes, indeed that is what I understand this interview to be. I must say I am truly honoured you are here.’

Music to her ears. Janine took a sip of water gulping it a little awkwardly, cleared her throat and continued. ‘Madame Bodelle thank you again for granting us this interview. It is an honour to be invited into your beautiful home. Our readers will be enchanted by the decor and your amazing selection of paintings, sculptures, and those incredible wall sized tapestries. Not to mention the view.’

‘Janine thank you for your compliments. I will take you on a proper tour of the house later. There are so many beautiful stories about the artworks I would love to share with you.’ Bernadette waved her arm like an orchestra conductor and the group couldn’t help but pay attention and look around in awe at their surroundings. Bernadette then nodded a silent encouragement for Janine to continue.

‘Madame Bodelle, in our interview today I was hoping to focus on the historical buildings you have personally ensured will continue to be part of our heritage. There are many historical buildings in France that more than likely would not be standing today if it were not for you.’ She paused for effect, albeit a little too rehearsed. ‘How is it you have such power and influence, enough to persuade the government to restore and refurbish these… as you describe them “beautiful orphans”?’

‘I can tell you that each of those buildings had a story to tell, they had been abandoned and they just needed assistance, love, and attention. They needed someone to help get them dressed and functioning again. It is inspiring to see the work of many hundreds of talented craftsmen and women have dedicated their passion to ensure these buildings will be here for many generations to come.’ She laughed. ‘Ahh Janine. I usually get my way. I am very stubborn. I know I have a reputation, so I think people just say it is easier to do as I ask.’ The last statement intended as part instruction and part insider joke made them all laugh although a little uncomfortably on cue.

‘Yes, I can see how passionate you are and why this has become so important to you.’

‘If we don’t protect the objects of our heritage and we don’t appreciate them… what hope have we got as a society? They are our culture; they tell the story of our ancestors and of our country. They hold such importance in our lives.’

‘It has been said the government had cut the budget to the care of heritage buildings and monuments in recent time and yet you were able to get them to re-consider. You must have a powerful ear listening to you there.’

‘Yes, there were times when it was a struggle to get people to understand the priorities of budgets being allocated to these buildings. Then when they see each project completed, I see that look in their eye and I know they are changing. The government is listening. I gradually chipped away at them over the years and now I have a healthy budget and a team of staff overseeing numerous projects across the entire country.’

‘There are so many dilapidated châteaux dotted across France that have been deserted and left to nature to reclaim them. Is there any chance you will have any influence on preserving some of these sleeping beauties?’

‘These projects will never stop. Perhaps age will catch up with me, but I have ensured the legacy will continue through with the solid team I have built up around me. The refurbishment and repairs of these châteaux have certainly been brought to my attention. I have created several websites and Facebook pages to include some of our upcoming projects. Many people from across the globe are even volunteering their time to assist. This is of vital importance the message can be spread this widely with the power of social media.’

‘Yes, social media, while it is often frowned upon for all the misuse and malice, certainly can have its benefits. We will include the details of the sites for our reader’s benefit. Hopefully that will encourage some new supporters for you.’

‘Thank you, Janine it is very kind, and certainly appreciated.’

‘Madame Bodelle, it has often been said if you attend an art exhibition launch, the gallery can double the expected revenue. Or double the future salary of the gallery manager… or both!’

She laughed at the intended compliment. ‘You flatter me, Janine. I know art. It is my life and I certainly know a good exhibition. As you would be aware, more than half of the time I have been involved in the actual curation and planning for the event. I could tell you the life story of every artist in the exhibition down to the names of their grandchildren. I could tell you the story of their lovers, muse, or the location and why they chose it. I breathe art.’

Paul the photographer had already snapped enough photos that easily ensured he had the one he would use. But there was something about this woman, there was a fire in her he wanted to capture on film. He was intrigued and kept moving about to use different angles and light. He was adept with his manoeuvres, and it wasn’t distracting to either of the women. He was definitely in the moment and was totally ignoring the food which was not like him at all!

‘So, can you tell me how it is you have become so interested in art? Do you have a favourite work of art?’

‘Ahh an individual favourite work of art… now that is a rather difficult task. Perhaps let me answer in this way. If I was to define a moment in my younger life that had a profound effect on my interest in art, it would be the instant I saw an unusual display of huge marble sculptures of saints and religious icons. They towered over me and I was perplexed, as their hands and heads had been removed during the crusades. These vanquished idols caused me to question so many things in life and to understand the true value of art even more.’

Janine glazed over. This wasn’t the answer she was expecting, and Bernadette elaborated.

‘How is it that a religion which decrees we should “love one another” would dictate the smashing of heads and limbs off statues? Knocking the noses off and carving crosses into the foreheads of deities, heroes, and emperors? I could not reckon with this notion. It was the first time I had experienced such cultural vandalism and it delivered powerful messages. These acts of vandalism robbed us of so much art, history, and culture. The power art can have on our lives and our belief system is immeasurable and the power of those that set out to destroy this way of life so calculated.’

After delivering this manifesto, Bernadette reached out to the silver and mirror topped table beside her and opened a small box decorated in mother of pearl, patterned with highlights of turquoise triangles that rose up like water droplets from the surface. She lifted out her silver and glass vaping pen that contained a purple liquid. Gently lifting the slender device to her lips, she pressed on the small button, and they heard the distinct sound of the device engage and the vapour fed through to the mouthpiece. She inhaled and gently blew the mist down and away from the others. Immediately they could smell a delicious mixture of fresh mint and juniper berry, they were entranced. This woman rocked; she was so in control. Their fingers were itching to get their cigarettes out of their pockets, but they already knew it wasn’t an option.

Janine was bewildered. This was not part of the script. Everyone knew Bernadette’s favourite piece of art was the Winged Victory of Samothrace. The goddess standing on the prow of a ship overlooking the Sanctuary of the Great Gods on the island of Samothrace. That is what she was supposed to have answered.

Only yesterday in preparation for the interview she had been standing in front of the statue at the Louvre, propped on the Daru staircase marvelling at one of the most celebrated sculptures in the world. Gazing at this masterpiece in marble as many others did even before the birth of Christ. Janine researched all the details of how in 1939, anticipating the outbreak of the Second World War, the great statue was carefully lowered down the stairs on wooden ramps by her dedicated saviours, then sent to the Loire Valley for safe keeping from bombing raids, looting or theft by invading armies. Janine had studied the photographs of the event carefully to show her knowledge and impress Bernadette.

Bernadette’s rant continued. ‘From that moment, I knew the power of art and the consequences of when it is destroyed. It was a personal mission and I needed to know everything I could learn in my lifetime.’ She put the vape pen to her lips and inhaled strongly again, breathing the vapour out as she spoke.

‘I also knew the importance of safeguarding our precious history and the significance of the stories that need to be preserved so they can be handed down to future generations. I realised art is many things to different people. Some will see a carved marble statue and see a representation of a person, either real or imaginary. Others will see the enemy of their religion or belief system. Some will see graffiti on a shop front roller door and see vandalism, others will see it is a Banksy and an ingenious message from the artist. Art is a mystery for the initiated. Art is my life.’ For the second time she used that sentiment.

This colossal statement was not taken lightly by any of the team as they were all too aware of the sacrifices Bernadette had made in her life to ensure art was her priority. She had decided to dedicate her life to art and therefore did not even enter into any relationship that would have hemmed her in or taken her away from her path. She had no children, no pets and now no parents or living relatives. Art really was her life.

Janine could not stop herself from stealing glances at the house during the speech. This place was magnificent and was truly the grandest house she had ever been in. She discreetly moved her toes through the plush carpet beneath her feet. She had never felt anything so luxurious in her life before. She wondered just how much money this woman was worth.

Sensing the distraction, Bernadette noted it was time to share her house with this young impatient group, and she stood. She didn’t need to ask twice as she offered a tour of the house. ‘But first, I don’t think I have completely answered one of your earlier questions. My favourite piece of art? It would certainly have to be the Winged Victory of Samothrace standing in all her glory, dwarfing all that gaze upon her.’

Janine smiled as she picked up her recording device acknowledging they were back on track and gravitated towards this inspiring woman to continue the interview. Bernadette looked back at the others and gave them a friendly nod of encouragement. They let out a collective sigh and greedily descended upon the offered refreshments.

As they walked off into the next room, Bernadette took the device out of Janine’s hand and flicked it off. It was time to talk off the record and ensure Janine really understood her mission.

In coming weeks, the article went viral. Every design magazine, art newsletter and blogger in the country was using it. And then it went global… and into the hands of just the person Bernadette had planned it for all along.

Chapter Three - STARTING SOMETHING

TO SOME THE SMELL OF FRESHLY GROUND COFFEE was the elixir of life and to others green, jasmine or peppermint tea was their tonic. They all marvelled at how the new food and beverage attendant already knew of their preferences. Her service was exceptional, she had clearly done her homework. Exactly the calibre of employee Luxuriance Resort and Spa proudly promoted in their glossy advertising. Her jet-black hair in a neat ponytail swayed gently as she moved about the room, it was mesmerising. Her name tag was proudly shining out the name Sandi, her uniform immaculate and her smile ever so sweet. However, none of the hotel executive committee were able to pinpoint her, after all there were hundreds of staff on the payroll.

On the first Tuesday of every month Sonja Montgomery gathered her cherished influencers at a luxury destination. It provided inspiration for them to achieve even greater results for her. It was her way of giving back – no expense spared. But then, there was no charge. What luxury hotel hosting Australia’s top social media influencers would be mad enough to even consider charging for the publicity they were about to receive? They were a treasured commodity and contra was their unique currency.

This was exactly the rhetoric Henrik Karlsson, the resort General Manager was preaching at the morning executive briefing. This was their second year of operations, and they were in the process of compiling their entry for the annual Hotels Association Awards. They were entering in the Best Deluxe Accommodation category and Henrik wanted this award so very badly. His annual bonus depended on it.

Palm Beach is known as Australia’s secret short-break destination for the beautiful people, with celebrity spotting a well-practiced pastime. However, in the last year competition was firming up with new resorts seeming to open across Australia every other month. He feared the glitter and excitement might just be luring away his shining star guests and their luminary status. Sitting out on its tapered peninsula, Sydney’s sea-side retreat location “Palmy” is encased by the glittering waters of Pittwater, Broken Bay and the Pacific Ocean, an oasis to escape the busyness of life. The true “names” arrived by seaplane, departing from the historic WWII Catalina Base in the harbourside eastern suburb of Rose Bay, a community established by old European money generations earlier. This would make the perfect first impression for his next seriously impressionable guests. He had no doubt.

The atmosphere in the management meeting was formal and intense as usual, but today there was a sense of anticipation as most of the executive committee already knew all of the VIP guests on the list intimately. In fact, it could be said they knew more about them, than they did their own offspring. Everything about them: from the names of pampered pets to their favourite recipes, designers, makeup, scent, destinations, travel packing tips, and all the dreamy products they regularly pimped. It was no secret that most of the resort staff would freely exchange the precious hours of their lives liking, commenting, and adding to cart for their beloved bloggers. A few taps on a digital device and the promise of that lifestyle could be theirs, albeit for a brief moment until the buyer’s remorse set in or the thrill of the purchase faded. They already knew them very well, but Henrik insisted on conducting the briefing, it was a procedure, and he was a stickler for procedure.

The public relations team had created a dossier on each of the famous influencers. It included a profile photo, their specialist areas of influence, and most definitely their pampering preferences. There was also a second list that was particularly long and read like the ten plagues of Egypt: a catalogue of allergies, known dislikes and a directory of no-goes. That list was designed to strike fear to the heart of those that did not heed the warning. Henrik felt this was comparable to a life-or-death situation. They really were the new world celebrities, the ambassadors of brands, and the voices that would influence, groom, and shape the purchasing decisions of hundreds of thousands.

The maintenance team had been busy as well. The hotel had to be Instagram worthy. Everything had been cleaned and painted. Every lightbulb in the public areas and the suites had been changed to the recommended wattage for the best quality photographic images. The exposure they would receive from a visit like this would be worth more than a glossy front page of any top selling magazine. Hopefully it would not only increase revenue but give Henrik the heavy glass statue he had already planned space for in the display cabinet.

‘These people are in the earnest business of frivolous things. They wield great power and influence. Which is perhaps why they are referred to as influencers.’ There was something about his Swedish sense of humour that seemed to go straight over everyone’s head. He laughed at his own joke, and that in turn brought its own chuckles from the team. He was always doing this.

‘On this occasion, it is a very different requirement to impressing a hotel reviewer.’ Henrik explained while he adjusted one of his polished cufflinks. They featured navy blue Ralph Lauren polo mallets, something he was sure would not go unnoticed by the agency manager Sonja as it was identical to her company logo. A nice touch he thought.

‘Yes, we always aim to impress beyond their expectations, but this will provide a very different kind of review. They are not only rating us by service or cleanliness… they are rating us by our wow factor. Moments of serendipity.’ He paused for effect. He was always doing that as well.

‘What is so unique about what we offer they will want to share with their readers? We need to provide them with ah-ha moments, intangible experiences they will write about and include in their online posts.’ He was speaking to the initiated. They all knew how it worked, half of them had their own blogs, with followers even… albeit only close friends and relatives. But one day, they would tell themselves, one day they would crack it.

The data projector beamed onto the glossy white wall. The face of the formidable Sonja Montgomery stared back at them, and for a moment the team looked to him confused. This wasn’t one of their beloved bloggers. Her face was frightful, frozen with botulinum and stuffed with fillers.

‘This is Ms Sonja Montgomery, director at The Stables Agency. She has contracted the influencers and manages their rights. She has been described as a practitioner of creative brilliance.’ They nodded pensively, raising eyebrows signalling concern as they didn’t really understand what the job description of a practitioner of creative brilliance would look like. She however, looked precious and forbidding, there was no doubt this would be one tough customer.

In the photo, Sonja was wearing the same black leather dress she was often photographed in, it had become her trademark. It wasn’t age appropriate and did look a little stretched across the bust, the leather shining in the creases. She did not smile at the camera, perhaps because she couldn’t. Her blond highlights confirmed there was nothing at all natural about this woman. Her lips resembled two firm lolly bananas covered in a coral lip gloss. The team shuffled uncomfortably in their seats – an instinctive response.

Henrik continued. ‘Ms Montgomery will be very demanding, and we are to respect this is her style. She should not need to ask twice. She has extremely high expectations of us during her time at the resort. I am prepared to authorise up to seven thousand dollars of complimentary charges for her stay this weekend. Please alert me when we hit five.’ The Public Relations Manager didn’t even blink, she knew the currency exchange for that type of publicity, and this was on par with the FX market.

The next photo that appeared was a petite woman with a neck like an elegant bird, her frail collar bones were visible and there was something about her that was so elusive and intriguing. It was the photocopied from her online profile. Her eyes were hidden by large dark aviator sunglasses, and she was dressed in her statement tight black cigarette pants, stripe top and white jacket. Ironically for someone in her industry her fashion choices tended on the minimalist side. Her dark sleek hair hung past her shoulders and there seemed to be a slight audible sigh from everyone in the room as they stared at her image. She was a designer and stylist that everyone loved, so talented, ostensibly shy, and enviably French. The font underneath the photo contained her name, area of speciality and profile name.

Solange Lanquetin – Visual Artist, Designer, and Interior Stylist Influencer

Profile name – French Polish

‘This is the first time Madame Lanquetin has visited the resort. I encourage you to look through her social media pages to review the images she puts on her feed. We want to be featured many times in the coming days, so it is essential that if she asks for anything, we comply.’ For a Swede, Henrik’s French was actually very good and the way he automatically referred to her as Madame made her seem so exotic. Any member of the executive team would have gone out on a limb personally for her, she had already cast a spell on them all.

It was timely that Sandi had passed the General Manager a glass of chilled water at that moment as he looked a little flushed like a schoolboy at a dance. He took a deep sip, cleared his throat, and clicked to the next image.

Ivy Castell stared out of her photo with her large dark almond eyes. They all followed her blog enviably and wished they could travel to all the amazing destinations she dreamily described each week. Some of the places they had never heard of until Ivy had shown them the way. She seemed to find locations that beckoned to your soul and yet catered to real needs with fantastic restaurants and bars, dancing, and live entertainment. They all had a set of Ivy’s travel capsule packing cubes; how did they survive without them? In her blog this morning she had mentioned she was coming to Luxuriance Resort and Spa or “Luxe” as she had started to refer to the property and was expecting great things. This team were ready to make those great things happen, they lived for this, and she was their exotic travel guru. Even her influencer name worked for this resort.

Ivy Castell – Travel and Indulgence Influencer

Profile - Luxe Life

Lucy, one of the new mums on the team and Assistant Manager of Housekeeping clapped her hands subconsciously when the photo of Orpheus Butler appeared. She could not control her excitement. He was the stay-at-home dad hero, the “dad-preneur” of the internet, she was forever forwarding his posts to her husband: ways to help get children into a routine as only a dad could do, suggestions for fifteen-minute recipe ideas, and everyone’s favourite were all the gadgets he came up with. So many time saving devices - no wonder they all loved him. Even the guys had a grin on their faces as he was so witty. Some of the photos he posted on his feed were absolutely hilarious, many of them had re-enacted the photos with their own children to the delight of family and friends. The video he put up using his voice while moving his son’s mouth went viral was gold. Lost in the moment, the team all started mimicking the scene to each other, some reached for their phones to show how their version turned out.

Henrik who was married to his job and only saw children from a safe distance when they were in the care of nannies at the resort hadn’t seen the clip and looked at them like they were insane. He had no idea what he was in for.

Orpheus Butler - Dad Lifestyle Blogger

Profile name – Butler Dad

Another sigh, it was Amanda and her glorious envy-inducing long copper locks. They all knew she was celebrating her 45th birthday next week. It had been all over social media, how could they not know? She had included some mention of it in every Facebook post, Tweet, Instagram photo and especially in her blog for the last month. Amanda rarely looked directly into the camera; she had a certain look she was known for. Like a famous model pout, but this was a look where she seemed to look just away from the camera. It doesn’t sound like much, but it really worked for her and if she could copyright it she would have. It made her appear a little more intriguing and titillating. Everyone wanted absolutely everything Amanda ever recommended.

Thank goodness that Afterpay - the “buy now/pay later line” of credit was now a thing. So many of her followers must have been in heaven. This was the ultimate in addictive lay-by. She would post her daily update at six o’clock every morning and the most stylish women in Australia would receive an alert to check online. They knew better than to wait until later in the day. A few taps of the screen, payment details already pre-saved for faster handling, and orders would start to be processed. Couriers across Australia would rub their hands together and so would her bank manager. Amanda covered everything from lifestyle stories on topics such as yoga and meditation to food and wine. How she ever kept her figure just doing yoga and meditation was perhaps one of the biggest questions she got asked.

Amanda Starr – Lifestyle, Fashion, Food and Wine

Profile name – Starr Style

Yes, there was other business to discuss at the meeting, but Henrik knew he had lost their attention. It was time to set them free. On the orders to go forth and make magic happen, the executive team were a hum of excitement as they left the room making secret promises to remain true to their professional status and not break rank. Except Lucy, she was getting a selfie with Orpheus no matter the penalty.

The room was quickly brought back to order by the efficient Sandi, she seemed to work in silence and slip around the table without any disruption. Henrik noted she epitomised everything that represented the resort, delivering unobtrusive service of the highest standard. She would definitely be front and centre around this demanding group. He looked up to thank her, but she had already packed up the beverage trolley and left the room. He smiled as this gave him such confidence in the success of the coming days.

Three floors below, the invasion was already commencing in the lobby. Amanda’s clothes arrived before she did. Reminiscent of a film star’s trip on a luxury cruise liner, the staff had never seen so many clothes arrive for one single guest. Two courier vans pulled up at the porter’s desk, where rack upon rack of designer zip up garment bags were rolled through the lobby. Usually, deliveries would be discreetly whisked around the side entrance and scurried into the cavernous passages around the hotel. This was certainly an exception and additional staff were on hand to assist, wheeling them in a long snake through the lobby and towards Amanda’s suite. This was quite a spectacle, and the PR team had their photographer on hand snapping away.

A few hours later, Henrik straightened his already straight necktie and brushed away non-existent fluff from his suit. He looked around before he checked his breath in his cupped hand. But it only smelt of fresh peppermint, as it always did. He was ready. These were the moments he lived for. However, an odd feeling was weighing heavily upon him - along with a distinct vision of herding cats.

Chapter Four - CLASH OF EGOS

SHE COULD HEAR THE SHORT CLIPPING SOUND of his hard heels on the marble floor. Every sound echoed in this place. While not exactly a written procedure, it was a directive that all the women were to wear stiletto heels and walk only on the balls of their feet when they were at work. It was to ensure the ambiance and reduce noise pollution. Like a rite of passage, the administrator would make his entrance known. He was everywhere and enjoyed the theatrics of his authority.

While it was his role to oversee the operations of the Embassy, he secretly took great pleasure in remotely observing the work of the secretaries from his computer as he scrutinised their documents while they typed out speeches and event itineraries. They would be informed he was watching their screens by the frozen cursor as he studied the document. His name would appear on their monitor as it halted, Administrator Arnaud reviewing. It was his way of remotely asserting himself. A way of reminding them he was “big brother”, and it annoyed the staff to distraction.

If a secretary was in the Ambassador’s office simply following her instructions and picking up documents from the in tray, he was there in an instant. Leaning on the door frame in a predatory way with his legs crossed and a finger waving at them like they were caught shop lifting. He would interrogate them, inspect the documents with a flourish and allow them to pass. Nothing got past him.

He was pedantic and forever fussing over the order in which they could park their cars in the staff parking area. He obviously preferred French brands and insisted they were given priority parking spaces, so they could be seen from the street. Some of the staff were forbidden to even drive their beaten-up cars onto the Embassy grounds – well technically it was French soil, his soil and he could do with it what he pleased.

And it wasn’t just the cars he was obsessive about. He insisted all the women wear dresses and skirts, for trousers were only for the men. Whenever he would address them about their fashion choices, he would look them up and down blatantly commenting, usually very inappropriately about the fit or the style. Afterwards they would physically shake off his presence like a wet dog after a bath. Clearly an abuse of his diplomatic immunity, Mathieu was not concerned in the least, he planned to continue to exploit the hell out of this privilege.

The only place off limits to him was the ladies’ toilets. When he realised the listening devices in there could not compete with the hand dryers, he had the dryers removed and reverted to paper towel. The one thing he could not stop was the sound of the flushing. And he knew gossip was afoot when several of the staff were not at their stations, and he could hear continuous flushing. This infuriated him, and he was forever trying to find a way around it.

Despite having waited over twelve months for this moment, Bernadette looked blasé as she waited until the clipping sound had stopped, indicating the self-imposed warden of the Embassy was by her side.

‘Madame Bodelle, I trust the flight was to your satisfaction.’ Mathieu felt her prickly manner under his skin already.

She just stared at him and gave a sharp short nod, observing the typical antics of short-man syndrome. Mathieu was used to being around this striking woman and while he did admire her, he also felt more than a little uneasy in her presence. She wasn’t exactly the friendliest person, he always felt judged by her. As soon as Bernadette arrived, he sensed an inadequacy creep into his usual flawless demeanour.

He always found it amusing how they all remembered her name, yet she kept her response to a simple address of, “Your Excellency, Monsieur and Madame”. She only every referred to him as “Administrator” and he was sure this was not done through any type of respect for his position. He felt belittled by her and yet there was nothing he could really say about it, she had him by the balls on this one. He would find a way to get back at her and he would relish the moment.

Her world revolved around beautiful things, entitled people, protocol and deception. It had always been this way. Thirty-two years in the civil service and she seemed to take precedence over those with medals and sashes. She was treated like a precious living artefact that represented France itself.

How they all adored her he thought with a jealousy that rose up inside of him. He also knew his place. Rumour had it that with a single phone call she had the power to switch out their precious vintage armoire for something a little punchy like a fuchsia velvet settee or if she was really throwing her weight – a gilded-bronze Pinocchio sculpture by Hubert Le Gall. He definitely did not want to be known as the administrator who was forced to commission a giant statue of a cartoon character. She made decisions like this for a lot of reasons, some vindictive, but often because she needed a hero piece that would stand out in the upcoming feature of Parisian Élan for Elle Magazine. He was not going to be the next victim; he would play it safely and not poke the bear.

It really annoyed him how she had been called all the way from France for something as minor as the refurbishment of the Ambassador’s Canberra residence. Honestly it wasn’t such a big deal. He was more than aware of the bureaucracy involved in renovating a building of historical significance. However, he did laugh at the fact Australia itself was hardly old enough to have any building that would qualify. The Embassy and residence were originally designed by a French architect and the reception rooms, porcelains, paintings, and tapestries had all been selected for a purpose. They were well known and documented. He did not want this woman poking her nose around in his business. He wanted to keep a cap on his budget and keep things simple. He had this, and he just wished she would leave him to it. If it wasn’t for the ridiculous request for a swimming pool by the Ambassador, he was sure he could have had more control over the project.