Blaze Read online

  Di Morrissey is one of Australia’s bestselling writers. She began writing as a young woman, training and working as a journalist for Australian Consolidated Press in Sydney and Northcliffe Newspapers in London. She worked in television in Australia and Hawaii and in the USA as a presenter, reporter, producer and actress. After her marriage to a US diplomat, Peter Morrissey, they were posted to Singapore, Thailand, South America and Washington, DC. During this time she worked as a freelance journalist, TV and film scriptwriter and radio broadcaster, appeared in theatre productions and had several short stories published. Returning to Australia, Di continued to work in television before publishing her first novel in 1991.

  Di has a daughter, Gabrielle Hansen, who is expecting Di’s first grandchild, and Di’s son, Nick Morrissey, is a Buddhist scholar and lecturer.

  Di and her partner, Boris Janjic, divide their time between Byron Bay and the Manning Valley in New South Wales when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a particular landscape.

  www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  The Valley

  Monsoon

  The Islands

  First published 2000 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  First published 2001 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This Pan edition published 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Di Morrissey 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di.

  Blaze/Di Morrissey.

  9780330424493 (pbk.)

  Relationships – Fiction

  Women – Fiction

  A823.3

  Typeset in 11.5/13.5 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes confirm to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Blaze

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74262-333-7

  Online format: 978-1-74262-332-0

  EPUB format: 978-1-74262-335-1

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Title page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you

  TAKE ONE . . .

  TAKE TWO . . .

  TAKE THREE . . .

  TAKE FOUR . . .

  TAKE FIVE . . .

  TAKE SIX . . .

  TAKE SEVEN . . .

  TAKE EIGHT . . .

  TAKE NINE . . .

  TAKE TEN . . .

  TAKE ELEVEN . . .

  TAKE TWELVE . . .

  TAKE THIRTEEN . . .

  TAKE FOURTEEN . . .

  TAKE FIFTEEN . . .

  TAKE SIXTEEN . . .

  TAKE SEVENTEEN . . .

  TAKE EIGHTEEN . . .

  TAKE NINETEEN . . .

  TAKE TWENTY . . .

  TAKE TWENTY-ONE . . .

  TAKE TWENTY-TWO . . .

  TAKE TWENTY-THREE . . .

  TAKE TWENTY-FOUR . . .

  TAKE TWENTY-FIVE . . .

  THE WRAP . . .

  With love and thanks to . . .

  Boris Janjic . . . after too many years!

  Opa and Nina Bubica

  Jim and Rosemary Revitt

  My mother Kay Warbrook, and my children Gabrielle and Nick, for their constant love, support, and stimulation

  Ian Robertson for his wise counsel and friendship

  Everyone at Pan Macmillan Publishers

  All my friends and colleagues during my years in newspapers, magazines, television, radio, and film

  Thank You . . .

  Carolyn Beaumont, James Black QC, Mike Bloomberg, Susan Bradley, Jane Cadzow, Delin Cormeny, Ken Cowley, Barry Crocker, Jenny Cullen, Consul to Croatia Mirko Dolarevic, George Epaminondas, Louise di Francesco, Dr Merle Friedman PhD, Shelley Gare, E. Thomasine Griggs, Fran Hernon, Linda Jaivin, Phillip Knightley, Jenny Main, Jillian McFarlane, Maxine McKew, Sue Neales, Max Oldfield, Leonard Osborne, Roland Rocchiccioli, Sheila Scotter, Diana Simmonds, Kate Stead, Brian Stonier AO, Dawn Swain, Deborah Thomas, Dr Mckenzie Wark, Julia Zaetta, Carla Zampatti . . . and to those who preferred not to be named!

  Author’s Note

  The poem at the end of this book was written by the English poet Adelaide Anne Procter and published in her anthology Lyrics and Legends in 1858. Her talent as a poet had been recognised and encouraged by Charles Dickens. My thanks to Rosemary Revitt for introducing me to Miss Procter’s timeless work.

  Di Morrissey

  TAKE ONE . . .

  New York, 2000

  Friday, 6 p.m.

  The Division 7 fire chief was panting as he raced up the flight of steps to the entrance of the Triton building and into the elevator, stabbing the button marked 35. Running up steps wasn’t his strong suit these days – he spent most of his time behind a desk and had a paunch to prove it. Keeping up with the fitter, younger guys was getting harder and harder. He knew where he’d rather be – with a Bud watching the Lakers–Bulls game, not responding to a fire call. But when one of the guys wants to be there for the birth of his first kid, what can you do but haul your ass back on the road?

  ‘Looks like only the sprinkler system has been triggered, chief. Don’t smell any smoke, do you?’ The lieutenant, aide to the fire chief, trotted ahead.

  ‘These high-tech outfits can go off with anything – overheating, or a computer glitch. Gotta be sure.’

  The lieutenant knew what his boss meant. You didn’t take chances anywhere, but when the building was home to one of the biggest media empires in the world, you were doubly cautious.

  Walking along the corridor of level thirty-five, their flashlights shone on soaked floor and walls. The problem was certainly sourced near here. The chief’s walkie-talkie, clipped to his shoulder, crackled to life.

  ‘Chief, it’s Joe in
Fire Communications. From the board it appears to be an office in the right corridor, round about one fifty-nine.’

  The private offices were spacious. Tall windows held views to Central Park, floors were softly carpeted and the touch of the interior designer reflected an expansive budget. The executive offices of Blaze magazine ringed the building on this floor, the editor-in-chief’s leading to a private terrace. The inner area was open plan – ergonomic chairs tucked into desks, rental palms the only dividers. ‘The worker colonies surrounded by the queen bees,’ thought the chief.

  His lieutenant rattled the doorknob of Suite 159 with one hand, pushing his mask over his face with the other.

  ‘Can smell smoke now.’

  ‘Seems contained. The door’s locked,’ the chief replied.

  Their voices were muffled behind the breathing apparatus.

  The lieutenant shrugged and, at the nod from the chief, banged his boot into the lock, followed by a hefty shove with his shoulder. The fire chief’s hand rested on the small axe hooked to his belt, which bristled with a coiled rope, hoses, a knife, a small fire extinguisher and several tools. But the door gave way with a short sharp crunch.

  The two men paused, staring across the room through the smoke from a bonfire of Blaze magazines burning on the carpet.

  A woman was seated at a desk, her stockinged feet resting on a scramble of papers and photographs. Beside a framed picture of her with Jacqueline Onassis stood an empty bottle of vodka and a decanter of Scotch going the same way. She waved a Waterford tumbler at them, slopping its contents. Her Armani suit was drenched from the spray still bursting from the sprinklers in the ceiling.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. You two certainly look the part. What can I do for you? Care for a drink?’ Despite the effort at politeness, her voice was slurred. She chortled at the sight of the blue fireproof suits, the helmets, the ropes and gear attached to their bodies. She gave a cough, waving away the smoke from her face with a glossy poster and, putting down her glass, screwed up the picture and tossed it into the smoking pile.

  Seeing the furious expression begin to darken the chief’s face, the lieutenant rushed forward using his portable extinguisher to douse the burning pages.

  ‘Dear heart, where are the hoses? Where’s the backdraft action? Not good enough, man. More bells and whistles.’

  Beneath her practised flippancy, the chief recognised the edge of hysteria in her voice. He removed his mask and gazed at the woman. She was a bit above fifty, he guessed. His age. She had been well groomed before her drenching, and must hold an important position if this was her office. In seconds he’d taken in the expensive decor, the view to the park, the framed photographs of this same woman with a cast of celebrities.

  ‘Ma’am, I have to ask you to come with me. You can explain this scenario outside. Have you started any other fires in this building?’ He strode towards her.

  But she was quickly on her feet, hurling the heavy glass at him. The chief ducked, his lieutenant too stunned to make a move as the crystal shattered against a wall. ‘Have I started fires in this building! You bet your blue ass. And thank God for Blaze that I have. I’ve put more fires under those lazy sons of bitches than you’ve ever seen.’

  The chief’s shoulders slumped. Christ, a vindictive nutter of a broad who was going to dump a heap of emotional baggage on them. He could still make it home to watch the second half of the game if they could hurry up the cops. This was out of his territory now. The lieutenant was on his walkie-talkie explaining to Dispatcher 332 what was happening.

  The fire chief wiped his brow. ‘Lady, whatever your problem is, this isn’t helping matters. Come downstairs and you’ll be taken home. I’m afraid the police will want to ask you a few questions. You’ve caused considerable damage on this floor.’

  The chief was losing patience. He reached for the woman’s hand, which she wrenched away from him, then she staggered sideways to a closed door.

  ‘Stay away from me. Don’t you harass me.’ Her fierce anger caused the fire chief to lower his arm. The woman was out of control.

  ‘Calm down, ma’am. We want to help you.’ He spoke in a placating tone, cautious now of her reactions.

  ‘Help me! You’re a bit damned late. Unless you can turn back the clock. Come on,’ she taunted him, waving her manicured hands, inviting him forward. ‘Come on, make me thirty, sexy and beautiful. Why don’t you try, eh?’

  The involuntary flicker in the chief’s expression said it all for her. This dame was never going to be any of those things again.

  She briefly closed her eyes, bitterness and sadness etched in the smudged mascara on her face. She spun around, opened the door into the next suite and closed it behind her.

  The chief leapt forward as he heard the lock click. ‘Harry, bust open that door.’

  The lieutenant was already rushing to throw his weight against the polished oak while the chief prepared to add his own broad shoulder.

  As the chief moved back to try again, he froze. Now she was on the terrace. Through the plate glass, he could see her clearly outside the adjoining office, stumbling between several potted topiary trees.

  The door lock smashed under the force of the lieutenant’s axe and the chief rushed through the French doors to the terrace.

  ‘Hey, lady . . .’ But she was climbing over a box hedge that lined the rim of the editor-in-chief’s al fresco entertaining area. He stopped, breathless.

  Two metres back, the lieutenant, still in the suite, was on his walkie-talkie telling his colleagues in the truck outside to hurry-up the police.

  ‘Ma’am. Please don’t move. I’d like to talk to you. You’re upset.’ He held his arms towards her.

  Without looking back or pausing, the woman leapt.

  ‘Oh Christ, no . . .’ The chief lunged forward in a futile grab at empty air.

  Lloyd Frencham, fire chief of Division 7, Manhattan, was the last person to see Lorraine Bannister, editor of the world-famous magazine Blaze, alive.

  Friday, 7 p.m.

  Alisson Gruber stood before the mirror slicking back her hair with gel. She studied the reflection, satisfied she looked as stunning as she felt. She was going to make this her big night. She’d waited for her chance since she was sixteen, when she’d taken her first step inside the revolving doors of the Triton Communications Tower. She’d decided before her first shift was over that she would one day be editor of the world’s most feted magazine. Well, she hadn’t waited. She’d worked and hassled her way towards this goal, even without a college degree. Her dream now seemed possible – that she would be the editor to carry Blaze forward in the new millennium.

  She had hoped Nina, the editor-in-chief, and the Baron would tell her this was the case before Nina’s party tonight. Instead, Baron Triton had stipulated that the formal birthday dinner to mark the sixtieth birthday of Nina Jansous was to be a social occasion. Ali knew that making an announcement of a new editor would shift the limelight from Nina. It made her seethe. How typical that the Baron would not allow anyone to nudge Nina from centre stage. Editor-in-chief or not, Nina’s revered position with Triton would soon be immaterial. Alisson had plans. Big plans. She was twenty-eight and deputy editor of the New York edition of the world’s most successful magazine. She had spectacularly worked her way up the ladder in Triton Communications. And, if the gossip was hot, it was Nina’s retirement that would be announced tonight. And tomorrow? Ali was convinced she would be named the new editor of Blaze USA.

  Times had changed. The days of mature, sophisticated doyennes sitting in the editor or editor-in-chief’s office, was over. It was a new age of young, dynamic, powerhouse achievers who ran a hard race. They were not afraid to stick out a foot – Manolo shod or pumped-up pink Nike – to trip up a rival in order to win. Nice ladies came last now. Stuff the sisterhood. The new motto was ‘make it to the top as fast as you can, any way you can’. Talent and ability still counted. A talent to out-manoeuvre others, an ability to sell yourself as be
ing better than you were. The rules had changed and, as the army of Alis surged through the publishing ranks, the ageing trailblazers who hung on were being pushed into smaller offices, their names appearing further down the masthead, their collective morale in shreds.

  Alisson’s black Versace dress, with its dramatic back drape lined in scarlet silk, looked as if it had been spray-painted onto her angular, stick-thin body. Her only jewellery was a set of earrings made from strands of tiny red and black Victorian beads and rhinestones. With her ivory skin looking even more translucent against the scarlet and black, with her dark-brown eyes and jet, slicked-back hair, she had the look of a mean, underfed whippet. One that might snap a hand if approached. She exuded a rather dangerous sexuality that appealed to men and women. She narrowed her eyes, assessing her face in detail. She’d never forgotten the time a student in high school had called her ‘ferret-face’.

  Ali had used expensive cosmetics to highlight her sharp features, emphasising the peak of her eyebrows. She had pulled her hair back from her forehead to show a widow’s peak, defined the curves of her mouth with plum pencil and, as a last touch, had extended the eyeliner to give her round, slightly pop eyes more of an oriental slant. Perhaps it was time for plastic surgery to sculpt her face. After all, she would be in the public eye a lot more now. And she could easily afford it. She had fought and argued over her salary package. She’d started out with nothing but a hunger and drive and was making up for those times she’d gone without. Now she was avaricious and wanted only the best. Yet she was as mean with a nickel as she’d been when poor and hungry. Ali didn’t give generously now she could afford it. She’d arrived in New York as a sixteen-year-old, and had been virtually on her own ever since. She’d worked hard to make it to here. Let everyone else do the same.