Cocoa Collins Ch. 01-05

“That’s fine, I won’t attempt to guess that I’m one of a handful of people in the selection to become an editor-at-large to specifically appeal to under-30s readers and to win more readers in that age group.”

Catherine looked at Roy and he said, “Christ, there’s been a leak.”

“There hasn’t been a leak via me,” Cocoa said. “It just required expansive thinking.”

“For example, question, why would a newspaper try to do something a little beyond the norm to win a bigger slice of readership? Answer, concentrate on the huge number of young people, especially females, who’ve never purchased or only rarely purchased a newspaper. The plentiful well won’t last forever but it should boost newspaper sales initially, at least for a few years.”

“I’m sorry, but the success of this hugely expensive programme means the tightest security until the strategy is implemented, Cocoa, and therefore I choose not to comment. And please keep your mouth shut about that conjecture. And you too, Roy.”

“Yes, dear.”

They laughed and that eased tension and that coincided with the serving of starters.

General conversion, or what appeared to be general conversation followed throughout the evening and soon Cocoa began picture how topics were beginning to fall into place.

The couple asked her about her tastes in music, literature, leisure activity, friends, her relationship with her mother, did she attend concerts by visiting overseas artists, what things was she passionate about and even whether she could ski and roller skate or became seasick on small cruisers at sea.

Taking a breather, Catherine said almost in awe, that opening up Cocoa was a little like exploring a library of text books.

“It needed be like that. You and I are not eating much. You could leave Roy here working through the menu. Most shops are shut but you could take me window shopping, chatting away while we move about.”

“Yes go,” Roy said kindly as his second steak arrived. Drop a kiss on my cheek, Cocoa.”

Cocoa didn’t kiss him but hugged him tightly and said, “Good night, muscle man.”

On the way out, Catherine asked, “Is your father a muscle man?”

“Yes, gym each weekday from 6.00 am to 7.45.”

“Roy would have loved that tribute.”

“I know Catherine said. It’s how one impresses and I figured it would have pleased you hearing that.”

“Omigod, what are you; some young woman loaded with super-powerful software?”

“No, just my mother’s loving daughter.”

Catherine laughed and for a moment the laugh sounded a little strained.

They had a lovely time relaxing although at intervals the questioned continued relentlessly.

When they were crossing an intersection, Catherine stumbled slightly and Cocoa linked arms and said, “Christ, don’t fall and injure yourself otherwise Roy will have my ovaries for a necklace.”

Catherine was still laughing when there reached the other opposite footpath in George Street/

She spun Cocoa around, embraced and kissed her lightly on the lips and releasing back into the arm link said, “I couldn’t help myself. I have two sons, no daughter. You are such an open a fun-loving girl with no hang-ups that I’ve managed to detect plus an awesome brain, and I sense you like me. I simply cannot believe it.”

“Thanks, that’s lovely of you to say that. No one else will ever know about your sudden impulsive display. How old are the boys?”

“Sixteen and eighteen.”

“Have you thought about discussing adoption or foster parenting of a baby girl?”

“Roy says he’s too old to have a crying infant in the home.”

“There are agencies that might place a foster child, said an orphaned female aged 15-17.”

Catherine mumbled she was too afraid to do that.

“Come on Catherine, you’re are not a director of the company that owns the newspaper just because of your looks and your friendship with a woman who Elizabeth DeLewis dresses. I reckon you’ll possess a fighting spirit and know what you want and how to get it.”

Catherine appeared to be slightly stunned.

“Look, I was with a group of fellow students in senior high school who spent weekends with a group of foster children we called The Village Foster Club. We and the kids loved the situation of coming together like that. Student from new classes of seniors continue our work with the club and we are thrilled about that.”

“I think it’s a magnificent example of school-initiated work within the community, Cocoa.”

“Thanks, that comment is much appreciated. One night soon, if you or Roy or both of you are apprehensive to take the first step, just remember what we have all learned from experience, that it’s usually not necessary to rush, therefore take steps incrementally. For example, step one, do you both agree that adopting or foster a teenage girl sounds appealing,”

“That was beautifully stated, dear and I’ll put on my thinking cap about what you have said. I should now flag down a cab and take you to your hotel and then return home. Roy said he would go on to his club and play snooker.”

“How civilised.”

“It is, if that’s what they do on the second and fourth Monday night of the month.”

They laughed easily, content in each other’s company, despite the older woman being old enough to be the younger woman’s mother.


Two nights later, Catherine Stewart called Cocoa.

“Good evening sweetheart. Forget I called you that.”

“Understood.”

“I promise I have not used any undue influence to get you this important post. You will receive papers in the courier in the morning to attend a day of activity from 10.00 tomorrow as being one of the two finalists. You two will sort out your order of overall superiority during the tasks set you between 10.00 and around 3.00. That’s all I can say.”

“That’s fine and thanks. Um, please answer yes or no if you wish, would you be interested in coming to Melbourne sometime, perhaps both of you, and having a look at the range of children that currently attend the Village Foster Club. I went to the club as a volunteer helper last weekend and spotted a lovely 16-year-old girl.”

“What!”

“Hey, rein in the excitement. It’s just my idea of a possibly suitable candidate. She was admitted to the club as a scared skinny blonde just before I finished high school. Now she’s my height, has put on weight and is as confident as they come at her age, which is 16 years and 8 months.”

“Omigod.”

“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m only suggesting you take a look at her which is why I recommend this should be discussed with Roy if you would like to visit the club. Neither of you might think she is capable of ringing your bell. That’s okay and remember this merely would be an incremental step.”

“I can’t think.”

“No problem. Roy could veto the idea or you both could. Just phone me if you are coming and I’ll meet you at the airport. This needs to be done slowly and again I emphasise, don’t come if you are not ready.”

“Tell me more about her.”

“No, I’m sorry Catherine, it’s best if they are all your impressions. The clubroom includes an end wall window with one-way glass connecting to an observation room. We can watch without being seen to keep emotions at bay and remember not all children wish to be uplifted and relocated elsewhere. Fostering can take months to achieve.”

“We can attend the club anytime on Saturdays and Sundays from 2.30 to 4.00.”

“I can’t think.”

“Only just for the moment; go off for a cup of coffee and your thoughts will come cascading through your mind.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be proven correct, lovely lady. Bye.”

“Ah, wait. What’s that girl’s name?”

“You will find out if you come and one of the liaison officers gets a good look at you and chats with us. Remember, no pressure, it’s your choice. Bye.”

“Bye. Omigod.”


Chapter 3

Almost a month had rolled by and then Frank and Willow Collins couldn’t believe that news about one the biggest innovative moves in years in journalism in Australia was about to hit the headlines. An announcement was imminent that their daughter Cocoa would be unveiled as the leader of the team of eight journalists who would contribute exclusive stories to the 6 to 8-page section in the Jupiter for Under-30s called ‘The Young Things.’

The section would be inserted in all issues Tuesday to Saturday.

Willow and Frank had been invited to the Grand Cocktail Launching of The Young Things in a Sydney Events Centre next Monday evening, their travel and overnight expenses all complimentary.

Frank had memorised what Cocoa told him she’d said during salary discussions.

“The managing executive editor said the company would be offering me a salary of $125,000 and I said double that or I’d walk. He said okay, they’d thought I might say something like that. They would pay me $250,000 p.a. but if I showed that I wasn’t worth my asking amount then I’d be down the road looking for a new job forthwith.”

“I said to the guy that’s fine and I also request fairly-based bonuses in the first two years directly linked to circulation increases during that period in circulation. For a moment I thought he had swallowed by keyboard because his face turned so red but he choked out ‘agreed’.”

Willow was thrilled that her daughter had elected to have cocktail party dress designed by young top Australian gown designer, Elizabeth DeLewis. However, Willow was aghast to discover that the dress appeared to be more aligned to ballet dress than a middle-aged woman’s idea of what a cocktail dress should look like.

“Don’t worry mum, half the females there will have to be under thirty otherwise the publicity photos and videos would be fucked up.”

“Fucked up?”

“Ah, stuffed disproportionately with old crows at the expense of young blood with partners.”

“Omigod, the Jupiter is lucky to get you for only $250,000 a year.”


Meanwhile, good progress was being made on the proposed fostering scene.

Catherine was already conversing openly with the targeted foster child called Staple. Her previous foster parents had given her up when finding the child’s demands as a young teen to be too heavy and too varied to bear and wanted to move into retirement without her.

On the previous Sunday, Catherine had arrived the Village Foster Club in Melbourne in a rental car from the airport, driven by her husband Roy, who would be meeting Staple for the first time.

Staple appeared to be unusually wary.

She said, “Catherine described you as handsome, and I suppose she might be right. Are you good at fixing things?”

“Yeah but I probably don’t excel at hairclips.”

“Is that a joke?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well I want you to fix my name. My birth father was an alcoholic and was supposed to register me as David but what arrived was a girl. He was disappointed that I was female and he was playing with a staple in his pocket and decided, over protests, to call me Staple.”

Catherine had been listening to this with intense interest.

Roy scratched his ear and said, “I suppose you wish to be called Blondie.”

“Get away with you.”

“Well, promise not to laugh.”

“Omigod, I suppose you want Mud Pie.”

Roy said how about Summer.

“Catherine, or should I call you mum, what do you have to say about this?”

Catherine had to sit down in a hurry in shock at so suddenly being called mum. She said it would be best for Staple to decide on her new name.

Staple said. “I don’t suppose I could be called Enya.”

Roy’s mouth really fell open and he gasped, “Omigod, that’s my secret favourite name. Come and sit with us Staple and let’s discuss if you would like to leave here, providing the authorities agree to place you with us and come to live in Sydney. Nothing can be taken for granted at this stage.”

“Would I have my own room?”

“Yes.”

“And would I have to fight girls?”

“No, you just have two boys, one a little older than you and one a little younger.”

“Well, they can play with me but no way would I try to like them.”

“In that case Staple, you should…”

“Dangerous ground, Mr Stewart,” called a supervisor.

He shrugged and said if you won’t try to like our boys if you received permission to live with us, we may have to say no because our boys are precious to us.”

“In that case, I’ll have to train myself to like them.”

Roy glanced at the supervisors and she gave the thumbs up sign.

* * *

Cocoa’s parents arrived by courtesy limo at the Events Centre and stood outside the vehicle and boggled at the 10 ft. wide blown-up copy of the photo taken by a Melbourne newspaper photographer of policemen with batons drawn and dressed in riot gear in the lounge of the Collins’ home.

Willow groaned and slumped and husband Frank in dinner-suit just managed to grab and halt her fall to the ground.

She regained her feet unsteadily and groaned, “I’ll sue those rotting Dingoes.”

“It was probably her idea,” Frank said gently and saw that the picture of Cocoa standing looking goofy with her hands held open as if in hilarious despair in front of everyone in the picture was actually at attached addition. She looked sub-20 in age.

“Go gently on them sweetheart,” Frank urged. “This is our daughter’s big night, not yours.”

The Collins’ were swept along in the arriving mass where the ticket-taker directed them to the VIP area when a skinny young woman who look desperately in need of a good feed, according to what Willow muttered, led them to front seats.

“I’m Kelly Lake, Mrs Collins,” the young woman said when her two guests were seated.

“Oh, you were Coca’s minder from the first day she came to Sydney and she’s since appointed you as her Girl Friday.”

“I’m actually her PA and fitness trainer, Mrs Collins. I have another assistant who gets Cocoa hamburgers and presently we are weaning her from milkshakes to iced or hot coffee?”

“Omigod, our daughter’s growing up,” Frank joked.

“Hush, Mr Collins. Our brief from the top is to keep Cocoa as an indeterminate age until she’s approaching forty.”

Willow asked why wasn’t her daughter being called Miss Cocoa instead of Cocoa and Kelly handled that one diplomatically.

“She may or she will if she becomes a super-star Mrs Collins, but knowing your daughter I believe that when in the public eye, she’ll wish to remain just Cocoa, nothing before or after that name.”

“Thanks for that Kelly. Oh, why don’t you call me Willow; most of Cocoa’s friends do these days.”

“Oh, thanks Willow. What a beautiful name that is. Now champagne for you two or something else?”


The event began forty minutes late but as liquor was being served generously there was no misbehaviour or even mild complaints voiced.

Finally trumpets sounded and a guy in a rainbow suit came on to the stage and introduced himself as Hammond Royd amid wild clapping and cat-calling from the mainly young assembly.

They appeared to get it that his stage name was a play on the word ‘haemorrhoid’.

He told a couple of cracker borderline jokes and then announced, “Please welcome Mr Bert Squires, executive editor of Jupiter Newspapers Ltd, who will tell you what this dig this evening is about.”

“Right folk, you’re here for the entertainment rather than to listen to me, so I’ll be brief. On Tuesday, the Jupiter Newspaper will launch of a vibrant new section, to be published five days a week Tuesday to Saturday, aimed directly at young people.”

“The articles for the targeted readership will aim at two distinct age groups, those aged 18 to 23 and 24 to 30, the powerhouse of our newspaper’s future readership with the greatest emphasis unshakeably on young females.”

“This is not directly my idea, it’s the result of our newspaper commissioning extensive research to find us a channel for us to communicate with the young specifically in each succeeding generation of citizens.”

“The new section will be simply called Hey Babe!”

“Brilliant, that’s really Rockin’,” called three young things at a table, sounding excellently rehearsed.

Laughing, Bert said, “Thanks ladies, we’ll be doing our best and then some.”

Willow muttered, “It’s a wonder those three juveniles are not wearing Hey Baby t-shirts.”

Frank answered with a belch.

Bert said, “Finally, after more drinks, hors d'oeuvres and some entertainment. We’ll interrupt informal proceedings to introduce a brilliant young lady from Melbourne who’ll become the editor and public face of Hey Baby!”

That was acclaimed with wild cheering and polite clapping.

Three young girls wearing little more than pieces of tulle and sounding a little like three fledglings trapped in a drained bath tub, began signing.

Kelly came up to Willow and Frank with fresh flutes of champagne and said, “These are the Fledglings from Merinbula, down south a bit. They are currently all the rage on radio stations in Sydney.”

Entertainment was underway.

Kelly arrived with fresh drinks, Willow sticking to champagne while Frank had switched to beer.

“Cocoa comes on after this song,” Kelly said.

That singer followed a magician who performed a fake operation on a bed, apparently, and removed a volunteer chap’s testicles temporarily, or so he said. But when he went to sew them back in, he claimed he was holding three testicles.

Most of the gathering screamed in near hysterical laughter at the fake op as the patient was wheeled off screaming that he wanted his manhood back.

Hammond announced the arrival of the editor at large of Jupiter’s Hey Babe! Newspaper section.

“Hey Cocoa, where are you?”

“Arriving now.”

He looked up at the flies over the stage, bending backwards at an alarming angle, and she was lowered on a swing in an incredibly short dress and her panty-covered crotch was clearly in view.

She kept calmly swinging slowly and the gathering began to clap and the clapping slowed in tempo with her swinging.

It was rather moving.

“Hey Cocoa, why are you wearing that rag?”

“Because it’s considered high fashion for the young affluent, at least in Australia.”

“Isn’t affluent something that’s collected in a pond outside the cowshed?”

A chestnut-headed woman, aged perhaps 30, dressed in a gold-coloured creation, leaped out her seat and strode to the front of the stage yelling, “Hey Arsehole, I’ve had enough of you. Shut your mouth or I’ll sue you for defamation of my artistic creations. Forty million ought to cover it.”

Hammond draw an outsize pair of spectacles from the inside pocket of his white jacket, shaded his eyes, looked down and said, “Cripes it’s my old mate Liz Temple. We used to milk cows together as kids. She’s now uppity and calls herself Elizabeth DeLewis and is one of Australia’s top fashion designers. I humbly apologize for inadvertently defaming you, my old tomboy Liz, who learned to do cross-stitching sitting her mother’s knees.”

Many of the audience stood to greet the unexpected Priestess of High Fashion with huge applause.

Cocoa stepped off the swing at blew a kiss at Elizabeth.

“Christ Cocoa, I told you to wear full makeup with that dress, one of my five top designs of the year. For heaven’s sake, pull it below your quim. Oh my, you have sensational legs.”

That rebuke following by the huge compliment almost brought the ceiling down, people were laughing so much.

“Elizabeth, I’m only 26 and one doesn’t have to begin to look for cracks to paint until one’s face passes beyond thirty, so don’t be jealous just because you are over that threshold.”

“I don’t admit my age,” the design said haughtily.

“Why not?”

“Well, consider your own position. Do you go to the rooftops and shout to the world what your car’s front type pressure is?”

“What, does my car have a tire pressure?”

“Christ, some people are so dumb. You think your car had its tire pressure installed when it was made in 1932 and so there’s no need to continue checking the inflation regularly. And, as for that MC beside you, beware of him because he thinks effluent and affluent are the same word, depending what side of the harbour bridge you come from.”

Bert Squires stood up from a front seat and yelled sternly, “Children, please get on with the show. We get into cool jazz and delicate classical as soon as Cocoa has delivered her spiel. Sorry everyone, we just call her Cocoa because she won’t reveal her surname.”