The Boys' Club (10 page)

It was 7.45 pm by the time Rosie drove her trusty old Jeep out the
network gates and into bumper-to-bumper traffic which had turned
all the entrances to the Harbour Bridge into a veritable car park. She
couldn't work out what was making her feel worse: the memory of
the Kennedys meeting, her dummy spit at Graham Hunt, Portia, her
ultimatum from Bettina, Keith's fall, or the fact that she hadn't yet
rung her mother to apologise for picking Leon up late. Oh yeah, and
her ex husband had told her he was getting married. Maybe that had
something to do with it too.

She was sure the spectacle she had just witnessed – the duelling
Graham Hunt stories on two different current affairs shows – were
the real reason for the guilt churning inside her. By the time Richard
Barker was through with threatening legal action, Channel Three's
story had been cut to shreds. Instead of exposing Hunt as a wife-beater
and serial philanderer, all that was left was a wishy-washy piece
depicting an obviously bitter woman who was far from sympathetic.
Because Three couldn't pull it at the last moment, they cut out
anything even slightly libellous, which meant everything that in any
way painted Hunt to be the low life he was.

Poor original Mrs Hunt wasn't helped by the truly fantastic hatchet
job Allan Bales and the
Up To Date
producers had managed to turn
around in an hour. Their piece made Hunt look like a man haunted
by his irrational ex, a great bloke who just wanted to get on with his
new life.

Rosie's speech went down well and Hunt did what he did best –
kept to the script. As she heard her words come out of his mouth,
explaining how his ex's constant sniping and his concern for her
fragile mental health had led him to 'let off some steam' after the
press dinner the previous night, she had never been so disgusted with
herself. The smug bastard had come across like a veritable saint, and
Rosie had been a major part of making that happen.

At a standstill in the queue for the Harbour Tunnel, Rosie pulled
down the visor in front of her to take stock of what she looked like.
Shite was the first word that came to mind as she took in her drained
complexion, puffy eyes, frazzled hair and a nasty stress zit which had
emerged some time during the day. She also noted the lines around
her eyes. A year ago they had only been visible when she laughed or
smiled, two things she hadn't been doing a lot of lately.

What has happened to you
? Rosie silently asked her reflection.
When
did your inner light go out? Is this what Jeff saw before he left?

She slapped the visor back up in disgust and rifled through her bag
for a cigarette. She already felt like death, so she might as well inhale
some noxious toxins to help things along. As she lit the coffin nail,
the sinister carousel chime started up yet again.

'Rosie Lang speaking,' she answered, knowing very well who was
on the other end.

'Well, well, that was an amazing stunt you just pulled. Very good,
Rosie. I see you're getting the hang of this PR game.'

'Well, Greg, it is my job now,' she answered brusquely.

'Yes, I guess it is. Excuse me if I prefer to remember you as a real
journalist.'

'Funnily enough, Greg, I remember when you were too, before
media gossip was your portfolio,' she snapped back.

'Touché! You always were a feisty one. God, remember when we
were both on courts together? You used to chase after those crims
through six lanes of traffic in high heels without a second thought.
They're lucky to have you there. I hope they know that. By the way,
that speech of his had you all over it. I told you you're a nice writer.'

Rosie felt a tightness in her chest. She wasn't used to compliments.
'Is there a point to this call?'

'Have dinner with me.'

'I thought I did last night.'

'No, not with other journos . . .'

'Greg, why do you keep doing this?'

'Because I fancy you like crazy.'

'You have to understand that as far as my bosses are concerned,
you're enemy number one. I can hardly be seen going out with you.'

'We'll hide then.'

'Greg, please . . . do you want a fresh quote regarding Hunt or
not?'

'Nah, I already have one.'

'What do you mean you already have one? There's a blanket ban
on anyone talking to the press about Hunt.'

'Yeah, but I have my Deep Throat, remember.'

Rosie felt her entire body tense with anger.

'Yeah, so you do, Greg. I really can't see why, as an old friend, you
won't at least give me a hint.'

'Not this again, Rosie,' he laughed. 'You'd have to give me a full
weekend of unbridled passion before I'd even think about it.'

'I might be a publicity whore but I'm not a prostitute, Greg,' Rosie
countered, enjoying the flirtatious banter despite herself.

'Honestly, babe,' Greg continued, 'I gotta warn you that my source
is not nice when it comes to you.'

Well, that hardly reduces the possibilities
, Rosie thought.
The way
things are going, that could be whittled down to . . . oh, a hundred or
so.

'Thanks for the warning, but I am a big girl,' she replied.

'You're swimming with sharks . . .'

'You know I love the ocean.'

'Touché again!'

'Why, thank you. Now, can I pick up my boy and see if I can have
an hour of home life?'

'Fair enough. How is the little tyke?'

'From what I can remember, he is the most precious, wonderful
thing that's ever taken a breath.'

'At least one good thing came out of your marriage. I'm jealous.'

'Well, Greg, maybe if you didn't run from every relationship you
form you might be a dad too one day. If I recall, you used to say that
anything over a one-night stand was as serious as you could get.'

'Yeah, well, I was an idiot.'

'Was?'

'Yeah, was. Give me another chance?'

'Greg, now is not the time and I'm certainly not in the space. But
thanks. I mean that.'

'Any time, babe. And I mean that.'

As Rosie hung up she realised she was blushing. If she was honest
with herself, Greg had always been more than just a friend with
fringe benefits to her, but as he was a self-confessed commitment-phobe,
she'd never put a lot of stock in her chances of him changing
his ways. Now, of course, when he was ready for something serious,
she was far from being able to reciprocate. Ah, the irony. Her mother
always said Greg was destined to be part of the family and—

Shit! My mother!!

Rosie took a serious deep breath and scrolled through the numbers
on her phone until she came to 'Mum'. Pressing the call button, she
repeated her breathing mantra until the unmistakable huff of her
mother's cranky voice answered.

'Rosemarie, I hope that is you,' Vera said abruptly.

As soon as she heard her tone, Rosie had an overwhelming desire
for another cigarette, so she took her chances on Vera not hearing
her light up.

'Yes, Mum, it's me, and I can't tell you how sorry I am. You
wouldn't—'

'Yes, I know, Rosemarie, I wouldn't believe the day you've had. I've
heard it all before. When was it? Oh, that's right, yesterday. You're
becoming a broken record.'

Breathe . . . breathe .
. . she thought as she inhaled deeply on a
Marlboro.

'Your son hasn't had a great day either,' Vera continued. 'Remember
him? Small boy, angelic face, handsome like his father? Turns out he
had food poisoning all along. Luckily Dr Drake saw him without
an appointment. Poor little fella was severely dehydrated from
vomiting.'

'Oh, Mum, why didn't you tell me?' Rosie said, yet again realising
she should have thought before she spoke.

'Sorry, Rosemarie. Perhaps if I was a game show host or another
of your showbiz types you may have deigned to take my call. I don't
ring your office half-a-dozen times for the fun of it, you know.'

'You're right, Mum, sorry again,' Rosie replied. She had no fight
left in her for Vera. Taking another deep draw on her cigarette, she
exhaled loudly.

'ROSEMARIE! You're not smoking, are you?'

'Mum, just lay off me, will you. I need you to be gentle with me
right now . . .'

'Rosemarie, you sound awful. Are you okay?'

'No, Mum, I'm not okay, not at all,' Rosie answered. This time she
didn't even attempt to hold back her tears. 'I am absolutely miserable
in fact.' She began to sob so hard she had to pull over to the side of
the road as she could no longer see through her tears.

'Darling, where are you?' Vera asked, her voice softening from
anger to concern.

'I'm on my way, Mum. The traffic is hell. I'll be okay. I'm just so
tired.'

'Darling,' Vera said, 'you've gone and got yourself in quite a
state, haven't you? Look, Leon is sound asleep. I'm loath to disturb
him when he's been so sick. Why don't you go home to bed and
concentrate on looking after yourself tonight.'

Rosie was overwhelmed with gratitude. 'Oh, Mum, you're
wonderful. I mean that. I'm sorry, I've been such a bitch lately.'

'Oh, darling, I hate to think of you all alone in that house when
you're like this. Why don't you move back in with Dad and me for
a while?'

Rosie laughed quietly to herself.
That, I am sure, would do me in
completely.

'Oh that's sweet of you, Mum, but I just need some rest.'

'Darling, you can't be on your own when you're like this. Why don't
you go and see Lou. She'll take care of you. She called me today asking
if I could get through to you. Of course I said no. She's not having the
best time either. Seems she can't get pregnant no matter what. I mean
she has everything but not what she really wants. It's a tragedy.'

Poor Lou! I've been such a bad friend.

'You're right, Mum, Lou's exactly what I need. And thanks for
looking after Leon. You're a champion.'

'Well, darling, he is my grandson, you know. It's hardly a trial
spending time with him. I do worry he misses having his dad around,
though. Not easy on a little man like him.'

'Mum, Jeff called today to tell me he's getting married.'

For the first time in her life that Rosie could recall, Vera Lang was
rendered mute.

The traffic had started to move again by the time Rosie had pulled
herself together enough to keep driving.

With the car idling, she dialled Lou's number, let it ring twice,
then hung up and rang again. This time it answered immediately.

'Hello, stranger,' Lou answered, clearly a little ticked off.

'Honey, I am so sorry I haven't been in touch but work . . .'

'I know, it's a nightmare. You're sounding like a broken record
lately, babe.'

'Please, Lou, not you too.'

'Rosie, I've been calling you at least three times a day. Surely no
job can be so busy you can't call your best friend back. I've taken to
ringing your mother, Vera Vile, to try to get through to you. I mean,
how sad is that?'

Rosie could feel the tears well again but was so desperate for Lou to
understand the state she was in that she summoned up anger instead.

'All right, well try this: Jeff dropped Leon off sick this morning
without warning, I had to leave him at my mother's or be reported
to DOCS; the network's biggest investment, who I am supposed to
be looking after, is a pantsman with a Bolivian marching powder
problem; my boss almost had a heart attack in front of me; and I've
been told to dance with the devil or I have no job.'

'Fuck me,' replied Lou. 'Honey, where are you? I'm coming straight
there. With vodka.'

'Make that a Valium drip, babe, 'cause there's another thing. Jeff
has asked his girlfriend Heather to marry him.'

'Bull! Shut
up
! He's only been with her a few months . . .'

'Yep, well, it's true. And how was your day?'

'Better than yours. Honey, where are you now? How can I help?'

'You can pour me a drink and break out the straitjacket 'cause I'm
coming over.'

* * *

Finally making it across the bridge, Rosie steered towards the eastern
suburbs, straight to Queen Street, where she stopped to pick up two
bottles of red and another packet of cigarettes.

From there, she made two left turns and parked under a verdant
canopy of trees, straight in front of the familiar fence groaning under
the weight of unclipped jasmine.

Given that Lou and Stephen's house was in one of the snootiest
streets in Sydney, it was as inconspicuous as it was charming, just
like the couple who lived there. It was also a bit of hippy bohemia
in a suburb better known for bonds than bongs, with its dozens of
garden wind chimes pinging in the evening breeze, interrupting the
sounds of BMWs and Range Rovers pulling into automated garages
nearby.

Little did the neighbours know that behind the unkempt garden
walls was one of the best dope crops south of Byron Bay – well, at
least that's what Lou claimed about her beloved hooch plants.

'You look like shit warmed up,' Lou said as she opened the front
door. 'Here, quick, get this into you. It's from last year's crop. Organic,
of course,' she said, handing Rosie the burning joint.

Rosie laughed to herself, marvelling at how flawless Lou looked
with so little effort. Tall, lean and naturally blonde, Lou was one of
those women so visually arresting she could silence a room with her
mere presence.

'I'd better not get stoned yet,' Rosie said, leaning forward to
embrace her friend. 'I might get paranoid and, believe me, a case of
the heebie-jeebies is the last thing I need right now.'

'It's that bad, is it?' Lou answered, momentarily taking the joint
out of her mouth to return the hug. 'Come on inside and let's have a
drink, then you can tell Aunty Lou all about it.'

Lou led Rosie down the hallway and into the stadium-like main
room that formed the heart of the house.

Although Lou had unlimited money to decorate, Rosie loved that
she still raided Newtown's backstreet stores and secondhand outlets
in search of eclectic bargains to furnish her home. Huge embroidered
Indian pillows were thrown into the recessed area around the massive
open fireplace like a padded adult version of the kids' ball room at
Ikea. Over-stuffed lounges were adorned with tribal blankets from
Lou's travels to Nepal and Peru and amateur paintings of faded roses
and dingy streetscapes shared space on the walls with the real art she
regularly bought anonymously at auction, always because she liked
what the artist was saying and never for its investment value, which
was often substantial.

'Kick off your shoes, babe, and get comfortable,' Lou insisted.
'What's your poison? I know, let's have some champers to celebrate
you surviving your shitteous day.'

Rosie looked over at her barefoot friend and was overwhelmed
with affection.

'I love you, Lou, you know that,' she said, tears welling again.

'Fuck me, you are in a state,' answered Lou, her stoned red eyes
now misting over too. 'Honey, I hate seeing you like this.' She
hurriedly poured champagne into a water glass, ignoring the French
crystal stemmed flutes in the glasses cabinet. 'What are those pricks
doing to you? You look so sad I can't stand it. Who do I need to
kill?'

So Rosie told her, gasping for breath between every tear-filled word
like a car kangaroo hopping into gear, and ending with, 'And . . .
now . . . Jeff . . . is . . . getting . . . married!'

'Rosie, Jeff's an arsehole, always has been, always will,' Lou
confessed. 'I can say that now. I've wanted to from the beginning,
but he made you happy so I kept my mouth shut.'

'But . . . why . . . so . . . soon?' Rosie bawled back.

'Because some men just can't be alone, especially weak, egotistical
men like Jeff. He always wanted a trophy wife, not an equal. Christ,
I know the type – I've had a few myself, if you recall?'

Over the years Rosie had seen many men in Lou's life who saw
only what they wanted in her friend – her looks – choosing to ignore
her sharp brain and unbridled passion as unfortunate affectations
they could iron out over time. More fool them.

'Jeff wanted someone pretty on his arm at dinner parties, someone
who'd nod dutifully at his boorish opinions,' Lou said, patting her
friend's long, russet tresses away from her freckled, tear-stricken
face. 'He said he wanted you to have a career but as soon as you
had Leon he was very happy for you to stay home and raise his
child. There was only ever room in your house for one star and he
was it.'

Rosie felt better hearing Lou say what she knew to be true. Jeff
had suppressed her in so many ways, spiritually, physically and
mentally. She always knew it deep down, but it was a relief to finally
acknowledge the fact openly.

'Now, come on,' Lou continued, 'let's have a drink or ten and see
if we can't get a smile back on your beautiful face. I've missed you
so much.'

For the first time that day – no, make it that month – Rosie felt so
happy and content, she didn't even notice the sound of the carousel
repeatedly ringing out in her handbag in the hallway.

By the time Stephen wandered in an hour or so later, the two friends
were collapsed into each other, giggling like Japanese schoolgirls.

'What's going on here then?' he said, surveying the smouldering
joint, the empty bottle, the half-full bottle . . .

'Stephen!' Rosie yelled, struggling to get up out of her pillow
surrounds and falling back down on her bum with an ungainly
thump. Realising she was stuck where she was, she beckoned him
towards her. 'Come and give me a hug,' she ordered. But Stephen was
already on his knees and crawling between the pillows.

'Geez, we've missed you, Rosie,' Stephen said as he embraced her.
'Where the hell have you been? I understand you're busy but it's been
weeks.'

'I've been in hell, honey. I'm so sorry. I've missed you both so much
too.'

Rosie noticed Lou tousle her husband's dark hair as he hugged her
warmly.

Why can't I have a relationship like that?
she thought, before
admonishing herself for being so selfish. Lou and Stephen had
problems too. Rosie's lip began to tremble again, something Lou
picked up on quickly.

'Babe, can you make us that thing we had the other night – you
know, the curry with the lentils and chickpeas,' Lou asked, putting
on a cute voice she knew her husband couldn't resist.

'Of course I will. Good idea,' Stephen said, realising his wife was
not done counselling her friend yet. Noticing the two spent joint
butts in the ashtray, he added with a grin, 'I'll make a big batch.
Looks like you two will be hungry.'

Under cover of the noise Stephen was making opening and closing
cupboard doors, Rosie leaned in close to Lou and grasped both of her
hands in her own.

'Tell me,' she said in a whisper, 'what's happening with you?'

Rosie watched her friend's beautiful face fill with unmistakable
pain and wondered if she should even have raised the topic.

'I'm stuffed,' Lou replied sadly. 'We keep trying to get pregnant
but it's getting to the point where we aren't enjoying it any more. It's
heartbreaking.'

'Oh honey, don't give up yet,' Rosie replied, not knowing what else
to say.

'Thanks, but it will have to stop at some stage. This will be our
fourth round of IVF and so far, nothing. Those drugs they make me
take are turning me feral. I hate them. I mean, thank God for pot,
otherwise I reckon I would've taken out half of Woollahra with an
Uzi by now.'

Rosie felt paralysed with grief for her friend.

'Oh, Lou, I'll have your baby for you if it gets to that. I'd carry it,
you can have an egg of mine, you can have a dozen, anything.'

'I know you would,' Lou said, cupping Rosie's face in her hands.
'You've already given me my godson and for that I'm eternally
grateful. But Stephen and I have talked about this and if we aren't
meant to have children then we have no choice but to accept it. We
have each other. Maybe we're greedy to hope for more.'

Rosie was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Her friend,
with so much to offer a child, was gracious enough to accept her
destiny, while she, with a healthy child, was so desperately unhappy
with her lot.

'Lou, you shouldn't deny yourself the chance to be a mother.
Honestly, you're the most wonderful woman I know. What about
adoption? Think of all those kids you saw when you were in Cambodia
last year that need a home.'

Lou smiled at Rosie's kindness.

'Yeah, that's definitely an option. I mentioned it to my mother,
though, and she nearly coughed up a kidney stone. I don't think she's
too happy about having our bloodline diluted.' Lou tilted the end of
her nose with her finger, indicating her mother's uppity attitude.

'All the more reason to adopt a bloody village if you ask me,' Rosie
replied. 'Go for it, honey, get your name on a list and let's get you a
baby.'

Rosie was thrilled to see a cheeky smile return to her friend's face
just as Stephen came back.

'Dinner's on,' he said, helping himself to a glass of champagne.
'Can I join you? I wouldn't mind catching the late news.'

Stephen didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he grabbed the master
remote from a nearby antique child's desk that acted as a side table –
another of Lou's charming touches – and dived in to join the girls.

At the press of a button, a large screen dropped down from the
ceiling, as big as the one in the executive screening room back at the
network.

Stephen channel-hopped until he got the news on Network Three,
Rosie noted. Even her best friends were no longer tuning to Six for
the nightly bulletin, just like the rest of the nation.

After an item on yet another cab-driver stabbing in North Sydney,
a blurry photo with the word 'SCANDAL' emblazoned on it appeared
behind the newsreader's head. If Rosie hadn't been stoned, she would
have sworn it was a picture of Graham Hunt.

'And in late breaking news,' the presenter intoned, 'the Three
newsroom has received a series of photographs taken on a camera
phone showing controversial Network Six newsreader Graham Hunt
snorting a white powder believed to be cocaine in a toilet cubicle last
night. The photographs also reveal the thirty-one-year-old in various
sexually explicit poses with an unidentified blonde woman. The
incident in the toilet allegedly took place in a Kings Cross nightclub
following a press dinner held to announce Hunt as the new face of
the troubled network's national news bulletins. An interview with
Lorraine Hunt, the newsreader's ex wife, was scheduled for broadcast
on
Australia Tonight
this evening, but was halted by Network Six
lawyers shortly before it was to be aired. However, in light of the new
revelations, the full, unedited report will be aired following this late-night
bulletin. Hunt, who is expecting a child with his second wife,
denies his ex wife's allegations of drug use and physical abuse . . .'

Rosie didn't hear what else was said. She was frantically searching
for her handbag in a shocked daze. It was Stephen who found it in
the hall and silently handed it to Rosie as Lou looked on, mute with
concern.

After clumsily trying to locate the phone in the cavernous black
tote with no success, Rosie tipped its contents out on the floor, fell to
her knees and scrabbled through the mess like a junkie looking for
a lost pill.

Her hands were shaking so much her fingers couldn't flip the
phone open when she finally found it, tempting her to smash the
damn thing to bits.

Eventually she prised it up and saw instantly just how much trouble
she was in. There were seventeen missed calls and one text message.
Before she even looked at the caller IDs she decided to check the text.
It was from an unknown number and simply said:

Keith hospitalised. St Andrews. Intensive care.