The Boys' Club (11 page)

Rosie double-checked that both her phones were within easy reach
on the cluttered passenger seat of her car. For a second there she
was panicked by the notion that some karmic fluke had caused the
charger to fail unnoticed and she was missing a call from the hospital.
Ever since the incident at Lou's where Rosie had missed so many
important calls, she dared not lose sight of her mobile again. Ever.
Actually, she'd been told not to in no uncertain terms by everyone
from regional papers to the metro dailies, broadsheets, tabloids,
weeklies, glossies and the rival news and current affairs departments
that had been trying to get hold of her that awful night. And, most
loudly, Six's own newsroom.

Predictably, however, the worst spray came from her colleagues in
management. Rosie had never been called 'useless' in her life before.
She had now. She had also never been described as 'a moron'. She
could tick that box now too. Sure, she'd been near before – newspaper
folk on deadlines aren't known for their niceties – but never had
such venom been levelled at her with such spite as the night of
Keith's heart attack. As a result of her 'overwhelming incompetence
and audacity to be out of phone contact' for two hours, Rosie had
been allocated two mobiles which, as per her contract (pointed out
repeatedly during ensuing tirades), were required to be on 24/7, 365
days with no exceptions. None. And yes, that included shower and
toilet time. She refrained from asking about sleep and sex breaks,
assessing accurately that both would be considered fringe benefits
at best.

While every member of the media in Australia had her mobile
number, as did anyone who rang the switchboard and simply asked
for it, this second phone was exclusively for management – The
Darkness, Johnno Johnston, Allan Bales, Russell Frazer, her staff
in Sydney and interstate and, most importantly, Keith's wife
Elaine and his PA, Mae. It had been three weeks now since Keith's
hospitalisation and still Rosie hadn't been allowed to see him, with
Elaine banning visits from anyone connected to the network, saying
they could place undue stress on her husband's fragile heart. Even
the thought of Keith being ill seemed incongruous to Rosie, who
imagined him as an indefatigable beast, a member of a species so
inured to its environment it defies any further need to evolve. But
that was not the case and, she realised sadly, most likely wouldn't
be again.

As it was Saturday, there was little traffic once she reached the
bridge, so she wound down all her car windows to breathe in fresh,
free air while she could. She was pleased the sun was out as it meant
Leon wouldn't be playing soccer in the cold, but she had packed him
a change of clothes and his cute fluoro gumboots just in case. Rosie
hoped her ex would have the good sense to get the boy out of his
wet gear should the storm arrive as predicted. Jeff considered himself
a dictionary definition of He-man, and was determined to pass on
his rugged attributes to his son who, unfortunately, took after his
mother when it came to respiratory problems. But surely Jeff knew
the damp would only exacerbate Leon's asthma – or did he? Rosie
couldn't remember if he had been around during Leon's last attack
or not. The past year had been such a blur. Hopefully Heather, at
least, would know the right thing to do. She was about to become his
stepmother after all.

Rosie tried to banish haunting images of Leon favouring Heather
over her. They had become more familiar of late. Still, she thought,
attempting to perk herself up, even though she was off to crisis
meeting hell at the network, she was in her casual clothes and there
was a chance she'd get to savour a little of her so-called day off at
some stage. A swim at Bondi? Maybe a swing by the organic markets
before they closed? A visit to that new boutique in Paddington for a
Kennedys dress?

Rosie knew in reality she would be lucky if she even got to pick up
her dry-cleaning but had resolved to try to see the glass half full in
every situation from now on. It was that or fall into a deep dark abyss
she feared she would have no energy to climb back out of. Plus, there
was no time for such an indulgence, even though she'd come mighty
close to that perilous tipping point lately.

Nothing is as bad as it seems, look on the bright side, you have your
health, think of your son . . .

Rosie was happy to see she was a good ten minutes early as she
turned her Jeep into the network entrance and made her way to the
gatehouse to be checked in by security. The cute guard who only
worked weekends was there, grinning as she approached. Rosie
blushed as she handed him her pass, finding his good looks and
flirtatious manner unsettling.
I am so out of practice with men
, she
realised.
Why can't I even make eye contact with the ones I'm actually
attracted to?

'Morning, Rosie,' he said merrily. 'They've got you working today
too, I see.'

'Yes,' she replied, looking anywhere but at him. 'There's a big
meeting happening.'

'Yeah, I know. Looks like all the big brass are here.'

'What do you mean, they're all here? I'm early.'

'Oh, are you? That's strange – there are at least half-a-dozen execs
who've been here since eight. You must be lucky if you've got the late
shift.'

'Oh yeah, real lucky,' Rosie answered, realising with dread that
much conversation must have already taken place without her, which
could only mean one thing – she was one of the subjects.
The boys'
club in action again . . .

'Oh well, good luck,' the handsome guard continued. 'Hopefully
I'll still be here when you leave.'

'Something tells me that won't be the case, but thanks, and have
a great weekend.'

Rosie turned the corner and drove past the massive transmission
tower that stuck out like a steel dagger plunged into the heart of
Sydney's skyline and drove on to the executive car park. She would
never forget how glamorous she'd felt pulling up to the network's
gatehouse and being ushered to her parking spot – in the top car park,
no less – on her first day at Six. The top car park spaces were reserved
for the swinging dicks at the network and the most demanding onscreen
talent – people who preferred to walk the extra distance to
the studios rather than park closer in one of the 'lower' areas. Like
everything else at the network, car spaces were highly contested, as
they indicated status, with more than one car having been keyed over
the years by envious lower-level parkers who felt they deserved better.

Even today, Rosie still got a rush seeing her name painted on
the rise of the gutter like a star on the walk of TV fame, but these
days she knew just how tenuous those screenprinted letters could
be. People's names were often painted over even before they'd been
told their services were no longer required. They'd arrive at work
one day to discover a new name on the kerb where theirs had been
the day – sometimes just hours – before. From glory to gutter in a
brushstroke, that's TV for you.

As she reverse-parked her car, Rosie once again became acutely
aware of its every dent and scratch and the smell emanating from
under the back seat that she had been trying to ignore: rotting banana,
no doubt jettisoned from Leon's lunch box days earlier. Looking at
the line-up of executive cars surrounding her, Rosie thought she
could have been in a BMW dealership. The latest model 4WD was
there – three in a line in exactly the same silver. Then there were
two sporty convertibles, also parked side by side, and two identical
black Audis beside them. The several Porsches interspersed among
the others signalled the still-single executives.

Keeping up with the Joneses in penis extensions
, she thought to
herself.

While she frequently cursed herself for not pushing harder for a
car allowance in her package, she was damned if she'd forfeit any
mortgage payments by buying a model she couldn't afford just to fit
in. Her Jeep, the one Jeff had insisted she buy as it was ideal for his
surfboards, would have to stay, even if the canopy leaked when it
rained and water would splash her shoes every time she accelerated.

Now, whenever she had to drive a journalist or, worse, network talent
to an interview, she experienced a prick of unworthiness, as if the car
was revealing the fraud she felt herself to be.

The emergency meeting was to take place in the boardroom, as
usual, so Rosie took the opportunity to stop by her office on the
way. A card had fallen off the filing cabinet and was face down on
the floor. It was the one Crystelle Callaghan had sent as a chin-up
after the Hunt fiasco. Rosie hurriedly bent to retrieve it, not wanting
the kind gesture disrespected.
You have to be a tough broad to last as
long in this business as Crystelle has
, Rosie thought, contemplating
the undisputed queen of Australian TV's long career from nighttime
variety show host to the afternoon chat institution she remained
today. Still, she was a generous soul who had gone out of her way to
ease Rosie into the job from day one, realising she was being led like
a lamb to the slaughter, as newcomers perceived to 'know nothing
about television' generally were at Six.

Rosie eyed the bulging manila folder marked 'KENNEDYS' on
her desk and wondered whether Keith would be well enough to
accept his lifetime achievement award. Word had it he was seriously
ill, but she hoped this was just the usual exaggeration that plagued
network gossip.

Next she surveyed the pile of untouched newspapers and magazines
beside her desk, and her groaning in-trays. It would all have to wait
,
she sighed, and went to close the door. As she did, she noticed a
handwritten envelope that had been slid under at some stage.
Immediately recognising the handwriting as Portia's, she opened it.

Dear Rosie,

I am so sorry to let you down like this but I need to take some
stress leave from work for personal reasons. I have notified HR
of this and they have informed me it is within my rights.

One day I will explain everything but if you can just bear
with me and give me some time to get my head together
I would be forever grateful.

I know I haven't been at the top of my game lately and I
want nothing more than to make it up to you and show you
I am your biggest supporter – which I am.

Thank you again,

Portia

Rosie was gripped with concern as she placed the letter in her
handbag.

God, I hope she's okay, whatever's going on.

Rosie knew she had been discussed at length the minute she opened
the boardroom doors. The men present stopped talking all of a
sudden, looking anywhere but at her. There were the usual suspects:
Simon Nash, particularly portly in a lemon penguin shirt and
immaculately ironed chinos; Johnno Johnston, with his hands deep
in his cargo shorts, playing with his balls yet again; Russell Frazer
in a signed football jersey of some sort; two men Rosie only knew as
bean counters from sales; and a tall man she had never met before
but who seemed well aware of who she was.

'Gentlemen,' Rosie said, trying not to look as uncomfortable as
she felt. 'I thought the meeting was at ten, so please excuse me if I'm
late.'

'No, you're here at the right time, Rose,' Nash answered, looking
smug. 'We're just waiting on Alicia Charles and the meeting can
start. Oh, have you met Adam Short, CEO of Tang.Inc and the
world's flukiest golfer?'

The tall man Rosie didn't know stood up and stretched his hand
out to shake hers.

'Hello, Rose,' he said politely enough, before turning to Simon to
resume their banter.

'And it's skill, not fluke, mate!'

'Well, I'm sorry, but that fourth hole wasn't skill, it was divine
intervention,' Simon quipped back, laughing loudly.

'Lovely to meet you, Adam,' Rosie interjected. 'And here's me
thinking golf was a car!'

When no one laughed at her sad attempt at humour, Rosie timidly
took a seat and helped herself to a coffee from the silver pot in the
centre of the table. She poured a large cup and grabbed an oat biscuit.
(They were her favourites, and she knew Jan would have baked them
specially.) She had only managed a sip when Alicia arrived, late and
flustered as usual. Rosie could see the men at the table were as shocked
by her friend's appearance as she was.

Always what could be deemed an eclectic dresser, Alicia had
outdone herself for Saturday mufti. Despite it being at least
28 degrees outside, she was in bright orange wool leggings, a violet
knee-length skirt and a fuchsia paisley blouse with billowing
sleeves like sails. She looked like she had dressed herself from a
Cirque du Soleil charity bin on the way in. The fact that she had
cropped her trademark scarlet red hair into a number two buzz-cut
didn't help.

Luckily, Alicia was oblivious to the men's sniggers, instead waving
enthusiastically at Rosie while chortling, 'Hello, darling.' 'Ooooh,
coffee, lovely,' she continued, ignoring Adam Short, who had stood
to introduce himself.

'Alicia, you're being addressed,' Rosie whispered from the corner
of her mouth.

'Oooooh, so I am. Hello, darling, who are you?' she asked,
momentarily ceasing to pour.

'Adam Short, CEO of Tang.Inc Australia,' he said, clearly taken
aback by Alicia's lack of ceremony.

'Oooh, good on you. That sounds very important,' Alicia said,
instantly dismissing him as boring. Alicia was only interested in
creative types.

'Well, now we're all here, let's get down to business so some of us
can still have time for a quick nine holes,' Simon Nash said, taking
on the alpha role of leader.

'Um, shouldn't Bettina be here?' Rosie asked, wondering why she
wasn't.

Nash threw a knowing glance at Adam Short.

'Bettina won't be required today,' Short replied, shooting a look
back at Nash who, in turn, grinned awkwardly.

'Right, now perhaps we can get to the matters at hand,' The
Darkness said, glaring at Rosie. 'As you all know, Keith Norman is
not well and may not be back at work for some time, if at all.'

Rosie was about to comment on the 'not at all' inference but Nash's
stare told her to shut up in no uncertain terms.

'This network is currently in crisis. Ratings are down – no slight
on you, Johnno, you've had a lot going against you, mate – but
declining ratings mean declining revenue and we all know that's not
a good thing.

'We have also just endured one of the most humiliating scandals
in this network's history, which is why Rosemarie Lang is here to
update us all on what the Graham Hunt situation is and where we
are to go from here. So, before we get onto other matters, Rose, if
you don't mind?'

Nash indicated that Rosie should stand at the head of the table,
no doubt aware how terrified she was of public speaking. Normally,
executive meetings were casual affairs, with everyone seated and
stating their piece in turn without such formalities. Rosie realised
The Darkness was trying to intimidate her.

You can do this, they're only people, think of your son . . .

'Well, gentlemen and, um, Alicia, of course,' she said, hugely
selfconscious to be standing in her jeans and runners with all eyes
on her. 'As you know, Graham Hunt left for California two days
ago to enter the Golden Spur Rehabilitation Centre for a thirty-day
stint. Unfortunately, he did not arrive at the facility at the designated
time and no one knows his whereabouts since he arrived at LAX
yesterday. The good news is that the press has not cottoned on to this
fact as yet. However, I fear we will not have much time until they
do. My sources claim the
Sentinel
is sending a crew over to cover the
story and, in the meantime, they have their LA bureau on the case.
Luckily for us, the recent shooting in San Francisco has meant the
bureau is short on reporters and the Hunt case has taken a back seat
until the new crew gets there—'

'So, Rose,' Nash interrupted, 'if you could get to the point, are you
trying to tell us that we have a day or two at best before this news
gets out?'

'Yes, Simon, that's what I'm saying.'

'Rose, where do you believe Hunt is?'

'Well, I don't know where he is, but I can guess what he's on, and
that's a bender.'

'And what exactly, to your knowledge, is a bender, Rose?'

'A bender is an extended period of time under the influence of
drugs, Simon.' Rosie could barely disguise the disdain in her voice.

'And, Rose, is it true that Hunt's recent behaviour following
your disastrous press dinner has even now gained international
attention?'

You mean bastard!

'Yes, Simon, Graham Hunt's exploits are currently the focus of
some bloggers in the US.'

'Some bloggers, huh? Doesn't the Hornblower receive some four
million hits per day?'

'Why, Simon, you seem to be a lot more au fait with the blogging
world than I am. Yes, I believe the Hornblower does receive a lot of
daily traffic but—'

'And is it true that the site is calling Hunt "the Snorter Reporter"?'

'That's gold!' Johnno Johnston cried, cracking up with laughter,
which incited more chuckles from the gathering.

Rosie wasn't laughing, though, knowing very well that Nash was
trying to unravel her. She wasn't going to have a bar of his bullying.

'You tell me, Simon, you seem to know more about this than I do.
I've been focusing on the local media as I really don't have time to
trawl the kind of mucky sites you seem to.'

'Just as well I make the time, Rose, considering you can't seem to
keep track of the press . . .'

'Hey, come on, you two, there's no need to take this mess out on
each other,' Adam Short said. 'Now, Rose, don't take this personally.
Simon is just trying to get a handle on the situation. I think we're
all a little upset about Hunt at the moment, which is why we're here
today and not at home with our families.'

'Well said, Adam,' Nash decreed.

Crawler!

'So, Rose, we would all love your thoughts on what should be
done,' Short continued.

'My thoughts are that we should let Hunt go. He is in breach of
the good conduct clause in his contract and I can't see how he will
ever regain the authority required to be this network's face of news.

Everyone has seen the pictures of his erect penis in the toilet cubicle
by now, and the shots of him snorting cocaine through a rolled-up
$20 bill. If not, there are T-shirts being sold out there with the
images printed on them, so it won't take long. The public also know
his pregnant wife has left him and that his toilet cubicle paramour is
selling her story to anyone with a chequebook. The man can hardly
fill the elder statesman role left by Willard Frost now. I suggest we
keep Helen Wales in the chair. She's been doing great numbers on
the weekends and has a spotless journalistic record. She's covered
seven elections, three wars and has won countless awards. And unlike
Hunt, she has the country's respect as a real journalist. I'm sure Allan
Bales would agree – he is the network's head of news, after all – if he
was here.'

Why isn't Bales here? Don't tell me someone else is on the stink.

'Well, you've given this some thought, I see, Rose,' Nash replied.
'Have you also considered that Helen is a woman and in the history
of Network Six news there has never been a female in the six pm
chair?' Nash looked around to ensure he had the backing of the other
men.

'Yes, I have considered that, Simon, and I've also contemplated
why exactly that has been the case. Surely it's time. I see no reason
whatsoever that a woman would not work at six pm, especially
someone with an impressive pedigree like Helen Wales. In fact, there
are several women up to the task at the network. Why, Karen Day is
a promising young journo being wasted as a morning weathergirl –
she could easily cater to that younger demo Hunt was supposed to.'

Adam Short looked at Nash quizzically.

'She's the blonde with the great tits we moved to
G'day Australia
,'
Nash explained.

'Actually, make that used to have great tits,' Johnno interjected.
'She's gone to fat lately. Porked up overnight. Lost her fuckability, if
you ask me.'

The men at the table all laughed uproariously while Rosie and
Alicia seethed in silence.

Comfortable he had the majority of opinion behind him, Nash
continued: 'Actually, Rose, isn't it part of your job to ensure the
female staff are well groomed at all times? Surely you could have a
word in Ms Day's ear about her weight? Best you do it rather than
Allan Bales, don't you think? It could sound a little . . . well, sexist
coming from a man.'

Rosie was once again stunned mute. She looked around the room
at the men and saw them as they should be: attired in crudely cured
animal pelts, their knuckles scraping on the ground, dragging tree
limbs and farting mammoth gas.

Adam Short was next to speak – or should that be grunt? 'Just
how fat is she? We don't want a hound reading the news. But I agree
it could be good getting a woman in there. Could also save us some
money. I mean, good men don't come cheap. I've seen what we paid
for Hunt.'

'Well, I think Keith might have something to say about that,'
Nash countered, looking to Johnno for affirmation.

'Keith's not here, Simon,' Adam Short interjected, 'and he won't
be for the foreseeable future, so I think we'd better have a show of
hands. Frankly, Simon, I can't see that we have an alternative. So,
who's for Helen Wales?'

Rosie watched what happened next closely. It was as she predicted.
No one was ready to put up a hand first. Johnno's eyes darted to
Simon, who glared back, as if to say, 'Don't you dare.' Johnno then
looked to Adam Short nervously, not wanting to put him offside
either. The other program executives were waiting on Johnno's nod.
It was a classic Mexican stand-off.

'Well, hooray for Helen and the sisterhood!' Alicia shrieked,
waving a paisley arm in the air, her trinket-laden bracelet jangling
triumphantly. 'I couldn't agree with you more, Rosie darling. It's
about time. You know we women have had the vote for a while now
too, don't you, gentlemen? Why, we're allowed in public bars these
days . . .'

Bless you, Alicia.

'Alicia has a point,' Rosie said. 'I could spin this in a positive
light
,
that we're a network going forward, up with the times. And
let's face it, we do have a bit of a reputation as a male-dominated
network . . .'

Simon Nash threw her another death stare but its sting was diluted
as Adam Short raised his hand skyward. Once the big boss had
taken the leap, the lemmings followed – first Johnno, then Russell,
then sales, until the only person left with their hand down was The
Darkness. After a pause of some seconds, he too reluctantly raised his
arm, saying, 'I want it on the record that I am not entirely convinced
this is the right move, but as there seems no other viable option at the
moment, I will agree with caution.'

Rosie laughed inside. Nash would never allow himself to be seen
backing a wrong decision – or any decision at all, really. He always
left an option open for an 'I told you so'.

'Good, well that's done then,' Adam Short continued. 'Now, what's
next?'

'We should address drama,' Simon replied, clearly wanting to
resume the chairing duties. 'Alicia?'

There was no need to ask Alicia to stand, she was already up
and making her way to the head of the table. Rosie watched Nash
stare at Alicia as she walked towards him. Nash was a fence-sitter
when it came to Alicia, questioning whether she really 'knew about
television'. Still, his new role as head of entertainment was dependent
on Alicia delivering him a top-rating drama and he knew it.

'Well, as you all know I've been gestating my new baby for some
months now and I feel she is almost ready to be birthed,' Alicia said
proudly. 'As you may also be aware, I have been given free creative
rein to produce a series which will bring a new generation of drama
lovers to the network, the highly coveted eighteen to thirty-five
demographic advertisers are desperate to target. Gentlemen, this
series will signal a seismic shift. It will show we are no longer
obsessed with cop shows – cops on the streets, cops on water, cops
in the country. What this network has been missing is a bleeding,
beating heart – the pounding force of love gone wrong, families
at war, youth off the rails. I plan to give throb to Tuesday nights,
gentlemen, a meaty, modern-day family drama that will be the talk
of the nation.'