The Boys' Club (19 page)

Rosie had barely hung up from Hunt when a very timid-looking
Simon Nash appeared at her door. The fact that he had deigned
to come to Rosie's office rather than having her come to him was
unheard of, especially twice in one day. Nash must really need her.
Big time.

'Simon,' Rosie said, noticing the head of entertainment was
hesitant, waiting to be invited in. 'Come in. Sit down.'

Nash remained silent as he took a chair, then sighed audibly. 'What
a disaster, huh?' he finally said.

'Er, yes, Simon, I have to agree with that.'

'What do we do?'

'Well, I know what you have to do and that is apologise to Alicia.
You and Johnno. I think you both need to go to her immediately and
grovel unconditionally. In person. Getting on your knees is optional
but advisable.'

Simon looked crestfallen. 'I know you're right but, fuck, if anyone
should be apologising it should be Alicia for trying to sell us that
right-wing feminist bullshit as a potential drama. You saw it! It was
fucking horrible.'

'Simon, I agree . . . to a point. I mean, I may well have nasty
flashbacks over the showreel too, but you have to consider that's all it
was – a five-minute visual first draft of an idea, and one you gave her
full creative control over. If you stop to think about it, as I have, it's
not such a bad one. I've written some notes you should have a look
at. I think it's not only salvageable but could be a winner. But that's
beside the point. The real issue here is that you can't talk to people
like that. Would you cop it, Simon? From anyone? Be honest. The
answer is no.'

Rosie had to look away. At any moment Simon 'The Darkness'
Nash might actually tear up in front of her – something she once
would have relished but now found excruciating. His eyes were red-rimmed
and his thin lips were trembling. He was in deep shit and
he knew it.

'Rose,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I need you to keep this out
of the papers. The press will have a field day if they get a hold of it.
Those bastards love to think of this place as a big boys' club, which
you know it's not.'

It took every iota of Rosie's self-control not to jump up on her desk
and scream into his face, '
IT IS SO, YOU FREAK!
' But for once, the
Buddhist bit actually kicked in and she reminded herself that The
Darkness' karma was being the pathetic punish he was.

He doesn't know any better. He has not evolved. He is struggling as
best he can through this life like all of us . . .

Regardless of her Mother Teresa–worthy mantra, Rosie was still
concerned. 'I'll do my best with the press, Simon, but as you know,
someone in this building is talking to "Secret Sydney" and there is
little that can be done until they're discovered. I'll call Alicia and try
to calm her. I'll also ring Bettina and remind her that if she makes
an issue out of this, it will be bad for the network and, as such, bad
for her. In the meantime, I'd send flowers. Many. Don't hold back.
Send her a hothouse full.'

'Rosie,' Simon said, for the first time using the friendly abbreviation
of her name, 'I owe you one for this.'

'I'll be expecting flowers too, Simon. Plain white, please. Of course,
no babies breath . . .'

'You have them.'

'Good,' she replied, surprised by just how easily Simon was rolling
over. 'Oh, and one other thing. I'd like you to change your mind
about firing Portia.'

Simon looked concerned. 'That's not my call,' he stammered, 'but
I could see what I can do if you keep my name out of the papers.'

Rosie saw she'd discovered Nash's sore spot and now had her
cocked thumb pressed up against it. While always hypersensitive
about any of his programs being criticised, Nash had been jammy
press-wise, never having suffered the esteem-crippling hell of a
personal savaging.

'Good. Well, let's leave this as a case of us both seeing what we can
do, okay?'

'Rose, I do not want today out there. I can't stress how important
this is.'

'I'm hearing you, Simon.'

She turned and paid sudden attention to her computer screen in
the hope that he would see the pause as an opportunity to leave. It
worked. As he rose, Rosie thought Nash actually looked shorter than
normal, then realised he'd developed the harried stoop of a broken
spirit. It appeared The Darkness might actually have seen the light.
He was almost out the door when he faltered, then turned back.

'Those notes you mentioned?'

'Here, Simon,' Rosie said, passing them to him. She paused,
waiting for a 'thanks' that never came.

'You're right, you know, all might not be lost. I might be able to
save things.'

Rosie smiled despite herself. She knew that Simon was a television
cockroach: he'd survive all the others
.
He always did.

* * *

By 3 pm Rosie had plateaued, meaning it was time to hit the canteen
and see if they had any of those really bad brownies left, the triple
choc ones that she ate in lieu of a large gin when she needed some
internal impetus to go on.

She would have asked Lisa to run down for her but the poor girl was
flat-out. Apparently there was a spelling mistake on today's episode
of
What's That Name?
and the switchboard was cranking with angry
viewers. Seems the movie title was
Can't Stop Dancing
but some genius
put a
u
instead of an
a
in
Can't
. Considering the show was huge in
retirement villages (there had been two deaths in the studio audience
so far this year, leading to an age limit on attendees), Rosie imagined a
lot of dentures had been spat out in shock at this careless mistake.

Lisa was a darling when it came to problems such as this, though.
She was so patient with complainants, especially old ones who loved
a chat. Rosie thought it was hilarious. If the people at the other
end of the phone could have seen who was appeasing them – Lisa,
with her dreadlocks, pierced nose, tatts and penchant for anything
studded – they would probably clasp their pacemakers in fear.

Rosie whispered, 'Chocolate?' as she passed Lisa's desk, and her
PA mouthed back, 'Fuck, yes,' in thanks before returning to her spiel
about the decaying morals of today's society, blah blah blah.

As with the car park, Rosie liked to take the long way around
to the canteen, just in case she got ambushed en route. By taking
the alternative way she also managed to bypass hair and make-up as
well as wardrobe, two departments that were reluctantly under her
command. As both were understaffed and overburdened, they were
constantly asking for Rosie to change things. Of course, they had
Buckley's. If anything, money was about to get tighter.

Bettina and the head honchos at Tang.Inc didn't understand why
on-air talent needed wardrobe budgets in the first place – didn't
these people have clothes of their own they could wear? And as for
make-up, surely they could put some gunk on themselves? It was just
another problem of being run by a company interested only in the
bottom line rather than the Australian media families of the past
who forged proud dynasties on their television reputations.

The cast of
Caspar the Cat
had obviously taken a break – when
Rosie arrived at the canteen the long queue that had formed was
reminiscent of the bar scene from
Star Wars
. A man dressed as a
beagle was holding his large canine head in his arms while two
women in sunflower suits and a man in some sort of rodent get-up
stood silently behind them. At the head of the queue was Caspar
himself. As Jason Jarvis' long-term partner, he was the one most
likely to cause Rosie some grief should he get within complaining
distance. Still, having been bombarded by Jason himself earlier, she
hoped she was in with a chance of being excused.

Loafing around at the lino-covered tables were various shabby
camera operators and floor crew, some of the scruffiest of whom Rosie
recalled seeing on her visits to Crystelle's set. There were also several
from the six pm news, the more diligent ones who came in early to
ensure the changeover from the morning
G'day Australia
set to the
news backdrop ran smoothly. There was also a scattering of the early
morning crew, most of whom seemed irritable. There must have been
a late satellite interview, Rosie realised, and as such more unpaid
overtime for an unlucky few who had to stay around to tape it. Being
the shocking eavesdropper she was, Rosie decided to amuse herself
during the wait and positioned herself in the queue close enough to
overhear a conversation between the
G'day Australia
crew.

'It's a fucking joke,' one rather overweight gent with a hairy belly
protruding under his blue singlet griped. 'She's got to be sucking
someone's cock.'

'Look, she's a nice enough girl,' countered another, 'but she's got
about as much on-screen appeal as my impacted toenail.'

'Apparently some genius in management's got a boner for her.
That's why she got flicked from news to us.'

'That makes sense. I mean, she's got a great set of tits but a
weathergirl needs to know about the fucking weather.'

'Anyway, those last research figures have fucked her. I hear she's
out.'

'What, back to news?'

'Nah, just out. Let herself go to fat so no one's going to have her
on camera now.'

Rosie realised they were talking about Karen Day and recoiled.

God this place is brutal. That poor girl
. . .

As the line moved up and out of hearing range, Rosie shuddered at
just how sexist this business was. Her dream of one day being moved
to news was never going to happen. Sure, there was a chance she
could still make it as a lowly paid junior producer or researcher, but
she'd never be fuckable enough on-camera material. And it was just as
well. Who would want their every pore to be examined and criticised
in detail by the nation? If it wasn't skin it would be weight, hair,
wardrobe . . . it was almost impossible to be appealing yet benign
enough to please the varying opinions of the masses, otherwise know
under that blanket term 'The Viewers'.

By the time Rosie reached the top of the queue, she was rethinking
the brownie altogether. It must have over a day's worth of kilojoules
in every delicious bite, and although Rosie had dropped two dress
sizes since joining Six, the Karen Day scenario was weighing heavily
on her.

Ah, why not! It's not like I'm going to be reading the news any time
soon . . .

'I'll have two strong flat whites and two brownies,' Rosie finally
blurted when she reached the top of the queue. She watched as the
very attractive but oh-so-slow barista Jason Jarvis had complained of
earlier set about filling her order, looking at the coffee machine like
it was the first time he'd seen it.

How can this guy make 300-odd cups of coffee a day and still treat
each one like it's his first?
Rosie was mentally urging him on –
That's
right. Put the coffee in there. Now, put that bit into the machine. Good
boy. Now, put the milk in the jug –
when a hand grabbed her shoulder,
making her shriek.

Turning, she saw Lisa, flushed and freaking.

'Holy hell, you scared me. Sorry the coffee has taken so long, but
Adonis here couldn't run a bath
. .
.'

Lisa's stunned expression didn't change, causing Rosie to predict
the worst – whatever that could be.

'What the hell is going on?' she asked, dreading the answer.

'It's Crystelle!' Lisa could barely speak, she was panting so hard.
'An accident. Quick!'

'Ambulance?'

'Rung.'

Nooooo.

Before the barista had finished her coffees, Rosie was out the door
and bolting to Studio 3.

As hers was a lowly daytime show, Crystelle Callaghan was given the
smallest studio on the lot to pump out ten hours of live TV a week.
Rosie hated even going near Studio 3, as it was really just an old
double garage with some wires and lights in it that should have been
torn down years ago. Even the show's backdrop concealed surplus
soft drink stock from the nearby canteen. It was a sad excuse for a set
but that didn't stop Crystelle, no siree. She made that old barn come
alive every day, producing two hours of variety and talk television
that was an advertising goldmine.

Rosie had been cautioning her against continuing the 'Challenge
Crystelle' segment each week, the finale to the Friday show, ever since
she began at Six. As there was no budget for her show, safety was
always a concern, but being the diehard trooper she was, Crystelle
was never going to let down the kids at the children's hospital who
benefited from her dares.

Since arriving at Six Rosie had watched her abseil down the
control tower to the creaking studio roof and scale hay bales in a fat
suit. She'd trucked in a pond for mud wrestling, lassoed sheep on
horseback side-saddle and even held a paintball war against other
network celebs in the past year. No matter how far she was pushed,
Crystelle prided herself on going further, just to get that extra
corporate donation or whip-around from warm-hearted viewers to
help those kids.
Bless her.

Apart from her big heart, she also had a crack wit and one of
the most dynamic interviewing styles on television. Guests – and
Crystelle personally ensured she didn't miss out on anyone or
anything going on in town – would open up to her unlike any other.
Often caught off guard by the shabby studio surrounds, the false
security of an afternoon timeslot and, most of all, Crystelle's unique,
disarming charm, celebrities occasionally wound up leading news
bulletins after appearing on the show, having accidentally revealed a
personal tidbit or vulnerability.

Rosie not only adored Crystelle, she counted her a true mentor;
someone who really did know about television. She'd been doing
it for near on three decades after all, from late-night variety to her
quiz shows and drama. Having moved on to afternoons to become
Australia's answer to Oprah and doubling the timeslot's ratings, she
was, ironically, considered to be on her last legs by certain executives
at Six – Nash being the main detractor as she brought in an older
demographic and not his revered eighteen to thirty-fives. However,
like Rosie, and her biggest fan, Keith, the rest of Australia loved
Crystelle and thought of her as an institution, always guaranteeing
her high overall popularity scores in the network's market research
and ensuring her place on the daily program schedule.

Please let Crystelle be okay. Of all the people at Six, let's not let
something horrible happen to her . . .

By the time Rosie arrived breathless at Studio 3, Crystelle was
propped up outside against its massive door, surrounded by her
crew.

'Honey, the ambulance is coming,' Rosie assured her friend
nervously as she neared, noting the large blood-crusted bandage she
was holding to her cheek. In the harsh daylight her heavy stage makeup
made the scene all the more surreal, but she smiled bravely. 'It's
not too bad, Crystelle, honest,' Rosie went on, not knowing whether
she was right. She just didn't want Crystelle to panic. 'We'll have you
fixed in no time.'

Turning to the camera guys and floor operators standing idly by,
Rosie surveyed the bigger scene and didn't like what she saw. There
was a ride-on mower lodged in one dented studio wall and another
tipped on its side nearby. Both were adorned with cardboard horse
cutouts. It was only then that Rosie realised Crystelle was wearing a
sequinned Annie Oakley outfit.

Glaring at the show's executive producer, Rosie asked the obvious:
'What the—?'

'Lawnmower polo,' he replied sheepishly. 'They're the show's new
sponsors.'

'Which one was she riding?' Rosie snapped back.

'The one in the wall,' he replied, trying to stifle a laugh.

'And the other?' Rosie asked, gesturing at the flipped mechanical
'horsey'.

The assembled men couldn't help themselves and all cracked up
laughing. Rosie tried to glare again but it wasn't easy. They were all
hysterical and it was catching.

'It was Davo,' the EP continued, pointing to an obviously stoned
cameraman in chaps, Stetson and neckerchief. 'He knocked it over
pissing himself when he saw her hit the wall.'

Now Rosie was laughing with the men too. How could she not?
The cameraman's pants were sodden and from the way he was
crossing his legs in pain from laughter, it looked like they could be in
for another dousing.

'Rosie, darling,' a voice could be heard through the mirthful
racket. It was Crystelle, beckoning Rosie closer.

'Yes, lovely, what can I do?' Rosie replied.

'Darling,' Crystelle said, straining to be heard. Rosie kneeled
closer to hear. 'There's a camera in my handbag . . . Surely we can
still make the first edition of the
Sentinel
.'

It took all Rosie's power not to bear-hug the pink sequins off her.

'You, my friend, are a bloody legend,' Rosie whispered back.

'Oh, I wouldn't say legend, it makes me sound so old,' Crystelle
answered with a grin. 'Now, the camera, darling, before the blood
stops dripping . . .'

* * *

Crystelle was propped up on several large pillows in her chi-chi
private hospital room enjoying a smuggled glass of red and lots of
attention. As Rosie arranged the latest bouquet into a vase of water
beside her, Crystelle read the card out loud: 'Trust you to upstage me!
Get fucking better. I need you. Keith.'

Crystelle just looked at the card for another moment, savouring
every syllable, then turned to Rosie. 'He's not good, is he?'

'He's certainly been better.' Rosie was thinking of Mae, who had
almost certainly organised the impressive flowers, still seamlessly
managing the Big Fella's life from the front of his empty office.

Mae must be missing him. Must spend more time with Mae!

'I love that old bastard,' Crystelle said, her eyes suddenly moist.

'He knows. He loves you too.'

'I have always said that when Keith leaves the business, I will too.
Maybe I should look for a new day job?'

'Let's not rush things, lovely,' Rosie replied. She was about to say
something like
plenty of life in both of you yet
but remembered Elaine's
confidence regarding Keith's health and stopped herself.

'It's a shame you weren't here for the good days, Rosie,' Crystelle
continued. 'TV used to be such a fun place to work. Honestly. We
laughed all the time. If you were on camera, you were treated like
a real star. Sure, we knew it was Australian TV and nothing in the
grander international scheme of things, but no one was about to tell
us that! More important, though, we were all family. We loved each
other. We couldn't wait to get to work each day. We'd drink and
play together every night and weekends too. We cared about each
other. If someone was sick, we all mucked in to help out. I had most
of the newsroom painting my upstairs karaoke room when I was
renovating.'

'Yeah, I've heard the stories. It sounds like it was a wonderful time,'
Rosie said, envious.

'It was the small touches – a crate of champagne at the front door
if ratings were up or you put in a weekend's extra work and thought it
had gone unnoticed. All of that has changed now. Now it's all about
cost-cutting, head counts and appealing to the younger, brain-dead
demographic. Never mind if something is actually entertaining or
not.'

'I know, lovely. It sucks. But I think we all must accept this is the
new way, however sad it is.'

'I must sound very silly going on like this.'

'Not at all! I could listen to you read the phone book and think
it's Kafka!'

Crystelle held Rosie's hand in gratitude, then raised the empty
glass in her other hand to motion for a top-up. Rosie filled her glass
happily, grateful that her friend was okay. Crystelle's injuries were
mainly superficial: some heavy bruising, seven stitches in a gash near
her eye and deep grazes on her left leg that needed to be cleaned and
bandaged. Rose knew it was more the shock that had knocked her
around, although hell would chill over before Crystelle Callaghan
would admit to that.

'Lovely, I'm going to have to get these photos to the
Sentinel
,' Rosie
told her. 'Would you like a quick look to veto any nasties?'

'Oh yes, I'd better. I loathe these damn digital cameras. They
can go in so close now and editors seem to love a bad shot more
than a good one. Cruel bastards! Those "stars without make-up"
features that the magazines run should be banned. I mean, they're
unbearable. Just as well I don't even go to the letterbox without a
full face on – ever!'

Rosie laughed, then jumped up on the bed with Crystelle to take
her through the shots.

'Damn these little window thingies,' she said, squinting at the
camera's viewfinder. 'Grab me my glasses, will you, darling?'

Rosie passed Crystelle her specs and helped her navigate to the first
shot taken.

'Oh, that's a goodie. Well done,' she said of the close-up of the
bandage on her eye. 'Oh, and you got ambulance shots too. It's
always best to give them more than they need, don't you think?'

Flicking to a frame taken in the back of the ambulance, Crystelle
screamed in mock horror. 'Get rid of that one, darling, quickly! It
looks like a large Chinese family called the Chins has moved into
my neck!'

Rosie giggled, then with a dramatic gesture deleted the offensive
image. With seven strong pictures finally selected, Rosie showed
Crystelle the three she planned to send to the
Sentinel
.

'Why not send the lot?' Crystelle asked.

'I want to save some for
Australian Woman
,' Rosie explained.
'They'll need a few for the "at home recovering fabulously" feature I'll
give them exclusively. We'll get them to shoot something gorgeous of
you for the main image.'

Crystelle smiled. 'You seem to have got the hang of the publicity
business after all.'

'Well, if you think so that's certainly a compliment, but I doubt
management would agree.'

'You know, publicity used to be about raising interest in programs
and celebrities,' Crystelle mused, still in a sentimental mood. 'Again,
you seem to have missed the good times, I'm afraid, when the publicity
director of the network was someone to respect. These days it's about
keeping losers like that nasty Graham Hunt out of the papers and
spreading vile rumours about the opposition. Hardly noble.'

'I certainly agree that what I do is far from noble,' Rosie laughed.
'I think TV publicists are way down the scale somewhere between
used car salesmen and crystal meth dealers these days.'

'A tragedy if you ask me!' Crystelle declared, noticing her pesky
glass had somehow managed to empty itself again.

Rosie refilled it and splashed a large glug into her own before
dialling Greg Leach's number at the
Sentinel
.

'Greg, it's Rosie.'

'Rosie, about time! Where have you been? Is it true Crystelle
Callaghan has been in an accident? The news desk is going nuts here.
Is she okay?'

'She's with me right here, Greg. Although I'm not quite sure she's
well enough to speak to anyone at the moment,' she said, watching
Crystelle take a large sip of red wine. 'Of course, I'll see what I can
do . . .'

'Rosie, we would obviously love the exclusive on this one.'

'Yes, I know you would, Greg, but there would need to be a tradeoff.'

'Rosie, what are you up to? You know these things aren't my
call—'

'Greg, just listen. You can have exclusive pics and quotes on a
small proviso – lay off writing about Network Six for twenty-four
hours. Just give us a break altogether and don't take a swipe at anyone
tomorrow. It will be a challenge. See if you can go one edition without
putting the boot into someone here.'

Rosie hoped this would be enough to stop any leaks regarding
The Darkness' behaviour at the drama presentation making it into
'Secret Sydney' – meaning the head of entertainment might actually
lay off her as well.

'Rosie, the Hunt story is still hot. I don't know if I can.'

'Fine. This one goes to the
Tribune
then. I mean, I hardly owe the
Sentinel
any favours . . .'

Crystelle handed Rosie her glass of wine as she waited for Greg's
response, giving her a thumbs-up for her hard-headed approach.

Finally, the silence was broken. 'How hurt is she?' Greg asked.

'Greg, it's Crystelle. How hurt do you want her to be?'

Rosie winked at Crystelle, who beamed back.

'And the pics?'

'Just call me Annie Leibowitz,' Rosie replied.

'And they're exclusive to us?'

'You and your interstate counterparts.'

'Have I told you that lately you're turning into a real ball-tearer?'

'Why, Greg, you say the sweetest things. So, we have a deal?'

'Yes, we have a deal. But I have one request for you.'

'And what would that be?'

'That I get to sit next to you at the Sports Hall of Fame dinner in
Adelaide next week.'

'I think that's most do-able. We have ourselves a deal. Oh look,
Crystelle has just woken. Shall I ask her if she's strong enough for a
quote right now?'

'Rosie, it's Crystelle Callaghan. She could give quotes in a coma!'

'Now, Greg, you're talking about a legend here. And a personal
friend of mine. You wouldn't want to do anything to upset Crystelle
around me.'

'Oh yeah, and risk getting lynched by our readers. Don't worry, we
love Crystelle at the
Sentinel
.'