The Boys' Club (21 page)

'Hard day at the office?' Jeff said facetiously, turning to Vera and
adding, 'See, this is exactly what I've been talking about.'

'Shut up, Jeff,' Vera barked, hating to be told so by anyone. 'Rose!'
she screamed as she turned. 'You're smoking! How could you do this
to me? You know it worries me sick. I don't know how I'll tell your
father you've taken up cigarettes again. It will kill him!'

Rosie could feel tears welling and cursed the cigarette still
smouldering between her fingers. She looked at Lou, pleading with
her eyes for her friend to intervene, but Lou was not projecting any
warmth back. In fact, she seemed as angry as the others.

'Babe, it's your son's birthday,' Lou hissed. 'Surely work can wait
a while, at least until he blows out the candles on his cake, for fuck's
sake. Sorry, Vera.'

'That's quite all right, Lou,' Vera replied, pumped she had an ally.
'There are certain instances where I believe swearing is appropriate
and unfortunately my daughter has provided just such an instance.'

Rosie had never felt so powerless in her life as she squatted behind
the ludicrous painted treasure chest. There was no one to turn to for
sympathy or solace. Everyone was against her now. They could all
see what a terrible mother she had become, what a waste of a human
being she really was.

'It's just that there's been a major drama at work,' Rosie began, her
tone as pitiful as her excuse.

'Gee, really,' Jeff said, feigning shock. 'That's a surprise.'

'Rosie, are you there?' It was Simon again, his timing as impeccable
as ever.

'Hang on, Simon, I'll be with you in a moment,' Rosie replied, her
hangdog eyes still focused on her assailants. 'Look, there really is a
drama,' she told them. 'I just need to make a quick call and I'll be
back in there. Honest.'

'Rosie, come on, honey. It's his
birthday
!' Lou said angrily.

'I know that, Lou,' Rosie retorted. 'Do you think I want to be here
like this?'

Lou folded her arms in frustration, then turned and walked back
into the restaurant with a now-smug Jeff following close behind.

'Well, are you coming?' Vera asked angrily.

'I said five minutes, Mum!'

'I know all about your five minutes these days, Rosemarie Lang!
Just try to get back inside before the children go home, will you?'

As Vera walked off, Rosie realised her legs had set into a cramp
from crouching so long, and she fell back into the mud behind the
skips. With nothing left to lose she remained seated in the smelly
muck, lit another cigarette and returned to her call.

'For god's sake, Rose, can you concentrate on your job,' Simon
barked. 'I'm not in the office on a weekend to be put on hold while
you're having a party. Now, are you going to ring the
Sentinel
? You
had better bloody well say yes . . .'

Like a beaten dog, Rosie whimpered, 'Yes,' then hung up, dialled
the main
Sentinel
number and asked for the editor's office.

As she waited at the Qantas VIP lounge for the last of her journalists,
Rosie gritted her teeth, knowing they too would arrive in a foul
mood, having discovered their seats to Adelaide were economy. It was
true that most networks flew journalists business class, something
Bettina and Tang.Inc management were quick to discount as grossly
unnecessary at Six. Rosie remembered what Crystelle had told her
about how it used to be and cursed her own timing yet again.

I am so not meant to be a publicist.

What made the waiting all the more intolerable was that she had
several more quips to endure if the ribbing she'd received from every
journalist who'd arrived thus far was any indication. Ever since the
Sentinel
had come out with their front page exposé on
Makeover This
Mess
contestant Klaus Heinrich and the sidebar news story about
Six's lame attempt to keep the lid on it, Rosie had been copping flack
from her former colleagues. If she was honest with herself, she had to
admit they had a point. Rosie felt she had sold a bit of her soul that
day, and vowed to herself she would never do it again. Her boundary
had been reached.

Her ponderings were interrupted as a flash of Vuitton suit-bag and
blonde-tipped, product-heavy hair moved into view.

Oh shit! Here he is . . .

It was none other than Trent Allenby, the snidely camp gossip
reporter from the Fox & Ron radio show. As his daily spot was
syndicated, Rosie had reconciled herself to the fact that his audience
reach was too big to ignore, and asked him to attend the Sports Hall
of Fame live telecast dinner despite herself. It was not going to be easy,
though, as Rosie was still fuming over his special on-air mention of
her the day Hunt's loo blue was exposed. They had too much history
for him to do that to her and expect to get away with it.

Trent gave her one of those double air kisses that actually never
make contact with either cheek, as though he was worldly and
European. This made Rosie chuckle, remembering when Trent
Allenby had been Bruce Barnes from Mascot. Rosie had attended
a birthday party at his family home when they were young cadets
together and distinctly remembered his roots as aluminium clad
under flight path, not the winter ski lodge, summer beach house
scenario he claimed now.

'Darling, fabulous to see you looking so well. You have lost So-Much-Weight! You must be thrilled. Clever girl! How did you do it?'

Rosie's smile didn't falter, despite her seething resentment. At least
she had one necessary PR skill – a fake front. 'All hard work, let me
tell you,' she replied, slapping her thighs and hating herself for it.
She wasn't lying – it had been hard work. It wasn't as if she'd been
to a spa resort and dropped a pleasant kilogram or three by going
organic. It had been burnt off through sheer gut-scorching stress
and an appetite that now extended only to certain varieties of red
wine – drunk in bulk.

'Glad you could make it,' Rosie said, sweeping her arm towards
the VIP lounge to indicate that Trent could go right on in, no need
to stop and chat.

'Darl, you didn't tell me about economy!' Trent chided as he
looked her up and down. 'I mean, I even tried using my own points
to upgrade. Not happy!'

'Tell me about it!' Rosie countered, opening her hands wide to
gesture helplessness. 'Blanket company policy now that everyone flies
economy. I'm sitting right beside you, as are all the other journos.
And if Keith Norman was here, he would be too.'

Trent still feigned put-out as he gazed over her shoulder to see if
there was anyone more interesting to talk to. There obviously wasn't,
as he continued: 'By the way, brave you for trying to stop the
Sentinel
story. Shame the network had no legal standing. Still, not like you'll
ever be wanting a job back there again now you've crossed to the dark
side of PR.' Trent had always been good with a cutting comment.
Nothing had changed.

'Anyway, I should go and mangle with my fellow journalists,' he
continued, waving coyly at the reporter from AAP. 'Let's just hope
the bedbugs don't bite in my hotel room tonight!'

Rosie was surprised how happy she was to see Greg Leach arrive.
There was something comforting in the familiarity of that roughly
shaven face and his unchanged uniform of dishevelled shirt and jeans
with cuffs dragged to a fray. She was even happier to see how pleased
Greg seemed to see her too. Forgetting journo/publicist protocol, he
embraced her with both arms, pulling Rosie groin on groin close.
'I've missed you,' he whispered warmly.

Being in such close proximity to heterosexual male flesh again had
her prickling uncomfortably with sudden heat. Not to mention that
Rosie knew this specimen's every inch, having travelled it with her
tongue on many delightful occasions. Theirs had been a highly sexual
relationship – bonk buddies at their bouncy best. And the memory
of her sexual adventures with Greg still lit her from within.

Rosie pulled away, cursing her fair skin as Greg got a look at her
blushing-red dial.

'Look at you, all girly and shy
,
' he laughed, tickling her playfully
to dissipate the awkwardness. Then he looked her straight in the eyes
and, flashing a mischievous grin, whispered: 'Something tells me you
still like me too.'

He's right!

Daniel's warm smile flashed into Rosie's mind like a slap. How
could she be blushing at Greg's attention when she was so desperately
smitten with someone else? But then she had blown it with Daniel
at Leon's party, only making it back as he was leaving to take the
other kids home with their wrapped slices of Salty Sam birthday
cake in tow. What's worse, Lou later informed her that Vera had
been in Daniel's ear the entire party, no doubt enlightening him
about Rosie's every flaw. Then again, Lou was so mad with her, she
might have been exaggerating just to make Rosie feel that little bit
worse – if that was possible. Still, there had been no text messages
from Daniel since that day and Rosie was apprehensive about being
the one to make the next move.

It wouldn't have worked out anyway. He was too good for me. It was
a lovely dream.

With the last of her journos accounted for and boarding underway,
Rosie felt all she needed now was one of those flags guides wave at
museums as she ushered her group into the slow-moving economy
queue. She tried not to notice the eye-rolling and defiant stances of
her charges, still clearly incensed at the sheer indignity of it all.

'Well, well, well, what have we got here?' Trent suddenly cooed
loudly, causing heads to swivel.

Rosie felt physically sick as she watched Russ, Nash and Johnno
stroll smugly past them without even a glance of acknowledgement.

Don't do it! Don't you dare!

But they did
,
breezily strolling into the business class boarding
lane, through check-in and straight on board.
Blanket policy, huh?

'Look, the travel agents must have made a mistake,' Rosie piped
up, failing to sound chipper. Every gossip writer in the country now
had a tasty item for tomorrow's pages. Not bad, considering they
hadn't even taken off yet.

As she slowly shuffled onboard the plane, Rosie practised her most
evil glare so it was sharpened to white rage by the time she reached
the boys sitting pretty in business, cold beers in hand. Russ seemed
unfazed by Rosie's scowl and the accompanying journalists as they
approached, focusing instead on his fast-disappearing beer. Anything
not directly related to sport was unworthy of consideration in Russ's
opinion. Unfortunately this also included people.

'Oh no, journalists. Let's jump!' Johnno joked cockily, unable to
ignore the party filing past en masse. He stood and shook hands,
greeting every journalist individually before they reluctantly moved
on through the great dividing curtain. It was almost an art form,
Rosie thought as she watched Johnno in action. With a bit of glad-handing
he had not only atoned for the prior queue snub but had
made each person feel special for that particular moment he held
their gaze. He was a smooth operator, no doubt about it. No wonder
girls' knickers seemed to fall down in his mere presence.

Rosie flashed her kill beams in Simon Nash's direction as she
neared his seat. Unfortunately, he was playing his 'I'm far too busy
for trivial courtesies' game, burying his head in the
Fin Forecaster
.

Pretentious git!

Rosie felt ready to take the three executives by the jugular one by
one, but she would have to sit on her rage until they got off the plane.
It could wait. It wasn't going anywhere.

Finding her seat number, she took her laptop out, then placed her
bag in the overhead locker. She barely had her tray table down when
Greg appeared, grinning.

'Surely this is my seat,' he said, plonking himself down beside her
and adjusting his seatbelt. Rosie tried to remain cool, even when the
writer from
TV Talk
magazine complained that Greg was sitting in
his place.

'Here, have mine,' Greg answered, handing him his boarding card.
'Now piss off.'

'I can see you've lost none of your charm, Greg,' Rosie finally said,
making sure not to look in his direction in case she was blushing
again.

'Sweet of you to say,' he replied. 'I like you too.'

Rosie sat upright awkwardly, trying to prevent any part of her body
accidentally brushing against his. She needn't have bothered.

'So, what can we do to amuse ourselves on a plane?' Greg said,
loudly enough for others to hear. Then he placed his hand gently on
her thigh, high up enough to make her yelp in shock as she batted
it away.

'I don't know about you but I have some emails to answer,' Rosie
said sternly, attempting to fend off more assaults.

'Oh, you're no fun any more,' Greg booed. 'I know, I'll help you
answer them.'

'Greg,' Rosie said in frustration, pushing him back into his own
seat. 'Behave!'

Rosie could see that Greg was enjoying toying with his old sparring
partner. He was no doubt scrolling through some of the fun times
they'd shared in the past. As she had never presumed their relationship
would lead anywhere serious, their sex had been wild, unburdened
by all that 'what will he think of me?' insecurity that could so easily
put a handbrake on Rosie's libido when her heart was at risk. And if
Greg's memories were half as nice as hers, it was unlikely he'd back
off any time soon.

There was a reprieve from his taunts as the plane took off, forcing
Rosie to shut down her laptop temporarily, but as soon as the bar
service started, the games recommenced.

'A bottle of your finest red for the young lady and I,' Greg demanded
of an attendant still serving several rows ahead.

'I'll be with you shortly, sir,' she replied.

Rosie was impressed by how polite she was, being a domestic hostie
and all. Rosie had run into some real horrors in her years flying, one
in particular intimating that maybe she shouldn't be asking for a
second bickie with her tea.

'But my friend and I are positively parched,' Greg complained.

Rosie was embarrassed by the time the attendant arrived.

'Finally, your finest red and leave the bottle,' Greg demanded.

'I'm sorry, sir, we only serve wine by the glass.'

'Well, that would make it eight glasses by my calculation. Two at
a time should do it.'

'I'll just have a glass of pinot,' Rosie said to shut him up. 'And just
one at a time will be fine for both of us, thanks,' she added, forcing
her elbow into Greg's side.

Rosie sipped her wine then opened her Mac, pleased when it
started up without a hitch. She was so hopeless with technology; if
one thing went wrong she feared a complete meltdown – and not of
the hard drive, but herself. She had lost too many stories in the past
through computer glitches.

Her emails rolled in with a 'boing' sound, taking several seconds
to scroll to a stop. Rosie scanned the list of names, looking for a
response to something she'd sent earlier. She had only gone a short
way when she realised Greg was looking over her shoulder.

'So, let me see what's going on,' Greg said, sculling his second glass
of red. 'Anything about Alicia's mysterious new drama in there?'

Rosie abruptly snapped her computer shut.

'Greg, please. This isn't fair. I can't be your friend right now.'

'Oh, Rosie, that's crap. It's friends first, work second when it comes
to you and me.'

'Yeah, buddy?' Rosie replied. 'And that's why you won't tell me
who your "Secret Sydney" leak is? Not to mention that your paper
ridiculed me by name last week.'

'Touché!'

Greg grinned, then nuzzled into her neck and whispered, 'I love it
when you're feisty. Grrr.'

Rosie pushed him away, trying to act angry. Problem was, she
wasn't. She adored Greg, always had, and was enjoying his attention,
no matter how hard she tried not to. But Rosie couldn't help noting
that she was not the only object of Greg's affection throughout the rest
of the flight. Over the following two hours she watched him drink
another six glasses of red in worryingly quick succession. And when
the attendant told him the bar was closed for landing, he polished off
Rosie's glass as well.