The Boys' Club (22 page)

Rosie checked her whooshed-up hair-do – Lou had loaned Rosie her
dress on the proviso she wear it that way – decided it looked like a
madwoman's sleep and shrugged. There was no time to rethink it
now, so she grabbed her sequinned clutch bag, admired the seafoam
Prada gown again, and cautiously opened her hotel door a crack.

Peering down the hallway, she was happy to see it was all clear – not
a journo or executive in sight.

Rosie knew her room was close to the reporters on Level 11, as they
had all checked in together. She wasn't sure where management was,
though. Hopefully they had upgraded their rooms as well as their
flights and were in another wing of the hotel – or at least on another
floor. Anywhere but near her. It was bad enough living with these
people at the network twelve hours a day, but now she was being
forced to spend an entire twenty-four hours under the same roof as
Nash, Johnno and Russ. Not only that, she had the network's entire
sports team in her charge, including its latest recruit, Graham Hunt,
the newest panellist of the
Balls Eye
team, making his first public
appearance tonight since his humiliating return from Los Angeles.

As Rosie headed down the hall, she felt like she was in a Discovery
Channel doco, one of those ones where you follow a cute little critter
as it is born and bravely heads out on its own, only to be savaged by
something large and nasty when least expected, turning the show
from sweet to snuff in an ad break. Rosie was the very bottom of the
food chain tonight and wondered whether she shouldn't just speed
things up and sacrifice herself down a hotel lift well.

If she could get through the next twenty-four hours she could
pretty well survive anything – the impending Kennedys bun fight
included. At least at the Kennedy Awards, every network PR was
there sweating it out, trying to keep their talent and executives
off ledges as they bitched, blamed and complained if they lost or
boasted, big-noted and bleated if they won – either way acting
intolerably. But this was her gig alone. Not only did she have every
leading media writer in the country sniffing for stories and gossip
about management, she had most of management angling to get
their names in print or, even better, planting nasty rumours about
their rivals at the other networks.

To top it off, every sporting legend still taking breath was gathering
downstairs in the hotel ballroom for the dinner and telecast. These
greats were anything but for Rosie, as most were also Network Six
commentators, lifestyle reporters and personal friends of Keith.
As such all were under her charge until they were home from the
function, happy and safe in bed and feeling adequately smug and
important – and inebriated. Gatherings of such magnitude meant
celebrating. Celebrating in TV land meant drinks. Drinks meant
bad behaviour. Bad behaviour meant bad press. The lift well option
was looking better all the time compared to the veritable five-alarm
disaster Rosie sensed was waiting to happen.

It was because of Hunt's re-emergence from shame and seclusion
that Rosie had asked the
Balls Eye
boys to meet two hours before
the telecast so she could talk to them about how they should handle
his return to television as a sports commentator. Rosie had already
grilled the odious newsreader upon his return from LA, telling him
in no uncertain terms that should he in any way stuff up again, his
contract would be annulled under the appropriate behaviour clause.
Even more terrifying, Keith would personally issue a fatwa on his
boof head, ensuring he not only never worked in this town again,
but might not even get to breathe its air sans respirator. Hunt was so
repentant and contrite by the end of her sermon that Rosie wouldn't
have been surprised to see him banging a tambourine for the Salvos
in the foyer tonight, to make amends.

After booking a media room in the hotel for their meeting, Rosie
had instructed Russ to tell his charges that they were to attend – no
excuses accepted. The head of sport had reluctantly agreed, aware
that recent media flack about the show being sexist had damaged
ratings, which were down more each week despite the upcoming
finals season. Recently there had been several unsavoury incidents
involving prominent sportsmen that made Hunt's loo debacle look
like a UN mission in comparison. Footy in particular was on the
stink – and if footy ponged, so did Six's ratings.

Rosie asked Russ to get senior representatives of each sport, who
were all in Adelaide for the event anyway, to attend the meeting as
well, to see just what could be done to clean up Australian sport's
image in general, and they had agreed.

In the foyer, Rosie caught a glimpse of herself in its enormous gilt-rimmed
mirror and realised just how inappropriate her sheer green
gown was, at least for such a meeting. But it was too late to change so
she sucked in some breath and headed into the fray, head held high.

This is a meeting about sexism, dammit. The last thing I should be
worried about is what I'm wearing!

As she entered the room, Rosie felt like a freshly slaughtered
carcass being dipped into a pool of piranhas. Every eye in the room
was diverted in her direction and all rested at chest level. Suddenly
she wondered whether she should have worn a bra after all. She
had hoped that under four layers of silk there would be no obvious
nipple action, but the way she was being stared at made her feel as
though she had just popped out of a cake swinging tassles.

Stuff Prada. I should have worn a burka!

'Well, well, well, don't you look tasty,' Russ finally piped up, inciting
low grunts of agreement from the seated posse of men nursing full
schooners around him. 'You look like you're out for some tonight.' A
low rumble of laughter accompanied the lewd comment.

Rosie felt that annoying skin of hers heat with a blush and knew
the men would interpret it as shyness rather than anger.

'Excuse me, Russell, but this meeting is supposed to be about
stopping sexism, not starting it,' she countered. Her voice had an
unmistakable tone of indignation in it.

Muffled chuckles followed, only this time it was Russ who was
feeling the sting of embarrassment.

Rosie decided to continue while she had the upper hand:
'Gentlemen, may I open this meeting by pointing out that what
our head of sport just said is a perfect example of an inappropriate
comment to the opposite sex.'

All eyes in the room momentarily moved from Rosie's breasts to
the head of sport, whose humiliation was evident. Not happy to be
ridiculed in front of his boys, Russ pulled out his blokey guns.

'Oh, I see you're attracting sharks again tonight,' he said, and the
room exploded with laughter. 'Jesus, seems like you've been on your
rags for months now. Maybe you should see a doctor.'

Rosie was furious. She had heard the period joke a hundred – make
that a thousand – times. 'Actually, Russ, maybe I should see a lawyer,
because what you just said is actionable. It's only a matter of time
before you say something like that to a woman who isn't as tolerant as
I am and I hope – no, make that pray – I'm around to see it because
not only will you lose your job, you'll also wind up in court.'

This time there was no laughter, which Rosie took as a sign to go on.
'Look, I like to think of myself as someone with a sense of humour,
despite what Russ may think. But I'm also aware that your various
sports are suffering big time. Not only are ratings down but bums on
seats as well. I understand attendance is down at some football games
a massive twenty-two per cent. That, gentlemen, is ouch. Personally,
I wouldn't want to be any of you, justifying those stats to the board,
but then it's not my job to tell you how to run your clubs. My job
is to get viewers watching televised sport on Network Six. So, Russ,
if you'd like to apologise for what you just said about me attracting
sharks, perhaps we can commence our business? Oh, and by the way,
these words are actually coming out of my mouth. If you're looking
for it, it's about a foot higher than where you're staring.'

Rosie could feel herself shaking under her layers of frothy silk
chiffon but willed herself with all her might not to buckle. She saw
Russ clench his fist in anger and, for a moment, thought that very
same fist might actually be heading in her direction. He prided
himself on being not just one of the boys, but the leader of the pack.
And she had just verbally castrated him. The tension in the room was
tangible.

'Look, I guess she has a point,' Russ reluctantly acknowledged,
ignoring Rosie to address the men. 'It seems we're losing sheilas at
the ground and in ratings. I'm sure it's just a cyclical thing, but we
should at least admit that some of the players have been having a bit
too much fun on away games lately.'

Rosie couldn't believe what she was hearing.

A bit too much fun? Give me strength!

'Russell, I can assure you that women do not think spit-roasting
a teenager in a hotel car park is a bit too much fun,' she interjected
vehemently. 'Neither do they think men urinating on women on
dance floors is a hoot. Public vomiting, brawling, glassing and text
messaging profanities are also not a laugh a minute, all of which have
made headlines in the last month alone! For god's sake, don't you
realise rape and violence are not fun, but criminal!'

Rosie was shocked at just how angry she was. The irony was that
her lecture on violence was making her want to head high tackle
each and every bozo in the room, and put the boot in while they
were down. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she studied the
assembled execs. The heads of the football codes seated nearest her
were trading concerned looks. Russ was still staring at her with
undiluted rage while the
Balls Eye
panellists – including Hunt – all
appeared mesmerised by the carpet at their feet. She couldn't tell
which one of them did it, but a muffled cough that sounded a
lot like the word 'woof' was heard, breaking the steely silence.
Laughter erupted. Soon, the lot of them were giggling like boys at
the back of the school bus. It took a couple of minutes before the
older men joined in, some refraining from laughing out loud in a
bid to remain serious.

Rosie gave up. 'All right. I can see this is going nowhere,' she
exclaimed in frustration. 'We may as well end this meeting right
now. I'll leave you with one thought, however. Graham Hunt is
possibly the most loathed man in Australia at the moment. He not
only cheated on his pregnant wife, he has been exposed as a woman
beater and a drug addict. When he steps out on stage tonight as a
new member of the
Balls Eye
team, every sports enthusiast in this
country will be watching – men and women. The choice is yours,
gentlemen. You can either dig Australian sport into a deeper grave
or swing public opinion around using Hunt as a voice of contrition,
apologising not only for his own failings but also for recent events.'

Again, silence reigned. Hunt looked sheepish as his new colleagues
shot him accusing glances.

'If he's such a liability, how come we're being lobbed with him?'
piped up an older man with a fat neck and a face that looked like
it had taken one too many tackles. Rosie recognised him from the
sports reports as the head of the football club involved in the spit-roasting
incident.

'Because Keith Norman wants to use his infamy to get viewers to
watch
Balls Eye
, that's why,' Rosie told him, knowing the Big Man's
name would be the final word on the subject. 'Like I said, gentlemen,
Hunt's appearance on the show will get people watching. Whether
they like what they see is largely up to you. I know what the network
wants – no, make that demands. I will now leave you to discuss this
among yourselves but I hope you see that, in this instance, defence is
not your best approach. In the meantime, I have to make sure every
major media writer in this country is happy with their seating. Good
luck, gentlemen, and goodbye.'

Rosie shuddered as the meeting room door slammed violently
behind her. 'Fucking Neanderthals,' she hissed under her breath,
willing her welling tears to disappear. Rattled, she looked around for
the hotel bar, needing a stiff drink to soothe her nerves. She didn't
have to look for long. Greg Leach had just got out of the lift. She
knew if she followed him, he'd lead her straight to it.

The first drink had managed to take the edge off her anxiety
following the
Balls Eye
meeting and would have been enough, had
Greg not insisted she have a second and a third as well. Or was it
four? Whatever, Rosie was feeling a hell of a lot better than she had
an hour earlier.

Greg's litany of compliments had also helped. Even though he went
over the top with his praise, Rosie had lapped up every kind word. It
had been so long since a man spoke to her like that, especially one she
knew so intimately. And didn't Greg remind her of that! It seemed he
remembered every detail of their love-making, even better than she
did. He had already recalled the time they were at a film festival in
the Domain that got rained out, sending thousands out of the park
to escape the deluge while they stayed put for the drenching. Never
one to miss an al fresco opportunity, Greg lured her to the shelter of a
Moreton Bay fig, where he greedily entered her as she stood, latching
on to her thighs and lifting her higher into each thrust.

'We were unbelievable together, Rosie,' Greg whispered, his warm
breath on her neck. 'I've never had that with another woman and I
doubt I ever could. I realise now it's you. It's always been you.'

Rosie felt her body yield to his words and bit the inside of her lip
to stifle a hungry groan. She felt his hand press the inside of her thigh
and a bolt of adrenalin pulsed from his touch. It was going to be a
challenge to avoid a repeat performance with Greg.
Must remember
Daniel Jones. Loyal and lovely Daniel . . .

'There you are!' a voice screeched out of nowhere. 'Not happy,
Rosie, not happy at all.' Trent Allenby mounted the bar stool beside
her. Oblivious to the interrupted intimacy, he continued to whine:
'Table D, darl? D! Hello? Didn't fly all the way to Adelaide coach to
be at a dud table.'

Rosie was about to answer Trent when Greg butted in first. 'Excuse
me, but I was talking to the lady, you rude little prick.'

'Greg, enough!' Rosie replied tersely. She felt herself blushing,
anxious that Trent might sense the sexual tension he'd just shattered
between them.

'Well, I didn't realise this was a private party,' Trent said knowingly.
'I forgot how close you two are. Catching up on old times, are we?'

Rosie felt herself flush scarlet and mentally willed Greg's hand to
move off her leg and out of Trent's view. The last thing she needed
was the radio gossip reporter turning her into news again.

'What's wrong, Trent?' Rosie said, trying to appear nonplussed. 'I
made sure you were on a front table. I can't see what your problem
is.'

'Er, no decent celebs, darl. I was hoping I'd be on Graham Hunt's
table – that's sure to be the fun one.'

'Very funny, Trent, but Graham's working tonight and, I can assure
you, is a changed man, so I doubt you'll be missing out on anything
at all. Would you like a drink before we head in to dinner?'

'Well, as you're paying, yes I would. Champagne. French, natch.'

Flustered, Rosie ordered Trent a glass and another round for herself
and Greg. This was going to be a long night and she needed all the
help she could get to make it through.

* * *

Rosie had quite a buzz on by the time she had made sure all her
journos had found their seats in the massive hotel ballroom. She
noticed the main Six table was still empty and wondered what was
keeping the executives, as the telecast was about to begin. As Russ
entered, deep in conversation with Simon Nash, she understood
the delay. The head of sport had obviously left the meeting with
her and gone straight to his mate, The Darkness, to bitch about
her bawling him out. Nash flashed Rosie a cool stare as he passed
her table, followed by Russ, who made a throat-cutting gesture with
his hand as he caught sight of her. Rosie flinched.

'What the fuck is that about?' bellowed Greg, who was seated
beside her.

'Oh nothing. We just had a few terse words earlier, that's all.'

'He can't do that to you,' Greg said angrily. 'I'm going to thump
the spineless little shit. How fucking dare he!'

'Please, Greg, no,' Rosie yelled frantically, and reached out to stop
him rising from his seat. It was too late. Greg was already up and
struggling to untangle himself from the tablecloth snagged under
his chair leg. As he grappled with it, his glass fell onto the parquetry
floor, causing an almighty smash. All heads turned in his direction,
then to the red pool of wine surging along the floor towards the
electrical wiring leading to camera 2, poised nearby.

Rosie stood abruptly to signal for a waiter when the lights dimmed
and a voice boomed into the room: 'Ladies and gentlemen, Network
Six and Tang.Inc are proud to present the forty-seventh Annual Sports
Hall of Fame. Your hosts for this evening are Mark Reynolds, Tony
Craven and Roy Burtaluco from
Balls Eye
, and the newest addition
to the team, Graham Hunt. Let's give them a hand.'

Rosie grabbed her glass of wine and gulped greedily, praying that
Hunt would keep to her script. Something told her that no matter
how much she had coached him, his mouth was a runaway train.

A round of applause greeted the men as they stepped onto the
stage in their dinner suits, Mark Reynolds pulling at his bow tie
awkwardly as was his trademark habit. Roy Burtaluco looked into
the audience, acknowledging friends with a tilt of the head or double-finger
point. Tony Craven, the most alpha of the all-alpha group,
took the microphone first.

'Well, well, haven't we all scrubbed up well,' he said, looking at the
front tables where the sporting greats were seated in their penguin
suits. 'Welcome to the evening. We've got a great show ahead of us
and some top shelf entertainment to enjoy, but in the meantime, I
guess I'd better introduce you to this bloke over here – not that you
don't know him already.'

Light applause followed as a sheepish Graham Hunt joined Tony
at the centre microphone.

'Well, mate, welcome to the team.'

'Er, thanks, Cravo, it's great to be here.'

'Mate, you're better known as a newsman. What's made you want
to join us on Friday nights?'

'Well, Cravo, I'm a mad sports fan, always have been. So it's a dream
come true for me to join you blokes. I'm really looking forward to it.'

'Now, mate, I guess we'd better clear up a few things about you that
have been in the news lately. Seems you've had a bad trot press-wise.'

'Mate, you're not wrong there, but you can't believe everything
that's written.'

'So, you want to tell us what went on?'

'Well, for a start, I was having a few problems with my missus, so I
went to let off some steam and things got a bit out of hand.'

'As they do, mate, as they do.'

'Anyway, it's all water under the bridge now and I'm just happy to
be back at work and doing what I love, which is watching sport and
talking sport.'

'Yeah, well, we're happy to have you, mate. Guess it's a lesson
learnt, huh?'

'Sure is, Cravo. I can tell you from now on I'm putting bros before
hos and keeping my nose clean, so to speak.'

'Nice form, mate. Now, if you want to do the honours and
introduce the first award tonight . . .'

Oh god
. Rosie gulped the last of her wine and poured another to
the brim as she watched the journalists leave their seats and run to
the exit doors, some already talking into their mobile phones. She
turned to Greg, who was standing, patting down his pockets in
search of his notepad.

'You too?' she asked, hopelessly.

'Sorry, babe, but bros before hos? The guy is asking for it. I can
still make the first edition if I file now. I'll be back in five. Hang in
there, beautiful.'

With that, Greg kissed the top of Rosie's head and left the
auditorium to join the rest of the reporters about to bang the last
nails in Graham Hunt's coffin.