The Boys' Club (23 page)

By the time she arrived at the awards after-party in the hotel's famous
Mahogany Bar, Rosie was tipsy but doing her damn best to hide it.
It was not the time to lose it.

Hic!

Looking around her, she realised she could have been humping
the ice sculpture for all anyone cared; the old boys were all well on
the way to sloshed and the young bucks weren't far behind. Stories
of golden tries, triumphant tackles and last-minute comebacks that
made Lazarus look lame were being spun in every corner. Arms were
draped around the shoulders of the normally homophobic, along
with slurred declarations of 'I really love you, mate' and 'You're like
a brother to me.'

Rosie always wondered why, after a few drinks, men decided
to proclaim undying love, hug, kiss and rumble each other to the
floor like Greco-Roman wrestlers. This, along with their habitual
ball-fondling in public, as though no one would notice they were
having a good old fiddle, had her stumped.

And men think women are hard to understand!

While on the subject of ball players, Rosie became aware that the
network's own master of the right ball off the side pocket, Johnno
Johnston, was heading in her direction through the packed carousers.
She tried to avoid eye contact but it was too late.

'Big night, huh?' Johnno said, his bloodshot eyes darting to
her breasts and staying there. Burly blokes jostled behind him,
occasionally knocking him off his already tenuous balance.

'That's an understatement, Johnno,' Rosie replied, stepping back
to put some air between herself and his reeking breath. Johnno
was a good-looking guy with undeniable charm, but this rapidly
diminished after a few drinks. Rosie had experienced the network
programmer full snort with a skinful before and wasn't keen for an
encore. Especially tonight.

'Yeah, I heard about your spat with Russ. He's pretty pissed off,'
Johnno continued, leaning in to try and close the gap Rosie had
opened up.

'Well, so am I actually,' she replied, 'especially seeing Hunt went
out and put his foot in it despite everything he was told.'

'I thought he did great out there,' Johnno replied, incredulous that
Rosie didn't share his opinion. 'A real breath of fresh air!'

Rosie was dismayed to realise he meant it.

'I reckon he'll be great for the show,' Johnno continued. 'Fuck
knows the ratings could do with a kick along. And the press just
seem to love the guy.'

There was no use pointing out Hunt's gaffe, so Rosie threw back
another large gulp of red. How could she explain to someone like
Johnno that Hunt getting his photo on the front page of every paper
in Australia with a large black censor bar over his evidently erect
penis did not constitute being loved by the press? It was slow death
by newsprint.

Rosie actually felt a modicum of pity for Hunt. He'd gone from
being a potential national television institution – literally having a job
for life and one held in high esteem by the community at large – to an
F-grade celebrity on a par with a last season
Big Brother
housemate.
He was hanging on to his fame by brittle splitting fingernails. Stuff
up again and he'd be hosting drag car race nights and selling hair
replacement products or, worse, impotency cures on late-night TV.
Rosie took time to be grateful for her overwhelming desire to avoid
fame at any cost. She also thanked herself that she wasn't addicted to
cocaine like Hunt who, when she ordered him to his room after the
telecast, was sporting a telltale white ring around the nosie.

'You know, Rosie,' Johnno murmured, moving in close, his foul
breath coating her in stale beer, 'I reckon we should be friends. I've
always fancied you, you know. You've got balls.'

'Er, thanks, Johnno,' Rosie replied.

'Yeah, you're a feisty bit of tail,' Johnno slurred. 'I bet you're a
demon fuck.'

Rosie couldn't believe what she thought she'd heard. It must have
been scrambled by the crowd noise.

'A demon what, Johnno?'

'A demon fuck. You know, a wild thing. I bet you go like the
clappers in the cot.' As he spoke, Johnno was bumped from behind
again and tumbled towards her, slopping his beer all over Rosie's
skirt. Shocked stupid, she could only look on mutely.

'You know, I reckon you and I should get to know each other a
little better, don't you think?' Johnno continued, oblivious to the
spillage.

It was all Rosie could do to swallow back her own vomit at the
thought of what he was suggesting. 'No, I don't think, Johnno,' she
replied, forcing him away with both her hands. 'In fact, the only
thing I do think is that you should call it a night.'

'Coming with me then?' he leered, wobbling on his feet and
sending ripples of amber spilling over his schooner lip again.

Rosie'd had enough. 'Frankly, Johnno, I'd rather sew myself up
than let you anywhere near me.'

'You'll show up,' he replied, mishearing her over the din, 'you little
beauty. I'll see you in my room then.'

As he patted his pocket looking for his room key, a large man with
his tie at half mast slapped his back, sending the remains of his beer
flying over Rosie's borrowed gown. Rather than knee him in those
much-loved testicles of his, Rosie used the messy diversion to slip
away from her captor, working her way purposefully to the end of the
bar through the thick crowd.

Once out of the programmer's sight – and grasp – she sighed,
contemplated a cigarette and looked around for a friendly face.
It didn't take her long to spot a wobbly Greg leading a small and
similarly inebriated gathering in a round of tequila shots. By the
looks of the emptied glasses sticking to the table around them, it
wasn't the first.

'Rosie, babe, come and join us for a shot,' Greg called out a little
too loudly.

His gang joined in, beckoning Rosie over with arm gestures. One
stumbled off his stool and grabbed her by the arm, physically steering
her into the throng. Happy to be cloistered away from Johnno, she
grabbed the tiny glass and a piece of lemon, downed the acrid liquor,
then sucked the sourness from the fruit. She felt the warmth hit her in
a wave of euphoria and closed her eyes to savour its full tranquillising
bliss.

'That's my girl,' Greg whispered, slamming down his shot and
loudly demanding another.

Rosie was amazed at how much alcohol Greg could put away
and felt a pang of distress. Greg had always been a big drinker – all
journos were, it was practically in the job description – but he had
been at it solidly for a good ten hours straight now and, despite being
well gone, he showed no sign of easing up. Things were bound to get
ugly.

'No more for me, thanks, I'm going to call it a night,' she protested
as Greg forced another shot into her hand.

'Like hell you are, babe, we've only just begun,' he countered,
wrapping his arm around her clumsily and drawing her near.

'No, I mean it, Greg. I'm covered in beer and I've had enough,
honestly. You enjoy, but I have to get going.'

'I'm coming with you then,' he proclaimed, nestling his lips in her
hair in an ill-aimed attempt to find her mouth. As she tried to push him
away, Greg lost his footing and fell backwards into the table, knocking
it and its stack of empty glasses over with a mighty ruckus.

'Whoa, mate,' a member of the drinking party hollered, trying to
set him back on his feet with no luck. Greg lurched again, winding
up on his bum on the floor. It took two men to lift him upright. The
reporter swayed and teetered threateningly as the crowd looked on
momentarily before turning back to their beers.

'More drinks,' Greg shouted to no one in particular, bracing
himself against the righted table.

'Greg, you've had enough,' Rosie said. 'Maybe you should call it a
night too.'

Greg winked knowingly, taking this as an offer to join her. He
gathered his cigarettes, sodden from the spillage, and followed her
out of the bar.

While Greg may have grabbed her arm as a gesture of tenderness
initially, it soon became a crutch as he staggered alongside her. Rosie
had to heave him through the thick crowd, out into the foyer and
then into the lift.

'This time things are going to be different with us, babe,' Greg
slurred as they ascended to their floor. 'I mean that,' he added, once
again going in for a kiss. This time he made it as far as her nose.
Rosie felt his tongue wriggle in her nostril and was repulsed.

'Greg, that's gross. Get off me. Stop leaning on me. There's a wall
there. Lean on that!'

'I really love you, Rosie. I mean that. You're the best, do you know
that?' Greg blathered. 'That fuckface husband of yours doesn't know
what he's lost. Never liked that smarmy prick myself. Mr Award
Winner Wanker.'

Suddenly Rosie felt piously sober as she struggled to keep Greg
upright long enough to get him to his room – and off her. Looking at
that once cheeky face of his, now a roadmap of red lines, she realised
he no longer looked laddish or larrikin. He looked sad and tired. And
way too old for his age.

He isn't even forty!

'Where's your key, Greg?' Rosie demanded when they finally
reached his door. As he let go of her to dig deep into his pocket, Greg
lost his footing, sliding with a wallop onto his arse.

'Get up, Greg!' Rosie wailed. 'I can't deal with this! Get inside and
go to sleep!'

Greg made no effort to rise, preferring to lie on the cool marble
floor.

'Don't you dare!' Rosie yelled, kicking him in the ribs with her
silver-shod foot. 'Get up and get inside! You can't sleep here!'

Greg made a noise like he was blowing bubbles and tried to roll
over but failed. Not knowing what else to do, Rosie knelt down, put
her hand in his trouser pocket and rummaged for his key. Finding
the elusive piece of plastic, she put it in the key slot and opened
the door, then physically rolled Greg into the entrance, pushing him
with her feet, and shut the door behind them.

'Get up, Greg,' she pleaded, trying to prop him against the wall.

'I'm not feeling good,' he whimpered. Rosie noticed he had turned
an insipid shade of grey and knew from experience what would come
next.

'Into the bathroom, Greg, quick,' she cried, shaking him violently.
'Come on, mate, you can't be sick here.'

Rosie watched as Greg swallowed back a sharp spasm and frowned.
It seemed he too knew what was about to come. Raising himself
unsteadily, he got to his feet, banged into one wall and ricocheted
off the one opposite. With a desperate lurch, he found the gap of the
open bathroom door and staggered heavily inside.

Rosie grimaced as she heard the first retch, heave and loud splash.
This scenario repeated itself until all she could hear was silence.
Tentatively she moved towards the bathroom door and the horror
scene behind it. There was Greg propped against the toilet bowl, his
head resting on the open seat.

'Greg, are you okay?' Rosie asked, knowing from the look of him
that an answer was redundant.

'I feel like hell,' he said limply, still not able to lift his head. Rosie
surveyed her helpless friend with pity. Greg sensed her concern and
latched on to his chance. 'Please don't leave me here alone. Please
don't go.'

Rosie felt an empathetic pang. She remembered being in a similar
condition herself more than once and how wretchedly awful – like
the end of the world – it felt. She grabbed a face washer from the
vanity and ran it under the cold tap, then folded and placed the
damp cloth on Greg's brow.

'Thanks, Rosie,' he whimpered gratefully. 'Please stay. I don't want
you to go.'

Rosie knew there was only one thing that helped in a situation such
as this and that was the acidic burp that followed a sip of Coke. A
dear friend of hers had used it on her once after a very large birthday
party and it was the only thing that got her back on her feet when she
felt she might never get upright again.

Hunting through Greg's minibar in search of sugary fizz, Rosie
noticed it had seen plenty of action already. All the small liquor
bottles had been emptied, along with the white and red wine. The last
remaining bottle, the miniature of champagne, was also open – half
drunk and drained of all zest. Checking out the mixers, she was in
luck. Most hadn't been touched, meaning all those baby bottles had
been drunk straight. Rosie shuddered at the thought, grabbed a can
of Coke and sped back to the bathroom.

'Here, Greg, try to drink some of this,' she implored, placing the
opened can close to his lips. 'It'll make you burp and you'll feel better,
I promise.'

'I donwannit,' he yelped, his arm flailing, knocking the can from
Rosie's grasp. The sticky brown liquid foamed and hissed angrily on
the creamy tiled floor.

Realising Greg was in a very dark place, beyond help, Rosie
conceded defeat, grabbed a large white towel from its rack and threw
it around his shoulders.

'That's nice. You're nice,' he cooed, child-like. 'Stay with me, Rosie.
I don't want you to go. Please tell me you won't leave me tonight?'

Looking at his pathetic state, Rosie realised she had no choice but
to acquiesce. Grabbing another towel, she climbed into the bath,
draped it over herself and reclined. Within minutes she was sound
asleep and snoring.

Rosie awoke to what she first thought was a twelve-gun salute, so
loud was the crash. She soon realised she was not under military
attack, but rather being subjected to the sound of a shower turned on
at full capacity close by. As she rubbed at her itchy, mascara-clogged
eyes, she wondered just what kind of hell she had woken up in. It was
only when she saw Greg Leach naked in the glass cubicle that she
began to put two and two together.

Rosie managed to take in the scene in more detail and was not
happy. It was the bath scene from
Psycho
. She gathered she was the
victim, the Janet Leigh, but couldn't quite comprehend why she was
still alive despite feeling like death.

First off, she realised she was suffering an acute case of vulture
neck. Her head was jammed ninety degrees to the right, as if she
was about to overtake a car. It seemed that someone had also broken
in during the night and grafted a tap onto her face, so deeply was
one wedged into her throbbing left cheek. It was probably the same
person who'd managed to empty a cat litter tray into her mouth.

'Order some coffee, babe, and some aspirin, will you?' a voice
yelled from the thundering rain room. 'Sorry I passed out on you but
it's still early. Jump into bed and I'll be out in a second.'

Rosie knew she was hung-over but was sure she had just heard
Greg suggest they have sex. Greg, who was last seen retching his guts
up, and her, the girl still in her borrowed, beer-drenched Prada, stuck
in a bath. She may have looked like a woman deranged but she wasn't
about to act like one.

Rosie lurched herself awkwardly out the bath, the exertion leaving
her dizzy and disoriented. Quickly she searched for her handbag and
found it in the bathroom sink, covered in goop from the tiny spilt
shampoo bottles that had somehow toppled in there overnight.

She took a quick look in the mirror and recoiled at the sight of
herself. Her whooshed-up hairdo made her look as though she had
been plugged into a power point all night, and her eyes were a losing
prize fighter's. The overall effect was bag lady sans pee smell, the latter
being her only saving grace – although there was a distinct smell of
RSL carpet she feared might be her own.
Classy!

Rosie was wondering why it was hard to walk as she surveyed the
bathroom one last time. As she reached Greg's hotel room door, she
realised: one heel on her favourite silver sandals was now no longer
pointing the way it should be, somehow having swivelled around
during the night. How that could possibly have happened would
have to wait; the only thing Rosie could contemplate at the moment
was the sanctuary of her own room and getting as far away from
Greg Leach as she could.

Cautiously opening the door, Rosie gave a quick glance left and
right and bolted down the corridor as fast as her dodgy heels could
take her. Her room shimmered, oasis-like, past the lift well, and she
felt like Rocky striding those steps with every awkward hobble that
took her closer. A door slammed loudly behind her, but Rosie was
too focused on her glittering prize of safety to chance seeing who it
might have been. Just another thirty or so metres and there was a
shower with her name on it, clean clothes and, most important of all,
her phone charger, so she could make her morning call to Leon at
his dad's. Unfortunately, a powered-up phone would also mean she
would be back in communication with work and, as such, the fallout
from last night, but that was nothing compared to telling her boy she
loved and missed him.

'Rosie, babe, come back.' Greg's voice sounded urgent behind
her – and loud – yet Rosie was not tempted to reply. She turned to
catch sight of him, running down the hall wrapped only in a bath
towel, but turned back again just as fast. Her room also had a safety
chain as well as a lock to keep him out. Only a dozen more steps and
she would be safe.

Bing!

The lift doors opened just as Rosie was passing. She would not
have given its occupants even a sideways glance if she hadn't heard
her name called. No, make that yelled.

'Rose!'

She turned to see the faces of Simon Nash, Russ Frazer and Trent
Allenby staring open-mouthed like sideshow alley clowns. Rosie
screeched to a halt, the heel on her sandal finally surrendering in the
process, causing her to lurch forward like a drunken emu. Just when
she thought things couldn't get any worse, Greg finally caught up
with her. His towel, having slipped in the chase, now hung limply in
his hand, revealing a massive purple erection.

'Honey, come on, come back to bed,' he implored, oblivious to
the lift load of executives. 'Come on. You can't leave me like this,' he
pleaded, staring down at his painfully erect penis.

Rosie wanted to die.

Mute with shock, none of the lift passengers could manage
a coherent word before the doors closed again. Rosie watched
helplessly as the indicator lights flashed from eleven to ten, nine
and onwards down to the ground floor. Incandescent with rage,
she turned to Greg. Her first thought was to throw him over the
balcony to the lobby below, hopefully taking out the disembarking
men at the same time. Instead, she turned and unleashed a rage
that scared even herself.

'What the hell do you think you're doing, Greg?' she screamed,
no longer giving a toss who heard her. 'Do you know what you just
did? DO YOU? Do you know who just saw you asking me to come
back to bed? It was Nash, Russ and Trent fucking Allenby, no less!
You've just made me a laughing stock! Me! The same idiot who tried
to look after you last night after you made a glutton of yourself on
free booze. This is my livelihood you're fucking with here, Greg. My
job! My kid's security! You're supposed to be my friend!'

Greg looked appropriately chastened, but this did little to abate
Rosie's anger. 'Babe, I'll fix this, I promise you,' he replied, trying to
embrace her.

'You can't fix this, Greg!' Rosie was shrieking. 'Nothing can. Just
leave me alone!'

Rosie's eyes were blurred with tears as she turned on her one good
heel, ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. Once inside,
she fell onto the floor and let rip, unleashing a torrent of frustration,
rage and disappointment as she sobbed uncontrollably, all the while
wondering how she had got to this sorry place in her life.