The Boys' Club (24 page)

Rosie turned to lap the car park one more time, drawing deeply on
her ninth cigarette of the day. She knew it was the ninth because she
was now rationing herself to a pack a day – each one a treat to be
treasured. The disappointment she felt at resuming the filthy habit
did not outweigh the lovely feeling that every cigarette was somehow
bolstering her emotionally, giving her an encouraging pat on the
shoulder, telling her to go on. And she certainly was not about to
give up, today of all days.

Checking her watch and seeing that the little hand was even closer
to four pm, Rosie knew she couldn't stay in the car park any longer.
People would talk. Not that they weren't already. There was about
as much chance of the entire network remaining ignorant of her lift
episode as there was of The Darkness changing career and moving
into stand-up. She could almost hear the crackle of the news about
her sparking all over the compound, from the studios to current
affairs, technical, finance, sales and beyond. If she walked into the
canteen now, odds were that she, not poor Karen Day, would be the
object of debate, dissection and debasement.

She sucked at the muddy filter again and contemplated just one
more cigarette before making the journey to the fifth floor. She had
stalled long enough by delaying her flight back to Sydney, telling Mae
to let people know she was having meetings in Adelaide before heading
home. She had also kept her phone off for the last hour, hoping she
could extend the old 'it was turned off while flying' excuse to get
herself together. But Mae had made it clear that she was not to miss
the promo unveiling at four-thirty. Keith was making his first post-illness
appearance at the network just for it and would want her there.
Lighting another cigarette, Rosie tried to psych herself into movement.
She had to walk into the boardroom and face them. All of them. Russ
Frazer, Simon 'The Darkness' Nash, Johnno Johnston – even Keith!

Rosie shuddered and hugged herself to stay warm. Hopefully
Johnno wouldn't remember making a pass last night. After all, he'd
been wasted when he did it. She grimaced again, recalling how
he hadn't quite grasped the fact that she would rather eat her own
eyeballs than sleep with him. Ever.

But what if he thinks I'm actually interested?

Rosie wished she was religious and could make some sort of gesture
for luck. As she wasn't, she dragged heavily on a fresh cigarette.
We're
all going to die one day
, she rationalised as she sucked in another
double lungful of noxious smoke.

You have got to do this, girl. Get your act together and get in there.

Rosie took out her compact, sat on the car-park kerb and checked
her face. Her eyes were no longer as red as they had been earlier,
but they still bore the telltale signs of a bawling session. Apart from
that she looked fine – for once her make-up didn't look like it had
been applied by a toddler with ADHD. Even her hair was behaving.
That would be right. The day I'm ready to throw myself under a truck
screaming mea culpa, I manage not to look like a basket case, just feel
like one.

She stood up, using the garment bag containing her rancid
evening gown to shield her face, and took off, bolting into the foyer
and straight to the lifts. Letting go of her overnight luggage trolley,
she fished in her handbag and retrieved her mobile phone, holding
it to her ear earnestly as if on a call of global significance. Hopefully
this ruse would at least let her reach her own office before the wolves
descended.

Perhaps the god of Marlboro Lights had listened to her plea after
all, as Rosie managed to travel up five floors without seeing a soul.

Her luck continued all the way to the publicity department, but upon
opening the glass entrance doors and glimpsing Lisa's expression,
Rosie knew her good fortune had run out.

'Well, lookie here,' Lisa said as Rosie slunk in sheepishly. She felt
like a whimpering dog facing its master. 'Where do we begin with
your
day?' Lisa continued.

Rosie looked at Lisa's face more closely and realised her milky
pallor was not from her usual expertly applied Goth make-up; she
was actually white.

'You have no idea what this place has been like this morning.
Where did you fucking fly from anyway? I thought it was Adelaide
in Australia, not Georgia! How did you travel? By camel?'

'Lisa, please, I'm dying here,' Rosie pleaded. 'Just tell me, have you
got anything to say I might find even remotely amusing?'

'Hmm, let me see. Well, I now know about your sex life, thanks
to Trent Allenby telling me and the rest of Australia's biggest radio
audience this morning but, no, you probably won't get a laugh out of
that. What else? That's right. Graham Hunt managed to call every
woman in the world a whore last night on national television, but I
doubt that's going to do it for you. Oh, and you have a meeting in
half an hour with the executive team, one of whom I hear you tried
to seduce last night. Rosie, how could you! Not you too! I mean,
Johnno Johnston – it's a bit of a cliché, isn't it?'

'
I did NOT!
' Rosie screamed. 'As if I would sleep with Johnno
Johnston! I'd rather sleep with Simon Nash!'

'Now you're just plain out fibbing,' Lisa said drolly.

'I'm telling you the truth,' Rosie insisted. 'Greg lost it. He ended
up losing his guts. I think he's got a big problem with alcohol. Oh,
what am I saying? The guy's in big trouble. He's a mess. I stayed to
check on him after he passed out.'

'Why does that actually make sense to me?' Lisa asked. 'I think
I've been working with you too long. Now, where were we? Oh, that's
right, something that could make you laugh. I know, how about
this one? It certainly caused a reaction in me but I wouldn't say I'm
laughing exactly. I just saw Peter Ingles. You know him – possibly
the network's biggest star, host of
Great Gard—'

'I know him, Lisa,' Rosie interjected curtly. 'The point being?'

'Well, the point is I just saw him with Jason Jarvis. At least I think
I saw him, but I'm still not sure.'

'What do you mean, Lisa? Out with it.'

'I mean the guy is unrecognisable. He looks like a bloody alien.'

'What's happened? What are you talking about?'

'Jason Jarvis says it was your idea, that you told him that
Great
Gardens
and Peter Ingles needed to be freshened up.'

'And they do.'

'Yeah, well Peter's freshened himself, all right. He's had that much
surgery I reckon his balls are now his earlobes.'

Rosie felt acid churn and bubble in her guts, rising sickeningly into
her throat. 'Tell me he's just had a bit of eye work. Maybe a tiny, baby
lift. Tell me you're exaggerating.'

'Sorry, I wish I could, Rosie, but the guy looks like something out
of the
X-Files.
I mean, he scared me. Like, I'm scarred for life, what
that sweet old guy's done to himself.'

Rosie sighed. 'I hope this isn't as bad as you're saying it is or we
have a full-on crisis on our hands.'

'
Another
full-on crisis, you mean,' Lisa said.

'Can they reverse these things?' Rosie asked her. 'Surely they can
reattach his skin somehow? I mean, Peter Ingles is like everyone in
this country's favourite grandfather. What you're telling me is that
he's turned into Michael Jackson overnight.'

'More Jocelyn Wildenstein, but you're getting the picture,' Lisa
replied.

'Nooooo! You'd better get him and Jason Jarvis in my office pronto.
And Lisa—'

'Don't worry, Rosie, you'll have a fresh coffee every ten minutes.'

'Thanks, honey. What would I do without you?'

Lisa rolled her eyes skyward and walked out the door. Rosie knew
her PA was fed up with her job and wanted to move on. She also
knew she wouldn't do so until she knew Rosie would be all right
without her which, at this minute, seemed years away, if at all.

* * *

The list of emails in her in-box was 178 long when Rosie logged in,
although judging by the rate of the pinging noises the final tally
could well be around the 200 mark. To speed things up, she sorted
alphabetically by name, then scrolled down to those sent by Johnston,
Nash, etc. To her surprise, there wasn't a one. From any of them. And
she didn't know how to feel about that. Glee came to mind, but then
so did dread. Scanning for their assistants' names, she found just one
from Nash's PA, containing a review her boss had disliked, but that
had been sent several days earlier. There was nothing, from anyone,
since last night.

Rosie scrolled through more names and saw a block from Lou,
all unread. She didn't have time to open them and didn't need to
anyway; the content was clear from the subject lines alone:

10.30 am Where are you?

11.05 am Have you heard the radio?

1.45 pm Just let me know you are okay?

2.05 pm It's 2 o'clock!!!!! Where are you????

And more . . .

Basically they were the same messages Lou had also sent via SMS.
Rosie laughed at the image of Lou manning her computer then
turning to her phone with raging frustration. She always liked to
know what was happening as it went down, if not before.

Ping! A small box appeared at the bottom of Rosie's screen: another
email. Before it faded from view, she noted the sender. Lou again. But
Rosie wasn't sure she'd got the subject message right. She thought it
read: 'Heading to your mother's. Call us!'

Rosie felt a pang of guilt just reading the word 'mother'. She hadn't
called Vera in days and, if she and Lou had been talking – as they
no doubt had – Rosie's shabby performance at Salty Sam's would
have been much discussed. As, no doubt, would Daniel Jones and
how Rosie had blown it with such a great guy. Vera, although she
wouldn't say as much, believed any woman unmarried in her thirties
was an embarrassment to her family. Vera had grown up believing her
destiny was to marry well and as such never pursued a career of her
own. Luckily, she did marry well, and even though Rosie believed her
mother emasculated her father more with each passing day, she also
knew Mick and Vera still loved each other. Or should that be tolerated?

Rosie often wondered whether any relationship that endured longer
than thirty years could only be companionship at best, but maybe she
was just cynical. Maybe true love could last time.

Rosie coudn't deny she loved her mother – deeply and profoundly.
But, hell, she could shit her sometimes. It seemed Vera always wanted
to be a bigger part of Rosie's life than Rosie could offer. That was
why she had imposed the three-meal rule with Vera – never three
in a row. A breakfast could sometimes settle into a lunch without a
blow-up, and a lunch might last through to dinner without blood
being let. But try all three consecutively and there would be hellfire
and damnation of some sort. Much to Rosie's chagrin, she knew
deep down that she was inevitably the one to lose it first. And she
hated herself for that.

Rosie began to feel the panic surging. She wondered what Lou and
her mother were meeting about. Was there a problem with Leon?
Had something awful happened? It had! Something was wrong. Very
wrong.

Oh my God! Leon might be hurt! Or . . . dead!!!

Rosie felt a sharp pain near her heart, the kind that makes you
lose your breath momentarily. Then came the jabbing sensation, as if
her intestines were being probed with an electric cattle prod. Rosie
gasped violently for air but her lungs felt like they had imploded. She
was going to pass out for sure.

'Rosie! What's going on?' Lisa was at her boss's side, looking
concerned.

'I can't breathe,' Rosie gasped. 'I think it's a heart attack . . .'

'It's not a bloody heart attack, it's a panic attack,' Lisa answered,
tugging loose the collar of Rosie's blouse. 'I knew this would
happen! Shit! Now, Rosie, listen to me. You have to concentrate for
a moment, okay? Start breathing. Let's see if we can count to three.
Deep now . . . one . . . two . . . three. Okay, now another, one . . .
two . . . three.'

Lisa was a picture of practised calm, her eyes closed as she held on
to Rosie's hands, taking in every breath with her.

'Come on, honey, let's see if you can go even longer this time.
Okay, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .'

After a few minutes of breathing in sync with Lisa, Rosie felt like
she might manage the next on her own. She was numb with shock
and embarrassment – but eternally grateful to be alive.

'What was that all about?' she asked Lisa incredulously. 'That had
to be more than anxiety. It felt like my eyeballs were giving birth to
my lungs!'

'Honey, that was a shocker, for sure, but I can assure you it was a
panic attack. I used to have them myself. Felt like I was dying every
time.'

Rosie looked at the kabuki-white face of her friend and was
overwhelmed with sympathy. No one, she realised, should ever
have to experience what she just had, especially someone as real and
confident in her own skin as Lisa.

'How did you stop them?' Rosie asked, hoping the answer was
simple but knowing that wasn't likely.

'I stopped trying to be what other people wanted me to be,' Lisa
said earnestly. 'I stopped trying to please my parents. I pulled out
of medicine at uni and gave myself a life. I realised I can't play the
game. It kills my soul.'

Lisa looked deep into Rosie's eyes, trying to convey telepathically
that this was a message she hoped Rosie would absorb fully. And she
had. In fact, Rosie felt like the lights had come on in her heart and
head, like her soul had been reignited.

'You've got to be happy in your skin, Rosie,' Lisa continued. 'You
need to get authentic. Otherwise, you're living your life for others,
who probably won't be happy with the results anyway. Just the
residual stress I receive from being close to you these days is doing
my head in. I hate to think what it's doing to yours.'