The Boys' Club (4 page)

'No, what you said was that I'm panicking.'

'Well, it was one way of putting it. I mean, even you must concede
that a lot of good people have left and morale is low . . .'

'And what makes you think morale is low? What makes you think
you know more about this place than I do?' Keith's eyes stayed fixed
on Rosie's like a lizard scoping a bug.

'I read it,' Rosie answered, swallowing her hard-thumping heart
back down into her chest. 'You must admit the network has been
getting some bad press . . .'

'That's because those arseholes that write that shit don't know
what they're fucking talking about. That's why there's bad press.
They never write the good news. No, they all want to have a go.
They're like seagulls at a chip. Squawk, squawk, squawk.'

Rosie had never been happier to see an arm in her life than the
one she suddenly found offering her a small goldfish bowl of freshly
decanted shiraz. If there was one thing Rosie knew about Big Keith
from her research, it was his love of the grape, and the wine's fortuitous
arrival seemed to have diverted his attention.

'Is it the eighty-four?' he asked the woman bearing the tray. The
fragile crystal stem threatened to snap as Keith rolled it between his
calloused thumb and forefinger before raising the glass to his bulbous,
hairy snout to inhale its aroma at length. Rosie was reminded of a
documentary she had once seen on the Discovery Channel about
truffle pigs. Finally, after much swishing and another long inhale,
Keith took a deep gulp, deeming the wine acceptable with a quiet tilt
of his enormous noggin.

'I hope you like red,' he said, ''cause if you don't you can get your
own fucking drink.'

'I fucking love it,' Rosie said, grabbing at her glass and gulping way
too big a mouthful.

Keith smiled. Well, Rosie thought she saw his lips curl, at least.

'You are ballsy, I'll give you that,' the Big Man said, taking another
sip. 'I like a sheila with gonads.'

This time the smile was genuine, so Rosie smiled back.

'I think I like you,' Keith said. 'Who are you again? No, before you
answer that, you'd better tell me you have a cigarette.'

'I am Rose Lang, Mr Norman, and I am so happy you smoke.'
And with that, Rosie believed a friendship was born.

The following day, Mae put a call through from Keith telling Rosie
he wanted her as his right-hand woman heading up the network's
publicity and public relations department. Looking back, Rosie
realised this phone call was not just the start of a new relationship; it
was also the end of her marriage.

By the time Rosie had dropped Leon off at her mother's and arrived
at the network – aka the Death Star, as the imposing grey concrete
compound on the outskirts of Sydney's CBD was also known – Rosie
was acutely aware that she was twenty minutes late. This meant she
had saved herself twenty minutes of pure hell, though she doubted
Big Keith would see it that way.

A man who was uncomfortable around people in general, Keith
was certainly going to hate every second he had to spend with the
other network heads and their coteries of executives attending the
Kennedy Awards meeting without Rosie there to smooth feathers.
It was unusual to have the enemies so close, she reflected, running
towards the fifth floor lift, hoping the slow-moving cage wasn't stuck
as usual. In her first stroke of luck for the day, the doors were still
slowly closing.

'Hold the door,' she yelled aggressively, as if hailing a New York
cab in a snowstorm. 'Thanks for that,' she bellowed again, just steps
away, but when she saw who was holding down the open button, she
instantly wished she hadn't bothered. It was Bettina Arthur from
Tang.Inc head office, her thin lips pursed in a smile that was more of
a constipated grimace.

'Bettina, thank you so much,' Rosie said, trying not to look as
frazzled as she felt. 'I got stuck with a journo from the
National
and
then the traffic was—'

'Good morning, Rose. May I ask, what time is the Kennedy
Awards meeting?' Bettina interrupted coolly, looking down at her
elegant Cartier Tank watch, the model Rosie had always fancied for
herself.

'It's supposed to be eight-thirty but these things never start till
nine,' Rosie replied nervously.

'Just as well then,' Bettina said, readjusting her watch, clearly
rubbing Rosie's nose in her tardiness.

'The Kennedys meetings are always interesting. You know they
were named after Graham Kennedy, the comedy legend?' Rosie
continued, aware she was babbling inanely. It was just that this
woman threw her with her chilly superiority.

'Yes, Rose, I am aware of the name's origins.'

As the two women spent the rest of the excruciatingly long,
creaking journey up five floors in silence, Rosie observed how
impeccably turned out Bettina was. Her suit was the kind of dark
navy synonymous with Armani, set off by the softest nude pink
blouse that tied gently at her throat. Her jet-black hair was pulled
tightly off her face into a neat bun that hung low on the nape of her
extraordinarily long neck. Her shoes were conservative yet elegant –
Rosie guessed Vuitton or Hermès – and looked almost brand new in
comparison to Rosie's suede pumps, which she now noticed sported
a telltale scuff at the toe. In fact, Rosie thought Bettina Arthur was
perhaps the most handsome woman she had ever seen. She could
even have been beautiful if it wasn't for her icy gaze, tight-lipped
smile, and the fact that she was on a mission from head office to cut
costs across the board. Or, as Big Keith always said, 'to put a great
vice on the network's nuts'.

'See you in there,' Rosie said, dashing out of the lift first. 'I just
have to check something with Keith beforehand. You know, PR stuff,
very boring,' she added, cursing herself for gibbering yet again.

Rosie did want to catch Big Keith before the meeting, knowing
that for all his bluster, he was actually chronically shy in social
situations, hiding his fragility with an alter ego best described as
Neanderthal. Pompous, sexist, racist and often piss-fuelled, the
Big Keith persona was exhausting to behold. It entailed him being
louder, fouler and more belligerent than the other blokes – a sort
of Olympics of chauvinism in which he always won top podium
position. Considering this morning's meeting was to discuss the
annual boozy bun fight at which everyone who'd spent the year
undermining, backstabbing, bitching and burying each other would
act as though butter wouldn't melt, she wanted to make sure she was
by her boss's side at all times, just in case.

Rosie had never been happier to see Mae at her desk. She didn't
even have to ask for the information she required before Keith's PA
spoke up: 'Yes, he's shitty, but he'll be relieved to see you,' she said
without looking up. 'He heard the radio report on Graham Hunt
on
Drive Jive
and wasn't happy at all. He's also a little peeved about
another item to do with the ratings in the
Fin Forecaster
. I think
you'll be okay for the moment, though, as he seems more agitated
by Bettina Arthur's presence.'

'Mae, I love you,' Rosie said, meaning every word of it. 'I was just
in the lift with Bettina. God, she's a cold one. What does Keith say
again? She's like a fridge. When she opens her legs a light goes on? I
can't blame Keith for worrying about management sending her in.
She's hardly his sort of girl.'

'Yes,' Mae replied, deadpan. 'I did notice her breasts were natural
too.'

They both giggled.

'Okay, Ashton Joel from Network Three is in there,' Mae went on,
'along with his publicity head . . .'

'Val Richards. Queeny bitch treats me like poo on his shoe,' Rosie
sniffed.

'I couldn't comment on that,' Mae said, and went right on, not
missing a beat. 'Mr Lumby was unable to make it.'

'So I read,' said Rosie with a smile. 'Turning out to be a most pesky
court case, isn't it? Mrs Lumby looks to be wringing Mr Lumby out
to dry.'

'Yes, it is a most unfortunate set of circumstances,' Mae responded,
with the faintest glint of a smile.

'And the Sheltered Workshop channels?'

'Yes, both public stations have representatives. Oh, and the usuals
from Four are here.'

'Ouch. Didn't Keith sack half those guys?'

'Yes, several were employed here previously.'

'Wow, this is going to be one doozy of a breakfast. Okay, how do I
look? I've had a hell of a morning so far, I can tell you. Am I keeping
it together?'

'Yes, you look quite impressive. However, you seem to have a tiny
spot of vomit on your sleeve.'

'Oh bugger. Yuck! It's Leon. He was crook this morning, so
ever-caring Jeff dropped him back home to my place to let me deal
with it while he goes surfing. I tell you, my ex is turning out to be a
first-class bastard.'

Rosie could only look on with gratitude as Mae handed her one
of those wet cloths she kept in her desk for such situations. Rosie
stabbed at the spot until it disappeared.

'Mae, you're the best. Can I ask another favour? Can you ring
Portia and tell her to have Graham Hunt waiting in my office when
I get out?'

'Rosie, she's been up here already. How do you think
he
found out
about
Drive Jive
? And she's spent a good hour with Johnno Johnston
already. They've become regular breakfast companions of late it
seems.'

It wasn't even eight-thirty for God's sake! How long had this been
going on?

'It's a shame you can't make it by eight a little more often,' Mae
continued. 'I hear Jan and Grace serve a very satisfying breakfast
egg.'

Rosie realised she had just been given more than sage advice by her
friend – she had been warned. She leant over and kissed Mae on her
forehead. 'I hear what you are saying and I love you for it. It's just so
hard. I can't take Leon to daycare until eight and Jeff may as well be
nonexistent.'

'It's difficult, I know,' Mae said, lowering her voice to impart a
confidential tone, 'but I think you should know you are being
watched.'

'I gotta go, Mae, but thank you, honey,' Rosie continued. 'You
know I'd give you my firstborn if I wasn't so attached to him. And
I have listened, I promise. I'll do my best, but the way my job is
going, I may as well just move to the network and be done with it.
I'm working twelve-hour days already, and then there's the advance
viewing I'm supposed to put in after hours—'

'That's
his
phone ringing,' Mae interrupted suddenly.

Rosie couldn't hear a thing but knew that Mae had developed a
sense of hearing for Keith's phone that, like a dog's, would pick up
sounds others couldn't.

Quick as she could in her heels, Rosie ran to the boardroom's back
entrance and barged through the swinging door into the neon-white
sanctuary of the kitchen.

'Am I late?' she said to the two ladies busily arranging freshly
baked pastries and muffins on large silver platters for the meeting.
If anyone was ever to write about the network – and it was strongly
implied that if you ever wanted to work again, not to mention take
another breath, you wouldn't – the real dirt would come from Jan
and Grace, the caterers. Those darlings had been in the kitchen at Six
for as long as Keith had ruled supreme and they were said to know
where every skeleton was buried at the network – and there were a lot
of them to remember.

'Relax, sweetie,' Grace said. 'We thought something must have
happened to you, so we haven't put out the food yet. Is Leon
okay?'

'No, he was ill this morning. I'm worried. I had to take him to
my mother's. He really should be home with his mum but can you
imagine what would happen if I bailed out on today?'

'I heard last night was a big one,' Jan said knowingly.
Hell, nothing
gets by these girls
.

'I thought it was fine but then I didn't actually follow Hunt to his
door,' Rosie said. 'How was I to know he would turn the cab around
and go out again? His wife is pregnant, for god's sake!'

'Some of them are a handful, that's for sure, but that just means
you can't take your eyes off the talent – ever!'

Rosie felt as if she had been spoken to from above. Jan was wise
beyond.

'You look just lovely, though,' Jan continued. 'Doesn't she look
lovely, Grace?'

'Oh yes, Rosie, that colour really brings out your eyes,' Grace
said, self-consciously wiping cocoa off her apron front. 'And look
at those shoes. How do you walk in them? I'd last five minutes.
Here, sweetie, you go in and act like you've been here for a while
and I'll let the hordes in through the main door.' She escorted
Rosie to the one-way portal looking onto the main room. 'See, no
one's there.'

Rosie slipped in and, taking the seat beside Keith's regular spot at
the head of the table, hugged her mobile to her ear, pretending to be
on an important call. When the massive doors opened, she waved at
the incoming crush while snapping her phone shut dramatically, as
if to say
busy, busy, busy
.

'I'm so sorry I haven't been able to get out to say hi earlier, but the
phones are going mad this morning,' she said with the fake PR smile
that was coming a little too naturally these days.

'Oh, I so know how that feels!' It was Three's PR head, Val
Richards, coming over to kiss Rosie's cheek. The gardenia-massacre
he called aftershave nearly overwhelmed Rosie with its potency. 'Bad
morning, darl?' he whispered in Rosie's ear, his lips making a noisy
kissing motion. 'Seems your face of news is enjoying a little loss of
face, shall we say? Honestly, darl, my heartfelt sympathies. The guy
is a nightmare.'

'I don't know what you could be talking about, kind sir,' Rosie said
in her best Scarlett O'Hara voice. 'Why, he is an absolute darling.
And as you and I both know, you can't believe everything you hear
now, can you?'

When Val glanced at her in that cocky, arched-brow way of his,
Rosie couldn't hold back from hissing 'bitch' oh so softly under her
breath. She was distracted by the sight of Keith in uncomfortable
proximity to his Network Three nemesis, Ashton Joel.

'Oh look, your boss is talking to my boss. Shall we make sure we're
happy with what they're saying?' she said, grabbing Val's arm.

'Oh yes, let's do,' Val said, locking onto his arch-rival as though
they were besties.

Rosie suddenly felt dirty but hoped her fixed smile disguised the
utter disdain in her eyes.

'Good morning,' she said, throwing herself into the middle of a
conversation Ashton Joel was having with her clearly uninterested
boss. Rosie knew the Channel Three head had been spreading news
of Keith's drinking habits to Tang.Inc head office, not to mention
'Secret Sydney', the
Sentinel
's daily gossip page.

'Excuse me for interrupting, Ashton. How are you, by the way?
Looking trim.' Rosie felt sick listening to herself.

Ashton sucked his gut in and basked in the compliment. An
exceptionally unpleasant man to look at, he had to make the most of
any opportunity to believe he was anything but.

'Yes, I have lost a few pounds,' he replied, reaching out for Rosie's
hand. 'And you, as always, an absolute fragrant delight,' he gushed,
moving her reluctant fingers to his slobbering lips.

'Ashton, you charmer,' she replied, hoping the sarcasm she intended
was recognised. Unfortunately it wasn't.

'I hope you're sitting beside me,' he said, leering down at her breasts.
Rosie heard him groan softly. She didn't know what she wanted to
do more at this moment – poke his eyes out or vomit all over his
expensive double-breasted suit. Instead, she threw more enthusiasm
into her smile.

'Oh yes, I would love to talk to you about your lovely wife Patricia's
charity work,' she said, raising her voice so others would join the
conversation. 'I hear she's doing great things for the children's hospital.
Putting us all to shame. Excuse me, gentlemen,' Rosie said, turning
her back on her tormentor and continuing, 'but I have to borrow the
boss for one moment. I promise I'll only be five minutes and then we
can begin.'

Rosie ushered Keith back to the anteroom. As she did, she tried to
ignore what smelled like brandy on his breath.

'Keith, I'm sorry I'm late but the journo held me up. Still, everything
seems to be going well?'

'How long do I have to stay?' Keith snapped.

'I'll need you to last at least an hour, two tops. Mae should have
told you that. I blocked it out in your diary.'