The Boys' Club (5 page)

'Fuck Mae,' he almost yelled, then lowered his voice. 'This is
fucking torture.'

'It's once a year, so let's just grin and bear it,' Rosie replied.

'Why couldn't you have made this a lunch? At least then I could
have a drink.'

'Yes, but I think you and I both know there's no such thing as one
drink, Keith. Your lunches generally end up as dinners.'

'Get fucked.'

'Fine. I guess you've given up smoking today then?'

'Can I have a quick one now?'

'I'll let you have one, that's all. I won't have you dying on me with
every TV head in the room able to dial in the story.'

'You're a hardarse. We should get you in news, you know.'

'So you keep saying and so I keep praying.'

Rosie took Keith to the cramped kitchen pantry, put a wet tea
towel over the smoke detector and lit him up. After two massive
puffs, Keith began to cough, making Rosie nervous. 'Enough!' she
said, swiping the cigarette from his mouth. For a second, she thought
she saw the big, ugly mass of a man pout his lip out in a sulk.

'Come on, I'll try to make this painless,' Rosie said, aware she was
feeling somewhat maternal.

'How painless can having those arseholes in one room possibly be?'

'Like using a potato peeler on your todger then dipping it in salt,'
Rosie said, nudging herself into the bulk of his shoulder.

'
Raaark-raaark-raaaaark
,' honked Keith.

'Come along, we both have a big day ahead. What time is the
programming meeting again?'

'I moved it to two. Bettina Arthur has invited herself to that too!
Woman knows nothing about television. Nothing! Fucking Korean
owners sending me a sheila like her.'

With that, Rosie watched him enter the doorway to the boardroom,
take a deep breath and turn on the Big Keith show.

'What the fuck is going on here then?' he bellowed into the room,
causing all conversations to hush. 'Have you cunts come to fuck me
or suck me?
Raaark-raaaark-raaaark
. And if you're going for my arse,
can you at least give me the benefit of a reach-around?
Raaark!
'

Rosie looked around the room through splayed fingers, resting her
eyes on the unmistakable look of horror on Bettina Arthur's face.
The Kennedys circus had officially begun.

By the time the meeting finished, Rosie felt like a war veteran – make
that a Cold War veteran, as none of the missiles, barbs and snide
comments thrown from all sides were considered actual strikes,
merely good-natured banter between 'mates'.

Rosie was always amazed at how the executives from the competing
networks acted like there really was no animosity between them at
all when, in reality, they spent most of their waking hours trying to
bring each other down in the most humiliating way possible. The
look on Bettina Arthur's face as she watched the sick charade was
one Rosie wouldn't forget in a hurry. Even though her smile was
fixed, Rosie could see Munch's
Scream
in Bettina's eyes. She certainly
wasn't at Tang.Inc's head office now. Rosie had to admit she too was
appalled by the dick-swinging spectacle she had just endured, which
was saying something, considering what she had already seen in her
eighteen-odd months at the network.

It's only 11 am and I've been vomited on, screamed at, lectured,
betrayed, warned, groped and grossly offended
, she thought to herself
.
Good times!

With only four hours until the programming meeting, Rosie knew
she was going to have to put out a lot of fires in a very short time,
the first of which she hoped was waiting in her office: Graham Hunt.
And what about Miss Portia 'Breakfast in the Boardroom' Richardson?
she raged to herself as she passed the peering faces in the marketing
department and continued down the dark, imposing corridor past
the newsroom to her own offices.
My number two is supposed to be
helping me, not putting a knife in my back!
From what Mae had told
her, there might not be much room for another knife with all the
cutlery she was supposedly carrying.
Breathe . . . breathe . . .

Passing the awards, framed photographs and memorabilia lining
the corridor walls, most featuring the now-deceased Willard Frost,
Rosie shook her head in wonder.
To think they're trying to replace
Willard Frost with Graham Hunt of all people! It's like replacing Jana
Wendt with Paris Hilton!

As much as Rosie admired Big Keith's boast that he could 'sniff
out TV talent at five hundred paces', she couldn't grasp what he had
seen in Hunt, other than those dodgy market research figures the
advertising department had been wielding of late, trying to pressure
management to target programming towards high-spending eighteen-to
thirty-five-year-old women. Hunt was good looking, and perhaps
Big Keith thought sex might help sell the slot. There had to be some
method to his apparent madness.

As Rosie heaved open the massive glass doors to publicity, the first
thing she saw was the harried face of her PA, Lisa. Lisa was Rosie's
backbone and probably the clueiest twenty-three-year-old she'd
ever met. Sighting her was a treat each day, seeing what Goth getup
she was sporting and how her immaculately white make-up and
batwing black eyeliner had been applied. Rosie loved the way Lisa
looked, especially as it was such a turn-off to others. At the network,
if an executive thought a colleague's PA was better than his or her
own, a poaching war would erupt, everyone clawing to keep ahead
of the pack. As Lisa wasn't the cleavage-flashing, eye-batting type
male heads turned for, Rosie had managed to hold on to her treasure
relatively unnoticed.

'Just tell me,' Rosie said, acknowledging Lisa's frown.

'Everyone's calling for comment about Graham Hunt.'

'Of course they are,' Rosie countered. 'What are you telling
them?'

'I told them that you're out of the office but will return their calls
personally,' Lisa said. 'By the way, he's on his way up as you asked.'

'He was supposed to be here now,' Rosie grizzled. 'What else?'

'Your mother rang. Twice.'

'Of course she did. Any message?'

'Yes, she asked me to say that when you have a window in your
busy schedule you might like to enquire about your son's health. She
asked me to say it in those words. You know I—'

'I know, lovely. Don't worry, she terrifies me too.'

Rosie spotted Portia craning her neck to see what was happening
through the glass door of her office, but she wasn't about to waste a
second on her right now. There was too much going on and it would do
her some good to be out of the loop where Hunt was concerned. Rosie
realised she could no longer trust Portia not to talk out of school.

'What else?'

Lisa scurried around her desk, picking up several yellow post-it
notes in the process. 'I haven't had a chance to log all these for you
yet, but let's see . . . oh, your husband.'

'Ex husband,' Rosie corrected.

'Yeah, well he called. Oh, and one other thing. Karen Day from
news wants to see you urgently. Seems she's being moved from
reporting for
Up To Date
to become
G'day Australia
's weathergirl
and she's none too happy about it.'

'I had no idea. You'd think maybe the entertainment head or the
news director would have mentioned it.'

'Why would you think that?' Lisa replied facetiously.

'Well, you'd better get Karen in,' Rosie continued, too distracted
to respond. 'We'll need to get new
G'day Australia
team shots done
with her in them. I wonder why the sudden change?'

'Well, they are looking to boost ratings at the moment,' Lisa said.

'Every program's trying to do that,' Rosie said. 'Ross Montague
has been the show's weatherman forever.'

'Maybe that's the problem.'

'Well, let's just hope it doesn't become our problem. We have
enough bad press to deal with as it is and Montague always comes up
well in viewer feedback. Anything else urgent?'

'Alicia Charles's PA rang trying to book some time in your diary to
discuss the new drama launch.'

'Hell, I really need to talk to Simon Nash about that first. See if
you can fob her off until next week, will you?' Rosie felt a flash of
guilt – but thankfully it was momentary.

'Sure . . . but it won't be easy. Oh, talking about Nash, he dropped
in too. He's angry about a story in the
Adelaide News
that said the
ratings are down on all of his shows.'

'Yeah, well, that's because they are down! Everything is bloody
well down. What does he expect me to do – get editors to lie to
their readers? Maybe if he spent a little more time fixing the shows
under his umbrella rather than reading every damn story that might
somehow mention him . . .' Rosie chastised herself for her lack of
discretion but trusted Lisa to remain loyal and not repeat what she
said. 'Sorry, Lisa, I'm having a bad day.'

'When is it a good one?' her PA countered dryly.

'Point!' Rosie said with a laugh. 'Can you hold all calls until I'm
finished with Hunt? Then I'll reply to the reporters ASAP, promise.
They have plenty of time until deadline. Anything else?'

'Oh, just the usual,' Lisa said, handing her a long log sheet of calls
to be returned. 'I was going to put these in your not-vital-but-still-important
pile.'

Rosie smiled at Lisa's filing system, a number of in-trays graded
with varying levels of urgency from 'your life depends on it' to
'whenever you get a chance'. Somehow, it actually worked.

'Thanks, honey. You're a lifesaver.'

'That's okay. Just remember, call your mother first. Please?'

'Deal.'

Once in the relative safety of her office, Rosie logged on to her email
only to be affronted by 312 new messages. Not knowing where to begin,
she shifted the massive pile of newspapers (every edition from every
state, which she was expected to read every day – before breakfast!) to
the floor and then took a heavy load of magazines out of her fourth-in-priority
tray, otherwise known as 'sometime soon', to see what else was
lurking below, when Lisa appeared at her door gesturing urgently with
a cradled hand to her ear. 'It's her,' she mouthed. 'Your mother.'

Rosie shot Lisa one of her defeated looks which, her PA knew, meant
put her through, and attempted to muster a chirp in her voice.

'Mum, hi there. How's Leon?'

'Your son is fine, although I do wish you would call him Leonard.
That was your grandfather's name, you know, not Leon.'

'Fine, Mum. Will do, even though he doesn't answer to that name.'
Breathe . . .
'So, how is Leonard then?'

'Well, nice of you to ask. I've given him some of my special soup,
so hopefully that should fix him up, but the poor little darling doesn't
seem himself. You know, I think his tummy problems are a dietary
thing. Too much takeaway, if you ask me.'

'I didn't ask you, actually, and I don't know what you mean by
tummy problems – the kid is usually fighting fit. He was at his
father's when he got ill, you know.' Any trace of perkiness in Rosie's
voice was gone now.

'Well, you know that divorce can affect children's health. The poor
child is probably a nervous wreck. I know you insist there's no chance
of you and Jeff getting back together but for Leon's sake it would be
great if you could at least try—'

Rosie cut her mother short. 'Is there a point to this conversation,
Mum, or are you just going to continue making me feel guilty? And
what part of "Jeff has a new girlfriend" are you missing here?' Rosie
felt the all-too-familiar sensation of tears welling in her eyes.

'Sorry, I didn't realise there was a time limit on our conversation,
Rosemarie. Well, best I go then if you're too busy to discuss your
only son's health. Perhaps you would have the good grace to tell me
when you might be picking him up tonight?'

Rosie knew exactly what Vera was up to. It was another chance to
rub it in, knowing that Rosie would have no hope in hell of getting
off work any time Vera would deem acceptable.
Don't take the bait,
just breathe.

'I doubt I'll be able to pick him up until seven at best, bridge traffic
and all. But I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise. And thanks for
looking after him at such short notice. I really appreciate it.'

'So I guess that means I should cook him some dinner too then,
hmm?'

That 'hmm' noise her mother made when she was pissed off drove
Rosie insane. It was so condescending, like saying 'with all due
respect' when you were speaking to someone you had no respect for
whatsoever.

Breathe.

* * *

'Graham, come in. I've been waiting for you.' Rosie gestured towards
a visitor's chair, hoping the irritation in her tone had registered with
Hunt. To her surprise someone else was behind him. 'Bettina, to
what do I owe the pleasure?' Rosie hoped the woman's austere gaze
would soften. It didn't.

'I need to speak to you about the Kennedy Awards meeting, but
I see you are busy,' Bettina said, moving away from where Graham
Hunt leant lazily against the open door. No doubt he smelt like a
brewery at close range.

'I understand, Bettina, believe me,' Rosie told her, wishing Bettina
would pick up on how she, too, had big problems with the way this
year's Kennedys had kicked off.

'What's up, Toots?' Hunt interrupted. 'You got your knickers in a
twist over Big Keith? I hear he put on quite a show this morning.'

Rosie flashed Hunt a murderous look. 'Well, now I know that it
was office gossip that stopped you making it to our meeting on time,
Graham,' she hissed, 'and I really can't understand what business
a Kennedys meeting is of yours. Surely you have enough on your
plate?'

'Oh for god's sake, loosen up, Toots. So I had a night out. You
were the one who invited all the journos. Tell me, is it true the Big
Man asked for a reach-around in front of everyone? If so, that is
fucking gold!'

It took everything Rosie had in her not to lurch over the desk and
grab Hunt by the throat. Instead, she had to play PR – yet again. If
Bettina Arthur got a sniff of any stench around Graham Hunt, she
could cause Keith lots of trouble.

'Don't let me hold you up, Bettina. I'll call you as soon as I'm
finished here,' she said without taking her eyes off Hunt.

She couldn't believe it when the cocky bastard piped up again:
'Look, I'm doing both you sheilas a favour when I tell you not to get
all hot and flushy about Big Keith. He's seen that many head office
carpet strollers try to bust his balls in the past with no luck. They're
made of steel, I tell you. People respect Keith and expect a bit of blue
in his company. He's the reason I moved to Six. The guy is the best.
So, my advice to both of you is just chill.'

Rosie saw the blood drain from Bettina's face, turning her kabuki
white, then watched as it returned, starting at her neck and slowly
filling her frozen visage with rage.

'Can I please enquire as to who you are?' Bettina said, carefully
and precisely, pausing between every word.

'I, sweet cheeks, am your new face of news, Graham Hunt.'
Graham's outstretched hand hung lonely in space for several
harrowing seconds before he slowly put it back down again.

'Graham, I really don't think that was the best of introductions,'
Rosie said, rising to place her body in between the pair, should
Bettina, as Rosie feared, suddenly attack. 'Graham, Bettina is from
head office and is here looking at budget cuts. Has your contract
gone through yet? If not, perhaps you might wish to apologise?'

'Oh, whoops, a bean counter,' Hunt replied, shifting nervously.
'No hard feelings, darl. You can take a joke, can't you? You'll need to
if you plan to stay around here, let me tell you.'

Bettina remained so silent and stiff that Rosie thought she might
topple like a bowling pin at any moment.

'Bettina, the network recently secured Graham from Network
Three and, as such, we're putting a lot of promotion and support
behind him as we rebrand our news with his face. Unfortunately,'
Rosie continued, flashing Graham a cool stare, 'last night we had a
dinner with the media that got a little out of hand, resulting in some
negative press which Graham and I need to arrest right now. Don't
we, Graham?'