The Boys' Club (6 page)

'It's all bullshit,' Graham said cockily, winking at Rosie. 'Well, not
all of it.'

'I shall leave you both then,' Bettina said icily. 'However, I would
appreciate talking to you as soon as you can manage, Rose.'

'Of course, Bettina. Let's try for a coffee before the programming
meeting at two. In the meantime, I'm sure you'll understand, I really
need to have a chat with Mr Hunt here.'

'Yes, I understand. Goodbye, Mr Hunt. It was very interesting to
meet you.'

'Look, about last night,' Hunt said when Bettina was out of earshot.
He sat down spread-legged on the cream leather chair beside him.
'Okay, I fucked up. I like a bit of play-up every now and again. This'll
all blow over. I'm hardly different from anyone else in Sydney.'

Rosie'd had enough. 'Okay, listen here, you arrogant little brat,'
she spat. 'Not everyone in Sydney is paid millions of dollars to read
lines off an autocue for half an hour a night. And not everyone else
in Sydney notifies the viewers of events that could change their lives
forever. And not everyone in Sydney has a pregnant wife waiting at
home while they're out with other women – in front of journalists,
for god's sake, not to mention on the toot. And not everyone is being
branded as the new, fresh face that will help this network regain its
reputation as the number one news outlet in this country!'

Rosie paused briefly to suck in enough breath to continue: 'You
know, I may have to publicise and defend you, I may even have to
bend the truth on your behalf, but I don't have to like you and I don't
have to take your shit. So enough with the comments and opinions
on subjects that are none of your damn business and get out of my
office. But before you go, listen to this and listen hard: last night
you made the mistake of taking medication with wine and sincerely
regret your actions. You get that? The network will back you but do
not think I can stop the real truth being written about you if you
continue to screw your career with behaviour like that. If you want
to do coke, then look for another job because I can tell you your hero
Big Keith Norman doesn't like coke, full stop. Zero tolerance. You
hearing me?'

'Geez, are you on the rag or what?' Graham said, though with a
little less bravado in his voice now.

'I'm not kidding, Graham. This job is hard enough without having
to wipe your arse.'

'I was just having a bit of fun and—'

'Yeah, well next time do it with your pregnant wife! Actually, that's
a good idea. Take her out Saturday and I'll tip off the Sunday papers.
You could certainly do with some positive press after last night.
I'll book somewhere expensive – she deserves it. We hired a family
man, you know, not a pantsman. Oh, and I'm upping your charity
commitments. Do you have a charity?'

'Yeah, young unwed mothers . . . It's a joke!'

'Great. Let's make it breast cancer then. Oh, and one other thing:
that woman you were so rude to just then signs both our cheques.
You'd better hope she's got a sense of humour because if I was her,
I'd rip up your contract right now. And I can tell you, I don't care
enough about this job not to kiss her feet if she did. Now piss off!'

Rosie watched as Hunt got up and walked out, stripped bare of his
swagger, then Lisa appeared at the door.

'It's your ex for you and he insists he won't be put on hold,' she
said.

'That son of a . . . Jeff can wait,' Rosie said, her rage like acid bile
in her throat. 'I don't think I could handle him after what just went
down with Hunt.'

'I heard it. I think the whole office did,' Lisa said. 'You really gave
it to him. I thought it was way cool.'

'Thanks,' Rosie laughed. 'On second thought, put Jeff through.
I've had a warm-up, so I'm ready for another bout.'

Moments later, line one on Rosie's phone lit up. 'Hi, Jeff, thanks a
lot for dropping our sick son back this morning without—'

'There you go again, whining already,' Jeff interrupted, clearly
agitated. 'Nice to talk to you too. You know, ever since you took that
stupid job you've been a first-class bitch and I am sick of you taking
it out on me and your son.'

Rosie wanted to cry. He was right, and she knew it.

'What do you want, Jeff?' she said, forcing back a sob.

'I just thought you should know before I tell Leon that I've asked
Heather to marry me and she's accepted.'

Jeff might have said more but Rosie didn't hear any of it. The phone
had dropped from her hand and she was staring at the wall in front
of her with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Hesitating momentarily at the boardroom doors before going in to
the daily program meeting, Rosie braced herself, breathed in as much
air as her lungs could hold, then pushed at the wooden mass until
it heaved open.
Even when I'm on time I can't win
, she lamented to
herself as she surveyed the boys' club already assembled and preening
in each other's presence.
It's like they're queuing for the best seats at the
Colosseum.

Closest to her was the head of sport, Russell Frazer. Russ loved
to think of himself as a macho man and a player like the sporting
celebrities he boasted as friends, and so he always sat beside the
network's own pantsman extraordinaire, programming director
Stuart 'Johnno' Johnston.

With his feet up on a chair, holding court, as always, Johnno
had his hands wedged deep in his trouser pockets, like a paranoid
traveller checking his wallet in a crowded market square. For Johnno,
the thought of anything happening to his beloved penis was akin
to sudden death, and as such his hands were rarely far from it,
unconsciously flipping one testicle back and forward whenever he was
nervous. Funnily enough, Rosie rarely noticed his constant pocket
fondling any more, although watching Bettina Arthur's face the first
time she saw Johnno wrestling with the object of his affection was a
priceless moment she wouldn't forget in a hurry.

Opposite Johnno was the exquisitely coiffed head of outsourced
productions, Jason Jarvis. Although he laughed the loudest at these
meetings, he was usually either oblivious to the joke or, more often,
the brunt of it. Unabashedly gay, the ravenously ambitious executive
never had a chance of being accepted as inner-circle by the boys, a
fact that only exacerbated his already rampant paranoia. Rosie would
consider him the most narcissistic man she'd ever encountered – if
he wasn't sitting beside someone who made Jason seem humble in
comparison, The Darkness himself. Rosie always felt a bit miffed
that she hadn't come up with that name for Simon Nash first, as
it was simply perfect. How the hell he'd ever become head of light
entertainment was something that boggled her mind, considering
Nash was possibly the most miserable, humourless bastard she had
met in her life. All baboon-bum features, thinning hair and shiny
pink-flushed skin, he fitted the classic mould of bullied fat boy
hell-bent on revenge as an adult. His modus –
get them before they
get me
. It was a winning tactic; his recent promotion to head of
entertainment had granted him ultimate power over all genres except
news.

As expected, The Darkness threw the first dart of the meeting as
Rosie entered. 'Some night you guys had last night, huh?' he said,
his voice raised so no one could miss a word. 'Great to see how well
your PR function went. Graham Hunt seems to have made quite an
impression on the media.'

A moment of silence followed this particular petard's firing.
For a fleeting moment Rosie thought they might actually restrain
themselves, and refrain from laughing at her humiliation. She should
have known better. Nash was the first to let go at his own joke, though
even his heartiest guffaw was thin and joyless. With the coast now
clear to join in, Johnno burst into his hyena-like giggle, with Russ's
guttural hoots and Jason's cackle bringing up the rear. Rosie noticed
yet again how none of the men made eye contact with her as they
laughed.

When they'd had their fill, Nash turned to Rosie and, noticing her
stony face, piped: 'Come on, girl, what's happened to your sense of
humour? You used to be able to handle a joke.'

'Oh, I still laugh when I hear something funny,' she replied curtly,
before taking a seat at the end of the table, as far away from the
men as possible. She was relieved when the doors groaned open to
deliver another Christian into the ring, this time the head of drama,
Alicia Charles, her friend and the only other female executive. Alicia
was one of Rosie's favourites at the network but that didn't mean
she wasn't extremely high maintenance. She wasn't just the head of
drama in her job – there was a lot of it in her everyday life. Still,
Rosie was grateful when Alicia joined her at the far end of the table,
believing it might somehow fortify her against another testosterone
onslaught.

Allan Bales, the head of news, was next. Rosie could tell that the
shambolic-looking news director was still angry despite their long
phone conversation earlier, during which she had explained – yet
again – how she had physically put Hunt into a cab the previous
night and wasn't responsible for the fact that he must have turned it
around. Thankfully, Bales had attended the dinner, so he understood
the formal part of the evening had gone well, but Rosie also knew
he would be looking for a scapegoat and she was his best option so
far. Bales's saving grace as far as Rosie was concerned was that he
probably loathed Simon Nash even more than she did, which helped
to bond the two executives in unspoken respect for each other. Bales
knew that Nash looked down on him as 'not knowing a thing about
television'. The fact that Bales was a seasoned news veteran with some
thirty years in print and radio meant nothing to Nash, a career TV
man and proud of it.

'What are you smiling at?' Bales barked when he spotted
Nash grinning away. It was hard not to notice Nash when he did
smile because it was a rare sight, usually delivered with perverse
Machiavellian relish. 'I bet you're loving every minute of this, you
sniveller,' Bales went on. 'Just remember, I didn't want Hunt. He's
not a newsman, he's a fucking actor.'

Nash said nothing in response. He didn't have to. His smirk said
it all.

As Allan Bales took his chair, Rosie was sure she heard him half
cough, half mumble something that sounded a lot like 'prick'.
Bless
him.

'I can tell you, I'm happy I'm neither of you bastards today,' Johnno
said, trying to lift the mood as he looked at Allan Bales, then Rosie.
'In all seriousness, though, there's more going on at this network
than news, not that you'd know it reading the papers. I'm trying to
launch new shows and timeslots that need publicity and all anyone in
the media cares about is fucking six o'clock! I mean, those pricks at
"Secret Sydney" in the
Sentinel
seemed obsessed with this joint, and
not in the right way.'

'Look, I have to agree,' Alicia chimed in. 'I mean, we have a HUGE
drama gestating and need to give it some love and attention. I know
you're stretched to the enth but really, Rosie darling, we have to get
onto this.'

Rosie knew Alicia was right. A sudden jolt of shame shot through
her. 'I've had no time and I'm sincerely sorry, Alicia,' she offered. Out
of sight, she stretched her hand to touch Alicia's knee under the table,
a move that, given her puffy red eyes, she knew her friend would
understand to mean 'careful, I'm brittle'. 'There are plans in place
and I do have Portia working on it. Hasn't she been keeping you up
to date with everything?'

'Oh darling, I know you're doing your very best,' Alicia responded,
gripping Rosie's hand tightly in a show of sisterly solidarity, 'but I
think Portia Richardson is a little too focused on programming
issues at the moment.'

Alicia shot an accusing look at Johnno Johnston that Rosie couldn't
quite read, but she had enough to get her head around without trying
to unravel every cryptic comment made at these meetings.

'I understand you have a lot on your plate, Rose,' Alicia continued.
'I mean, I don't know how you're managing, especially with the
Kennedy Awards coming up. I think it only right for all of us in this
room to be a little more considerate of everything else this girl has
going on before we start demanding all her time, don't you?'

It took all of Rosie's control not to embrace her colleague, even
if Alicia was heading into empathy overkill territory. But just to be
appreciated at all buoyed Rosie's spirits.
How long has it been since
someone has actually been nice to me?
she wondered, giving up when
nothing came to mind.

The men around the table seemed chastened for an uncomfortably
long minute or so after Alicia's comment. Then, as if on a cue from
heaven above, Grace appeared through the kitchen side door with
muffins and a platter laden with cheese and biscuits.

'Where's the fruit?' Nash asked abruptly as Grace endeavoured
to negotiate the heavy platter onto the table. Rosie noticed not a
single man offered to assist the elderly, frail woman. She shot out of
her own seat and grabbed the platter from Grace's trembling hands,
placing it in front of Simon Nash with a thump.

'Surely there's something here you'd like, Simon,' she said
sarcastically before taking a still-warm muffin from the pile. 'Or are
you on a fruit-only diet again?'

Although she was standing out of his sight, Rosie could feel the
cold man in front of her tense up at her comment. Nash, neurotic
about his weight, was no fan of diet jokes. Rosie had caught him
standing on the scales in his office on more than one occasion. He
was also known to run around the compound at lunchtime in those
horrid jogging shorts that were split up the sides, leaving nothing to
the imagination. The memory made her shudder.

'Anyone else interested in some high GI carbs?' Rosie continued.
She knew she'd already taken the weight jibe too far but just couldn't
stop herself.

'Oooh yes, I will!' chimed Alicia, oblivious to the chill in the air.

When no other head nodded, Rosie leant over Nash clumsily to
grab a pastry, placing it in one of the huge starched linen napkins
provided, then returned to the relative safety of her seat. With the
comfort of distance, she allowed herself a glance in his direction and
found his unflinching gaze fixed on her in pure defiance. If eyes
could have spoken, Simon Nash's would have been talking of painful
death. She had definitely pushed his buttons this time.

Bettina Arthur was the next to arrive, a welcome distraction. Rosie
noticed how composed the bean counter looked compared to the last
time she'd seen her, in Rosie's office only a couple of hours earlier.
Without saying a word, Bettina took the chair at the end of the table
and opened a folder in front of her. The rest of the room looked on,
mute with shock. She was sitting in Keith's chair! A cavernous silence
ruled until the doors opened again.

Luckily most of the faces entering this time were friendly, but as
the head of marketing and several members of Johnno's programming
staff found seats, some of them made 'what the?' signals behind
Bettina's back on the way. When Rosie couldn't stand it another
second she moved to Bettina's side and said softly, 'Bettina, while
we're waiting for Keith, can I have a quick word with you? It's quite
urgent. It'll only take a moment.'

Bettina looked momentarily startled but nevertheless stood up and
followed Rosie through the anteroom door.

'Look, I'm sorry to do this to you but someone should tell you that
you're sitting in Keith's chair,' she blurted, relieved to be free of the
secret.

'Can't he just take another?'

For the second time that day Rosie saw Bettina Arthur looking
rattled.

'Put it this way, when I first arrived I was told about a young
programmer who took his chair. Apparently Keith slapped him
so hard in the head with a schedule book that the kid fell over
backwards, taking the chair with him.'

'It's ridiculous, of course, but I can actually see him doing that,'
Bettina replied with a smile. Rosie was taken aback. She'd never seen
the woman smile before. 'Thank you for telling me,' Bettina went
on. 'By the way, I thought you held yourself well with Hunt this
morning.'

Rosie blushed. 'You heard me?' she asked.

'I think the entire floor heard you, and I must—'

'
Raaark, raaark
.'

Keith's unmistakable roar stopped Bettina mid-sentence.

'I think we should talk about this later,' Rosie whispered, thankful
for the interruption.

* * *

Simon Nash was still bitching about the lack of fruit on the platter
when Rosie and Bettina walked back in. 'Is it so fucking hard to cut
up an apple?' he asked anyone who would listen.

'Good fucking question, Nash,' Big Keith bellowed behind him,
making the entertainment head jump. 'Maybe you should learn to
bring your own fucking fruit if you're gonna chuck a hissy fit about
it like a girl.' Keith didn't notice – or simply didn't care – that Nash's
face was a picture of pure anger.

'What's the fucking matter with you anyway? I like Jan's muffins,'
Keith said, grabbing one with his mitt-size hands. 'If you don't, then
maybe you should go and pour yourself a hot cup of go-get-fucked.
Rark!
'

Johnno burst out laughing but quickly shut up again when The
Darkness shot him one of his looks.

'I've just had Graham Hunt in my office,' Keith went on, looking
at Rosie. 'Seems like someone ripped him a new arsehole this
morning.'

Now all eyes were on her.
Great.

'Good on you, I say,' Keith continued. 'The little prick needs to
pull his fucking head in.'

Rosie could have kissed him.

'Thanks, Keith—' she said before he abruptly interrupted her.

'That doesn't go beyond this room, though, you hear? The network
has a lot invested in Hunt and I do not want any more speculation in
the papers re whether he is in any way on the nose with us.'

Rosie knew Keith was furious with the daily 'Secret Sydney' pages
running in the
Sentinel
. Rosie had once worked for the tabloid and,
as such, Keith believed she should have had some pull in getting the
speculation stopped, ignorant of the journalistic code of ethics Rosie
would never dare impinge upon or expect others to. Then again,
ethics were not a priority in Keith's world.