The Boys' Club (2 page)

'Rosie Lang,' Rosie answered, putting some perk in her voice.

'Where the fuck have you been? I've rung you a dozen fucking
times.'

Rosie knew by Big Keith's tone that he was in a mood – not that
he ever wasn't – so there was little use pointing out that technically
she had only missed one and a half calls.

'Sorry, Keith, I was on the landline and . . .' Rosie couldn't believe
just how panicky her own voice sounded.

'So, how was he?' Keith asked, softening his bluster.

'Who's he?' Rosie asked, remembering as she said it that Big Keith
didn't like being asked questions.

'Graham Hunt, who the fuck do you think I'm talking about?'

It always amazed Rosie that Big Keith could remember everything
she ever told him, even when at the time she thought she might as
well have been singing tra-la-la for all he cared.

'You mean the media dinner last night? Look, it went well . . . to
a point.'

'What point?'

Rosie thought she could hear Big Keith's temperature rising on the
other end of the phone.

'I'm not going to lie to you, Graham Hunt is a handful,' she
continued. 'Some of the journos confided that the Channel Three
publicity girls have horrendous stories about his behaviour. The guy
just can't keep his pants on. Last night alone he hit on everyone in a
skirt, even me! And, Keith, I think he has some issues with—'

'
Raaark, raaark, raaark
,' Keith interrupted with that unmistakable
laugh of his – half wheezing penguin, half slapping seal. 'Listen, the
boy likes his pussy – there's nothing wrong with that. Fuck knows I
like a bit myself.
Raaark
. So he likes to let his hair down every now
and again, get a bit wasted, do some silly things. That's why we have
a publicity department, so we can fuck up and no one ever gets to
know about it.
Raaark-raaark!
'

'Very funny, Keith, but—'

'What you're telling me is that he's not the one with the problem,
sweetie, you are.' Keith steamed ahead. 'As far as this network is
concerned, Hunt is untouchable, okay? He's Peter fucking Pan, only
women want to fuck him and men want to be him, okay? I do
not want one word printed about our boy that isn't calling him a
modern-day saint. You hearing me?'

'I appreciate that, Keith, but—' Rosie began between ground
teeth.

'Look, he's got a nice sheila with great tits, get 'em out there. You
know, happy-home shit. Let the great unwashed know we don't have
fucking shirt-lifters reading the news, unlike that other joint. Fags on
TV in prime time, it's fucking insulting to the viewers.'

'Keith, I've told you about talking like that. If the press ever heard
you—'

'Yeah, yeah. Look, I shouldn't have to remind you that we have big
plans for the Hunt boy, 'cause if I fucking do, you may as well pack
up your desk now.' Rosie could picture the veins on Big Keith's neck
engorging with rage.

'Of course I know, Keith, that's why I had him meet the Sydney
press last night. We'll be flying him to Melbourne on Thursday and
Brisbane Monday. It's all happening. By the time Graham reads his
first bulletin on Six, he'll be Mother Teresa, only better dressed. But
I'm going to need him to keep his partying under control or there
won't be much I can do.' Rosie gulped just thinking of the favours
she was going to owe journos to make sure none of those stories Big
Keith was looking forward to reading about Graham Hunt actually
mentioned the truth.

'Keith, I'm going to be honest with you. Graham has . . . let's just
say he has sinus and bladder problems, if you get my drift?'

'What the fuck? So the guy is snotty and has to piss a lot—'

'No, Keith, he likes his Persians – you know, his Persian rugs.'

'No, I don't know. What? Does he have a thing for fucking Arabs?
Raaark! Raaark!
'

'He has a problem with cocaine, Keith, a big one. Apparently it's
not new but lately he's been less discreet about it. And while he may
like pussy, as you so delightfully put it, it's not good to have a married
man full of coke hitting on journos – and it's happening, Keith. He's
out of control. I had to physically put him in a cab last night or he'd
still be on the dance floor now.

'To be honest, Keith,' Rosie continued carefully, aware that Keith
would not like what she was about to say, 'I think you wanting to
get him out there in public so quickly is not the best idea. He's our
new face of news. We need to believe him when he tells us what's
happening in the world. I'm not sure having him so visible in the
press while he's such a loose cannon is beneficial. Maybe introduce
him gradually, let him get some runs on the board. Let's keep
some mystery going, then we can slowly reveal the man behind the
headlines. Go for a nice profile in
Australian Woman
, get the older
45-plus Willard Frost-loving demographic on board first before we
start trying to appeal to eighteen to thirty-fives . . .'

The silence was frightening. In fact, if it wasn't for the raspy
breathing coming through the earpiece, Rosie could have sworn he'd
hung up.

Finally: 'Listen here,' Keith roared. 'Do you know how much we
paid to get him from Three? DO YOU?'

'Keith, yes I do, I know it was a considerable investment, which is
why I'm warning you—'

'Three point five fucking million! Un-fucking-heard of. Then
there's the two mill we're spending to rebrand the joint with him as
the face of news – Channel Six news – Australia's news! The face of
Australia's news is not a coke sniffer. DO YOU HEAR ME?'

'Yes, Keith, I'm well aware, but—' Rosie should have saved her
breath. Keith was clearly over listening.

'I don't know what he wants to do that shit for anyway,' he said, his
voice softening from bellow to badger. 'I hear coke makes your cock
go soft. I mean, what's the fucking point in that?
Raaaark
. Look, the
rest of it you can handle. Bit of pussy, bit of biff . . . but I don't like
drugs. The network doesn't like drugs. Graham Hunt will not be
associated with drugs! GOT IT?'

'Keith, I get it and will do my best, but I'm going to need—'

'I don't think you heard me. Have you GOT IT?'

'Yup, got it, Keith,' Rosie replied, biting her lip. There was nothing
to say, and no point trying if there had been. Once again Rosie felt
the numbness of frustration and noticed her fists were clenched with
tension.

'Now, that dickhead at the
Financial Forecaster
, another one of
your journo mates. That moron has fucked up again.'

Hell
, Rosie thought,
Keith hasn't hung up.

'I spoke to him yesterday to check the facts of his story,' she replied.
'I can't see what could be wrong.' She knew what would come next,
of course. It was the same complaint every day of late.

'The fucker wrote that we're losing the lead-in to news.'

'Er, Keith, we are. We have been for months. Ratings don't lie.'

'We were up seven thousand in Brisbane, we were huge in over-thirty-fives. You don't see those mongrels writing that!'

'But, Keith, we're a hundred and seventy thousand behind in
Sydney. I can give journos our spin, but the fact of the matter is, I
can't polish a turd.'

Rosie could almost feel the large beast of a man hunch over the
phone at the other end. She had seen him do it enough times, as
though the phone was a neck and he was aiming straight at its
jugular.

'Listen, if the lead-in sneezes, this whole network catches a cold,
you hear me? Now fucking fix it. I don't want to read that we're
panicking about the lead-in, okay! And I don't want to hear another
word about drugs!'

'Fine, Keith,' Rosie said, acquiescing to the Big Man just like
everyone else.

'Good. Now get up here and see me. I want to go through this
Kennedy Awards shit with you before the others get here. I've moved
the programming meeting to two pm when they've pissed off.'

Not being at the office could cost Rosie her job, sick child
notwithstanding, so the only option was to lie. 'I'm actually having
breakfast with the media writer from the
National.
I won't be there
for another half-hour at least.' Rosie could hear the tremor in her
voice but hoped Keith would assume it was a bad line.

'Just fucking get here. That pair of vinegar tits, Bettina Arthur, is
coming in too. I want you to be real nice to her 'cause I can't. She's a
nark. No fucking idea about TV but suddenly she's telling me how to
run the network. Bitch. Bet she hasn't had a decent fu—'

'Er, I'm on my way, Keith,' Rosie said, not wanting to go there.
As she hung up the phone, she gave herself one precious second to
comprehend the madness of her existence. How had it come to this?
Was this any kind of life? As usual, there was no time to wait for an
answer.

Leon was unnaturally quiet in the back of the car as Rosie turned up
the radio and waited for the gossip news to come on at 7.45 am as
usual. To save time, she took the back streets, going the wrong way
up a one-way street – local's knowledge – to avoid two sets of lights.

'Bugger,' she hissed as she pulled up at the Little Darlings Daycare
entrance. Snag Dad, as Rosie called him, was making his way to
the gate with his son Elroy, a good friend of Leon's. Rosie wasn't
sure why Snag Dad flustered her so much. Maybe it was because he
was always with his boy, getting him to preschool on time, picking
him up as soon as the day ended – basically being everything Leon's
father was not. The guy was positively Ned Flanders from
The
Simpsons
as far as she was concerned, all 'hidey-hodey and have a
nice day'. How could someone be that happy and organised all the
time? She wanted to punch him.
Hell, he's coming over.
'Hi there, Leon's mum,' Snag Dad said, leaning into her car
window. 'Bit late today, I see.'

Tell me something I don't know, sunshine. Don't you have somewhere
better to be than lingering outside daycare? Shoo!
Even as she thought
it, Rosie chastised herself for being so intolerant.

'Yes, I am late, so I haven't really got time to stop and chat,' she
said apologetically. As she got out of the car and unstrapped Leon
from his seat, she noticed Snag Dad was still hovering beside her.

'You know, your boy and mine are pretty close,' he continued, as
Rosie made her way to the gate. 'I was thinking it would be nice if
they could hang out together out of school sometime.'

Rosie wasn't listening. She was looking at that coded lock and
realising that yet again she had forgotten the combination. Every
day, without fail, she forgot the four-number sequence she needed to
open that pesky gate. When she did finally remember, it was usually
the day the place changed the combo. She was sure she had written
the latest code down somewhere . . .

She grabbed her handbag, found her purse and started rifling
through the dark recesses of her once sleek Prada wallet, which was
now so stuffed full of receipts and other assorted bits of crap it looked
like a badly wrapped kebab. As she opened it, several business cards
flew out, including one she knew she would need later. She was about
to run after it when she noted, with gratitude, her boy darting to pick
up the wayward gilt-embossed card.

'Thanks, sweetpea,' she yelled as Leon returned with the card held
triumphantly high. Rosie then turned to the infernal lock and was
just about to kick the fencepost with her stiletto when she heard, 'It's
one-three-two-one.'

Turning to face her saviour, Rosie was taken aback as she noticed
for the first time that Snag Dad was actually a bit of a sort. Dark,
tall, with blue-green eyes and sideburns, he reminded her of her
all-time crush, Tex Perkins, right down to the Celtic tattoo she saw
peeking from under the rolled-up sleeve of his loose chambray shirt.
How desperate am I for sex when Snag Dad at daycare looks like a
sort?
she thought to herself.
How long has it been anyway? Too long to
remember, that's for sure, and too pathetic to acknowledge
.

Rosie was so engrossed in her internal monologue that she
completely missed what Snag Dad was saying. It would be impolite
to ignore someone who had just done her a favour, but unfortunately
she had no time to wait around while he repeated himself.

'Look, I have to be honest with you—'

'It's Daniel.'

'Yes, of course, Daniel. It's just that, well, I didn't hear a word you
said. I'm sorry about that and I would love to hang around and hear
whatever it is you have to say but I'm stressed out of my mind at the
moment. My boy is sick. I hate my job. My ex is a first-class bastard
and I have no life.'
Why are you saying this?
Rosie wondered
. Shut up,
woman, that is way too much information
.

'Yeah, it's hard,' Snag Dad answered sympathetically. 'I see you
racing here with your kid each day and you always seem in a hurry. I
just wanted you to know I'd be happy to take Leon some afternoons
if it would help. It would sure help me to have him keeping Elroy
company while I cook dinner.'

'I couldn't impose,' Rosie replied, realising too late she had just
duped her son out of a meal that didn't come out of a box. 'We get by.
I'm hoping things will slow down soon. You know, after the Kennedy
Awards.'

'Oh, you work in TV!' Daniel said with a knowing grin. 'You
really are stressed then.'

Rosie smiled at that understatement.

'Look, here's my number,' he continued. 'If you ever need Leon
picked up or looked after or you just need a break, call me. It would
do me a favour. I think Elroy gets tired of it just being the two of us,
especially since his mum . . .'

Rosie didn't hear Snag Dad's last sentence, having been distracted
by the carnival chimes emanating from her handbag.

'Look, great, thanks,' she said, snatching the piece of paper with
what she guessed was his phone number from his hand while sifting
through the dark leather canyons of her bag again in search of the
offending handset. 'Gotta take this call.'

Without bothering to ask who was on the other end, Rosie told the
caller to hold, and turned to Leon. 'Goodbye, my little champion,'
she said, kissing his forehead and handing him his lunch box, into
which she had hurriedly jammed some sad fruit, a muesli bar and a
packet of chips as they bolted from the house. Rosie knew the boy
should have been in bed being looked after by his mum but that was
just impossible today, a fact that stabbed her insides with guilt.

'If you feel too sick, tell the teacher to call Mummy and I'll come
and get you, okay? I love you.'

'I love you too, Mummy,' Leon replied.

Rosie quickly punched in the code Daniel had given her and
ushered her boy in through the gate, then returned to the phone.
The call had dropped out.
Damn!
The missing call number indicated
the office, which wouldn't be good news. Rosie knew it would almost
certainly be Portia Richardson, her glamorous and far more punctual
2IC.
Trust her to be in there already
. Running to her car without even
saying goodbye to Daniel, Rosie pressed redial.

'Okay, what's happening?' she asked, skipping any niceties such as
'good morning' – mere padding in television talk.

'I just got a call from the producer of
Drive Jive
telling us to listen
to "The Dirt" report this morning,' Portia replied.

Rosie knew this could not be good news.

'Apparently there's an item on Graham Hunt. The producer wants
to get a comment from you for the news update.'

'Any hints?' she asked, hoping it would be a benign story about the
get-to-know-you dinner with the media last night, contract details or
an on-air date confirmation, stuff she could deflect on autopilot. As
usual, though, deep in the recesses of her raw, knotted insides, she
knew she was kidding herself. Things were not under control.

'It was something about Hunt partying after the press dinner last
night. Hang on, here it comes now . . .'

Rosie pulled to the side of the road and turned the radio up.

The nasal drone and unmistakable lisp of gossip columnist Trent
Allenby disrupted the inane giggling of Foxy Roxy, the blonde half
of the top-rating breakfast duo, Fox and Ron: 'And now for some
truly hot news. Guess who I had dinner with last night?'

'Come on,' Roxy squealed. 'Give us the juice, Trenty.'

'Well, it was only one certain studly god you know I am the biggest
fan of – Graham Hunt.'

'Oh yes, what was it you told us you wanted to do with him again,
Trent?' Ron Scott, the Ron in Fox and Ron, jumped in. 'Be his gay
surfboard, I think you said.'

'That's right, Ron, he could easily be the future Mrs Allenby if he
plays his cards right. But unfortunately, it looks like that's not going
to be the case any time soon, judging from his behaviour last night.'

She wanted to put her head in her hands and collapse against the
steering wheel. Then again, a more fitting time for a breakdown was
only seconds away.

'Loving it! I need more!' Roxy exclaimed.

I can't stand that gibberer Foxy
, Rosie thought.
She puts the women's
movement back about a hundred years
.

'Anyhoo, after all the nicey-niceys at dinner with the network, it
appears that after being put in a cab Mr Hunt reappeared in Kings
Cross so he could continue playing. And he certainly knows how to
have a good time, if you know what I mean . . .'

'The network won't like that!' Foxy giggled.

'That's right. I think Mrs Hunt might not be too happy either,
considering she wasn't at the dinner last night because she's expecting
a baby any day now.'

'Oooh-wah,' hooted Foxy. '
He's in trouble
.'

'He's in trouble,' Rosie said to herself, imitating Foxy's infuriating
singsong voice.

'Anyhoo,' Trent continued, 'your faithful correspondent caught
up with him in the wee hours this morning at Club X and let's
just say he seemed high on a little more than life. Ouch! Did I say
that?'

'Yes you did, you naughty boy,' Foxy chirped. 'We're going to have
to slap your wrist for that one.'

'Well, it's truuue! Honestly, I'd watch that man read the
Yellow
Pages
, but it seems like he is a bit naaaughty! Don't you just love it?
But it gets better. He wasn't alone. No siree. A very attractive blonde
around town was by his side all night long, even in the little ladies'
room, it seems.'

'No!' This time it was Ron piping in.

'Yes! I can tell you the head of publicity at Six will
not
be happy
about this one. Hello out there, Rosie Lang, if you're listening.'

Rosie felt ill. Not knowing what else to do, she opened the ashtray
in the front dash and fished around for a decent-sized cigarette butt.
As she tried to light its crusted black stub, the carousel noise cranked
up yet again.

'Rosie Lang,' Rosie answered, a distinct croak in her voice, too
stressed to note who had dialled.

'Rosie, it's Julia here, from Little Darlings Daycare. I think you'd
better come back and get Leon. He was just sick and he's crying for
his mum.'

Nooooooo!

'Thanks, Julia. Look, I'm just around the corner but I have to get
to work. What am I going to do with him?'

'Sorry, I can't help you with that, but we can't keep him here – it's
against the rules. No sick kids allowed. If you'd waited this morning
to sign in, as all parents are required to do, I could have told you that.
Can his father pick him up?'

'Huh!' Rosie scoffed. 'He'd be too busy for that, writing his next
opus and all.'

'Er, yes, well someone needs to collect him,' Julia continued, a tad
curtly. 'And soon.'

Instead of making an immediate U-turn, Rosie drove another block
and stopped at a corner store where she bought a packet of Marlboro
Lights and some Quick-Eze. Nervously she lit up, refusing to chastise
herself for smoking again, and braced herself to ring her mother,
Vera.

* * *

'Hi, Mum, it's Rosemarie.'

'Well, well, my only daughter rings her mother out of the blue. Let
me guess, you need something.'

Rosie smiled to herself. Her mother never failed to pile it on at
every opportunity.

'Actually, Mum, I can't lie. I do need a favour. Daycare just rang
and Leon is sick. He can't stay there and I have to get to work. Can I
drop him with you? It'll only be for today, I promise. You'd be doing
me the biggest favour and you always say you never get to spend
enough time with him.'

After a few seconds' silence and a hearty sigh on the other end of
the line, Vera Lang spoke again. 'Well, Rose, I can hardly leave my
sick grandson to fend for himself now, can I? And it seems that's
what will happen otherwise as it's clear you have no intention of
taking a day off from that job of yours to attend to your only child.
You know, there was never a day I wasn't at home waiting for you to
get off that school bus. I gave up any dreams I had of a career when I
had you because, in my day, raising a family was the most important
thing a woman could do. Not running around with TV types, which
you seem to prefer.'

Normally Rosie would have taken her mother's bait but knew she
couldn't today. She was actually beholden to Vera, more's the pity.

'Mum, I wouldn't say I prefer running around with TV types, as
you suggest, but I do need to make a living and, I'm sure you will
agree, hanging on to the only home Leon has ever known is rather
important at this fragile time in his life.'

'Well, you have a point there,' Vera responded. 'He has just lost his
father so I think losing his home as well might be too much for the
little man. Okay then, I'll cancel my plans, Rosemarie, and take my
grandson, but I do have a life too, you know. I can't be here at your
beck and call.'

'Yes, Mum, I know, you're an absolute champion,' Rosie said,
holding back what she really wanted to say. 'I'll be there in ten.'

And with that, Rosie lit her second cigarette of the day and made
another illegal U-turn.