by Philip Bond
“I was coming in to see you anyway, Wellington. I want time today to follow up some hot leads on my story?”
It’s been a long night for the ageing journalist going drink for drink with a junior government minister. The young Turk believes he should be elevated into the cabinet but the PM thinks otherwise so now, the Turk plans revenge by orchestrating coup d’état after the election and his numbers are close. Wellington plans to break the story the Sunday following the election but now, he’s paying a price for the exclusive, the agony that comes with a squadron of Leopard tanks continually trundling through his brain. Any aggravation today is definitely not appreciated… “I suggest you close the door, unless you want your colleges to hear you belittled.”
She does; they both sit.
“Regardless of what you say, Wellington, the facts remain; you’re refusing my investigations of this year’s or possibly the decade’s most important story. We’re journalists and you’re an editor, why don’t you do your job and let me break this bloody story?”
Unmoved by her words, picking up his telephone to dial… “Hi Wendy, it is Wellington Fairchild, I need to speak to Jim please.”
‘Oh hell,’ Harry remembers Wendy’s the secretary to the network chief Jim Anderson, apprehension mounts.
“Hi Jim, I have a problem that I think only you can resolve. You are aware I have your rising star here, and I know you are aware of the story she is investigating. You and the rest of Australia know we are in the middle of the election campaign. I will not bow to any demand that reduces my capability to cover this election. Your rising star insists on following her story and it is not my position to sack her, so you will have to deal with the situation.” Harry sits dumbfounded, listening to the candid conversation… “I must have the full complement of personnel to do the job you expect of me.” He pauses obviously listening to a response before continuing… “The position is simple, issue instructions to follow my directives or replace her.”
All Harry can think about is the network chief saying yes to Wellington’s questions. Harry studied Wellington’s style at university, always build up with a series of yes questions when wanting an ultimate yes answer. The psychology is getting the subject saying yes and then no becomes foreign when asking the ultimate. Harry did not hear the answer, however, it’s short… “Thank you, Jim.” Then on hanging up… “Wait by your telephone for a call and close the door on your way out.”
Realising she has been put in her place, she walks to her desk. Within minutes, the phone rings.
“Harry Reisner?”
“Hi Harry,” his unmistakeable voice.
“Phillip, I’m surprised you’re calling. Then again, I’m unsure who’d they get to rebuke me.”
“Christ Harry, you can’t bounce the network’s most important people without taking flack? That guy’s a legend, a hero of television journalism. He’s an icon; Harry, them you don’t take on.”
“Cut the crap.” She’s definitely in no mood to listen, especially to him… “What’s the bottom line?”
“We’ll talk, grab a plane back to Sydney today. I’ll meet you.”
Not interested… “We’re talking now, let’s continue!”
“No!” It’s not a request… “Grab a flight and I’ll meet you, then we will talk. Now, you had better get out of there. I’ll be at the airport. Phone Julie and tell her your flight details.”
“Oh gee, Phillip, can’t wait.”
*
The aircraft slows to a crawl, the flight attendant announces… “Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the doors are open. Thank you for flying with us and we look forward to having you with us on you next flight.”
The door opens; Harry stands, removing a bag from the overhead locker to file out onto the aerobridge.
Immediately aside the terminal door, Phillip waits… “Hi, Harry.”
She walks past to the adjacent wall.
“Christ Harry,” he misinterprets her intentions… “Don’t get off on me! I didn’t create the problem. You knew the ground rules when going to Canberra. You can’t bounce Fairchild and get away with it. The man has more pull than me.”
Phillip’s explosion stuns the immediate area. Harry’s instantly recognisable. Everyone’s looking at her and Phillip… “Let’s get some privacy,” she’s embarrassed… “Unless you want bigger headlines in the gutter press?”
Realising there’s an audience… “Oh shit. Let’s go,” Phillip sheepishly instructs… “The car’s in the parking lot.”
Walk off in silence, not noticing the uniformed customs officer standing at the security baggage check. His attention, like others in the immediate area is drawn to the outburst. Watching them exit, he turns to the section leader… “I’ll be going now.”
“What was it that brought customs here to the domestic terminal in the first place Malcolm?”
“Just dropping off some paperwork.” Events now dictate a hasty reversal… “Can’t chat, work calls.”
Outside, the atmosphere remains caustic as Phillip unlocks the doors.
“I’ve a table in the restaurant at the Airport Hilton. It’s early but we can take our time and talk.”
It’s a menu of sarcasm today… “That’s peachy.”
“Christ Harry, this is not my doing. Stop putting shit on me.”
Pressure reaches critical exploring in a tirade… “Put shit on you? In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the author of the airport scene.”
“Well you huff past me coming off the plane! What do you expect me to do?”
“Oh hell, listen, I’ve just come off the plane and you want to doorstop me. People were trying to get past!”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me instead of just walking past me and making me look like a fucking idiot.”
“It’s not my role in life to make up for your deficiencies.”
Phillip knew their relationship alters now, it’s obvious they stand adjacent across a chasm… “Christ Harry, am I that much of a prick that you, of all people, cannot talk to me? Am I that insensitive towards you that I would do what I did, without feeling probable cause? Christ Harry,” he pauses… “For goodness sake woman, what do I have to do to prove that I love you?”
In all the times they have shared, he’s never used those words until now. So why complicate things… “What is it you want from me? You only want me when your wife is either out of town or when there are a spare couple of hours to fill.”
“Oh Christ Harry, I’ve never met anyone like you.” Emotion swells… “You’re capable, you’re willing, you don’t take shit from anybody and you’re not the person to sit and wait for someone to provide for you. You see something needing done and you do it. You’ll do your best at everything you’re given. Most of all, you do things others only talk about. Harry,” he swallows… “I love you!”
Stunned, she falls silent. Then in frustration unleashes… “Why now, why today? Why not six or even two months ago?”
“Christ, Harry,” he’s about to venture into unexplored territory… “I grew up in a family where saying I love you is never considered. It’s not something a man does. Even my mother doesn’t say it. It’s taken me forty-three years to get the courage to say it to anybody. Please don’t ridicule me for my upbringing.”
They arrive at their hotel as Phillip steers the car into the driveway. The attendant walks up to the car… “Valet parking Phillip, you have a room?” She feels exploited.
He ignores the remark as they head towards the elevator in silence. The door opens; Harry and Phillip step into the restaurant.
“I phoned yesterday, a booking, table for two.”
“Thank you,” leading… “This way, please.”
It’s a corner table and the restaurant is surprisingly busy for such an early hour.
“Harry,” laying bare his emotions does little to sway her resolve; instead, Phillip returns to business… “Jim’s thrown the problem to me and I�
��ve to come up with a workable solution to Wellington Fairchild’s satisfaction or you’re out.” Harry’s about to interject… “Don’t take off, that’s not an option. What I need to do now is work out a solution that is satisfactory to all.”
Regardless the hour, Harry demands… “I want a drink.”
Phillip looks around… “Waiter!”
A man in his early twenties dressed in a white shirt and black pants appears… “What’ll it be sir, the usual?”
Knowing his credibility is as solid as sand on a beach, Phillip looks sheepishly up to the waiter… “A Pinot Grigio, make it Italian.”
All this is time wasting… “Phillip,” Harry doesn’t want to be here in the first place… “I know the election’s important, but this story is hot. It’s not going to wait until after election day.” She pauses for effect… “It has to be followed now!”
“Harry,” the news director emerges… “Do we have enough to go to air?”
“There has to be detail that needs cleaning up.” She turns over everything, trying to reassemble the separated.
“I know Harry; believe me, I know, however, here is the rub, you’re in Canberra and have to live with Wellington.”
“Wellington,” her mind is reassembling the elements… “Fuck him!”
Restaurant eyes continue drilling… “At your peril, Harry!” Phillip’s conscience of the audience… “Need I remind you his worth to the network?”
“Phillip, this story cannot wait!”
He tries conciliation… “I know, I know,” and introduces calmness… “Get into perspective. His worth to the network is greater than yours, currently.”
“So, what’re you saying?”
“Harry, I’m saying work with him.” Calming lowering his voice… “We must verify the facts objectively, so I can position the story to the network heavyweights.”
“Will they go for it?”
“Only if it’s airtight.”
Seeing his interest and wondering if ulterior motives are at work, she changes the direction… “Phillip, I’ve met someone.” His facial expression changes as she confronts the inevitable… “This is going to make it difficult for me now but, I’m not going to lie or leave anything out. His name,” she swallows… “His name is Matt Leveaux, a marine sergeant with the American embassy.” Continuing on seeing the change of expression… “We’ve grown very close. Phillip, I’ve fallen in love with him.”
A hint of moisture clouds Phillips eyes, the only betrayal of emotion in an otherwise expressionless face… “Forget the sideline, Harry, keep your eye on the ball. Convince me to go to bat for you.”
Emotion simmers. She focuses to maintain control… “Phillip, I had an assignment to interview the Indonesian ambassador, I decide to first try and get something from the PM to use and had an altercation with Brian Pullman but managed to set an interview with the PM.”
“The PM? Christ Harry, when?”
“Tomorrow, at 11 am.”
He balks… “How come we don’t have a scheduling notice?”
“I haven’t told anyone yet.”
“Christ Harry, when are you going to learn? You have to keep the editor informed. This isn’t the way to get Wellington on side.”
“I’ll tell him later. Anyway, I bluff my way into the PM’s office, Pullman comes on the heavy. While in his office, the PM walks in and starts a conversation.”
“What did you talk about?”
“What else, my on-air bruises and the drug story.”
“Is that all?”
“He’s interested but didn’t have the time to talk; he instructs Pullman to schedule time for us to talk. Later, when discussing interview times with Pullman, I let it slip I’d bring the PM up to date with my story. His eyes pop, instantly becoming my best friend. Phillip, Pullman’s totally involved in this drugs business, you could see it written all over his face. I’m close and the key is in Canberra. You and I know it. The network needs this story, you need this story and most of all, I need this story. We have links between Sanders, Pullman and Duffield. We have links between Watford, Wetherill, Neate plus an airport customs officer. Phillip, there’s an art exhibition due shortly. I believe they intend on using it to cover a drug shipment.”
Harry falls silent, pushing back in her chair waiting for a response.
Sitting for a moment with his elbows on the table resting his head in his hands, both are intently looking at the other, seconds becomes minutes and with neither person saying a word, the silence deafens; finally, Phillip speaks… “The exhibition is due in town on Thursday. How close are you?”
“Very. If I can link Duffield and the drugs, then we have an election-altering story. It’s on hold by Wellington’s insistence to follow the election. Duffield is next.”
“How do you intend to approach it?”
“More digging to look for an immigration angle.”
“You have the link between Sanders and Pullman, a smoking Duffield drug gun. That’s the clincher from the drugs on up to the immigration minister.” Phillip pauses, looking intently at Harry as she waits in anticipation. Then he fires… “Okay, I want you back in Canberra, devoted to the drug story. Wellington Fairchild will get a replacement; I’ll make him an offer he cannot refuse.”
“What offer?”
A smile breaks across Phillips face… “I’ll give him a cameraman.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, how will that satisfy Wellington and me?”
“Look at it, Harry; if you go off to follow your story, you’ll need a crew. You’ll be your own producer, you’ll have Wingate for sound, and I’ll sign for a freelance camera and soundman to work for Wellington Fairchild, and it’ll come out of my budget. You, as of this afternoon, can get back to the drug story. Wellington gets his replacement, and I’ll justify the whole fucking thing to Jim.”
“Phillip, that’s great. You won’t regret it, I promise. Who’s going to be my replacement?”
“Castration aside, I’ve been considering doing something with Hallen for a while. I think the time is now right; I’m going to put him in front of camera. If he can work for a year for Fairchild, then he’ll do all right elsewhere in the network.”
“Wellington Fairchild will eat him for breakfast.”
“I know. I’ll be dammed if I know what you ever saw in him but remember, he’s been down there in Canberra with Wellington Fairchild for a year now. I think he’s a first-class fuck-wit and if he fails, I’ll have great delight in pissing him off.”
Harry’s bubbling with excitement until realising this life episode ends. She places her right hand on his, looking him in the eyes… “Thank you for this, Phillip. I won’t forget it, and I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”
“Yes, I will Harry, yes I will.” Resuming his poker face… “Let’s get things happening and you better get back to Canberra.”
He signals the waiter to the table.
“Are you booked on a flight?”
“No, it’s a shuttle. I’ll just wait for a seat.”
The waiter hovers… “Charging that to the room, sir?”
“MasterCard thanks.” Turning back to see Harry’s look… “Don’t you dare give a hard time now.”
Driving back to the domestic terminal is sombre and quiet, with either not knowing how to approach the last agenda item.
Stopping at departures… “I know you’ll do a good job, however, let Wellington know what you’re doing at all times, okay?”
He leans over to peck Harry’s cheek… “Go now, while I’m able to say goodbye.” In turning away, adds… “Get your plane.”
Closing the car door, Harry stands on the footpath. With tears streaming down his face, Phillip accelerates away, leaving Harry remorseful and hollow yet realising, Phillip is important for her soul growth, a necessary soul contract guiding her through this phase of life.
Through the opened metaphoric door, she steps, beginning a new life chapter.
One Last Shot
/> It’s towards the end of the day when she disembarks the plane.
The taxi heads back to Fyshwick.
Finding him in his office poring over more documents, Harry confronts the headmaster… “Wellington?”
“Come in. I have spoken to our mutual friend. He has explained the personnel changes. I must say I am disappointed you could not wait until after the election. Then you would have all my support to pursue your story; however, that is now history. Now, is that what you want to see me for or is there something else?”
“Yes, there is, Wellington.” Now the revelation… “I have an appointment with the prime minister 9 am tomorrow.”
“I know.”
The wind empties from her sail… “How could you,” should she be flabbergasted or pissed off… “I didn’t tell anyone?”
“I get around this town too, you know.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Not long after you first arrived here to work, I was speaking with the PM, suggesting it would be to both your advantages to have an interview. He agreed, saying as soon as opportunity presents, he will suggest it. You told me you met him, and I know the PM will suggest the interview. Not everything is as it seems, especially not in this town.”
“You old bastard.”
“Old I am; bastard has been earned. You, too, might earn the acclaim one day, if you put your mind to it.”
Wellington claims the points for this round, leaving her in no doubt just who is king. He adds a touch of salt to the wound… “Here, this might be useful in your interview with the PM.”
He passes two documents to Harry… “Your style works well in this town. Give it some thought and close the door on your way out.”
*
Not too far away, Sanders’s phone rings twice before he answers… “Immigration desk.”
That unmistakable voice… “We need to review the television programming. When can we meet?”
If Neate asks for a meeting, it’s serious… “How about 14:00 hours in town, table for two?”