Jeff
Rosie wanted the world to close up and engulf her and be done with it. But there was no time for tears or wistful thoughts of suicide. Big Keith was on the phone.
CHAPTER 2
'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.
CHAPTER 3
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?'
The Boys' Club Page 2