The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  'So, Mr Norman, are you implying you would prefer to be formally interviewed after lunch? I have my tape recorder with me. Lara told me I'd be talking to you about TV.'

  'And so you will,' Keith said, 'but can we just have a drink first? Fuck, you newspaper sheilas are ball-breakers.'

  Rosie couldn't help giggling. It was true: to get through a cadetship on a major metropolitan or national daily you had to know how to hold your own.

  'So, tell me, what comes into your mind when I say to you, Network Six?' Keith asked, leaning his huge frame back into the cracked burgundy leather of his chair.

  'The most successful media institution in Australia – for now,' Rosie replied cautiously. 'In terms of the face of Six, I think you, and Willard Frost, although he's no longer around, of course—'

  'The best fucking newsreader this country's ever seen,' Keith butted in, his voice low and sombre. 'He was my mate – a legend. I still miss the old bastard.'

  'Well, he certainly was a loss to the network, which is something I wanted to ask you about,' Rosie continued awkwardly. 'I see news figures have dropped significantly.'

  'Listen here, I don't want to hear any of this bullshit you and your journo mates are writing about this joint,' Keith replied, leaning uncomfortably into Rosie's personal space. 'This network is bigger than Willard Frost and any other bastard that works here. This network is a fucking giant. No one person makes Six successful. It takes a village.'

  Rosie knew Big Keith was on a roll and didn't want to miss a word of it. 'If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to put my tape recorder on now as this is something the readers—'

  'I told you, I don't like to do business while I eat,' Keith snapped back. 'And what use is a fucking interview going to be for ratings anyway? That's what TV is about, you know, ratings. Not all this . . . one man leaves and the whole place starts to boo-hoo shit that you and your mates like to think.'

  'Well, Mr Norman—'

  'For fuck's sake, call me Keith.'

  'Okay, Keith, as I was saying, an article on your plans for the network could go a long way to arrest the panic—'

  Rosie stopped in her tracks as Big Keith lurched towards her, his neck veins engorged, cheeks turning purple with rage. 'You have a fucking hide to say that to me,' he boomed, his colourless piggy eyes boring into hers.

  'I only asked what you plan to do to halt the decline of the network. You're coming second in the ratings for the first time in twenty-four years. Surely you can't be happy about that?' Rosie's voice had climbed at least two pitches higher as she spoke. If Big Keith sniffed even a trace of vulnerability, she'd be gone.

  'No, what you said was that I'm panicking.'

  'Well, it was one way of putting it. I mean, even you must concede that a lot of good people have left and morale is low . . .'

  'And what makes you think morale is low? What makes you think you know more about this place than I do?' Keith's eyes stayed fixed on Rosie's like a lizard scoping a bug.

  'I read it,' Rosie answered, swallowing her hard-thumping heart back down into her chest. 'You must admit the network has been getting some bad press . . .'

  'That's because those arseholes that write that shit don't know what they're fucking talking about. That's why there's bad press. They never write the good news. No, they all want to have a go. They're like seagulls at a chip. Squawk, squawk, squawk.'

  Rosie had never been happier to see an arm in her life than the one she suddenly found offering her a small goldfish bowl of freshly decanted shiraz. If there was one thing Rosie knew about Big Keith from her research, it was his love of the grape, and the wine's fortuitous arrival seemed to have diverted his attention.

  'Is it the eighty-four?' he asked the woman bearing the tray. The fragile crystal stem threatened to snap as Keith rolled it between his calloused thumb and forefinger before raising the glass to his bulbous, hairy snout to inhale its aroma at length. Rosie was reminded of a documentary she had once seen on the Discovery Channel about truffle pigs. Finally, after much swishing and another long inhale, Keith took a deep gulp, deeming the wine acceptable with a quiet tilt of his enormous noggin.

  'I hope you like red,' he said, ''cause if you don't you can get your own fucking drink.'

  'I fucking love it,' Rosie said, grabbing at her glass and gulping way too big a mouthful.

  Keith smiled. Well, Rosie thought she saw his lips curl, at least.

  'You are ballsy, I'll give you that,' the Big Man said, taking another sip. 'I like a sheila with gonads.'

  This time the smile was genuine, so Rosie smiled back.

  'I think I like you,' Keith said. 'Who are you again? No, before you answer that, you'd better tell me you have a cigarette.'

  'I am Rose Lang, Mr Norman, and I am so happy you smoke.' And with that, Rosie believed a friendship was born.

  The following day, Mae put a call through from Keith telling Rosie he wanted her as his right-hand woman heading up the network's publicity and public relations department. Looking back, Rosie realised this phone call was not just the start of a new relationship; it was also the end of her marriage.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time Rosie had dropped Leon off at her mother's and arrived at the network – aka the Death Star, as the imposing grey concrete compound on the outskirts of Sydney's CBD was also known – Rosie was acutely aware that she was twenty minutes late. This meant she had saved herself twenty minutes of pure hell, though she doubted Big Keith would see it that way.

  A man who was uncomfortable around people in general, Keith was certainly going to hate every second he had to spend with the other network heads and their coteries of executives attending the Kennedy Awards meeting without Rosie there to smooth feathers. It was unusual to have the enemies so close, she reflected, running towards the fifth floor lift, hoping the slow-moving cage wasn't stuck as usual. In her first stroke of luck for the day, the doors were still slowly closing.

  'Hold the door,' she yelled aggressively, as if hailing a New York cab in a snowstorm. 'Thanks for that,' she bellowed again, just steps away, but when she saw who was holding down the open button, she instantly wished she hadn't bothered. It was Bettina Arthur from Tang.Inc head office, her thin lips pursed in a smile that was more of a constipated grimace.

  'Bettina, thank you so much,' Rosie said, trying not to look as frazzled as she felt. 'I got stuck with a journo from the National and then the traffic was—'

  'Good morning, Rose. May I ask, what time is the Kennedy Awards meeting?' Bettina interrupted coolly, looking down at her elegant Cartier Tank watch, the model Rosie had always fancied for herself.

  'It's supposed to be eight-thirty but these things never start till nine,' Rosie replied nervously.

  'Just as well then,' Bettina said, readjusting her watch, clearly rubbing Rosie's nose in her tardiness.

  'The Kennedys meetings are always interesting. You know they were named after Graham Kennedy, the comedy legend?' Rosie continued, aware she was babbling inanely. It was just that this woman threw her with her chilly superiority.

  'Yes, Rose, I am aware of the name's origins.'

  As the two women spent the rest of the excruciatingly long, creaking journey up five floors in silence, Rosie observed how impeccably turned out Bettina was. Her suit was the kind of dark navy synonymous with Armani, set off by the softest nude pink blouse that tied gently at her throat. Her jet-black hair was pulled tightly off her face into a neat bun that hung low on the nape of her extraordinarily long neck. Her shoes were conservative yet elegant – Rosie guessed Vuitton or Hermès – and looked almost brand new in comparison to Rosie's suede pumps, which she now noticed sported a telltale scuff at the toe. In fact, Rosie thought Bettina Arthur was perhaps the most handsome woman she had ever seen. She could even have been beautiful if it wasn't for her icy gaze, tight-lipped smile, and the fact that she was on a mission from head office to cut costs across the board. Or, as Big Keith always said, 'to put a great vice on the network's nuts'.


  'See you in there,' Rosie said, dashing out of the lift first. 'I just have to check something with Keith beforehand. You know, PR stuff, very boring,' she added, cursing herself for gibbering yet again.

  Rosie did want to catch Big Keith before the meeting, knowing that for all his bluster, he was actually chronically shy in social situations, hiding his fragility with an alter ego best described as Neanderthal. Pompous, sexist, racist and often piss-fuelled, the Big Keith persona was exhausting to behold. It entailed him being louder, fouler and more belligerent than the other blokes – a sort of Olympics of chauvinism in which he always won top podium position. Considering this morning's meeting was to discuss the annual boozy bun fight at which everyone who'd spent the year undermining, backstabbing, bitching and burying each other would act as though butter wouldn't melt, she wanted to make sure she was by her boss's side at all times, just in case.

  Rosie had never been happier to see Mae at her desk. She didn't even have to ask for the information she required before Keith's PA spoke up: 'Yes, he's shitty, but he'll be relieved to see you,' she said without looking up. 'He heard the radio report on Graham Hunt on Drive Jive and wasn't happy at all. He's also a little peeved about another item to do with the ratings in the Fin Forecaster. I think you'll be okay for the moment, though, as he seems more agitated by Bettina Arthur's presence.'

  'Mae, I love you,' Rosie said, meaning every word of it. 'I was just in the lift with Bettina. God, she's a cold one. What does Keith say again? She's like a fridge. When she opens her legs a light goes on? I can't blame Keith for worrying about management sending her in. She's hardly his sort of girl.'

  'Yes,' Mae replied, deadpan. 'I did notice her breasts were natural too.'

  They both giggled.

  'Okay, Ashton Joel from Network Three is in there,' Mae went on, 'along with his publicity head . . .'

  'Val Richards. Queeny bitch treats me like poo on his shoe,' Rosie sniffed.

  'I couldn't comment on that,' Mae said, and went right on, not missing a beat. 'Mr Lumby was unable to make it.'

  'So I read,' said Rosie with a smile. 'Turning out to be a most pesky court case, isn't it? Mrs Lumby looks to be wringing Mr Lumby out to dry.'

  'Yes, it is a most unfortunate set of circumstances,' Mae responded, with the faintest glint of a smile.

  'And the Sheltered Workshop channels?'

  'Yes, both public stations have representatives. Oh, and the usuals from Four are here.'

  'Ouch. Didn't Keith sack half those guys?'

  'Yes, several were employed here previously.'

  'Wow, this is going to be one doozy of a breakfast. Okay, how do I look? I've had a hell of a morning so far, I can tell you. Am I keeping it together?'

  'Yes, you look quite impressive. However, you seem to have a tiny spot of vomit on your sleeve.'

  'Oh bugger. Yuck! It's Leon. He was crook this morning, so ever-caring Jeff dropped him back home to my place to let me deal with it while he goes surfing. I tell you, my ex is turning out to be a first-class bastard.'

  Rosie could only look on with gratitude as Mae handed her one of those wet cloths she kept in her desk for such situations. Rosie stabbed at the spot until it disappeared.

  'Mae, you're the best. Can I ask another favour? Can you ring Portia and tell her to have Graham Hunt waiting in my office when I get out?'

  'Rosie, she's been up here already. How do you think he found out about Drive Jive? And she's spent a good hour with Johnno Johnston already. They've become regular breakfast companions of late it seems.'

  It wasn't even eight-thirty for God's sake! How long had this been going on?

  'It's a shame you can't make it by eight a little more often,' Mae continued. 'I hear Jan and Grace serve a very satisfying breakfast egg.'

  Rosie realised she had just been given more than sage advice by her friend – she had been warned. She leant over and kissed Mae on her forehead. 'I hear what you are saying and I love you for it. It's just so hard. I can't take Leon to daycare until eight and Jeff may as well be nonexistent.'

  'It's difficult, I know,' Mae said, lowering her voice to impart a confidential tone, 'but I think you should know you are being watched.'

  'I gotta go, Mae, but thank you, honey,' Rosie continued. 'You know I'd give you my firstborn if I wasn't so attached to him. And I have listened, I promise. I'll do my best, but the way my job is going, I may as well just move to the network and be done with it. I'm working twelve-hour days already, and then there's the advance viewing I'm supposed to put in after hours—'

  'That's his phone ringing,' Mae interrupted suddenly.

  Rosie couldn't hear a thing but knew that Mae had developed a sense of hearing for Keith's phone that, like a dog's, would pick up sounds others couldn't.

  Quick as she could in her heels, Rosie ran to the boardroom's back entrance and barged through the swinging door into the neon-white sanctuary of the kitchen.

  'Am I late?' she said to the two ladies busily arranging freshly baked pastries and muffins on large silver platters for the meeting. If anyone was ever to write about the network – and it was strongly implied that if you ever wanted to work again, not to mention take another breath, you wouldn't – the real dirt would come from Jan and Grace, the caterers. Those darlings had been in the kitchen at Six for as long as Keith had ruled supreme and they were said to know where every skeleton was buried at the network – and there were a lot of them to remember.

  'Relax, sweetie,' Grace said. 'We thought something must have happened to you, so we haven't put out the food yet. Is Leon okay?'

  'No, he was ill this morning. I'm worried. I had to take him to my mother's. He really should be home with his mum but can you imagine what would happen if I bailed out on today?'

  'I heard last night was a big one,' Jan said knowingly. Hell, nothing gets by these girls.

  'I thought it was fine but then I didn't actually follow Hunt to his door,' Rosie said. 'How was I to know he would turn the cab around and go out again? His wife is pregnant, for god's sake!'

  'Some of them are a handful, that's for sure, but that just means you can't take your eyes off the talent – ever!'

  Rosie felt as if she had been spoken to from above. Jan was wise beyond.

  'You look just lovely, though,' Jan continued. 'Doesn't she look lovely, Grace?'

  'Oh yes, Rosie, that colour really brings out your eyes,' Grace said, self-consciously wiping cocoa off her apron front. 'And look at those shoes. How do you walk in them? I'd last five minutes. Here, sweetie, you go in and act like you've been here for a while and I'll let the hordes in through the main door.' She escorted Rosie to the one-way portal looking onto the main room. 'See, no one's there.'

  Rosie slipped in and, taking the seat beside Keith's regular spot at the head of the table, hugged her mobile to her ear, pretending to be on an important call. When the massive doors opened, she waved at the incoming crush while snapping her phone shut dramatically, as if to say busy, busy, busy.

  'I'm so sorry I haven't been able to get out to say hi earlier, but the phones are going mad this morning,' she said with the fake PR smile that was coming a little too naturally these days.

  'Oh, I so know how that feels!' It was Three's PR head, Val Richards, coming over to kiss Rosie's cheek. The gardenia-massacre he called aftershave nearly overwhelmed Rosie with its potency. 'Bad morning, darl?' he whispered in Rosie's ear, his lips making a noisy kissing motion. 'Seems your face of news is enjoying a little loss of face, shall we say? Honestly, darl, my heartfelt sympathies. The guy is a nightmare.'

  'I don't know what you could be talking about, kind sir,' Rosie said in her best Scarlett O'Hara voice. 'Why, he is an absolute darling. And as you and I both know, you can't believe everything you hear now, can you?'