The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  Rosie flashed Hunt a murderous look. 'Well, now I know that it was office gossip that stopped you making it to our meeting on time, Graham,' she hissed, 'and I really can't understand what business a Kennedys meeting is of yours. Surely you have enough on your plate?'

  'Oh for god's sake, loosen up, Toots. So I had a night out. You were the one who invited all the journos. Tell me, is it true the Big Man asked for a reach-around in front of everyone? If so, that is fucking gold!'

  It took everything Rosie had in her not to lurch over the desk and grab Hunt by the throat. Instead, she had to play PR – yet again. If Bettina Arthur got a sniff of any stench around Graham Hunt, she could cause Keith lots of trouble.

  'Don't let me hold you up, Bettina. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished here,' she said without taking her eyes off Hunt.

  She couldn't believe it when the cocky bastard piped up again: 'Look, I'm doing both you sheilas a favour when I tell you not to get all hot and flushy about Big Keith. He's seen that many head office carpet strollers try to bust his balls in the past with no luck. They're made of steel, I tell you. People respect Keith and expect a bit of blue in his company. He's the reason I moved to Six. The guy is the best. So, my advice to both of you is just chill.'

  Rosie saw the blood drain from Bettina's face, turning her kabuki white, then watched as it returned, starting at her neck and slowly filling her frozen visage with rage.

  'Can I please enquire as to who you are?' Bettina said, carefully and precisely, pausing between every word.

  'I, sweet cheeks, am your new face of news, Graham Hunt.' Graham's outstretched hand hung lonely in space for several harrowing seconds before he slowly put it back down again.

  'Graham, I really don't think that was the best of introductions,' Rosie said, rising to place her body in between the pair, should Bettina, as Rosie feared, suddenly attack. 'Graham, Bettina is from head office and is here looking at budget cuts. Has your contract gone through yet? If not, perhaps you might wish to apologise?'

  'Oh, whoops, a bean counter,' Hunt replied, shifting nervously. 'No hard feelings, darl. You can take a joke, can't you? You'll need to if you plan to stay around here, let me tell you.'

  Bettina remained so silent and stiff that Rosie thought she might topple like a bowling pin at any moment.

  'Bettina, the network recently secured Graham from Network Three and, as such, we're putting a lot of promotion and support behind him as we rebrand our news with his face. Unfortunately,' Rosie continued, flashing Graham a cool stare, 'last night we had a dinner with the media that got a little out of hand, resulting in some negative press which Graham and I need to arrest right now. Don't we, Graham?'

  '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.

  CHAPTER 7

  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 b
eloved 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.