The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  Bettina Arthur was the next to arrive, a welcome distraction. Rosie noticed how composed the bean counter looked compared to the last time she'd seen her, in Rosie's office only a couple of hours earlier. Without saying a word, Bettina took the chair at the end of the table and opened a folder in front of her. The rest of the room looked on, mute with shock. She was sitting in Keith's chair! A cavernous silence ruled until the doors opened again.

  Luckily most of the faces entering this time were friendly, but as the head of marketing and several members of Johnno's programming staff found seats, some of them made 'what the?' signals behind Bettina's back on the way. When Rosie couldn't stand it another second she moved to Bettina's side and said softly, 'Bettina, while we're waiting for Keith, can I have a quick word with you? It's quite urgent. It'll only take a moment.'

  Bettina looked momentarily startled but nevertheless stood up and followed Rosie through the anteroom door.

  'Look, I'm sorry to do this to you but someone should tell you that you're sitting in Keith's chair,' she blurted, relieved to be free of the secret.

  'Can't he just take another?'

  For the second time that day Rosie saw Bettina Arthur looking rattled.

  'Put it this way, when I first arrived I was told about a young programmer who took his chair. Apparently Keith slapped him so hard in the head with a schedule book that the kid fell over backwards, taking the chair with him.'

  'It's ridiculous, of course, but I can actually see him doing that,' Bettina replied with a smile. Rosie was taken aback. She'd never seen the woman smile before. 'Thank you for telling me,' Bettina went on. 'By the way, I thought you held yourself well with Hunt this morning.'

  Rosie blushed. 'You heard me?' she asked.

  'I think the entire floor heard you, and I must—'

  'Raaark, raaark.'

  Keith's unmistakable roar stopped Bettina mid-sentence.

  'I think we should talk about this later,' Rosie whispered, thankful for the interruption.

  * * *

  Simon Nash was still bitching about the lack of fruit on the platter when Rosie and Bettina walked back in. 'Is it so fucking hard to cut up an apple?' he asked anyone who would listen.

  'Good fucking question, Nash,' Big Keith bellowed behind him, making the entertainment head jump. 'Maybe you should learn to bring your own fucking fruit if you're gonna chuck a hissy fit about it like a girl.' Keith didn't notice – or simply didn't care – that Nash's face was a picture of pure anger.

  'What's the fucking matter with you anyway? I like Jan's muffins,' Keith said, grabbing one with his mitt-size hands. 'If you don't, then maybe you should go and pour yourself a hot cup of go-get-fucked. Rark!'

  Johnno burst out laughing but quickly shut up again when The Darkness shot him one of his looks.

  'I've just had Graham Hunt in my office,' Keith went on, looking at Rosie. 'Seems like someone ripped him a new arsehole this morning.'

  Now all eyes were on her. Great.

  'Good on you, I say,' Keith continued. 'The little prick needs to pull his fucking head in.'

  Rosie could have kissed him.

  'Thanks, Keith—' she said before he abruptly interrupted her.

  'That doesn't go beyond this room, though, you hear? The network has a lot invested in Hunt and I do not want any more speculation in the papers re whether he is in any way on the nose with us.'

  Rosie knew Keith was furious with the daily 'Secret Sydney' pages running in the Sentinel. Rosie had once worked for the tabloid and, as such, Keith believed she should have had some pull in getting the speculation stopped, ignorant of the journalistic code of ethics Rosie would never dare impinge upon or expect others to. Then again, ethics were not a priority in Keith's world.

  What he was also unaware of was how much she had stopped the paper running and how many favours she owed old friends as a result. Then again, she'd learned over the past eighteen months that in publicity, only the stories that got through mattered, not the ones that were actually spiked.

  Trying to steer the conversation in another direction, Rosie decided to bring up Karen Day's move from news to morning TV, hoping to get the heads-up before her meeting with the young reporter: 'Can anyone here tell me why Karen Day has been moved to G'day Australia? The first I heard of it was a call from her this morning saying she's unhappy and wants to speak to me. If it's true, I'll need to spin why we're turfing Ross Montague. I mean, he's an institution on the program and will surely be missed?'

  The ensuing mumbles and knowing looks around the table indicated that something had gone on that Rosie was excluded from. When no one said anything, she turned to Allan Bales. As head of news, he must have okayed Karen's transfer from his department to entertainment, which G' day Australia fell under.

  'It was out of my hands,' Bales said awkwardly.

  Still not satisfied, Rosie turned to The Darkness for – ironically – some light.

  'I really don't see what this has to do with you, Rose,' Nash rebuked her. 'Just tell the press whatever you need to. Ross Montague is a valued member of the Six family and is embarking on new projects, yadda yadda.'

  Completely frustrated now, Rosie turned to Keith for some honesty. 'Keith, are you across this? What's really going on?'

  The Big Man took a loud slurp of his tea, then plonked the cup down roughly. 'Look, we just thought Karen, being the attractive young lady she is, would be better suited to mornings.'

  Nash, Johnno and Russ sniggered. Following the lead but always a beat behind, Jason Jarvis let out a high-pitched chortle.

  'But she has a journalism degree and was nominated for a Kennedy Award last year for her nursing home series. I can't see how that makes her better suited to read the weather. What's really going on here?' Rosie asked. Again, she noticed the men around her shift in their seats.

  'Look, sweetie,' Keith started. When Keith addressed her as sweetie, Rosie knew something she didn't want to hear was about to be said. 'The girl has assets we feel are wasted on news. We figure they, I mean she, will be better appreciated in the morning. End of fucking story, okay?'

  Rosie was stunned. She had heard about things like this happening in television but had never actually witnessed it first hand. You sexist bunch of . . .

  'Listen, sweetie,' Keith continued, aware that he had shocked his publicity head, 'just make something up about Montague. Fact is he's tired, so we won't be renewing his contract this year. You should be happy. Now you have a fresh face to promote G'day Australia with. Get her out there. Surely the bloke magazines will love her. Let's face it, she has a great set of cans.'

  'Keith, the woman is a trained journalist, not a pin-up.' Rosie knew she had that tone of indignation in her voice that Keith hated. 'Surely this goes against what's written in her contract?'

  'Quite frankly, Rose,' Nash interjected, 'contract negotiations are none of your business. Perhaps if you paid more attention to what your job is supposed to entail – publicity – we might not be in the mess we currently are with Graham Hunt.'

  'That's a good point, Simon,' Keith said. 'I'm not happy about the leaks "Secret Sydney" is running every day, not fucking happy at all. When I find out who's talking to those arseholes – and I will – I will personally rip their fucking heart out with my own hands.'

  Nervous glances were cast all round. Was someone at the table the snitch? Certainly several of the reported snippets had only been mentioned within the confidential daily briefings. Jason Jarvis appeared particularly uncomfortable.

  'Good point, Keith,' Johnno piped up, 'which is why I think it best if we limit these meetings to those of us who really need to be here.'

  Murmured dissent filled the room.

  'I don't like it,' Keith yelled, causing the chatter to stop. 'But you've got a point. Those pricks at the Sentinel are doing my head in. Johnno, Simon, Russ, Bales and Alicia you stay. The rest of you can piss off.'

  'You're kidding me!' Rosie yelled over the ensuing din.

 
; 'No, I'm afraid I'm not – and that goes for the rest of you,' Keith said, staring down Jason Jarvis, puffed with rage. 'This is only temporary, mind you, just until we find out who's been grassing on us.'

  And with that, the boys' club got smaller and more powerful as an entire tier of executives, including Rosie, found themselves on the other side of the boardroom doors.

  CHAPTER 8

  Rosie was so angry by the time she got back to her office that she could barely speak. Lisa, knowing her boss only too well, could see she was in no mood to chat and handed her the latest log of calls in silence. Rosie snatched them from her hand, then faltered, realising she was taking things out on her PA, who deserved better.

  'Don't worry, I understand,' Lisa said in response to her boss's double-take. 'Must have been a doozy of a meeting – what there was of it, anyway. That would have to be the quickest programming meeting on record.'

  Rosie looked at her affectionately. 'You know, Lisa, if I didn't need you for my very survival, I would tell you to run – not walk – from this place and never look back,' she said.

  Lisa, clearly chuffed at the compliment, added: 'And I would happily hold the door open while you did the same. It's just over there, you know.'

  Rosie smiled at her warmly and took a moment to be grateful for having such a dependable woman at her back.

  Finally in her office, Rosie cleared the pile of interstate news clippings Lisa had placed on her chair as a forget-me-not and quickly scanned the latest message log. There were probably another thirty or so messages, most of them requiring a return call. To have someone do it for her would no doubt be construed as a personal slight by the egocentric types she dealt with.

  There were three messages from an on-air personality asking what Rosie was going to do about the column in the Brisbane Gazette. Rosie smiled to herself. She had read this particular piece by the paper's acerbic television reviewer, who described the presenter as having 'a voice that made cats having sex sound like Mozart in comparison' and 'the dress sense of a hooker who is happy to bargain'. Rosie wondered just what she was supposed to do. Bomb the guy's house? Call his editor and demand he be fired? It was a review, for god's sake, and a fairly accurate one at that.

  There was a message from an irate reporter complaining that the engraved silver compass publicity had sent out a week earlier as a freebie teaser for a new jungle mystery series was stuck. You can take the bloody compass and stick it up your true north, Rosie thought. Still, she knew she would eventually call, rather than risk alienating him before the new season launch. She sent Lisa an email asking her to get another compass to him along with a bottle of champagne.

  Then there was the on-air presenter who, obsessed with being nominated for a Gold Kennedy, had called yet again, wanting to go through Rosie's strategy to ensure he got a look-in. Rosie sighed and wondered what the most diplomatic way would be to tell someone to pull their head out of their own arse.

  There was only one person on the long list who Rosie really felt like calling – her best friend, Lou, who'd left three messages, the first being, 'Are you still alive?' and the last, 'Call me or else I'll call your mother.' Bless her, Rosie thought to herself, pondering how long it had actually been since she last spoke to Lou rather than just texting. She knew she had no time to return Lou's call and continued to scan the list. There were routine messages from network talent and management, all urgent and all usually, she guessed, involving some sort of rort. Could they get tickets to the Arts Festival opening, Billy Joel concert, Grand Final box, Australian Open tent, Easter Show, Big Day Out . . . ? Why they thought the publicity department was akin to a box office Rosie had no idea. In the old days, before cost cuts, it was true that publicity would have a cache of tickets to give out as sweeteners, but that was a long time ago.

  Before she could pick up her phone and begin dialling, she heard someone enter her office and close the glass door behind them. Rosie looked up. It was Portia, and Rosie was not in the mood, though she suddenly realised she hadn't yet sighted Portia that day, something she usually made a habit of doing first thing every morning, if only to keep abreast of the current – or about-to-be – hottest thing in fashion. Today, Rosie noted that at the top of her 2IC's long licorice-strap legs – clad in opaque black stockings – were tailored shorts with a matching snug-fitting black jacket. Rosie could tell from the buttons alone that this ensemble was Chanel. As always, Portia had made the outfit her own, teaming expensive designer with a vintage Ramones T-shirt and adding necklaces adorned with ironic charms. Her hair, in pigtails, was just messy enough not to look try-hard. Once again, it was a sartorial triumph that left Rosie feeling like catalogue to Portia's upmarket glossy.

  'Rosie, I know you're busy but I wanted to check if there's anything I can do to help you?' Portia asked timidly.

  Rosie saw the uneasiness in Portia's eyes. It had been hard for her having Rosie come in from out of nowhere to take the job she longed for. But then again, Portia had only worked as a PR for a cosmetics house before joining the network, so Rosie understood why Keith wanted someone schooled in media hard-knocks for the top job.

  'Sorry I haven't had a chance to chat with you, Portia, but I've had a hell of a morning.'

  'I know,' Portia replied. 'I heard you earlier with Hunt. You were great, he needed that.'

  Rosie immediately felt guilty for her earlier suspicions about Portia's loyalty. If she was to be really honest with herself, she genuinely liked and respected this young woman from the moneyed side of the tracks.

  'Thanks, Portia, but I don't think losing my cool like that was advisable under the circumstances. In fact, I'm a bit embarrassed I couldn't keep my temper at bay.'

  'Don't beat yourself up,' Portia replied gently. 'You're under a lot of pressure, which is why I want to help in any way I can.'

  Rosie could feel she was about to be more honest than was wise, but felt powerless to stop herself. 'Actually, there is something you can do, Portia, and that's keep Alicia on track for her drama launch. She's still hassling me for updates when you've been on it for weeks now. I really thought you had this covered for me.'

  'Oh but I do,' Portia replied, sounding a little hurt. 'You know Alicia, though, she prefers to deal direct with you. I have tried, honestly.'

  'Well, if you really want to help me, you can make sure she knows you're on top of things, give her daily updates – make that hourly, considering it's Alicia. And she really has to start letting us know just exactly what she's planning here. Keith and Johnno, not to mention Simon Nash, have given her creative licence with this drama but god only knows what that means to Alicia.'

  Keith referred to his drama head as batty but Alicia was saved from his total scorn because she 'knew about television'. An enduring family drama was something Keith had failed to get up in his entire career at Six and he wanted one badly. Alicia had runs on the board in this respect, having created the phenomenally successful series Moving On for Network Three several years earlier.

  Like Keith, Rosie admired Alicia's success but still wasn't sure if she was the smartest woman alive or the flukiest when it came to TV. Having experienced what she described as 'my triumphant life crisis' following the death of her fifth husband, Alicia decided to spend her inheritance by coming out as a lesbian and travelling around the world on numerous animal rescue missions with her activist girlfriend. Being the personality powerhouse she was, Alicia soon found herself in expensive legal stoushes with police, poachers and government heads, and baksheeshing her savings away buying animals out of torture.

  When the money ran out, Alicia got clever, turning her travel journals into a thirteen-part drama series. Of course, by the time Moving On debuted, Alicia's female protagonist was straight, half her age, half her size and not even half as charismatic, but the eighteen- to thirty-five-year-olds loved her – especially the males. And as anyone who 'knows about television' is aware, they're the hard ones to hook and keep with local drama.