'If everyone has finished critiquing my communications skills, you may be interested to know the latest on Hunt,' Rosie said without trying to hide the animosity in her voice. Allan Bales winked at her approvingly.
Rosie told them about Greg Leach's tip-off before turning to Hunt. 'Graham, what could your first wife possibly say about you?'
'She's a fucking mental case,' Hunt replied, still immune to Bettina Arthur's dislike of colourful language. 'Bitch could say anything.'
'How did things end with you? Was it amicable?' Rosie asked.
'Shit no, the psycho took out a restraining order against me. Reckons I beat her up.'
The room went silent as every pair of eyes turned to the obnoxious saviour of news.
'And did you?' Rosie said, asking the question no one else seemed willing to.
'Look, I pushed her a couple of times. Bitch always went me first.'
Charming, Rosie thought to herself. Could this guy be more repulsive? 'Were any charges ever laid?' she asked.
'Yeah, but she retracted them later. Bitch knew they'd never stick.'
'Okay, Richard, where do we stand here?' she said, turning to the head of the network's legal department. 'Is there any way we can get an injunction against Around Australia to stop them broadcasting?'
'I doubt it,' Richard Barker replied. 'We'd never get it cleared through the court in time. I could scare them enough to stop them broadcasting anything that could be defamatory, though. They'd be cautious about having to compensate after the fact.'
'Scaring sounds good,' Rosie said.
'It's not exactly proper practice, however,' Richard continued, 'and we'd be setting ourselves up to have them do the same at will.'
'Simon?' Rosie asked, turning to her nemesis.
'Go do it now, Richard. Get them frightened,' Nash said, ignoring Rosie and turning instead to directly address the legal head.
'I'll do my best,' Richard Barker answered, glancing at Hunt critically as he left the room.
Once again there was silence until Rosie spoke up. 'Allan, I think we need to get Up To Date to run a spoiler, maybe exploit the scorned woman hell-bent on revenge angle,' she said. 'Perhaps we should suggest that the former Mrs Hunt is not having the easiest time adjusting to her ex's new marriage and subsequent pregnancy.'
'Done,' he replied, turning to Hunt. 'Are you going to be able to pull this off for me though, Hunt? I need you to go out there and say you love and respect your ex wife and hope she finds the help she needs. You fuck this up and we're both cactus.'
'Sure I can,' Hunt replied smugly. 'I'll need a script though.'
Even Simon Nash rolled his eyes at that one.
'Fine,' Rosie said. 'I'll have something for you in ten.'
'All right, we have tonight covered but what are we going to do to repair this going forward?' Nash asked.
'I'm calling in some big favours, that's what,' Rosie told him. 'Now, if you don't mind, I have some grovelling to do.'
As she got up to leave the room, Nash piped up again: 'Don't blow things, Rose,' he said. 'You're running out of second chances.'
'Oh, thanks for your support, Simon,' she replied. 'As always you've been such a great help.'
Back in her own office Rosie slammed the door, cursing Nash under her breath like some schizophrenic bag lady at Central Station. On her desk was another long list of messages. Three were from her mother, of course, and there was yet another from Lou asking her to call ASAP. There was also a handwritten post-it on her computer screen from Portia, saying she didn't feel well and had gone home. Hell, I never found out what had her so upset. All of it would have to wait yet again.
The sun was disappearing over the peaceful suburban landscape that mocked her from her office window. That life could carry on normally for others in the vicinity of such chaos seemed cruel, unfair and ironic. In the old days, sunset had meant the end of work and the beginning of her home life. These days, the beauty of the fading light only reminded her that she wasn't with her son where she was supposed to be, tying that guilt knot in her stomach a tad tighter.
Rather than ruminate on what she wasn't doing, Rosie focused on what had to be done. Her first call was to the editor of Australian Woman which, luckily for Rosie, was partly owned by Tang.Inc and was thus obliged to run positive Channel Six stories. The editor would be resentful, of course; the only time the network gave her anything in return was when they had TV crews tag along on the magazine's swimwear fashion shoots. They used the resulting footage as filler on Up To Date – blatant pervs disguised as news stories – and called it 'cross promotion'.
By the time the call was over, Rosie had the editor's word that Graham Hunt and his pregnant wife would feature on their next cover, along with a question-and-answer interview with copy approval. Rosie hated having to ask for final approval on stories. Having been a journalist herself she knew that only meant censorship and interference. However, as all the Hollywood stars these days demanded it – you simply couldn't get a cover photo released without a publicist sanctioning the accompanying story – at least the editors were used to such annoyances.
The editor of Australian Woman was a great girl who was used to trade-offs disguised as stories, but that didn't stop Rosie from being aware that she would now owe a big favour in kind. Hopefully Alicia's drama would have someone with a nice story she could offer the magazine as an exclusive. Rosie then recalled her conversation with Portia about the lesbian lead and shuddered at the thought of what Alicia was cooking up.
She then sent Hunt an email cc'd to Allan Bales and Simon Nash, telling him that from the next day on he would be wearing a pink ribbon on air. He was also to find a story within his past that he could exploit – breast cancer sufferer would be ideal – as he needed to show his sympathetic side to the public. As he didn't actually have one, she realised she would have to create it for him.
I really am going to hell, Rosie thought as she mentally flagellated herself yet again.
Before she sent the email, she added a PS at the bottom, telling Hunt it was time to open up his home (Oz Interiors would love it) and that he was to take his dog to work with him starting from now.
'Wind the windows down when you get near the gatehouse!' the email read. 'I'll ensure a photographer will be there waiting. Do not say a word – I can't stress that enough – but do wave.'
Rosie knew every paper would be after a fresh shot of Hunt the next day and a pic of Mr News with his dog in tow like a regular every-bloke would appeal to the nation's pet lovers at least. Finally, she drafted the speech for Hunt to read on Up To Date and again cc'd it to Bales and Nash with a red flag to signify the email was urgent. Rosie was amazed how little time it took her to bash it out and how easily the lies flowed from her fingertips.
I have just turned a wife-bashing bastard into a good bloke. I am not only going to hell, I'm already through the gates and feeling the burn.
CHAPTER 12
It was 7.45 pm by the time Rosie drove her trusty old Jeep out the network gates and into bumper-to-bumper traffic which had turned all the entrances to the Harbour Bridge into a veritable car park. She couldn't work out what was making her feel worse: the memory of the Kennedys meeting, her dummy spit at Graham Hunt, Portia, her ultimatum from Bettina, Keith's fall, or the fact that she hadn't yet rung her mother to apologise for picking Leon up late. Oh yeah, and her ex husband had told her he was getting married. Maybe that had something to do with it too.
She was sure the spectacle she had just witnessed – the duelling Graham Hunt stories on two different current affairs shows – were the real reason for the guilt churning inside her. By the time Richard Barker was through with threatening legal action, Channel Three's story had been cut to shreds. Instead of exposing Hunt as a wife-beater and serial philanderer, all that was left was a wishy-washy piece depicting an obviously bitter woman who was far from sympathetic. Because Three couldn't pull it at the last moment, they cut out anything even slightly libellous, whi
ch meant everything that in any way painted Hunt to be the low life he was.
Poor original Mrs Hunt wasn't helped by the truly fantastic hatchet job Allan Bales and the Up To Date producers had managed to turn around in an hour. Their piece made Hunt look like a man haunted by his irrational ex, a great bloke who just wanted to get on with his new life.
Rosie's speech went down well and Hunt did what he did best – kept to the script. As she heard her words come out of his mouth, explaining how his ex's constant sniping and his concern for her fragile mental health had led him to 'let off some steam' after the press dinner the previous night, she had never been so disgusted with herself. The smug bastard had come across like a veritable saint, and Rosie had been a major part of making that happen.
At a standstill in the queue for the Harbour Tunnel, Rosie pulled down the visor in front of her to take stock of what she looked like. Shite was the first word that came to mind as she took in her drained complexion, puffy eyes, frazzled hair and a nasty stress zit which had emerged some time during the day. She also noted the lines around her eyes. A year ago they had only been visible when she laughed or smiled, two things she hadn't been doing a lot of lately.
What has happened to you? Rosie silently asked her reflection. When did your inner light go out? Is this what Jeff saw before he left?
She slapped the visor back up in disgust and rifled through her bag for a cigarette. She already felt like death, so she might as well inhale some noxious toxins to help things along. As she lit the coffin nail, the sinister carousel chime started up yet again.
'Rosie Lang speaking,' she answered, knowing very well who was on the other end.
'Well, well, that was an amazing stunt you just pulled. Very good, Rosie. I see you're getting the hang of this PR game.'
'Well, Greg, it is my job now,' she answered brusquely.
'Yes, I guess it is. Excuse me if I prefer to remember you as a real journalist.'
'Funnily enough, Greg, I remember when you were too, before media gossip was your portfolio,' she snapped back.
'Touché! You always were a feisty one. God, remember when we were both on courts together? You used to chase after those crims through six lanes of traffic in high heels without a second thought. They're lucky to have you there. I hope they know that. By the way, that speech of his had you all over it. I told you you're a nice writer.'
Rosie felt a tightness in her chest. She wasn't used to compliments. 'Is there a point to this call?'
'Have dinner with me.'
'I thought I did last night.'
'No, not with other journos . . .'
'Greg, why do you keep doing this?'
'Because I fancy you like crazy.'
'You have to understand that as far as my bosses are concerned, you're enemy number one. I can hardly be seen going out with you.'
'We'll hide then.'
'Greg, please . . . do you want a fresh quote regarding Hunt or not?'
'Nah, I already have one.'
'What do you mean you already have one? There's a blanket ban on anyone talking to the press about Hunt.'
'Yeah, but I have my Deep Throat, remember.'
Rosie felt her entire body tense with anger.
'Yeah, so you do, Greg. I really can't see why, as an old friend, you won't at least give me a hint.'
'Not this again, Rosie,' he laughed. 'You'd have to give me a full weekend of unbridled passion before I'd even think about it.'
'I might be a publicity whore but I'm not a prostitute, Greg,' Rosie countered, enjoying the flirtatious banter despite herself.
'Honestly, babe,' Greg continued, 'I gotta warn you that my source is not nice when it comes to you.'
Well, that hardly reduces the possibilities, Rosie thought. The way things are going, that could be whittled down to . . . oh, a hundred or so.
'Thanks for the warning, but I am a big girl,' she replied.
'You're swimming with sharks . . .'
'You know I love the ocean.'
'Touché again!'
'Why, thank you. Now, can I pick up my boy and see if I can have an hour of home life?'
'Fair enough. How is the little tyke?'
'From what I can remember, he is the most precious, wonderful thing that's ever taken a breath.'
'At least one good thing came out of your marriage. I'm jealous.'
'Well, Greg, maybe if you didn't run from every relationship you form you might be a dad too one day. If I recall, you used to say that anything over a one-night stand was as serious as you could get.'
'Yeah, well, I was an idiot.'
'Was?'
'Yeah, was. Give me another chance?'
'Greg, now is not the time and I'm certainly not in the space. But thanks. I mean that.'
'Any time, babe. And I mean that.'
As Rosie hung up she realised she was blushing. If she was honest with herself, Greg had always been more than just a friend with fringe benefits to her, but as he was a self-confessed commitment-phobe, she'd never put a lot of stock in her chances of him changing his ways. Now, of course, when he was ready for something serious, she was far from being able to reciprocate. Ah, the irony. Her mother always said Greg was destined to be part of the family and—
Shit! My mother!!
Rosie took a serious deep breath and scrolled through the numbers on her phone until she came to 'Mum'. Pressing the call button, she repeated her breathing mantra until the unmistakable huff of her mother's cranky voice answered.
'Rosemarie, I hope that is you,' Vera said abruptly.
As soon as she heard her tone, Rosie had an overwhelming desire for another cigarette, so she took her chances on Vera not hearing her light up.
'Yes, Mum, it's me, and I can't tell you how sorry I am. You wouldn't—'
'Yes, I know, Rosemarie, I wouldn't believe the day you've had. I've heard it all before. When was it? Oh, that's right, yesterday. You're becoming a broken record.'
Breathe . . . breathe . . . she thought as she inhaled deeply on a Marlboro.
'Your son hasn't had a great day either,' Vera continued. 'Remember him? Small boy, angelic face, handsome like his father? Turns out he had food poisoning all along. Luckily Dr Drake saw him without an appointment. Poor little fella was severely dehydrated from vomiting.'
'Oh, Mum, why didn't you tell me?' Rosie said, yet again realising she should have thought before she spoke.
'Sorry, Rosemarie. Perhaps if I was a game show host or another of your showbiz types you may have deigned to take my call. I don't ring your office half-a-dozen times for the fun of it, you know.'
'You're right, Mum, sorry again,' Rosie replied. She had no fight left in her for Vera. Taking another deep draw on her cigarette, she exhaled loudly.
'ROSEMARIE! You're not smoking, are you?'
'Mum, just lay off me, will you. I need you to be gentle with me right now . . .'
'Rosemarie, you sound awful. Are you okay?'
'No, Mum, I'm not okay, not at all,' Rosie answered. This time she didn't even attempt to hold back her tears. 'I am absolutely miserable in fact.' She began to sob so hard she had to pull over to the side of the road as she could no longer see through her tears.
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