The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  'Darling, where are you?' Vera asked, her voice softening from anger to concern.

  'I'm on my way, Mum. The traffic is hell. I'll be okay. I'm just so tired.'

  'Darling,' Vera said, 'you've gone and got yourself in quite a state, haven't you? Look, Leon is sound asleep. I'm loath to disturb him when he's been so sick. Why don't you go home to bed and concentrate on looking after yourself tonight.'

  Rosie was overwhelmed with gratitude. 'Oh, Mum, you're wonderful. I mean that. I'm sorry, I've been such a bitch lately.'

  'Oh, darling, I hate to think of you all alone in that house when you're like this. Why don't you move back in with Dad and me for a while?'

  Rosie laughed quietly to herself. That, I am sure, would do me in completely.

  'Oh that's sweet of you, Mum, but I just need some rest.'

  'Darling, you can't be on your own when you're like this. Why don't you go and see Lou. She'll take care of you. She called me today asking if I could get through to you. Of course I said no. She's not having the best time either. Seems she can't get pregnant no matter what. I mean she has everything but not what she really wants. It's a tragedy.'

  Poor Lou! I've been such a bad friend.

  'You're right, Mum, Lou's exactly what I need. And thanks for looking after Leon. You're a champion.'

  'Well, darling, he is my grandson, you know. It's hardly a trial spending time with him. I do worry he misses having his dad around, though. Not easy on a little man like him.'

  'Mum, Jeff called today to tell me he's getting married.'

  For the first time in her life that Rosie could recall, Vera Lang was rendered mute.

  CHAPTER 13

  The traffic had started to move again by the time Rosie had pulled herself together enough to keep driving.

  With the car idling, she dialled Lou's number, let it ring twice, then hung up and rang again. This time it answered immediately.

  'Hello, stranger,' Lou answered, clearly a little ticked off.

  'Honey, I am so sorry I haven't been in touch but work . . .'

  'I know, it's a nightmare. You're sounding like a broken record lately, babe.'

  'Please, Lou, not you too.'

  'Rosie, I've been calling you at least three times a day. Surely no job can be so busy you can't call your best friend back. I've taken to ringing your mother, Vera Vile, to try to get through to you. I mean, how sad is that?'

  Rosie could feel the tears well again but was so desperate for Lou to understand the state she was in that she summoned up anger instead.

  'All right, well try this: Jeff dropped Leon off sick this morning without warning, I had to leave him at my mother's or be reported to DOCS; the network's biggest investment, who I am supposed to be looking after, is a pantsman with a Bolivian marching powder problem; my boss almost had a heart attack in front of me; and I've been told to dance with the devil or I have no job.'

  'Fuck me,' replied Lou. 'Honey, where are you? I'm coming straight there. With vodka.'

  'Make that a Valium drip, babe, 'cause there's another thing. Jeff has asked his girlfriend Heather to marry him.'

  'Bull! Shut up! He's only been with her a few months . . .'

  'Yep, well, it's true. And how was your day?'

  'Better than yours. Honey, where are you now? How can I help?'

  'You can pour me a drink and break out the straitjacket 'cause I'm coming over.'

  * * *

  Finally making it across the bridge, Rosie steered towards the eastern suburbs, straight to Queen Street, where she stopped to pick up two bottles of red and another packet of cigarettes.

  From there, she made two left turns and parked under a verdant canopy of trees, straight in front of the familiar fence groaning under the weight of unclipped jasmine.

  Given that Lou and Stephen's house was in one of the snootiest streets in Sydney, it was as inconspicuous as it was charming, just like the couple who lived there. It was also a bit of hippy bohemia in a suburb better known for bonds than bongs, with its dozens of garden wind chimes pinging in the evening breeze, interrupting the sounds of BMWs and Range Rovers pulling into automated garages nearby.

  Little did the neighbours know that behind the unkempt garden walls was one of the best dope crops south of Byron Bay – well, at least that's what Lou claimed about her beloved hooch plants.

  'You look like shit warmed up,' Lou said as she opened the front door. 'Here, quick, get this into you. It's from last year's crop. Organic, of course,' she said, handing Rosie the burning joint.

  Rosie laughed to herself, marvelling at how flawless Lou looked with so little effort. Tall, lean and naturally blonde, Lou was one of those women so visually arresting she could silence a room with her mere presence.

  'I'd better not get stoned yet,' Rosie said, leaning forward to embrace her friend. 'I might get paranoid and, believe me, a case of the heebie-jeebies is the last thing I need right now.'

  'It's that bad, is it?' Lou answered, momentarily taking the joint out of her mouth to return the hug. 'Come on inside and let's have a drink, then you can tell Aunty Lou all about it.'

  Lou led Rosie down the hallway and into the stadium-like main room that formed the heart of the house.

  Although Lou had unlimited money to decorate, Rosie loved that she still raided Newtown's backstreet stores and secondhand outlets in search of eclectic bargains to furnish her home. Huge embroidered Indian pillows were thrown into the recessed area around the massive open fireplace like a padded adult version of the kids' ball room at Ikea. Over-stuffed lounges were adorned with tribal blankets from Lou's travels to Nepal and Peru and amateur paintings of faded roses and dingy streetscapes shared space on the walls with the real art she regularly bought anonymously at auction, always because she liked what the artist was saying and never for its investment value, which was often substantial.

  'Kick off your shoes, babe, and get comfortable,' Lou insisted. 'What's your poison? I know, let's have some champers to celebrate you surviving your shitteous day.'

  Rosie looked over at her barefoot friend and was overwhelmed with affection.

  'I love you, Lou, you know that,' she said, tears welling again.

  'Fuck me, you are in a state,' answered Lou, her stoned red eyes now misting over too. 'Honey, I hate seeing you like this.' She hurriedly poured champagne into a water glass, ignoring the French crystal stemmed flutes in the glasses cabinet. 'What are those pricks doing to you? You look so sad I can't stand it. Who do I need to kill?'

  So Rosie told her, gasping for breath between every tear-filled word like a car kangaroo hopping into gear, and ending with, 'And . . . now . . . Jeff . . . is . . . getting . . . married!'

  'Rosie, Jeff's an arsehole, always has been, always will,' Lou confessed. 'I can say that now. I've wanted to from the beginning, but he made you happy so I kept my mouth shut.'

  'But . . . why . . . so . . . soon?' Rosie bawled back.

  'Because some men just can't be alone, especially weak, egotistical men like Jeff. He always wanted a trophy wife, not an equal. Christ, I know the type – I've had a few myself, if you recall?'

  Over the years Rosie had seen many men in Lou's life who saw only what they wanted in her friend – her looks – choosing to ignore her sharp brain and unbridled passion as unfortunate affectations they could iron out over time. More fool them.

  'Jeff wanted someone pretty on his arm at dinner parties, someone who'd nod dutifully at his boorish opinions,' Lou said, patting her friend's long, russet tresses away from her freckled, tear-stricken face. 'He said he wanted you to have a career but as soon as you had Leon he was very happy for you to stay home and raise his child. There was only ever room in your house for one star and he was it.'

  Rosie felt better hearing Lou say what she knew to be true. Jeff had suppressed her in so many ways, spiritually, physically and mentally. She always knew it deep down, but it was a relief to finally acknowledge the fact openly.

  'Now, come on,' Lou contin
ued, 'let's have a drink or ten and see if we can't get a smile back on your beautiful face. I've missed you so much.'

  For the first time that day – no, make it that month – Rosie felt so happy and content, she didn't even notice the sound of the carousel repeatedly ringing out in her handbag in the hallway.

  By the time Stephen wandered in an hour or so later, the two friends were collapsed into each other, giggling like Japanese schoolgirls.

  'What's going on here then?' he said, surveying the smouldering joint, the empty bottle, the half-full bottle . . .

  'Stephen!' Rosie yelled, struggling to get up out of her pillow surrounds and falling back down on her bum with an ungainly thump. Realising she was stuck where she was, she beckoned him towards her. 'Come and give me a hug,' she ordered. But Stephen was already on his knees and crawling between the pillows.

  'Geez, we've missed you, Rosie,' Stephen said as he embraced her. 'Where the hell have you been? I understand you're busy but it's been weeks.'

  'I've been in hell, honey. I'm so sorry. I've missed you both so much too.'

  Rosie noticed Lou tousle her husband's dark hair as he hugged her warmly.

  Why can't I have a relationship like that? she thought, before admonishing herself for being so selfish. Lou and Stephen had problems too. Rosie's lip began to tremble again, something Lou picked up on quickly.

  'Babe, can you make us that thing we had the other night – you know, the curry with the lentils and chickpeas,' Lou asked, putting on a cute voice she knew her husband couldn't resist.

  'Of course I will. Good idea,' Stephen said, realising his wife was not done counselling her friend yet. Noticing the two spent joint butts in the ashtray, he added with a grin, 'I'll make a big batch. Looks like you two will be hungry.'

  Under cover of the noise Stephen was making opening and closing cupboard doors, Rosie leaned in close to Lou and grasped both of her hands in her own.

  'Tell me,' she said in a whisper, 'what's happening with you?'

  Rosie watched her friend's beautiful face fill with unmistakable pain and wondered if she should even have raised the topic.

  'I'm stuffed,' Lou replied sadly. 'We keep trying to get pregnant but it's getting to the point where we aren't enjoying it any more. It's heartbreaking.'

  'Oh honey, don't give up yet,' Rosie replied, not knowing what else to say.

  'Thanks, but it will have to stop at some stage. This will be our fourth round of IVF and so far, nothing. Those drugs they make me take are turning me feral. I hate them. I mean, thank God for pot, otherwise I reckon I would've taken out half of Woollahra with an Uzi by now.'

  Rosie felt paralysed with grief for her friend.

  'Oh, Lou, I'll have your baby for you if it gets to that. I'd carry it, you can have an egg of mine, you can have a dozen, anything.'

  'I know you would,' Lou said, cupping Rosie's face in her hands. 'You've already given me my godson and for that I'm eternally grateful. But Stephen and I have talked about this and if we aren't meant to have children then we have no choice but to accept it. We have each other. Maybe we're greedy to hope for more.'

  Rosie was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Her friend, with so much to offer a child, was gracious enough to accept her destiny, while she, with a healthy child, was so desperately unhappy with her lot.

  'Lou, you shouldn't deny yourself the chance to be a mother. Honestly, you're the most wonderful woman I know. What about adoption? Think of all those kids you saw when you were in Cambodia last year that need a home.'

  Lou smiled at Rosie's kindness.

  'Yeah, that's definitely an option. I mentioned it to my mother, though, and she nearly coughed up a kidney stone. I don't think she's too happy about having our bloodline diluted.' Lou tilted the end of her nose with her finger, indicating her mother's uppity attitude.

  'All the more reason to adopt a bloody village if you ask me,' Rosie replied. 'Go for it, honey, get your name on a list and let's get you a baby.'

  Rosie was thrilled to see a cheeky smile return to her friend's face just as Stephen came back.

  'Dinner's on,' he said, helping himself to a glass of champagne. 'Can I join you? I wouldn't mind catching the late news.'

  Stephen didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he grabbed the master remote from a nearby antique child's desk that acted as a side table – another of Lou's charming touches – and dived in to join the girls.

  At the press of a button, a large screen dropped down from the ceiling, as big as the one in the executive screening room back at the network.

  Stephen channel-hopped until he got the news on Network Three, Rosie noted. Even her best friends were no longer tuning to Six for the nightly bulletin, just like the rest of the nation.

  After an item on yet another cab-driver stabbing in North Sydney, a blurry photo with the word 'SCANDAL' emblazoned on it appeared behind the newsreader's head. If Rosie hadn't been stoned, she would have sworn it was a picture of Graham Hunt.

  'And in late breaking news,' the presenter intoned, 'the Three newsroom has received a series of photographs taken on a camera phone showing controversial Network Six newsreader Graham Hunt snorting a white powder believed to be cocaine in a toilet cubicle last night. The photographs also reveal the thirty-one-year-old in various sexually explicit poses with an unidentified blonde woman. The incident in the toilet allegedly took place in a Kings Cross nightclub following a press dinner held to announce Hunt as the new face of the troubled network's national news bulletins. An interview with Lorraine Hunt, the newsreader's ex wife, was scheduled for broadcast on Australia Tonight this evening, but was halted by Network Six lawyers shortly before it was to be aired. However, in light of the new revelations, the full, unedited report will be aired following this late-night bulletin. Hunt, who is expecting a child with his second wife, denies his ex wife's allegations of drug use and physical abuse . . .'

  Rosie didn't hear what else was said. She was frantically searching for her handbag in a shocked daze. It was Stephen who found it in the hall and silently handed it to Rosie as Lou looked on, mute with concern.

  After clumsily trying to locate the phone in the cavernous black tote with no success, Rosie tipped its contents out on the floor, fell to her knees and scrabbled through the mess like a junkie looking for a lost pill.

  Her hands were shaking so much her fingers couldn't flip the phone open when she finally found it, tempting her to smash the damn thing to bits.

  Eventually she prised it up and saw instantly just how much trouble she was in. There were seventeen missed calls and one text message. Before she even looked at the caller IDs she decided to check the text. It was from an unknown number and simply said:

  Keith hospitalised. St Andrews. Intensive care.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 14

  Rosie double-checked that both her phones were within easy reach on the cluttered passenger seat of her car. For a second there she was panicked by the notion that some karmic fluke had caused the charger to fail unnoticed and she was missing a call from the hospital. Ever since the incident at Lou's where Rosie had missed so many important calls, she dared not lose sight of her mobile again. Ever. Actually, she'd been told not to in no uncertain terms by everyone from regional papers to the metro dailies, broadsheets, tabloids, weeklies, glossies and the rival news and current affairs departments that had been trying to get hold of her that awful night. And, most loudly, Six's own newsroom.