Predictably, however, the worst spray came from her colleagues in management. Rosie had never been called 'useless' in her life before. She had now. She had also never been described as 'a moron'. She could tick that box now too. Sure, she'd been near before – newspaper folk on deadlines aren't known for their niceties – but never had such venom been levelled at her with such spite as the night of Keith's heart attack. As a result of her 'overwhelming incompetence and audacity to be out of phone contact' for two hours, Rosie had been allocated two mobiles which, as per her contract (pointed out repeatedly during ensuing tirades), were required to be on 24/7, 365 days with no exceptions. None. And yes, that included shower and toilet time. She refrained from asking about sleep and sex breaks, assessing accurately that both would be considered fringe benefits at best.
While every member of the media in Australia had her mobile number, as did anyone who rang the switchboard and simply asked for it, this second phone was exclusively for management – The Darkness, Johnno Johnston, Allan Bales, Russell Frazer, her staff in Sydney and interstate and, most importantly, Keith's wife Elaine and his PA, Mae. It had been three weeks now since Keith's hospitalisation and still Rosie hadn't been allowed to see him, with Elaine banning visits from anyone connected to the network, saying they could place undue stress on her husband's fragile heart. Even the thought of Keith being ill seemed incongruous to Rosie, who imagined him as an indefatigable beast, a member of a species so inured to its environment it defies any further need to evolve. But that was not the case and, she realised sadly, most likely wouldn't be again.
As it was Saturday, there was little traffic once she reached the bridge, so she wound down all her car windows to breathe in fresh, free air while she could. She was pleased the sun was out as it meant Leon wouldn't be playing soccer in the cold, but she had packed him a change of clothes and his cute fluoro gumboots just in case. Rosie hoped her ex would have the good sense to get the boy out of his wet gear should the storm arrive as predicted. Jeff considered himself a dictionary definition of He-man, and was determined to pass on his rugged attributes to his son who, unfortunately, took after his mother when it came to respiratory problems. But surely Jeff knew the damp would only exacerbate Leon's asthma – or did he? Rosie couldn't remember if he had been around during Leon's last attack or not. The past year had been such a blur. Hopefully Heather, at least, would know the right thing to do. She was about to become his stepmother after all.
Rosie tried to banish haunting images of Leon favouring Heather over her. They had become more familiar of late. Still, she thought, attempting to perk herself up, even though she was off to crisis meeting hell at the network, she was in her casual clothes and there was a chance she'd get to savour a little of her so-called day off at some stage. A swim at Bondi? Maybe a swing by the organic markets before they closed? A visit to that new boutique in Paddington for a Kennedys dress?
Rosie knew in reality she would be lucky if she even got to pick up her dry-cleaning but had resolved to try to see the glass half full in every situation from now on. It was that or fall into a deep dark abyss she feared she would have no energy to climb back out of. Plus, there was no time for such an indulgence, even though she'd come mighty close to that perilous tipping point lately.
Nothing is as bad as it seems, look on the bright side, you have your health, think of your son . . .
Rosie was happy to see she was a good ten minutes early as she turned her Jeep into the network entrance and made her way to the gatehouse to be checked in by security. The cute guard who only worked weekends was there, grinning as she approached. Rosie blushed as she handed him her pass, finding his good looks and flirtatious manner unsettling. I am so out of practice with men, she realised. Why can't I even make eye contact with the ones I'm actually attracted to?
'Morning, Rosie,' he said merrily. 'They've got you working today too, I see.'
'Yes,' she replied, looking anywhere but at him. 'There's a big meeting happening.'
'Yeah, I know. Looks like all the big brass are here.'
'What do you mean, they're all here? I'm early.'
'Oh, are you? That's strange – there are at least half-a-dozen execs who've been here since eight. You must be lucky if you've got the late shift.'
'Oh yeah, real lucky,' Rosie answered, realising with dread that much conversation must have already taken place without her, which could only mean one thing – she was one of the subjects. The boys' club in action again . . .
'Oh well, good luck,' the handsome guard continued. 'Hopefully I'll still be here when you leave.'
'Something tells me that won't be the case, but thanks, and have a great weekend.'
Rosie turned the corner and drove past the massive transmission tower that stuck out like a steel dagger plunged into the heart of Sydney's skyline and drove on to the executive car park. She would never forget how glamorous she'd felt pulling up to the network's gatehouse and being ushered to her parking spot – in the top car park, no less – on her first day at Six. The top car park spaces were reserved for the swinging dicks at the network and the most demanding onscreen talent – people who preferred to walk the extra distance to the studios rather than park closer in one of the 'lower' areas. Like everything else at the network, car spaces were highly contested, as they indicated status, with more than one car having been keyed over the years by envious lower-level parkers who felt they deserved better.
Even today, Rosie still got a rush seeing her name painted on the rise of the gutter like a star on the walk of TV fame, but these days she knew just how tenuous those screenprinted letters could be. People's names were often painted over even before they'd been told their services were no longer required. They'd arrive at work one day to discover a new name on the kerb where theirs had been the day – sometimes just hours – before. From glory to gutter in a brushstroke, that's TV for you.
As she reverse-parked her car, Rosie once again became acutely aware of its every dent and scratch and the smell emanating from under the back seat that she had been trying to ignore: rotting banana, no doubt jettisoned from Leon's lunch box days earlier. Looking at the line-up of executive cars surrounding her, Rosie thought she could have been in a BMW dealership. The latest model 4WD was there – three in a line in exactly the same silver. Then there were two sporty convertibles, also parked side by side, and two identical black Audis beside them. The several Porsches interspersed among the others signalled the still-single executives.
Keeping up with the Joneses in penis extensions, she thought to herself.
While she frequently cursed herself for not pushing harder for a car allowance in her package, she was damned if she'd forfeit any mortgage payments by buying a model she couldn't afford just to fit in. Her Jeep, the one Jeff had insisted she buy as it was ideal for his surfboards, would have to stay, even if the canopy leaked when it rained and water would splash her shoes every time she accelerated.
Now, whenever she had to drive a journalist or, worse, network talent to an interview, she experienced a prick of unworthiness, as if the car was revealing the fraud she felt herself to be.
The emergency meeting was to take place in the boardroom, as usual, so Rosie took the opportunity to stop by her office on the way. A card had fallen off the filing cabinet and was face down on the floor. It was the one Crystelle Callaghan had sent as a chin-up after the Hunt fiasco. Rosie hurriedly bent to retrieve it, not wanting the kind gesture disrespected. You have to be a tough broad to last as long in this business as Crystelle has, Rosie thought, contemplating the undisputed queen of Australian TV's long career from nighttime variety show host to the afternoon chat institution she remained today. Still, she was a generous soul who had gone out of her way to ease Rosie into the job from day one, realising she was being led like a lamb to the slaughter, as newcomers perceived to 'know nothing about television' generally were at Six.
Rosie eyed the bulging manila folder marked 'KENNEDYS' on her desk and wondered wheth
er Keith would be well enough to accept his lifetime achievement award. Word had it he was seriously ill, but she hoped this was just the usual exaggeration that plagued network gossip.
Next she surveyed the pile of untouched newspapers and magazines beside her desk, and her groaning in-trays. It would all have to wait, she sighed, and went to close the door. As she did, she noticed a handwritten envelope that had been slid under at some stage. Immediately recognising the handwriting as Portia's, she opened it.
Dear Rosie,
I am so sorry to let you down like this but I need to take some stress leave from work for personal reasons. I have notified HR of this and they have informed me it is within my rights.
One day I will explain everything but if you can just bear with me and give me some time to get my head together I would be forever grateful.
I know I haven't been at the top of my game lately and I want nothing more than to make it up to you and show you I am your biggest supporter – which I am.
Thank you again,
Portia
Rosie was gripped with concern as she placed the letter in her handbag.
God, I hope she's okay, whatever's going on.
CHAPTER 15
Rosie knew she had been discussed at length the minute she opened the boardroom doors. The men present stopped talking all of a sudden, looking anywhere but at her. There were the usual suspects: Simon Nash, particularly portly in a lemon penguin shirt and immaculately ironed chinos; Johnno Johnston, with his hands deep in his cargo shorts, playing with his balls yet again; Russell Frazer in a signed football jersey of some sort; two men Rosie only knew as bean counters from sales; and a tall man she had never met before but who seemed well aware of who she was.
'Gentlemen,' Rosie said, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt. 'I thought the meeting was at ten, so please excuse me if I'm late.'
'No, you're here at the right time, Rose,' Nash answered, looking smug. 'We're just waiting on Alicia Charles and the meeting can start. Oh, have you met Adam Short, CEO of Tang.Inc and the world's flukiest golfer?'
The tall man Rosie didn't know stood up and stretched his hand out to shake hers.
'Hello, Rose,' he said politely enough, before turning to Simon to resume their banter.
'And it's skill, not fluke, mate!'
'Well, I'm sorry, but that fourth hole wasn't skill, it was divine intervention,' Simon quipped back, laughing loudly.
'Lovely to meet you, Adam,' Rosie interjected. 'And here's me thinking golf was a car!'
When no one laughed at her sad attempt at humour, Rosie timidly took a seat and helped herself to a coffee from the silver pot in the centre of the table. She poured a large cup and grabbed an oat biscuit. (They were her favourites, and she knew Jan would have baked them specially.) She had only managed a sip when Alicia arrived, late and flustered as usual. Rosie could see the men at the table were as shocked by her friend's appearance as she was.
Always what could be deemed an eclectic dresser, Alicia had outdone herself for Saturday mufti. Despite it being at least 28 degrees outside, she was in bright orange wool leggings, a violet knee-length skirt and a fuchsia paisley blouse with billowing sleeves like sails. She looked like she had dressed herself from a Cirque du Soleil charity bin on the way in. The fact that she had cropped her trademark scarlet red hair into a number two buzz-cut didn't help.
Luckily, Alicia was oblivious to the men's sniggers, instead waving enthusiastically at Rosie while chortling, 'Hello, darling.' 'Ooooh, coffee, lovely,' she continued, ignoring Adam Short, who had stood to introduce himself.
'Alicia, you're being addressed,' Rosie whispered from the corner of her mouth.
'Oooooh, so I am. Hello, darling, who are you?' she asked, momentarily ceasing to pour.
'Adam Short, CEO of Tang.Inc Australia,' he said, clearly taken aback by Alicia's lack of ceremony.
'Oooh, good on you. That sounds very important,' Alicia said, instantly dismissing him as boring. Alicia was only interested in creative types.
'Well, now we're all here, let's get down to business so some of us can still have time for a quick nine holes,' Simon Nash said, taking on the alpha role of leader.
'Um, shouldn't Bettina be here?' Rosie asked, wondering why she wasn't.
Nash threw a knowing glance at Adam Short.
'Bettina won't be required today,' Short replied, shooting a look back at Nash who, in turn, grinned awkwardly.
'Right, now perhaps we can get to the matters at hand,' The Darkness said, glaring at Rosie. 'As you all know, Keith Norman is not well and may not be back at work for some time, if at all.'
Rosie was about to comment on the 'not at all' inference but Nash's stare told her to shut up in no uncertain terms.
'This network is currently in crisis. Ratings are down – no slight on you, Johnno, you've had a lot going against you, mate – but declining ratings mean declining revenue and we all know that's not a good thing.
'We have also just endured one of the most humiliating scandals in this network's history, which is why Rosemarie Lang is here to update us all on what the Graham Hunt situation is and where we are to go from here. So, before we get onto other matters, Rose, if you don't mind?'
Nash indicated that Rosie should stand at the head of the table, no doubt aware how terrified she was of public speaking. Normally, executive meetings were casual affairs, with everyone seated and stating their piece in turn without such formalities. Rosie realised The Darkness was trying to intimidate her.
You can do this, they're only people, think of your son . . .
'Well, gentlemen and, um, Alicia, of course,' she said, hugely selfconscious to be standing in her jeans and runners with all eyes on her. 'As you know, Graham Hunt left for California two days ago to enter the Golden Spur Rehabilitation Centre for a thirty-day stint. Unfortunately, he did not arrive at the facility at the designated time and no one knows his whereabouts since he arrived at LAX yesterday. The good news is that the press has not cottoned on to this fact as yet. However, I fear we will not have much time until they do. My sources claim the Sentinel is sending a crew over to cover the story and, in the meantime, they have their LA bureau on the case. Luckily for us, the recent shooting in San Francisco has meant the bureau is short on reporters and the Hunt case has taken a back seat until the new crew gets there—'
'So, Rose,' Nash interrupted, 'if you could get to the point, are you trying to tell us that we have a day or two at best before this news gets out?'
'Yes, Simon, that's what I'm saying.'
'Rose, where do you believe Hunt is?'
'Well, I don't know where he is, but I can guess what he's on, and that's a bender.'
'And what exactly, to your knowledge, is a bender, Rose?'
'A bender is an extended period of time under the influence of drugs, Simon.' Rosie could barely disguise the disdain in her voice.
'And, Rose, is it true that Hunt's recent behaviour following your disastrous press dinner has even now gained international attention?'
You mean bastard!
'Yes, Simon, Graham Hunt's exploits are currently the focus of some bloggers in the US.'
'Some bloggers, huh? Doesn't the Hornblower receive some four million hits per day?'
'Why, Simon, you seem to be a lot more au fait with the blogging world than I am. Yes, I believe the Hornblower does receive a lot of daily traffic but—'
'And is it true that the site is calling Hunt "the Snorter Reporter"?'
'That's gold!' Johnno Johnston cried, cracking up with laughter, which incited more chuckles from the gathering.
Rosie wasn't laughing, though, knowing very well that Nash was trying to unravel her. She wasn't going to have a bar of his bullying.
'You tell me, Simon, you seem to know more about this than I do. I've been focusing on the local media as I really don't have time to trawl the kind of mucky sites you seem to.'
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