The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  'Just as well I make the time, Rose, considering you can't seem to keep track of the press . . .'

  'Hey, come on, you two, there's no need to take this mess out on each other,' Adam Short said. 'Now, Rose, don't take this personally. Simon is just trying to get a handle on the situation. I think we're all a little upset about Hunt at the moment, which is why we're here today and not at home with our families.'

  'Well said, Adam,' Nash decreed.

  Crawler!

  'So, Rose, we would all love your thoughts on what should be done,' Short continued.

  'My thoughts are that we should let Hunt go. He is in breach of the good conduct clause in his contract and I can't see how he will ever regain the authority required to be this network's face of news.

  Everyone has seen the pictures of his erect penis in the toilet cubicle by now, and the shots of him snorting cocaine through a rolled-up $20 bill. If not, there are T-shirts being sold out there with the images printed on them, so it won't take long. The public also know his pregnant wife has left him and that his toilet cubicle paramour is selling her story to anyone with a chequebook. The man can hardly fill the elder statesman role left by Willard Frost now. I suggest we keep Helen Wales in the chair. She's been doing great numbers on the weekends and has a spotless journalistic record. She's covered seven elections, three wars and has won countless awards. And unlike Hunt, she has the country's respect as a real journalist. I'm sure Allan Bales would agree – he is the network's head of news, after all – if he was here.'

  Why isn't Bales here? Don't tell me someone else is on the stink.

  'Well, you've given this some thought, I see, Rose,' Nash replied. 'Have you also considered that Helen is a woman and in the history of Network Six news there has never been a female in the six pm chair?' Nash looked around to ensure he had the backing of the other men.

  'Yes, I have considered that, Simon, and I've also contemplated why exactly that has been the case. Surely it's time. I see no reason whatsoever that a woman would not work at six pm, especially someone with an impressive pedigree like Helen Wales. In fact, there are several women up to the task at the network. Why, Karen Day is a promising young journo being wasted as a morning weathergirl – she could easily cater to that younger demo Hunt was supposed to.'

  Adam Short looked at Nash quizzically.

  'She's the blonde with the great tits we moved to G'day Australia,' Nash explained.

  'Actually, make that used to have great tits,' Johnno interjected. 'She's gone to fat lately. Porked up overnight. Lost her fuckability, if you ask me.'

  The men at the table all laughed uproariously while Rosie and Alicia seethed in silence.

  Comfortable he had the majority of opinion behind him, Nash continued: 'Actually, Rose, isn't it part of your job to ensure the female staff are well groomed at all times? Surely you could have a word in Ms Day's ear about her weight? Best you do it rather than Allan Bales, don't you think? It could sound a little . . . well, sexist coming from a man.'

  Rosie was once again stunned mute. She looked around the room at the men and saw them as they should be: attired in crudely cured animal pelts, their knuckles scraping on the ground, dragging tree limbs and farting mammoth gas.

  Adam Short was next to speak – or should that be grunt? 'Just how fat is she? We don't want a hound reading the news. But I agree it could be good getting a woman in there. Could also save us some money. I mean, good men don't come cheap. I've seen what we paid for Hunt.'

  'Well, I think Keith might have something to say about that,' Nash countered, looking to Johnno for affirmation.

  'Keith's not here, Simon,' Adam Short interjected, 'and he won't be for the foreseeable future, so I think we'd better have a show of hands. Frankly, Simon, I can't see that we have an alternative. So, who's for Helen Wales?'

  Rosie watched what happened next closely. It was as she predicted. No one was ready to put up a hand first. Johnno's eyes darted to Simon, who glared back, as if to say, 'Don't you dare.' Johnno then looked to Adam Short nervously, not wanting to put him offside either. The other program executives were waiting on Johnno's nod. It was a classic Mexican stand-off.

  'Well, hooray for Helen and the sisterhood!' Alicia shrieked, waving a paisley arm in the air, her trinket-laden bracelet jangling triumphantly. 'I couldn't agree with you more, Rosie darling. It's about time. You know we women have had the vote for a while now too, don't you, gentlemen? Why, we're allowed in public bars these days . . .'

  Bless you, Alicia.

  'Alicia has a point,' Rosie said. 'I could spin this in a positive light, that we're a network going forward, up with the times. And let's face it, we do have a bit of a reputation as a male-dominated network . . .'

  Simon Nash threw her another death stare but its sting was diluted as Adam Short raised his hand skyward. Once the big boss had taken the leap, the lemmings followed – first Johnno, then Russell, then sales, until the only person left with their hand down was The Darkness. After a pause of some seconds, he too reluctantly raised his arm, saying, 'I want it on the record that I am not entirely convinced this is the right move, but as there seems no other viable option at the moment, I will agree with caution.'

  Rosie laughed inside. Nash would never allow himself to be seen backing a wrong decision – or any decision at all, really. He always left an option open for an 'I told you so'.

  'Good, well that's done then,' Adam Short continued. 'Now, what's next?'

  'We should address drama,' Simon replied, clearly wanting to resume the chairing duties. 'Alicia?'

  There was no need to ask Alicia to stand, she was already up and making her way to the head of the table. Rosie watched Nash stare at Alicia as she walked towards him. Nash was a fence-sitter when it came to Alicia, questioning whether she really 'knew about television'. Still, his new role as head of entertainment was dependent on Alicia delivering him a top-rating drama and he knew it.

  'Well, as you all know I've been gestating my new baby for some months now and I feel she is almost ready to be birthed,' Alicia said proudly. 'As you may also be aware, I have been given free creative rein to produce a series which will bring a new generation of drama lovers to the network, the highly coveted eighteen to thirty-five demographic advertisers are desperate to target. Gentlemen, this series will signal a seismic shift. It will show we are no longer obsessed with cop shows – cops on the streets, cops on water, cops in the country. What this network has been missing is a bleeding, beating heart – the pounding force of love gone wrong, families at war, youth off the rails. I plan to give throb to Tuesday nights, gentlemen, a meaty, modern-day family drama that will be the talk of the nation.'

  Rosie felt like she had just watched a televangelist deliver a sermon from the pulpit, so powerful was Alicia's conviction. Problem was she, like everyone else in the room, still had no idea exactly what Alicia was talking about.

  'Bravo, lovely,' Rosie exclaimed, aware that no one else was going to say anything. 'Any more hints as to what it's actually about?'

  'All shall be revealed next week when I present my concept teaser reel. It won't feature the actual cast, as that is yet to be finalised, but it'll be a taste of what's to come, to whet advertisers' appetites, so to speak. I do wish Keith was here to see it, though. He and Simon have been so very kind putting their trust in me to come up with the goods.'

  Rosie looked at Simon Nash and saw a flash of panic. Just what has he allowed to happen here? Rosie wondered. Does Simon really have no idea what Alicia is up to either? Rosie's thoughts suddenly turned to the letter from Portia. If anyone had a real inkling about this drama it would be her 2IC. Then again, the only thing Portia had mentioned to Rosie was that the lead was a lesbian.

  This could be scary.

  'I know I've been a secret squirrel about this but, believe me, all will be revealed,' Alicia trilled, 'and when it is, Australian drama and Network Six will never be the same again!'

  Rosie had a feeling Alicia might be
right – but for all the wrong reasons.

  The rest of the crisis meeting was relatively straightforward: the Sports Hall of Fame Dinner in Adelaide would go ahead as previously planned, as would the live telecast. Rosie would fly down with six hand-picked journalists and Nash, Johnno and Russ would all attend.

  On Monday, she would be given a list of the new cast of the reality renovation show, Makeover This Mess, which had been a huge hit for the network last season, meaning the massive press push she'd planned could finally begin.

  The last topic of discussion was the unveiling of the new network promo, the annual clip featuring all the talent from various programs looking like they were part of a warm, happy family called Six. As Graham Hunt was to be the star of this year's promo, the entire fiasco had to be re-shot to focus on light entertainment rather than news, as was originally planned. This was exactly what The Darkness, as the head of entertainment, had wanted all along. It made sense for Johnno as well, as he desperately needed help across all timeslots rather than just focusing on six pm.

  The two men had already shot the promo, and were ready to unveil the result. They were obviously chuffed with what they had come up with, so much so they decided that, if Keith was well enough, they would take a copy to show him.

  Rosie had already had complaints from some of the talent – mainly women – that they were uncomfortable with both the wardrobe and the angle of the promo, but this was par for the course whenever the network's female talent were featured together. Rosie knew this only too well, as wardrobe issues had plagued her since she arrived, with Keith deeming her the person to sort them out – her being 'a sheila' and all. Having dealt with the issue of gowns for last year's Kennedy Awards – and with this year's bun fight now in progress – Rosie knew that pieces of expensive fabric could bring out the worst even in stars who were normally complacent. It was like she had thirty-five-odd bridezillas at once and, as such, was keeping her powder dry in the promo battle in preparation for the Kennedys stoush ahead.

  As Nash, Johnno and Adam Short were keen to play a round of golf and continue their bonding and bum-sniffing, Rosie found herself with some rare free time. All those earlier plans she had of buying organic vegies suddenly seemed far less fun than a catch-up with Lou, so she called her friend, let the phone ring twice, then redialled.

  Lou answered immediately.

  'Rosie! Hello, honey. Where the hell are you?'

  'Hold on, this is going to rock you, but guess what? I have two hours before I have to pick up my boy.'

  'Bull and shit!'

  'I know, hard to believe but . . .'

  'What will we do?'

  'You don't feel like having a quick look for Kennedys dresses with me, do you?'

  'Hell yeah! What a hoot. Where do you want to go? Prada? Gucci?'

  'Er, Lou, I'm not sure if I can afford—'

  'Don't be ridiculous. You have to look drop-dead gorgeous on the night, I insist. Stick it up those mean bastards you work with. How are they all, by the way? Hovering over Keith like buzzards ready to pick at the carcass, I bet.'

  'You put it well. That's exactly what they're like.'

  'I don't know how you stop yourself from just going in there in a black trench coat armed to the hilt and taking them all out. It would be a bloody public service, if you ask me.'

  'I know, but unfortunately I hear that's illegal.'

  'So, where do we start then?'

  'Lou, I'm not up for anything too posh. How about we check out that new shop in Paddington. You know, the one with the European imports?'

  'I thought that was for blokes.'

  'No, it's both. One side is women, one side men.'

  'Sounds good to me. Say fifteen?'

  'Yay! See you there.'

  CHAPTER 16

  As usual, Rosie noticed Lou before Lou noticed her. It was hard not to. Her friend had a presence about her, a star factor that transcended her dressed-down demeanour. Rosie smiled to herself as she noted what Lou was wearing to go shopping at the type of store Rosie was normally too intimidated even to enter: a pair of leggings, two long singlets – probably Stephen's – layered on top of each other, and scuffed ballet flats on her feet. Her honey blonde hair, unwashed and certainly a stranger to a brush, was tucked into a crocheted beanie and her face was stripped of any semblance of make-up.

  Despite this, Lou looked incredible, like a supermodel arriving backstage at a fashion show or an Olsen twin stumbling out of a trendy Lower East Side nightclub in Manhattan. Which all contradicted her aim: to look as average as possible. Bless.

  'Lou!' Rosie hollered as she neared.

  'Girlfriend!' Lou replied, her face lighting up.

  The two friends embraced, holding their hug and squeezing each other that bit tighter and longer to stress their mutual happiness.

  'Honey, you look amazing as per usual – dammit,' Rosie said, taking stock of Lou. As she looked into her friend's eyes, she noticed something was different, almost unnerving.

  Lou saw Rosie's quizzical stare and decided to put her out of her misery.

  'I'm not stoned!' she cried, laughing at how silly her comment actually was.

  'Lord above, so you're not! I knew there was something weird about you.'

  'Ask me why, go on!'

  'Okay, why aren't you stoned?'

  As the words left Rosie's lips she thought of a possible reason but didn't want to offer it up just in case she was wrong.

  But please let it be what I'm thinking . . .

  'Honey, I'm knocked up!'

  Rosie screamed at the top of her voice and jumped up and down on the spot like a madwoman before picking Lou up and attempting to swing her around in a circle in the middle of the footpath. By the time she had calmed down enough to remember her friend's delicate condition and stop her ecstatic hugging frenzy, she had tears of pure joy streaming down her cheeks.

  'Oh, honey!'

  Lou took Rosie's hand and placed it on her belly.

  'Your godchild is in there. Can you believe it? Well, it's probably only a few cells at the moment. I only peed on the stick for the first time a few days ago but two packets of tests each day since and it's still positive!'

  'I can't believe it! Stephen must be beside himself. This is the best news ever!'

  Rosie realised she was a puddle but didn't care. These were the only happy tears she had shed in a long time.

  'Take a look at you,' Lou said, putting an arm around her friend's shoulder. 'You're happier than I am. Come on, stop your blubbering, we've got shopping to do.'

  * * *

  As Rosie hid behind heavy silk velvet curtains trying to avoid the reflection of her hips from behind and her heavy boobs which, since breastfeeding, saw her puppy's noses point earthward rather than skyward, Lou set about selecting gowns for her to try. One of the things Rosie loved most about Lou was how oblivious she was to her beauty, thinking everyone else was blessed with legs to their armpits, flawless skin and arms like balsawood twigs – even Rosie!

  First Lou picked out a bias-cut, emerald silk column for Rosie to try on that stuck to her butt, the cellulite dents making her look like an upturned broccoli flower. Then, after Rosie pointed out that she had issues with her bottom, Lou chose an empire line gown that flowed voluminously from a jewelled brooch at the base of her throat.

  'I look like I'm wearing a freaking teepee,' Rosie cried, refusing to come out from behind the curtain and show Lou. 'No, it's worse. I look like a wizard hat. Actually, I look like a big black Christmas tree, my pinhead being the ornament on top.'

  'You couldn't,' Lou yelled back at her through the drapery. 'You're gorgeous.'