The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  Rosie knew what would come next.

  'I decided I'd throw myself into work,' Keith continued, lost in his thoughts. 'Make it my baby. And you know, I don't regret a fucking minute of it. I love that place. At least, I love what it has been. But lately, I just don't recognise the faces any more. The soul has gone, replaced by the almighty dollar.' Keith paused to regain composure, then went on. 'I actually care about what I do, you know. I like giving people pleasure – something to take the edge off their days when the kids have been fed and put to bed. I want to make their lives lighter, better. I do, you know . . .'

  Rosie squeezed his hand hard in lieu of words.

  'Twenty-four years. It's a long fucking time, sweetie. Now I'm six weeks out and I feel like my eulogies have been given and I'm ready for the fucking burner. What they don't know is that there's some steam in this old turbine yet. Now tell me, what's really been going on behind my back?'

  Rosie deferred to her inner voice that said truth above everything, and began to talk. She told Keith everything he wanted to know and everything he didn't.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rosie wondered if you could wear a text message out as she compulsively scrolled to it yet again: 'Just the thought of you makes me smile.'

  Simple. Short. Sweet. Sigh. Rosie acknowledged she had a big-time crush on Mr Daniel Jones and decided to use the thought of him as an emotional buoy at work when things got tough. With what was ahead – Alicia's drama unveiling, the Sports Hall of Fame dinner in Adelaide and the new, mysterious promo, along with the Kennedys, and the usual carnival of crapola – she knew that the image of Daniel Jones would be mentally accessed repeatedly.

  She also had to deal with the fact that Portia had bowed out for unknown reasons, leaving her without a 2IC. All Rosie's calls to Portia's mobile had so far gone unanswered and even her message said she would be out of contact until further notice – and while Rosie may have felt Portia didn't have her back of late, she certainly didn't discount her expertise. Portia may have come from a cosmetics company, but she knew how to package pong as parfum. And in the TV PR business, that meant 'knowing something about television'.

  Still, Rosie was determined to stay upbeat. As she approached the car park, she wound up her windows, turned the music up and dragged deeply on her third cigarette of the morning. She was going to extract every single second of me time she could before heading up the elevator with one stop – Level 5: hell, damnation and purgatory. Everybody out.

  As had become a habit of late, Rosie checked her car's rear and side mirrors before opening the door to avoid running into someone with a problem before she was adequately caffeinated to cope. This morning, she spotted Crystelle Callaghan on her way to Studio 3 and decided to say hi to her friend and thanks again for the thoughtful card. Rosie slammed her car door and prepared herself for a high-heeled sprint to catch up, but stopped short at the urgent ringing of tiny bells behind her. Suddenly she felt like a luckless gazelle on a concrete tundra about to be pounced on.

  'Sweetheart, there you are,' Alicia chortled, waving her hand in the air, the sound of her laden charm bracelet a manic wind chime.

  'Alicia! Hello, lovely. Look, I'm just rushing to catch up with Crystelle at the moment, but I can't wait for today's drama presentation. It's all very exciting and I know we need to have a big talk about launches and profile placements . . . You look fab, by the way. You do brights so well.'

  Rosie was already storming away from Alicia and had almost made it when a heavily beaded sleeve appeared on her shoulder.

  'It's about the foyer, darling,' Alicia panted, now right back in Rosie's face. 'It's important. I need to know where my new cast photos are going to go.'

  Not the foyer AGAIN!

  Alicia was obsessed with the photos that hung in the reception area in the network's main entrance – almost as obsessed as the network talent were, and that was saying something. Stars had been known to sneak in late at night and move their portrait to a more prominent position, hoping no one would notice, while others asked for so much airbrushing that their photos ended up looking like paintings. Then there was the constant demand for expensive reshoots when hairstyles changed, weight was lost or cosmetic surgery rendered the previous images unrecognisable.

  'Alicia, we have plenty of time to talk about this. Naturally there'll be a cast shot hung in due course—'

  'But, darling, that's the point. I think the main players should all have their own portraits. I'm putting publicity sweeteners in the actors' contracts – billboards, profiles, magazine covers – letting them know we plan to make them fully fledged stars.'

  'In their contracts? Surely not!' Rosie countered, almost choking on her words.

  What was this daffy darling thinking? This is a recipe for another nightmare cast of egomaniacs for me to handle.

  'Please tell me you haven't signed anything that says that? I mean, there's no way I could ever control that sort of thing, Alicia. We can't guarantee covers, although, of course, I'll be pushing for them. And I haven't even been given a budget for the show yet so billboards et cetera are a way off. As for the foyer, I'll do my best, but you know very well Keith will put whoever he damn well pleases where he damn well wants them! I mean, there's not even enough wall space. What happened to this being an ensemble cast?'

  Rosie continued, frustration evident in her voice: 'What if we decide to hold off on a big launch and instead sample the first episodes during non-ratings and let the characters get a bit of a buzz going?'

  'Darling, this show isn't a sample, it's a banquet,' Alicia said fervently. 'And by god, between you and me there won't be anyone in the southern hemisphere who is not au fait with the entire cast's astro chart by the time we've finished with them. They will be family to every living Australian man, woman and child, although we must consider international sales too—'

  'Give me an hour and we'll discuss this more, I promise,' Rosie said, this time forcibly sidestepping her captor.

  'Good, darling, can't wait! We have so much to go through. I'm seeing a big press launch for this one. I have big ideas. You'll be excited,' Alicia called from behind. 'Oh, and by the way, I felt for you over that whole Graham Hunt thing. I don't know if I like him at all! I mean, what a nasty piece of work. He really should have learnt to keep his trousers zipped by now, considering what happened before.'

  Rosie turned and glared. 'What do you mean by that, Alicia?' she demanded, surprising herself with her strident tone.

  'Darling, your stress levels are out of control at the moment. You really should come to my meditation class with me. Works wonders, you know.'

  'Alicia, what about Graham Hunt?'

  'Well, darling, it's just that . . . you know I don't like to gossip but I did hear something I thought a little unfair. You know, about the girl who had your job before you, Lara Green.'

  'No, I don't know.'

  'Well, I've been told that she and Mr Hunt were very close friends at some stage . . .'

  'Are you saying what I think you're saying?'

  'Yes, I'm afraid. It seems a condition of his employment was that she had to be fired. That's how you got her job, darling.'

  Rosie was stunned beyond words.

  'Alicia, you can't be right about this. Keith wouldn't have allowed it, surely.'

  'Well, what I heard was that Keith wasn't happy at all but Graham Hunt was too big an investment. I mean, the way Keith goes on about news, you'd think it's what keeps the whole network afloat.'

  'Alicia, it is what keeps the network afloat! And as for Lara Green, I really can't believe that could happen. It's illegal for a start. She would have grounds to sue, surely? She should have.'

  'It's also a bit embarrassing for poor Lara, though, isn't it? I mean, we all know he's a married man.'

  'I see what you're saying. But Alicia, if this is true, it's just too much. I mean, we women put up with so much sexism at the network already, surely our past lovers can't be used against us as well?'


  'Well, darling, if they can, they should fire me right now 'cause I've had a lot of them.'

  Both women giggled at Alicia's confession, although not for long.

  'Look, thanks for telling me that, Alicia. I certainly hope it's not true but if it is, I'll be having words with Keith about it.'

  'Oh, darling Keith, I do miss him. Shame he won't be coming back.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'People are talking.'

  'And what are they saying this time?'

  'Word is, he's to be retired. Simon Nash will be appointed the new CEO as soon as it's done. I think the plan is to announce all the changes the day after the Kennedy Awards.'

  'But surely that can't be right? I mean, Keith's getting a lifetime achievement award. They can't sack him the next day! Don't they have souls?'

  'Well, darling, it seems they can, but again I'm only repeating what I've heard. You know, I'd hate to be the one to start a rumour around here. Anyway, I'll see you at twelve for the great unveiling.'

  'Yes, I guess you will,' Rosie replied, still shell-shocked at Alicia's revelations.

  'Good, darling. Oh, and do think about meditation. This job is taking its toll on you as it is. Don't let them break your spirit completely. My partner is a qualified reiki practitioner, you know. I'm sure she could work wonders on you.'

  'Thanks, Alicia, I'll certainly give that some thought. And thanks also for being so honest with me.'

  'Of course! We girls have to stick together.'

  Rosie blew Alicia a kiss and turned to find Crystelle had disappeared from view. She was in no mood now to chat anyway and needed a coffee – bad. Rosie also realised she needed a conversation with Keith, quick.

  When Rosie reached the lobby, she spotted Jason Jarvis staring at the giant framed photos, no doubt wondering how he could get himself up there. Not prepared for another drama queen before she had even reached her desk, Rosie swiftly turned on her heels, ready to leg it around the back of the building and take the stairs if she had to. Anything to avoid being zapped of energy by that needy ego monster. But it was too late. She had been spotted. The head of outsourced productions was walking her way, waving flamboyantly to ensure he had her attention.

  Rosie ran through the many gripes she was about to hear: how he had been left out of important meetings; how the fact he was trained in Melbourne meant Sydney thought him second-rate; how his programs were not getting the big marketing and promotions dollars thrown at them . . .

  Jason Jarvis lived in a constant state of paranoia which, unfortunately, was always for good reason. Outsourced productions came under the entertainment umbrella, which meant he was under the rule of The Darkness, Simon Nash. And Nash didn't like him. Rosie knew this because Nash would regularly tell the entire executive staff at program meetings – whenever the 'idiot' wasn't in the room, that is.

  Like so many execs at Six, Jason was so concerned about internal politics and pecking orders he had very little time for his product, something the stars of his shows were constantly complaining to Rosie about. And when talent starts whingeing, it doesn't take long to reach the ears on Level 5.

  The fact that Jason was overtly gay didn't help him at all either, not that the other men would say as much – to his face, at least. Johnno, who prided himself on having 'nailed' most females under thirty at the network, only understood testosterone packaged in heterosexuality, and Keith, well he thought 'those types' should be confined to hair and make-up departments, not allowed anywhere near his sacred Level 5 domain. And as for Nash, as far as Rosie could see, he simply hated everyone.

  'Rosie, thank god I've found you,' Jason cooed, the smell of Wild Fig & Cassis emanating from his every cleansed, toned and moisturised pore. 'I'm at my wits' end.'

  'Jason, lovely to see you. Look, I'm keen for a catch-up but I really have to run at this minute—'

  'Damn! I was hoping we could have a coffee, although the canteen here can't make a decent soy macchiato no matter how many times I show that gorgeous young barista . . .'

  Rosie laughed to herself. It was true that the Six canteen staff thought an exotic coffee was a teaspoon of freeze blend rather than powdered instant.

  'Anyway, I've heard several meetings have taken place, all very hush-hush, since Keith had his health hiccup,' Jason continued, seemingly oblivious to Rosie's attempt to flee.

  'Well, I couldn't talk about that, Jason. I'm lucky to even get a seat at the daily program meetings, as you know.'

  'There was a meeting last Saturday, I believe. Any idea who was there?' he persevered, clearly trying to ascertain just how low in the boys' club food chain he was these days.

  'Oh, just the usual,' she answered in her breezy voice. 'You know, Keith, Nash, Johnno, Russ, the bean counters . . .'

  The following silence indicated that Jason wanted – no, make that needed – still more names. 'Just tell me,' he said when nothing was forthcoming from Rosie, 'why do you think I got banned from the programming meeting? Do you think they actually believe I could be the one talking to the Sentinel? You know how much I absolutely loathe having any interaction with the press . . .'

  Rosie laughed to herself again. If there was anyone at the network who loved to talk to the press it was Jason Jarvis. Unfortunately, the press weren't too keen to talk to him – ever – preferring Great Gardens' long-standing host, Peter Ingles.

  'Of course you wouldn't, Jason,' Rosie said, not wanting to make the executive any more paranoid than he already was. 'I got chucked out of the programming meeting with you, remember, and my job is to inform the public about the network's content, so I wouldn't feel too bad.'

  'Thanks, Rosie,' he replied, sounding a little more buoyant. 'It's just sooo hard to know who to trust around here, isn't it? I mean, I just loathe office politics.'

  Rosie nodded, hoping that Jason would now head to wherever it was he was supposed to go. She should have known better.

  'Rosie, while I have you, we really must talk about Great Gardens. It will only take a second, I promise – I mean, goodness, it's been hard getting hold of you lately! As you know, ratings are down and I think we really need to get out there and garner some press interest in the series return. I have some exciting changes ahead – new opening titles, a craft segment . . .'

  Basically, Great Gardens was a show that ran itself. All Jason Jarvis really did was sign invoices and try to act important, but he was as useful as tits on a bull. However, he had power because he had Sunday nights at seven-thirty pm, the biggest timeslot in terms of ratings. But last season Great Gardens had started to slide. As Six's programming director, it was a timeslot Johnno Johnston simply could not afford to lose.

  'I agree, Jason, that's why I've been imploring you to get through to Peter that the show needs freshening up. I'm sure your new titles are fantastic but I doubt the names of the people who work on the program appearing in a new font will put on another 70,000 viewers in Sydney and Melbourne. We need to excite people about Peter again. He's part of the furniture at the moment, like a comfy old lounge. We need to give him a cashmere throw and some colourful cushions. We need him to talk again, not just about plants and aphids, but about his life. I mean, it's not every day a seventy-year-old man finds new love. We'd have the cover of every magazine in Australia if he would only agree to talk. Frankly, that's the kind of push we'll need.'

  Jason Jarvis went eerily quiet, something Rosie had planned on. But it didn't last long.

  'Rosie, regardless, I think it's probably best if I speak on behalf of Great Gardens this year,' he continued. 'We're not sure we have Peter on board as he's trying to screw us on syndication royalties from last season and, well, to be honest, I just think he has a big head.'

  Now it was Rosie's turn to be quiet. If anyone had an enlarged cranium around here it was Jarvis. Like the public could give a flying fuck about a producer! They loved Peter Ingles, had done for some twenty-six years. They planted when he told them to plant, pruned when he told them to prune. When
his wife passed away from breast cancer several years ago, the network switch went into meltdown for days and every hospital in Sydney had to request no more flowers be forwarded as they were at capacity. Yet here was Jarvis, a guy who a year ago was the on-floor producer of Caspar the Cat, thinking Australian audiences were interested in what he had to say. Why, Jason Jarvis was still in nappies when Peter Ingles was consulting on reafforestation strategies and designing the gardens for the new parliament house.