The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  He doesn't know any better. He has not evolved. He is struggling as best he can through this life like all of us . . .

  Regardless of her Mother Teresa–worthy mantra, Rosie was still concerned. 'I'll do my best with the press, Simon, but as you know, someone in this building is talking to "Secret Sydney" and there is little that can be done until they're discovered. I'll call Alicia and try to calm her. I'll also ring Bettina and remind her that if she makes an issue out of this, it will be bad for the network and, as such, bad for her. In the meantime, I'd send flowers. Many. Don't hold back. Send her a hothouse full.'

  'Rosie,' Simon said, for the first time using the friendly abbreviation of her name, 'I owe you one for this.'

  'I'll be expecting flowers too, Simon. Plain white, please. Of course, no babies breath . . .'

  'You have them.'

  'Good,' she replied, surprised by just how easily Simon was rolling over. 'Oh, and one other thing. I'd like you to change your mind about firing Portia.'

  Simon looked concerned. 'That's not my call,' he stammered, 'but I could see what I can do if you keep my name out of the papers.'

  Rosie saw she'd discovered Nash's sore spot and now had her cocked thumb pressed up against it. While always hypersensitive about any of his programs being criticised, Nash had been jammy press-wise, never having suffered the esteem-crippling hell of a personal savaging.

  'Good. Well, let's leave this as a case of us both seeing what we can do, okay?'

  'Rose, I do not want today out there. I can't stress how important this is.'

  'I'm hearing you, Simon.'

  She turned and paid sudden attention to her computer screen in the hope that he would see the pause as an opportunity to leave. It worked. As he rose, Rosie thought Nash actually looked shorter than normal, then realised he'd developed the harried stoop of a broken spirit. It appeared The Darkness might actually have seen the light. He was almost out the door when he faltered, then turned back.

  'Those notes you mentioned?'

  'Here, Simon,' Rosie said, passing them to him. She paused, waiting for a 'thanks' that never came.

  'You're right, you know, all might not be lost. I might be able to save things.'

  Rosie smiled despite herself. She knew that Simon was a television cockroach: he'd survive all the others. He always did.

  * * *

  By 3 pm Rosie had plateaued, meaning it was time to hit the canteen and see if they had any of those really bad brownies left, the triple choc ones that she ate in lieu of a large gin when she needed some internal impetus to go on.

  She would have asked Lisa to run down for her but the poor girl was flat-out. Apparently there was a spelling mistake on today's episode of What's That Name? and the switchboard was cranking with angry viewers. Seems the movie title was Can't Stop Dancing but some genius put a u instead of an a in Can't. Considering the show was huge in retirement villages (there had been two deaths in the studio audience so far this year, leading to an age limit on attendees), Rosie imagined a lot of dentures had been spat out in shock at this careless mistake.

  Lisa was a darling when it came to problems such as this, though. She was so patient with complainants, especially old ones who loved a chat. Rosie thought it was hilarious. If the people at the other end of the phone could have seen who was appeasing them – Lisa, with her dreadlocks, pierced nose, tatts and penchant for anything studded – they would probably clasp their pacemakers in fear.

  Rosie whispered, 'Chocolate?' as she passed Lisa's desk, and her PA mouthed back, 'Fuck, yes,' in thanks before returning to her spiel about the decaying morals of today's society, blah blah blah.

  As with the car park, Rosie liked to take the long way around to the canteen, just in case she got ambushed en route. By taking the alternative way she also managed to bypass hair and make-up as well as wardrobe, two departments that were reluctantly under her command. As both were understaffed and overburdened, they were constantly asking for Rosie to change things. Of course, they had Buckley's. If anything, money was about to get tighter.

  Bettina and the head honchos at Tang.Inc didn't understand why on-air talent needed wardrobe budgets in the first place – didn't these people have clothes of their own they could wear? And as for make-up, surely they could put some gunk on themselves? It was just another problem of being run by a company interested only in the bottom line rather than the Australian media families of the past who forged proud dynasties on their television reputations.

  The cast of Caspar the Cat had obviously taken a break – when Rosie arrived at the canteen the long queue that had formed was reminiscent of the bar scene from Star Wars. A man dressed as a beagle was holding his large canine head in his arms while two women in sunflower suits and a man in some sort of rodent get-up stood silently behind them. At the head of the queue was Caspar himself. As Jason Jarvis' long-term partner, he was the one most likely to cause Rosie some grief should he get within complaining distance. Still, having been bombarded by Jason himself earlier, she hoped she was in with a chance of being excused.

  Loafing around at the lino-covered tables were various shabby camera operators and floor crew, some of the scruffiest of whom Rosie recalled seeing on her visits to Crystelle's set. There were also several from the six pm news, the more diligent ones who came in early to ensure the changeover from the morning G'day Australia set to the news backdrop ran smoothly. There was also a scattering of the early morning crew, most of whom seemed irritable. There must have been a late satellite interview, Rosie realised, and as such more unpaid overtime for an unlucky few who had to stay around to tape it. Being the shocking eavesdropper she was, Rosie decided to amuse herself during the wait and positioned herself in the queue close enough to overhear a conversation between the G'day Australia crew.

  'It's a fucking joke,' one rather overweight gent with a hairy belly protruding under his blue singlet griped. 'She's got to be sucking someone's cock.'

  'Look, she's a nice enough girl,' countered another, 'but she's got about as much on-screen appeal as my impacted toenail.'

  'Apparently some genius in management's got a boner for her. That's why she got flicked from news to us.'

  'That makes sense. I mean, she's got a great set of tits but a weathergirl needs to know about the fucking weather.'

  'Anyway, those last research figures have fucked her. I hear she's out.'

  'What, back to news?'

  'Nah, just out. Let herself go to fat so no one's going to have her on camera now.'

  Rosie realised they were talking about Karen Day and recoiled.

  God this place is brutal. That poor girl . . .

  As the line moved up and out of hearing range, Rosie shuddered at just how sexist this business was. Her dream of one day being moved to news was never going to happen. Sure, there was a chance she could still make it as a lowly paid junior producer or researcher, but she'd never be fuckable enough on-camera material. And it was just as well. Who would want their every pore to be examined and criticised in detail by the nation? If it wasn't skin it would be weight, hair, wardrobe . . . it was almost impossible to be appealing yet benign enough to please the varying opinions of the masses, otherwise know under that blanket term 'The Viewers'.

  By the time Rosie reached the top of the queue, she was rethinking the brownie altogether. It must have over a day's worth of kilojoules in every delicious bite, and although Rosie had dropped two dress sizes since joining Six, the Karen Day scenario was weighing heavily on her.

  Ah, why not! It's not like I'm going to be reading the news any time soon . . .

  'I'll have two strong flat whites and two brownies,' Rosie finally blurted when she reached the top of the queue. She watched as the very attractive but oh-so-slow barista Jason Jarvis had complained of earlier set about filling her order, looking at the coffee machine like it was the first time he'd seen it.

  How can this guy make 300-odd cups of coffee a day and still treat each one like it's his first? Rosi
e was mentally urging him on – That's right. Put the coffee in there. Now, put that bit into the machine. Good boy. Now, put the milk in the jug – when a hand grabbed her shoulder, making her shriek.

  Turning, she saw Lisa, flushed and freaking.

  'Holy hell, you scared me. Sorry the coffee has taken so long, but Adonis here couldn't run a bath . . .'

  Lisa's stunned expression didn't change, causing Rosie to predict the worst – whatever that could be.

  'What the hell is going on?' she asked, dreading the answer.

  'It's Crystelle!' Lisa could barely speak, she was panting so hard. 'An accident. Quick!'

  'Ambulance?'

  'Rung.'

  Nooooo.

  Before the barista had finished her coffees, Rosie was out the door and bolting to Studio 3.

  CHAPTER 25

  As hers was a lowly daytime show, Crystelle Callaghan was given the smallest studio on the lot to pump out ten hours of live TV a week. Rosie hated even going near Studio 3, as it was really just an old double garage with some wires and lights in it that should have been torn down years ago. Even the show's backdrop concealed surplus soft drink stock from the nearby canteen. It was a sad excuse for a set but that didn't stop Crystelle, no siree. She made that old barn come alive every day, producing two hours of variety and talk television that was an advertising goldmine.

  Rosie had been cautioning her against continuing the 'Challenge Crystelle' segment each week, the finale to the Friday show, ever since she began at Six. As there was no budget for her show, safety was always a concern, but being the diehard trooper she was, Crystelle was never going to let down the kids at the children's hospital who benefited from her dares.

  Since arriving at Six Rosie had watched her abseil down the control tower to the creaking studio roof and scale hay bales in a fat suit. She'd trucked in a pond for mud wrestling, lassoed sheep on horseback side-saddle and even held a paintball war against other network celebs in the past year. No matter how far she was pushed, Crystelle prided herself on going further, just to get that extra corporate donation or whip-around from warm-hearted viewers to help those kids. Bless her.

  Apart from her big heart, she also had a crack wit and one of the most dynamic interviewing styles on television. Guests – and Crystelle personally ensured she didn't miss out on anyone or anything going on in town – would open up to her unlike any other. Often caught off guard by the shabby studio surrounds, the false security of an afternoon timeslot and, most of all, Crystelle's unique, disarming charm, celebrities occasionally wound up leading news bulletins after appearing on the show, having accidentally revealed a personal tidbit or vulnerability.

  Rosie not only adored Crystelle, she counted her a true mentor; someone who really did know about television. She'd been doing it for near on three decades after all, from late-night variety to her quiz shows and drama. Having moved on to afternoons to become Australia's answer to Oprah and doubling the timeslot's ratings, she was, ironically, considered to be on her last legs by certain executives at Six – Nash being the main detractor as she brought in an older demographic and not his revered eighteen to thirty-fives. However, like Rosie, and her biggest fan, Keith, the rest of Australia loved Crystelle and thought of her as an institution, always guaranteeing her high overall popularity scores in the network's market research and ensuring her place on the daily program schedule.

  Please let Crystelle be okay. Of all the people at Six, let's not let something horrible happen to her . . .

  By the time Rosie arrived breathless at Studio 3, Crystelle was propped up outside against its massive door, surrounded by her crew.

  'Honey, the ambulance is coming,' Rosie assured her friend nervously as she neared, noting the large blood-crusted bandage she was holding to her cheek. In the harsh daylight her heavy stage makeup made the scene all the more surreal, but she smiled bravely. 'It's not too bad, Crystelle, honest,' Rosie went on, not knowing whether she was right. She just didn't want Crystelle to panic. 'We'll have you fixed in no time.'

  Turning to the camera guys and floor operators standing idly by, Rosie surveyed the bigger scene and didn't like what she saw. There was a ride-on mower lodged in one dented studio wall and another tipped on its side nearby. Both were adorned with cardboard horse cutouts. It was only then that Rosie realised Crystelle was wearing a sequinned Annie Oakley outfit.

  Glaring at the show's executive producer, Rosie asked the obvious: 'What the—?'

  'Lawnmower polo,' he replied sheepishly. 'They're the show's new sponsors.'

  'Which one was she riding?' Rosie snapped back.

  'The one in the wall,' he replied, trying to stifle a laugh.

  'And the other?' Rosie asked, gesturing at the flipped mechanical 'horsey'.

  The assembled men couldn't help themselves and all cracked up laughing. Rosie tried to glare again but it wasn't easy. They were all hysterical and it was catching.

  'It was Davo,' the EP continued, pointing to an obviously stoned cameraman in chaps, Stetson and neckerchief. 'He knocked it over pissing himself when he saw her hit the wall.'

  Now Rosie was laughing with the men too. How could she not? The cameraman's pants were sodden and from the way he was crossing his legs in pain from laughter, it looked like they could be in for another dousing.

  'Rosie, darling,' a voice could be heard through the mirthful racket. It was Crystelle, beckoning Rosie closer.

  'Yes, lovely, what can I do?' Rosie replied.

  'Darling,' Crystelle said, straining to be heard. Rosie kneeled closer to hear. 'There's a camera in my handbag . . . Surely we can still make the first edition of the Sentinel.'

  It took all Rosie's power not to bear-hug the pink sequins off her.

  'You, my friend, are a bloody legend,' Rosie whispered back.

  'Oh, I wouldn't say legend, it makes me sound so old,' Crystelle answered with a grin. 'Now, the camera, darling, before the blood stops dripping . . .'

  * * *

  Crystelle was propped up on several large pillows in her chi-chi private hospital room enjoying a smuggled glass of red and lots of attention. As Rosie arranged the latest bouquet into a vase of water beside her, Crystelle read the card out loud: 'Trust you to upstage me! Get fucking better. I need you. Keith.'

  Crystelle just looked at the card for another moment, savouring every syllable, then turned to Rosie. 'He's not good, is he?'

  'He's certainly been better.' Rosie was thinking of Mae, who had almost certainly organised the impressive flowers, still seamlessly managing the Big Fella's life from the front of his empty office.

  Mae must be missing him. Must spend more time with Mae!

  'I love that old bastard,' Crystelle said, her eyes suddenly moist.

  'He knows. He loves you too.'

  'I have always said that when Keith leaves the business, I will too. Maybe I should look for a new day job?'

  'Let's not rush things, lovely,' Rosie replied. She was about to say something like plenty of life in both of you yet but remembered Elaine's confidence regarding Keith's health and stopped herself.

  'It's a shame you weren't here for the good days, Rosie,' Crystelle continued. 'TV used to be such a fun place to work. Honestly. We laughed all the time. If you were on camera, you were treated like a real star. Sure, we knew it was Australian TV and nothing in the grander international scheme of things, but no one was about to tell us that! More important, though, we were all family. We loved each other. We couldn't wait to get to work each day. We'd drink and play together every night and weekends too. We cared about each other. If someone was sick, we all mucked in to help out. I had most of the newsroom painting my upstairs karaoke room when I was renovating.'