'Yeah, I've heard the stories. It sounds like it was a wonderful time,' Rosie said, envious.
'It was the small touches – a crate of champagne at the front door if ratings were up or you put in a weekend's extra work and thought it had gone unnoticed. All of that has changed now. Now it's all about cost-cutting, head counts and appealing to the younger, brain-dead demographic. Never mind if something is actually entertaining or not.'
'I know, lovely. It sucks. But I think we all must accept this is the new way, however sad it is.'
'I must sound very silly going on like this.'
'Not at all! I could listen to you read the phone book and think it's Kafka!'
Crystelle held Rosie's hand in gratitude, then raised the empty glass in her other hand to motion for a top-up. Rosie filled her glass happily, grateful that her friend was okay. Crystelle's injuries were mainly superficial: some heavy bruising, seven stitches in a gash near her eye and deep grazes on her left leg that needed to be cleaned and bandaged. Rose knew it was more the shock that had knocked her around, although hell would chill over before Crystelle Callaghan would admit to that.
'Lovely, I'm going to have to get these photos to the Sentinel,' Rosie told her. 'Would you like a quick look to veto any nasties?'
'Oh yes, I'd better. I loathe these damn digital cameras. They can go in so close now and editors seem to love a bad shot more than a good one. Cruel bastards! Those "stars without make-up" features that the magazines run should be banned. I mean, they're unbearable. Just as well I don't even go to the letterbox without a full face on – ever!'
Rosie laughed, then jumped up on the bed with Crystelle to take her through the shots.
'Damn these little window thingies,' she said, squinting at the camera's viewfinder. 'Grab me my glasses, will you, darling?'
Rosie passed Crystelle her specs and helped her navigate to the first shot taken.
'Oh, that's a goodie. Well done,' she said of the close-up of the bandage on her eye. 'Oh, and you got ambulance shots too. It's always best to give them more than they need, don't you think?'
Flicking to a frame taken in the back of the ambulance, Crystelle screamed in mock horror. 'Get rid of that one, darling, quickly! It looks like a large Chinese family called the Chins has moved into my neck!'
Rosie giggled, then with a dramatic gesture deleted the offensive image. With seven strong pictures finally selected, Rosie showed Crystelle the three she planned to send to the Sentinel.
'Why not send the lot?' Crystelle asked.
'I want to save some for Australian Woman,' Rosie explained. 'They'll need a few for the "at home recovering fabulously" feature I'll give them exclusively. We'll get them to shoot something gorgeous of you for the main image.'
Crystelle smiled. 'You seem to have got the hang of the publicity business after all.'
'Well, if you think so that's certainly a compliment, but I doubt management would agree.'
'You know, publicity used to be about raising interest in programs and celebrities,' Crystelle mused, still in a sentimental mood. 'Again, you seem to have missed the good times, I'm afraid, when the publicity director of the network was someone to respect. These days it's about keeping losers like that nasty Graham Hunt out of the papers and spreading vile rumours about the opposition. Hardly noble.'
'I certainly agree that what I do is far from noble,' Rosie laughed. 'I think TV publicists are way down the scale somewhere between used car salesmen and crystal meth dealers these days.'
'A tragedy if you ask me!' Crystelle declared, noticing her pesky glass had somehow managed to empty itself again.
Rosie refilled it and splashed a large glug into her own before dialling Greg Leach's number at the Sentinel.
'Greg, it's Rosie.'
'Rosie, about time! Where have you been? Is it true Crystelle Callaghan has been in an accident? The news desk is going nuts here. Is she okay?'
'She's with me right here, Greg. Although I'm not quite sure she's well enough to speak to anyone at the moment,' she said, watching Crystelle take a large sip of red wine. 'Of course, I'll see what I can do . . .'
'Rosie, we would obviously love the exclusive on this one.'
'Yes, I know you would, Greg, but there would need to be a tradeoff.'
'Rosie, what are you up to? You know these things aren't my call—'
'Greg, just listen. You can have exclusive pics and quotes on a small proviso – lay off writing about Network Six for twenty-four hours. Just give us a break altogether and don't take a swipe at anyone tomorrow. It will be a challenge. See if you can go one edition without putting the boot into someone here.'
Rosie hoped this would be enough to stop any leaks regarding The Darkness' behaviour at the drama presentation making it into 'Secret Sydney' – meaning the head of entertainment might actually lay off her as well.
'Rosie, the Hunt story is still hot. I don't know if I can.'
'Fine. This one goes to the Tribune then. I mean, I hardly owe the Sentinel any favours . . .'
Crystelle handed Rosie her glass of wine as she waited for Greg's response, giving her a thumbs-up for her hard-headed approach.
Finally, the silence was broken. 'How hurt is she?' Greg asked.
'Greg, it's Crystelle. How hurt do you want her to be?'
Rosie winked at Crystelle, who beamed back.
'And the pics?'
'Just call me Annie Leibowitz,' Rosie replied.
'And they're exclusive to us?'
'You and your interstate counterparts.'
'Have I told you that lately you're turning into a real ball-tearer?'
'Why, Greg, you say the sweetest things. So, we have a deal?'
'Yes, we have a deal. But I have one request for you.'
'And what would that be?'
'That I get to sit next to you at the Sports Hall of Fame dinner in Adelaide next week.'
'I think that's most do-able. We have ourselves a deal. Oh look, Crystelle has just woken. Shall I ask her if she's strong enough for a quote right now?'
'Rosie, it's Crystelle Callaghan. She could give quotes in a coma!'
'Now, Greg, you're talking about a legend here. And a personal friend of mine. You wouldn't want to do anything to upset Crystelle around me.'
'Oh yeah, and risk getting lynched by our readers. Don't worry, we love Crystelle at the Sentinel.'
'That's what I like to hear. I'll put her on.'
Rosie passed the phone to Crystelle, then listened as the great lady charmed Greg Leach with her tale of near-death. She had just landed Crystelle the front page of every major Australian newspaper. And for once, she actually felt proud of her job.
CHAPTER 26
Rosie regretted Salty Sam's the minute she walked through its faux cabin doors. The gaudy, neon-lit restaurant was an assault – or should that be insult – to the senses. Screaming children wearing flimsy paper pirate hats and plastic eye-patches were running unchallenged, their beleaguered parents relishing the respite from responsibility. Fishing nets overhead held plastic seashells, papier-mâché anchors, faded rubber seaweed strands and tacky hidden treasure trinkets. The fake timber hull walls were complete with portholes looking out on the car park and the captain's-wheel tables were accessible only by walking a plastic plank. Rosie grimaced, but it was too late to turn back and have a lovely birthday picnic in the park. She was stuck in Salty Sam hell.
'Aye, me hearties,' squawked a large man who smelt of stale whiskey and BO, dressed in a heavy wool pirate outfit. The sad stuffed macaw on his shoulder looked to Rosie like a bird flu casualty. 'What a fine crew we have here! Are we ready to set sail?'
'Salty Sam!' Leon screamed, clearly impressed with this sad NIDA reject who, on closer inspection, was not as old as he looked. He was probably around Rosie's age, but pickled from alcohol and a day job that made Ronald McDonald's look like Jack Nicholson's.
'Leon Lang party,' Rosie informed the stinky pirate.
'Just as well ye's on time or I'd have ye
scrubbing the decks,' he said. His annoyingly overanimated manner reminded her of those Marcel Marceau wannabe mimes who haunted Pitt Street Mall at Christmas, just asking to be punched by harried shoppers.
'Some of ye crew is already here, ready to set sail,' he continued. 'I'll take ye to the deck. Ho ho ho, me hearties.'
Rosie checked her watch. One pm on the dot. Past the yardarm somewhere in the world, surely?
'Ah, Sam,' she whispered, copping a whiff of the stale sweat-lined felt of his pirate hat. 'Ye wouldn't have a wee old dram of rum for this thirsty mum, would ye?'
'I'm afraid we don't,' Sam replied in his regular voice, coarse from smoking and late nights. 'But let me tell you, if I had a gold doubloon for every time a parent asked me that . . .'
Rosie grinned. Still, it has to be better than the office, she told herself.
'Let me find ye your serving wench,' Sam said, back in character. As he waved his arm skyward, Rosie noticed the poor bastard had a rubber hook for a hand and hoped he was covered under a decent award-wage for the indignity of it all.
A sad-looking girl who would have been pretty if not for her sullen pout arrived, dressed in a long skirt, apron and peasant blouse tied low to reveal her ample wobbling cleavage.
I bet she's a hit with the dads missing their weekend game of golf to come here, Rosie thought.
'I'm ye wench, Mary,' she said with as much gusto as 'pass me the salt'. 'Here's ye crew kit,' she continued, passing Leon a plastic bag with a Jolly Roger on the front and useless pirate tat inside. The little boy's face lit up as though he had been handed a winning lottery ticket. 'Follow me and I'll take ye to your shipmates.' As she walked ahead Rosie noticed serving wench Mary was wearing fluoro green Crocs on her feet.
Rosie couldn't help but laugh out loud as she entered the private party room with its handwritten, Blu-tacked sign saying 'Captain Leon's Ship'. Seated awkwardly at the large faux-wood table were her mother Vera and dad Mick, both wearing pirate hats way too small for their adult-size heads. Vera's sat perilously atop her salon-set hair, stuck to the layers of lacquer she sprayed on daily to create her immovable helmet.
At the other end of the table, sitting as far from Vera as possible, were Jeff and Heather, both looking timid in their undignified get-ups.
This might be more fun than I first thought, Rosie realised as she saw Jeff sneer at his surrounds.
Leon, clearly overwhelmed with excitement and not knowing who to run to and cuddle first, pulled at her hand, interrupting her ungracious thoughts. This is his day. Must be tolerant and loving mother . . . Rosie followed behind her boy to say her hellos.
'Thanks for coming, Mum and Dad. It means the world to Leon to have you here.'
'Well, he is our only grandchild,' Vera said curtly.
Realising Vera was in one of those moods that could bring on the beginning of World War III, Rosie quickly moved on to Jeff and Heather.
'Thanks so much for coming, both of you,' she said, applauding herself for being so warm, generous and grown-up.
'Thank you, Rosie,' Heather replied politely. When Jeff remained silent, she nudged him softly with her elbow.
'Couldn't you have found somewhere else to hold the kid's party?' he finally piped, resentment evident in his every word. It seemed Jeff was still smarting over the slap Rosie had given him. That or the tongue-lashing he had no doubt received from Vera over the custody question.
'This is where Leon wanted it, Jeff. It is his birthday, after all.'
Jeff glowered.
'He's just angry because the swell is good at the moment,' Heather said, throwing her fiancé an angry glare. 'Ignore him.'
Rosie realised she did not or could not dislike Heather, which only made her want to more. Looking at her with Jeff, Rosie realised that Leon had a whole other family in his life, one with a loving couple at the helm.
Leon probably would be better off with them, Rosie realised. Heather is a better mother than I am. She felt sick to her stomach.
Next to arrive were the Little Darlings Daycare gang. Rosie had allowed Leon to ask his four favourite friends and was ecstatic that the first name on his list was Elroy Jones. Most of the mothers who had replied had seen the party invitation as an afternoon off from their kids, asking Rosie if she would mind if they didn't attend. She didn't. At all. Daniel Jones saw it as another sort of opportunity altogether, RSVPing that he and Elroy would be there, with bells on. Being the considerate darling he was, Daniel had picked up the other boys and so they all arrived en masse, wriggling with excitement at being out together. Rosie's self-loathing faded away as she caught sight of him. He looked even more handsome than she remembered, in that dishevelled, comfortable, all-male way of his.
'Hello, gorgeous,' he whispered, kissing Rosie's cheek softly. 'Am I happy to see you again.'
'Back at you big time,' Rosie replied, feeling the blush rising up her cheeks. 'I've missed you.'
'So, where's your ex?' he asked, prewarned that Jeff would be attending. 'Best I know where the daggers will be coming from.'
'He knows nothing about you, so I wouldn't be too worried about Jeff. My mother . . . well, that's another story,' Rosie replied, cocking her head in Vera's direction.
'No problem,' he said, quickly glancing at Vera, who sat stiffly, refolding the children's paper napkins. 'Mothers love me.'
'Yeah, well my mother is a challenge, I warn you. And don't expect my dad Mick to help you out at all. She doesn't let him get a word in. In fact, I can't recall him getting out an entire sentence in the past fifteen years.'
As wench Mary returned with a tray laden with salty fries, battered onion rings, fried fish fingers and every other breading, fat and filler combination imaginable, Rosie felt her emergency phone vibrate in her pocket.
'Daniel, will you cover me for a moment? I have to take this call.'
'Sure,' he replied. 'I'm going in for a full charm offensive with your mother.'
'Good luck.'
'I won't need it. Trust me.'
'Oh yes you will, Daniel. Trust me!'
Rosie was just about to step outside with her phone when she saw Lou and Stephen being escorted to Captain Leon's room by wobbly Salty Sam. Hastily she waved at them, indicating she would be back in a moment. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn Lou rolled her eyes as she noticed the phone in her hand.
'Rosie Lang.'
'Where are you? All hell has broken loose.'
'Can I ask who I'm speaking to?' Rosie replied, trying to delay the inevitable a moment longer.
'It's Simon Nash. I need you at the office. Now.'
'Simon, I'm sorry, but that is impossible. It's my son's birthday. This time I must say no.'
Rosie could hear Simon groan in frustration.
'Perhaps I can help you from here if it's a matter of a phone call,' Rosie continued, hoping Simon would soften. 'What's the problem?'
'It's the Makeover This Mess contestants. Tell me you haven't sent out the press material yet.'
'It went out last week, Simon, you know that. You were the one rushing me to get the new contestants' profiles out there.'
'Well, there's a problem.'
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