'What problem?'
'It seems the producers didn't do their background checks properly. One has a prison record. Klaus Heinrich.'
Rosie sighed. She knew this would happen one day. That was the problem with reality television: you were using real people and, as such, their murky pasts and unknown histories. It was just a matter of time.
'What was he in for?'
'You're not going to like it.'
'Just tell me, Simon.'
'Child porn.'
Rosie groaned in disgust, feeling dirty for even knowing a low life piece of scum who could exploit a child. She thought back to last week when she had lunched the new contestants to brief them on what they could expect press-wise when the series went to air. As last year's series was a fluke hit, there was a lot of pressure on this year's show to be an even bigger ratings bonanza, with advertisers paying a premium to have their products featured in the family-friendly timeslot.
Klaus Heinrich had been particularly savvy about the potential to build a profile for himself, making Rosie wary from the beginning.
She knew that the fame-hungry ones were the ones to watch when it came to publicity, shooting their mouths off to get a few more column inches, often at the expense of the network and, worse, the advertisers. But someone involved in kiddie porn? Even as a die-hard pacifist, Rosie was borderline on the death penalty when it came to people who abused kids. And to have actually given him publicity? Oh god.
'How do you know this, Simon? Does anyone else know?'
'I've heard the Sentinel is all over it.'
'I haven't heard a word from the Sentinel,' Rosie replied, mentally cursing Greg Leach, her supposed friend.
'Well trust me, they are,' Simon continued. 'You have to stop them, Rose. You have to hold them off until we can recast him. It's going to cost a fortune but we can still do it.'
'Simon, if they have his record, there's nothing we can do. It's public information. Have you called Richard Barker? What's his legal opinion?'
'He's gone caving and I can't get through. I've left countless messages. He'll call back as soon as he can.'
Caving? It takes all sorts to work in television, Rosie thought to herself.
'Hold on, Rose,' Nash said. 'There's another call coming through. It might be Barker.'
As Rose was left to the easy listening music on Nash's phone – trust him to make her endure Kenny G – she caught sight of Leon and his gang through the large porthole window nearby. They were playing pass the parcel with wench Mary and Salty Sam, with lovely Daniel looking on.
Hurry up, Nash! I have to get back in there.
Several more excruciatingly long minutes passed until he re-emerged on the line.
'Was that Richard?' Rosie asked hopefully.
'No, it was my trainer. I'm missing weights today because of this.'
Weights? I am missing my bloody son's birthday!
'So, Rose, I need you to call the Sentinel and tell them that if they publish one word about Heinrich we'll file that many lawsuits they won't see daylight for barristers' wigs. Tell them we have our full legal team working on it. Scare them, Rose. Tell them whatever it takes to stop them. It will be the end of us both if Keith hears about this.'
Rosie had very little knowledge of the legal system but what she did know made Simon's suggestion preposterous at best. Her days on court rounds had taught her that, legally, anything goes once it has been admitted in court, except for cases heard in the children's court, or rape cases in which names are suppressed for obvious reasons. Suddenly she needed a cigarette. Big time. She looked around her and noticed a cutout of a treasure chest hiding overflowing rubbish skips.
'Are you still there?' Simon asked frantically as Rosie squatted inelegantly behind the bins and lit up.
'Yes, I'm still here. Simon, I don't want to do this. It just doesn't seem right.'
'There's no other choice, Rose. Hold on, another call's coming in.'
Noooo! Hurry up!
Rosie had enough time to finish her cigarette and light another one before Simon spoke again: 'Rose, you still there?'
'Yes, Simon, I'm still here. Tell me that was Richard and that he's going to look after things.'
'No, that was the car wash. My car's in being detailed. Now, where were we? Oh yes, I want you to call the Sentinel now. You know those bastards, you worked there. Tell the editor we're serious.'
'Simon, I do know the editor and I also know he's not going to like this one little bit.'
'Listen, Rose, I don't care what you think. Just fucking call him. Now. And call me straight back.'
Rosie felt ill. Dizzy sick. But it was nothing compared to how she felt when she looked up and saw her mother, Jeff and Lou staring down at her as smoke streamed from her trembling lips.
'Hard day at the office?' Jeff said facetiously, turning to Vera and adding, 'See, this is exactly what I've been talking about.'
'Shut up, Jeff,' Vera barked, hating to be told so by anyone. 'Rose!' she screamed as she turned. 'You're smoking! How could you do this to me? You know it worries me sick. I don't know how I'll tell your father you've taken up cigarettes again. It will kill him!'
Rosie could feel tears welling and cursed the cigarette still smouldering between her fingers. She looked at Lou, pleading with her eyes for her friend to intervene, but Lou was not projecting any warmth back. In fact, she seemed as angry as the others.
'Babe, it's your son's birthday,' Lou hissed. 'Surely work can wait a while, at least until he blows out the candles on his cake, for fuck's sake. Sorry, Vera.'
'That's quite all right, Lou,' Vera replied, pumped she had an ally. 'There are certain instances where I believe swearing is appropriate and unfortunately my daughter has provided just such an instance.'
Rosie had never felt so powerless in her life as she squatted behind the ludicrous painted treasure chest. There was no one to turn to for sympathy or solace. Everyone was against her now. They could all see what a terrible mother she had become, what a waste of a human being she really was.
'It's just that there's been a major drama at work,' Rosie began, her tone as pitiful as her excuse.
'Gee, really,' Jeff said, feigning shock. 'That's a surprise.'
'Rosie, are you there?' It was Simon again, his timing as impeccable as ever.
'Hang on, Simon, I'll be with you in a moment,' Rosie replied, her hangdog eyes still focused on her assailants. 'Look, there really is a drama,' she told them. 'I just need to make a quick call and I'll be back in there. Honest.'
'Rosie, come on, honey. It's his birthday!' Lou said angrily.
'I know that, Lou,' Rosie retorted. 'Do you think I want to be here like this?'
Lou folded her arms in frustration, then turned and walked back into the restaurant with a now-smug Jeff following close behind.
'Well, are you coming?' Vera asked angrily.
'I said five minutes, Mum!'
'I know all about your five minutes these days, Rosemarie Lang! Just try to get back inside before the children go home, will you?'
As Vera walked off, Rosie realised her legs had set into a cramp from crouching so long, and she fell back into the mud behind the skips. With nothing left to lose she remained seated in the smelly muck, lit another cigarette and returned to her call.
'For god's sake, Rose, can you concentrate on your job,' Simon barked. 'I'm not in the office on a weekend to be put on hold while you're having a party. Now, are you going to ring the Sentinel? You had better bloody well say yes . . .'
Like a beaten dog, Rosie whimpered, 'Yes,' then hung up, dialled the main Sentinel number and asked for the editor's office.
CHAPTER 27
As she waited at the Qantas VIP lounge for the last of her journalists, Rosie gritted her teeth, knowing they too would arrive in a foul mood, having discovered their seats to Adelaide were economy. It was true that most networks flew journalists business class, something Bettina and Tang.Inc management were quick to discount as
grossly unnecessary at Six. Rosie remembered what Crystelle had told her about how it used to be and cursed her own timing yet again.
I am so not meant to be a publicist.
What made the waiting all the more intolerable was that she had several more quips to endure if the ribbing she'd received from every journalist who'd arrived thus far was any indication. Ever since the Sentinel had come out with their front page exposé on Makeover This Mess contestant Klaus Heinrich and the sidebar news story about Six's lame attempt to keep the lid on it, Rosie had been copping flack from her former colleagues. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit they had a point. Rosie felt she had sold a bit of her soul that day, and vowed to herself she would never do it again. Her boundary had been reached.
Her ponderings were interrupted as a flash of Vuitton suit-bag and blonde-tipped, product-heavy hair moved into view.
Oh shit! Here he is . . .
It was none other than Trent Allenby, the snidely camp gossip reporter from the Fox & Ron radio show. As his daily spot was syndicated, Rosie had reconciled herself to the fact that his audience reach was too big to ignore, and asked him to attend the Sports Hall of Fame live telecast dinner despite herself. It was not going to be easy, though, as Rosie was still fuming over his special on-air mention of her the day Hunt's loo blue was exposed. They had too much history for him to do that to her and expect to get away with it.
Trent gave her one of those double air kisses that actually never make contact with either cheek, as though he was worldly and European. This made Rosie chuckle, remembering when Trent Allenby had been Bruce Barnes from Mascot. Rosie had attended a birthday party at his family home when they were young cadets together and distinctly remembered his roots as aluminium clad under flight path, not the winter ski lodge, summer beach house scenario he claimed now.
'Darling, fabulous to see you looking so well. You have lost So-Much-Weight! You must be thrilled. Clever girl! How did you do it?'
Rosie's smile didn't falter, despite her seething resentment. At least she had one necessary PR skill – a fake front. 'All hard work, let me tell you,' she replied, slapping her thighs and hating herself for it. She wasn't lying – it had been hard work. It wasn't as if she'd been to a spa resort and dropped a pleasant kilogram or three by going organic. It had been burnt off through sheer gut-scorching stress and an appetite that now extended only to certain varieties of red wine – drunk in bulk.
'Glad you could make it,' Rosie said, sweeping her arm towards the VIP lounge to indicate that Trent could go right on in, no need to stop and chat.
'Darl, you didn't tell me about economy!' Trent chided as he looked her up and down. 'I mean, I even tried using my own points to upgrade. Not happy!'
'Tell me about it!' Rosie countered, opening her hands wide to gesture helplessness. 'Blanket company policy now that everyone flies economy. I'm sitting right beside you, as are all the other journos. And if Keith Norman was here, he would be too.'
Trent still feigned put-out as he gazed over her shoulder to see if there was anyone more interesting to talk to. There obviously wasn't, as he continued: 'By the way, brave you for trying to stop the Sentinel story. Shame the network had no legal standing. Still, not like you'll ever be wanting a job back there again now you've crossed to the dark side of PR.' Trent had always been good with a cutting comment. Nothing had changed.
'Anyway, I should go and mangle with my fellow journalists,' he continued, waving coyly at the reporter from AAP. 'Let's just hope the bedbugs don't bite in my hotel room tonight!'
Rosie was surprised how happy she was to see Greg Leach arrive. There was something comforting in the familiarity of that roughly shaven face and his unchanged uniform of dishevelled shirt and jeans with cuffs dragged to a fray. She was even happier to see how pleased Greg seemed to see her too. Forgetting journo/publicist protocol, he embraced her with both arms, pulling Rosie groin on groin close. 'I've missed you,' he whispered warmly.
Being in such close proximity to heterosexual male flesh again had her prickling uncomfortably with sudden heat. Not to mention that Rosie knew this specimen's every inch, having travelled it with her tongue on many delightful occasions. Theirs had been a highly sexual relationship – bonk buddies at their bouncy best. And the memory of her sexual adventures with Greg still lit her from within.
Rosie pulled away, cursing her fair skin as Greg got a look at her blushing-red dial.
'Look at you, all girly and shy,' he laughed, tickling her playfully to dissipate the awkwardness. Then he looked her straight in the eyes and, flashing a mischievous grin, whispered: 'Something tells me you still like me too.'
He's right!
Daniel's warm smile flashed into Rosie's mind like a slap. How could she be blushing at Greg's attention when she was so desperately smitten with someone else? But then she had blown it with Daniel at Leon's party, only making it back as he was leaving to take the other kids home with their wrapped slices of Salty Sam birthday cake in tow. What's worse, Lou later informed her that Vera had been in Daniel's ear the entire party, no doubt enlightening him about Rosie's every flaw. Then again, Lou was so mad with her, she might have been exaggerating just to make Rosie feel that little bit worse – if that was possible. Still, there had been no text messages from Daniel since that day and Rosie was apprehensive about being the one to make the next move.
It wouldn't have worked out anyway. He was too good for me. It was a lovely dream.
With the last of her journos accounted for and boarding underway, Rosie felt all she needed now was one of those flags guides wave at museums as she ushered her group into the slow-moving economy queue. She tried not to notice the eye-rolling and defiant stances of her charges, still clearly incensed at the sheer indignity of it all.
'Well, well, well, what have we got here?' Trent suddenly cooed loudly, causing heads to swivel.
Rosie felt physically sick as she watched Russ, Nash and Johnno stroll smugly past them without even a glance of acknowledgement.
Don't do it! Don't you dare!
But they did, breezily strolling into the business class boarding lane, through check-in and straight on board. Blanket policy, huh?
'Look, the travel agents must have made a mistake,' Rosie piped up, failing to sound chipper. Every gossip writer in the country now had a tasty item for tomorrow's pages. Not bad, considering they hadn't even taken off yet.
As she slowly shuffled onboard the plane, Rosie practised her most evil glare so it was sharpened to white rage by the time she reached the boys sitting pretty in business, cold beers in hand. Russ seemed unfazed by Rosie's scowl and the accompanying journalists as they approached, focusing instead on his fast-disappearing beer. Anything not directly related to sport was unworthy of consideration in Russ's opinion. Unfortunately this also included people.
'Oh no, journalists. Let's jump!' Johnno joked cockily, unable to ignore the party filing past en masse. He stood and shook hands, greeting every journalist individually before they reluctantly moved on through the great dividing curtain. It was almost an art form, Rosie thought as she watched Johnno in action. With a bit of glad-handing he had not only atoned for the prior queue snub but had made each person feel special for that particular moment he held their gaze. He was a smooth operator, no doubt about it. No wonder girls' knickers seemed to fall down in his mere presence.
Rosie flashed her kill beams in Simon Nash's direction as she neared his seat. Unfortunately, he was playing his 'I'm far too busy for trivial courtesies' game, burying his head in the Fin Forecaster.
Pretentious git!
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