Rosie felt ready to take the three executives by the jugular one by one, but she would have to sit on her rage until they got off the plane. It could wait. It wasn't going anywhere.
Finding her seat number, she took her laptop out, then placed her bag in the overhead locker. She barely had her tray table down when Greg appeared, grinning.
'Surely this is my seat,' he said, plonking himself down beside her and adjusting his seatbelt. Rosie tried to remain cool, even when the writer from TV Talk magazine complained that Greg was sitting in his place.
'Here, have mine,' Greg answered, handing him his boarding card. 'Now piss off.'
'I can see you've lost none of your charm, Greg,' Rosie finally said, making sure not to look in his direction in case she was blushing again.
'Sweet of you to say,' he replied. 'I like you too.'
Rosie sat upright awkwardly, trying to prevent any part of her body accidentally brushing against his. She needn't have bothered.
'So, what can we do to amuse ourselves on a plane?' Greg said, loudly enough for others to hear. Then he placed his hand gently on her thigh, high up enough to make her yelp in shock as she batted it away.
'I don't know about you but I have some emails to answer,' Rosie said sternly, attempting to fend off more assaults.
'Oh, you're no fun any more,' Greg booed. 'I know, I'll help you answer them.'
'Greg,' Rosie said in frustration, pushing him back into his own seat. 'Behave!'
Rosie could see that Greg was enjoying toying with his old sparring partner. He was no doubt scrolling through some of the fun times they'd shared in the past. As she had never presumed their relationship would lead anywhere serious, their sex had been wild, unburdened by all that 'what will he think of me?' insecurity that could so easily put a handbrake on Rosie's libido when her heart was at risk. And if Greg's memories were half as nice as hers, it was unlikely he'd back off any time soon.
There was a reprieve from his taunts as the plane took off, forcing Rosie to shut down her laptop temporarily, but as soon as the bar service started, the games recommenced.
'A bottle of your finest red for the young lady and I,' Greg demanded of an attendant still serving several rows ahead.
'I'll be with you shortly, sir,' she replied.
Rosie was impressed by how polite she was, being a domestic hostie and all. Rosie had run into some real horrors in her years flying, one in particular intimating that maybe she shouldn't be asking for a second bickie with her tea.
'But my friend and I are positively parched,' Greg complained.
Rosie was embarrassed by the time the attendant arrived.
'Finally, your finest red and leave the bottle,' Greg demanded.
'I'm sorry, sir, we only serve wine by the glass.'
'Well, that would make it eight glasses by my calculation. Two at a time should do it.'
'I'll just have a glass of pinot,' Rosie said to shut him up. 'And just one at a time will be fine for both of us, thanks,' she added, forcing her elbow into Greg's side.
Rosie sipped her wine then opened her Mac, pleased when it started up without a hitch. She was so hopeless with technology; if one thing went wrong she feared a complete meltdown – and not of the hard drive, but herself. She had lost too many stories in the past through computer glitches.
Her emails rolled in with a 'boing' sound, taking several seconds to scroll to a stop. Rosie scanned the list of names, looking for a response to something she'd sent earlier. She had only gone a short way when she realised Greg was looking over her shoulder.
'So, let me see what's going on,' Greg said, sculling his second glass of red. 'Anything about Alicia's mysterious new drama in there?'
Rosie abruptly snapped her computer shut.
'Greg, please. This isn't fair. I can't be your friend right now.'
'Oh, Rosie, that's crap. It's friends first, work second when it comes to you and me.'
'Yeah, buddy?' Rosie replied. 'And that's why you won't tell me who your "Secret Sydney" leak is? Not to mention that your paper ridiculed me by name last week.'
'Touché!'
Greg grinned, then nuzzled into her neck and whispered, 'I love it when you're feisty. Grrr.'
Rosie pushed him away, trying to act angry. Problem was, she wasn't. She adored Greg, always had, and was enjoying his attention, no matter how hard she tried not to. But Rosie couldn't help noting that she was not the only object of Greg's affection throughout the rest of the flight. Over the following two hours she watched him drink another six glasses of red in worryingly quick succession. And when the attendant told him the bar was closed for landing, he polished off Rosie's glass as well.
CHAPTER 28
Rosie checked her whooshed-up hair-do – Lou had loaned Rosie her dress on the proviso she wear it that way – decided it looked like a madwoman's sleep and shrugged. There was no time to rethink it now, so she grabbed her sequinned clutch bag, admired the seafoam Prada gown again, and cautiously opened her hotel door a crack.
Peering down the hallway, she was happy to see it was all clear – not a journo or executive in sight.
Rosie knew her room was close to the reporters on Level 11, as they had all checked in together. She wasn't sure where management was, though. Hopefully they had upgraded their rooms as well as their flights and were in another wing of the hotel – or at least on another floor. Anywhere but near her. It was bad enough living with these people at the network twelve hours a day, but now she was being forced to spend an entire twenty-four hours under the same roof as Nash, Johnno and Russ. Not only that, she had the network's entire sports team in her charge, including its latest recruit, Graham Hunt, the newest panellist of the Balls Eye team, making his first public appearance tonight since his humiliating return from Los Angeles.
As Rosie headed down the hall, she felt like she was in a Discovery Channel doco, one of those ones where you follow a cute little critter as it is born and bravely heads out on its own, only to be savaged by something large and nasty when least expected, turning the show from sweet to snuff in an ad break. Rosie was the very bottom of the food chain tonight and wondered whether she shouldn't just speed things up and sacrifice herself down a hotel lift well.
If she could get through the next twenty-four hours she could pretty well survive anything – the impending Kennedys bun fight included. At least at the Kennedy Awards, every network PR was there sweating it out, trying to keep their talent and executives off ledges as they bitched, blamed and complained if they lost or boasted, big-noted and bleated if they won – either way acting intolerably. But this was her gig alone. Not only did she have every leading media writer in the country sniffing for stories and gossip about management, she had most of management angling to get their names in print or, even better, planting nasty rumours about their rivals at the other networks.
To top it off, every sporting legend still taking breath was gathering downstairs in the hotel ballroom for the dinner and telecast. These greats were anything but for Rosie, as most were also Network Six commentators, lifestyle reporters and personal friends of Keith. As such all were under her charge until they were home from the function, happy and safe in bed and feeling adequately smug and important – and inebriated. Gatherings of such magnitude meant celebrating. Celebrating in TV land meant drinks. Drinks meant bad behaviour. Bad behaviour meant bad press. The lift well option was looking better all the time compared to the veritable five-alarm disaster Rosie sensed was waiting to happen.
It was because of Hunt's re-emergence from shame and seclusion that Rosie had asked the Balls Eye boys to meet two hours before the telecast so she could talk to them about how they should handle his return to television as a sports commentator. Rosie had already grilled the odious newsreader upon his return from LA, telling him in no uncertain terms that should he in any way stuff up again, his contract would be annulled under the appropriate behaviour clause. Even more terrifying, Keith would personally issue a fatwa on his bo
of head, ensuring he not only never worked in this town again, but might not even get to breathe its air sans respirator. Hunt was so repentant and contrite by the end of her sermon that Rosie wouldn't have been surprised to see him banging a tambourine for the Salvos in the foyer tonight, to make amends.
After booking a media room in the hotel for their meeting, Rosie had instructed Russ to tell his charges that they were to attend – no excuses accepted. The head of sport had reluctantly agreed, aware that recent media flack about the show being sexist had damaged ratings, which were down more each week despite the upcoming finals season. Recently there had been several unsavoury incidents involving prominent sportsmen that made Hunt's loo debacle look like a UN mission in comparison. Footy in particular was on the stink – and if footy ponged, so did Six's ratings.
Rosie asked Russ to get senior representatives of each sport, who were all in Adelaide for the event anyway, to attend the meeting as well, to see just what could be done to clean up Australian sport's image in general, and they had agreed.
In the foyer, Rosie caught a glimpse of herself in its enormous gilt-rimmed mirror and realised just how inappropriate her sheer green gown was, at least for such a meeting. But it was too late to change so she sucked in some breath and headed into the fray, head held high.
This is a meeting about sexism, dammit. The last thing I should be worried about is what I'm wearing!
As she entered the room, Rosie felt like a freshly slaughtered carcass being dipped into a pool of piranhas. Every eye in the room was diverted in her direction and all rested at chest level. Suddenly she wondered whether she should have worn a bra after all. She had hoped that under four layers of silk there would be no obvious nipple action, but the way she was being stared at made her feel as though she had just popped out of a cake swinging tassles.
Stuff Prada. I should have worn a burka!
'Well, well, well, don't you look tasty,' Russ finally piped up, inciting low grunts of agreement from the seated posse of men nursing full schooners around him. 'You look like you're out for some tonight.' A low rumble of laughter accompanied the lewd comment.
Rosie felt that annoying skin of hers heat with a blush and knew the men would interpret it as shyness rather than anger.
'Excuse me, Russell, but this meeting is supposed to be about stopping sexism, not starting it,' she countered. Her voice had an unmistakable tone of indignation in it.
Muffled chuckles followed, only this time it was Russ who was feeling the sting of embarrassment.
Rosie decided to continue while she had the upper hand: 'Gentlemen, may I open this meeting by pointing out that what our head of sport just said is a perfect example of an inappropriate comment to the opposite sex.'
All eyes in the room momentarily moved from Rosie's breasts to the head of sport, whose humiliation was evident. Not happy to be ridiculed in front of his boys, Russ pulled out his blokey guns.
'Oh, I see you're attracting sharks again tonight,' he said, and the room exploded with laughter. 'Jesus, seems like you've been on your rags for months now. Maybe you should see a doctor.'
Rosie was furious. She had heard the period joke a hundred – make that a thousand – times. 'Actually, Russ, maybe I should see a lawyer, because what you just said is actionable. It's only a matter of time before you say something like that to a woman who isn't as tolerant as I am and I hope – no, make that pray – I'm around to see it because not only will you lose your job, you'll also wind up in court.'
This time there was no laughter, which Rosie took as a sign to go on. 'Look, I like to think of myself as someone with a sense of humour, despite what Russ may think. But I'm also aware that your various sports are suffering big time. Not only are ratings down but bums on seats as well. I understand attendance is down at some football games a massive twenty-two per cent. That, gentlemen, is ouch. Personally, I wouldn't want to be any of you, justifying those stats to the board, but then it's not my job to tell you how to run your clubs. My job is to get viewers watching televised sport on Network Six. So, Russ, if you'd like to apologise for what you just said about me attracting sharks, perhaps we can commence our business? Oh, and by the way, these words are actually coming out of my mouth. If you're looking for it, it's about a foot higher than where you're staring.'
Rosie could feel herself shaking under her layers of frothy silk chiffon but willed herself with all her might not to buckle. She saw Russ clench his fist in anger and, for a moment, thought that very same fist might actually be heading in her direction. He prided himself on being not just one of the boys, but the leader of the pack. And she had just verbally castrated him. The tension in the room was tangible.
'Look, I guess she has a point,' Russ reluctantly acknowledged, ignoring Rosie to address the men. 'It seems we're losing sheilas at the ground and in ratings. I'm sure it's just a cyclical thing, but we should at least admit that some of the players have been having a bit too much fun on away games lately.'
Rosie couldn't believe what she was hearing.
A bit too much fun? Give me strength!
'Russell, I can assure you that women do not think spit-roasting a teenager in a hotel car park is a bit too much fun,' she interjected vehemently. 'Neither do they think men urinating on women on dance floors is a hoot. Public vomiting, brawling, glassing and text messaging profanities are also not a laugh a minute, all of which have made headlines in the last month alone! For god's sake, don't you realise rape and violence are not fun, but criminal!'
Rosie was shocked at just how angry she was. The irony was that her lecture on violence was making her want to head high tackle each and every bozo in the room, and put the boot in while they were down. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she studied the assembled execs. The heads of the football codes seated nearest her were trading concerned looks. Russ was still staring at her with undiluted rage while the Balls Eye panellists – including Hunt – all appeared mesmerised by the carpet at their feet. She couldn't tell which one of them did it, but a muffled cough that sounded a lot like the word 'woof' was heard, breaking the steely silence. Laughter erupted. Soon, the lot of them were giggling like boys at the back of the school bus. It took a couple of minutes before the older men joined in, some refraining from laughing out loud in a bid to remain serious.
Rosie gave up. 'All right. I can see this is going nowhere,' she exclaimed in frustration. 'We may as well end this meeting right now. I'll leave you with one thought, however. Graham Hunt is possibly the most loathed man in Australia at the moment. He not only cheated on his pregnant wife, he has been exposed as a woman beater and a drug addict. When he steps out on stage tonight as a new member of the Balls Eye team, every sports enthusiast in this country will be watching – men and women. The choice is yours, gentlemen. You can either dig Australian sport into a deeper grave or swing public opinion around using Hunt as a voice of contrition, apologising not only for his own failings but also for recent events.'
Again, silence reigned. Hunt looked sheepish as his new colleagues shot him accusing glances.
'If he's such a liability, how come we're being lobbed with him?' piped up an older man with a fat neck and a face that looked like it had taken one too many tackles. Rosie recognised him from the sports reports as the head of the football club involved in the spit-roasting incident.
'Because Keith Norman wants to use his infamy to get viewers to watch Balls Eye, that's why,' Rosie told him, knowing the Big Man's name would be the final word on the subject. 'Like I said, gentlemen, Hunt's appearance on the show will get people watching. Whether they like what they see is largely up to you. I know what the network wants – no, make that demands. I will now leave you to discuss this among yourselves but I hope you see that, in this instance, defence is not your best approach. In the meantime, I have to make sure every major media writer in this country is happy with their seating. Good luck, gentlemen, and goodbye.'
Rosie shuddered as the meeting room door slammed violently beh
ind her. 'Fucking Neanderthals,' she hissed under her breath, willing her welling tears to disappear. Rattled, she looked around for the hotel bar, needing a stiff drink to soothe her nerves. She didn't have to look for long. Greg Leach had just got out of the lift. She knew if she followed him, he'd lead her straight to it.
The Boys' Club Page 24