CHAPTER 29
The first drink had managed to take the edge off her anxiety following the Balls Eye meeting and would have been enough, had Greg not insisted she have a second and a third as well. Or was it four? Whatever, Rosie was feeling a hell of a lot better than she had an hour earlier.
Greg's litany of compliments had also helped. Even though he went over the top with his praise, Rosie had lapped up every kind word. It had been so long since a man spoke to her like that, especially one she knew so intimately. And didn't Greg remind her of that! It seemed he remembered every detail of their love-making, even better than she did. He had already recalled the time they were at a film festival in the Domain that got rained out, sending thousands out of the park to escape the deluge while they stayed put for the drenching. Never one to miss an al fresco opportunity, Greg lured her to the shelter of a Moreton Bay fig, where he greedily entered her as she stood, latching on to her thighs and lifting her higher into each thrust.
'We were unbelievable together, Rosie,' Greg whispered, his warm breath on her neck. 'I've never had that with another woman and I doubt I ever could. I realise now it's you. It's always been you.'
Rosie felt her body yield to his words and bit the inside of her lip to stifle a hungry groan. She felt his hand press the inside of her thigh and a bolt of adrenalin pulsed from his touch. It was going to be a challenge to avoid a repeat performance with Greg. Must remember Daniel Jones. Loyal and lovely Daniel . . .
'There you are!' a voice screeched out of nowhere. 'Not happy, Rosie, not happy at all.' Trent Allenby mounted the bar stool beside her. Oblivious to the interrupted intimacy, he continued to whine: 'Table D, darl? D! Hello? Didn't fly all the way to Adelaide coach to be at a dud table.'
Rosie was about to answer Trent when Greg butted in first. 'Excuse me, but I was talking to the lady, you rude little prick.'
'Greg, enough!' Rosie replied tersely. She felt herself blushing, anxious that Trent might sense the sexual tension he'd just shattered between them.
'Well, I didn't realise this was a private party,' Trent said knowingly. 'I forgot how close you two are. Catching up on old times, are we?'
Rosie felt herself flush scarlet and mentally willed Greg's hand to move off her leg and out of Trent's view. The last thing she needed was the radio gossip reporter turning her into news again.
'What's wrong, Trent?' Rosie said, trying to appear nonplussed. 'I made sure you were on a front table. I can't see what your problem is.'
'Er, no decent celebs, darl. I was hoping I'd be on Graham Hunt's table – that's sure to be the fun one.'
'Very funny, Trent, but Graham's working tonight and, I can assure you, is a changed man, so I doubt you'll be missing out on anything at all. Would you like a drink before we head in to dinner?'
'Well, as you're paying, yes I would. Champagne. French, natch.'
Flustered, Rosie ordered Trent a glass and another round for herself and Greg. This was going to be a long night and she needed all the help she could get to make it through.
* * *
Rosie had quite a buzz on by the time she had made sure all her journos had found their seats in the massive hotel ballroom. She noticed the main Six table was still empty and wondered what was keeping the executives, as the telecast was about to begin. As Russ entered, deep in conversation with Simon Nash, she understood the delay. The head of sport had obviously left the meeting with her and gone straight to his mate, The Darkness, to bitch about her bawling him out. Nash flashed Rosie a cool stare as he passed her table, followed by Russ, who made a throat-cutting gesture with his hand as he caught sight of her. Rosie flinched.
'What the fuck is that about?' bellowed Greg, who was seated beside her.
'Oh nothing. We just had a few terse words earlier, that's all.'
'He can't do that to you,' Greg said angrily. 'I'm going to thump the spineless little shit. How fucking dare he!'
'Please, Greg, no,' Rosie yelled frantically, and reached out to stop him rising from his seat. It was too late. Greg was already up and struggling to untangle himself from the tablecloth snagged under his chair leg. As he grappled with it, his glass fell onto the parquetry floor, causing an almighty smash. All heads turned in his direction, then to the red pool of wine surging along the floor towards the electrical wiring leading to camera 2, poised nearby.
Rosie stood abruptly to signal for a waiter when the lights dimmed and a voice boomed into the room: 'Ladies and gentlemen, Network Six and Tang.Inc are proud to present the forty-seventh Annual Sports Hall of Fame. Your hosts for this evening are Mark Reynolds, Tony Craven and Roy Burtaluco from Balls Eye, and the newest addition to the team, Graham Hunt. Let's give them a hand.'
Rosie grabbed her glass of wine and gulped greedily, praying that Hunt would keep to her script. Something told her that no matter how much she had coached him, his mouth was a runaway train.
A round of applause greeted the men as they stepped onto the stage in their dinner suits, Mark Reynolds pulling at his bow tie awkwardly as was his trademark habit. Roy Burtaluco looked into the audience, acknowledging friends with a tilt of the head or double-finger point. Tony Craven, the most alpha of the all-alpha group, took the microphone first.
'Well, well, haven't we all scrubbed up well,' he said, looking at the front tables where the sporting greats were seated in their penguin suits. 'Welcome to the evening. We've got a great show ahead of us and some top shelf entertainment to enjoy, but in the meantime, I guess I'd better introduce you to this bloke over here – not that you don't know him already.'
Light applause followed as a sheepish Graham Hunt joined Tony at the centre microphone.
'Well, mate, welcome to the team.'
'Er, thanks, Cravo, it's great to be here.'
'Mate, you're better known as a newsman. What's made you want to join us on Friday nights?'
'Well, Cravo, I'm a mad sports fan, always have been. So it's a dream come true for me to join you blokes. I'm really looking forward to it.'
'Now, mate, I guess we'd better clear up a few things about you that have been in the news lately. Seems you've had a bad trot press-wise.'
'Mate, you're not wrong there, but you can't believe everything that's written.'
'So, you want to tell us what went on?'
'Well, for a start, I was having a few problems with my missus, so I went to let off some steam and things got a bit out of hand.'
'As they do, mate, as they do.'
'Anyway, it's all water under the bridge now and I'm just happy to be back at work and doing what I love, which is watching sport and talking sport.'
'Yeah, well, we're happy to have you, mate. Guess it's a lesson learnt, huh?'
'Sure is, Cravo. I can tell you from now on I'm putting bros before hos and keeping my nose clean, so to speak.'
'Nice form, mate. Now, if you want to do the honours and introduce the first award tonight . . .'
Oh god. Rosie gulped the last of her wine and poured another to the brim as she watched the journalists leave their seats and run to the exit doors, some already talking into their mobile phones. She turned to Greg, who was standing, patting down his pockets in search of his notepad.
'You too?' she asked, hopelessly.
'Sorry, babe, but bros before hos? The guy is asking for it. I can still make the first edition if I file now. I'll be back in five. Hang in there, beautiful.'
With that, Greg kissed the top of Rosie's head and left the auditorium to join the rest of the reporters about to bang the last nails in Graham Hunt's coffin.
CHAPTER 30
By the time she arrived at the awards after-party in the hotel's famous Mahogany Bar, Rosie was tipsy but doing her damn best to hide it. It was not the time to lose it.
Hic!
Looking around her, she realised she could have been humping the ice sculpture for all anyone cared; the old boys were all well on the way to sloshed and the young bucks weren't far behind. Stories of golden tries, tr
iumphant tackles and last-minute comebacks that made Lazarus look lame were being spun in every corner. Arms were draped around the shoulders of the normally homophobic, along with slurred declarations of 'I really love you, mate' and 'You're like a brother to me.'
Rosie always wondered why, after a few drinks, men decided to proclaim undying love, hug, kiss and rumble each other to the floor like Greco-Roman wrestlers. This, along with their habitual ball-fondling in public, as though no one would notice they were having a good old fiddle, had her stumped.
And men think women are hard to understand!
While on the subject of ball players, Rosie became aware that the network's own master of the right ball off the side pocket, Johnno Johnston, was heading in her direction through the packed carousers. She tried to avoid eye contact but it was too late.
'Big night, huh?' Johnno said, his bloodshot eyes darting to her breasts and staying there. Burly blokes jostled behind him, occasionally knocking him off his already tenuous balance.
'That's an understatement, Johnno,' Rosie replied, stepping back to put some air between herself and his reeking breath. Johnno was a good-looking guy with undeniable charm, but this rapidly diminished after a few drinks. Rosie had experienced the network programmer full snort with a skinful before and wasn't keen for an encore. Especially tonight.
'Yeah, I heard about your spat with Russ. He's pretty pissed off,' Johnno continued, leaning in to try and close the gap Rosie had opened up.
'Well, so am I actually,' she replied, 'especially seeing Hunt went out and put his foot in it despite everything he was told.'
'I thought he did great out there,' Johnno replied, incredulous that Rosie didn't share his opinion. 'A real breath of fresh air!'
Rosie was dismayed to realise he meant it.
'I reckon he'll be great for the show,' Johnno continued. 'Fuck knows the ratings could do with a kick along. And the press just seem to love the guy.'
There was no use pointing out Hunt's gaffe, so Rosie threw back another large gulp of red. How could she explain to someone like Johnno that Hunt getting his photo on the front page of every paper in Australia with a large black censor bar over his evidently erect penis did not constitute being loved by the press? It was slow death by newsprint.
Rosie actually felt a modicum of pity for Hunt. He'd gone from being a potential national television institution – literally having a job for life and one held in high esteem by the community at large – to an F-grade celebrity on a par with a last season Big Brother housemate. He was hanging on to his fame by brittle splitting fingernails. Stuff up again and he'd be hosting drag car race nights and selling hair replacement products or, worse, impotency cures on late-night TV. Rosie took time to be grateful for her overwhelming desire to avoid fame at any cost. She also thanked herself that she wasn't addicted to cocaine like Hunt who, when she ordered him to his room after the telecast, was sporting a telltale white ring around the nosie.
'You know, Rosie,' Johnno murmured, moving in close, his foul breath coating her in stale beer, 'I reckon we should be friends. I've always fancied you, you know. You've got balls.'
'Er, thanks, Johnno,' Rosie replied.
'Yeah, you're a feisty bit of tail,' Johnno slurred. 'I bet you're a demon fuck.'
Rosie couldn't believe what she thought she'd heard. It must have been scrambled by the crowd noise.
'A demon what, Johnno?'
'A demon fuck. You know, a wild thing. I bet you go like the clappers in the cot.' As he spoke, Johnno was bumped from behind again and tumbled towards her, slopping his beer all over Rosie's skirt. Shocked stupid, she could only look on mutely.
'You know, I reckon you and I should get to know each other a little better, don't you think?' Johnno continued, oblivious to the spillage.
It was all Rosie could do to swallow back her own vomit at the thought of what he was suggesting. 'No, I don't think, Johnno,' she replied, forcing him away with both her hands. 'In fact, the only thing I do think is that you should call it a night.'
'Coming with me then?' he leered, wobbling on his feet and sending ripples of amber spilling over his schooner lip again.
Rosie'd had enough. 'Frankly, Johnno, I'd rather sew myself up than let you anywhere near me.'
'You'll show up,' he replied, mishearing her over the din, 'you little beauty. I'll see you in my room then.'
As he patted his pocket looking for his room key, a large man with his tie at half mast slapped his back, sending the remains of his beer flying over Rosie's borrowed gown. Rather than knee him in those much-loved testicles of his, Rosie used the messy diversion to slip away from her captor, working her way purposefully to the end of the bar through the thick crowd.
Once out of the programmer's sight – and grasp – she sighed, contemplated a cigarette and looked around for a friendly face. It didn't take her long to spot a wobbly Greg leading a small and similarly inebriated gathering in a round of tequila shots. By the looks of the emptied glasses sticking to the table around them, it wasn't the first.
'Rosie, babe, come and join us for a shot,' Greg called out a little too loudly.
His gang joined in, beckoning Rosie over with arm gestures. One stumbled off his stool and grabbed her by the arm, physically steering her into the throng. Happy to be cloistered away from Johnno, she grabbed the tiny glass and a piece of lemon, downed the acrid liquor, then sucked the sourness from the fruit. She felt the warmth hit her in a wave of euphoria and closed her eyes to savour its full tranquillising bliss.
'That's my girl,' Greg whispered, slamming down his shot and loudly demanding another.
Rosie was amazed at how much alcohol Greg could put away and felt a pang of distress. Greg had always been a big drinker – all journos were, it was practically in the job description – but he had been at it solidly for a good ten hours straight now and, despite being well gone, he showed no sign of easing up. Things were bound to get ugly.
'No more for me, thanks, I'm going to call it a night,' she protested as Greg forced another shot into her hand.
'Like hell you are, babe, we've only just begun,' he countered, wrapping his arm around her clumsily and drawing her near.
'No, I mean it, Greg. I'm covered in beer and I've had enough, honestly. You enjoy, but I have to get going.'
'I'm coming with you then,' he proclaimed, nestling his lips in her hair in an ill-aimed attempt to find her mouth. As she tried to push him away, Greg lost his footing and fell backwards into the table, knocking it and its stack of empty glasses over with a mighty ruckus.
'Whoa, mate,' a member of the drinking party hollered, trying to set him back on his feet with no luck. Greg lurched again, winding up on his bum on the floor. It took two men to lift him upright. The reporter swayed and teetered threateningly as the crowd looked on momentarily before turning back to their beers.
'More drinks,' Greg shouted to no one in particular, bracing himself against the righted table.
'Greg, you've had enough,' Rosie said. 'Maybe you should call it a night too.'
Greg winked knowingly, taking this as an offer to join her. He gathered his cigarettes, sodden from the spillage, and followed her out of the bar.
While Greg may have grabbed her arm as a gesture of tenderness initially, it soon became a crutch as he staggered alongside her. Rosie had to heave him through the thick crowd, out into the foyer and then into the lift.
'This time things are going to be different with us, babe,' Greg slurred as they ascended to their floor. 'I mean that,' he added, once again going in for a kiss. This time he made it as far as her nose. Rosie felt his tongue wriggle in her nostril and was repulsed.
The Boys' Club Page 25