'Greg, that's gross. Get off me. Stop leaning on me. There's a wall there. Lean on that!'
'I really love you, Rosie. I mean that. You're the best, do you know that?' Greg blathered. 'That fuckface husband of yours doesn't know what he's lost. Never liked that smarmy prick myself. Mr Award Winner Wanker.'
Suddenly Rosie felt piously sober as she struggled to keep Greg upright long enough to get him to his room – and off her. Looking at that once cheeky face of his, now a roadmap of red lines, she realised he no longer looked laddish or larrikin. He looked sad and tired. And way too old for his age.
He isn't even forty!
'Where's your key, Greg?' Rosie demanded when they finally reached his door. As he let go of her to dig deep into his pocket, Greg lost his footing, sliding with a wallop onto his arse.
'Get up, Greg!' Rosie wailed. 'I can't deal with this! Get inside and go to sleep!'
Greg made no effort to rise, preferring to lie on the cool marble floor.
'Don't you dare!' Rosie yelled, kicking him in the ribs with her silver-shod foot. 'Get up and get inside! You can't sleep here!'
Greg made a noise like he was blowing bubbles and tried to roll over but failed. Not knowing what else to do, Rosie knelt down, put her hand in his trouser pocket and rummaged for his key. Finding the elusive piece of plastic, she put it in the key slot and opened the door, then physically rolled Greg into the entrance, pushing him with her feet, and shut the door behind them.
'Get up, Greg,' she pleaded, trying to prop him against the wall.
'I'm not feeling good,' he whimpered. Rosie noticed he had turned an insipid shade of grey and knew from experience what would come next.
'Into the bathroom, Greg, quick,' she cried, shaking him violently. 'Come on, mate, you can't be sick here.'
Rosie watched as Greg swallowed back a sharp spasm and frowned. It seemed he too knew what was about to come. Raising himself unsteadily, he got to his feet, banged into one wall and ricocheted off the one opposite. With a desperate lurch, he found the gap of the open bathroom door and staggered heavily inside.
Rosie grimaced as she heard the first retch, heave and loud splash. This scenario repeated itself until all she could hear was silence. Tentatively she moved towards the bathroom door and the horror scene behind it. There was Greg propped against the toilet bowl, his head resting on the open seat.
'Greg, are you okay?' Rosie asked, knowing from the look of him that an answer was redundant.
'I feel like hell,' he said limply, still not able to lift his head. Rosie surveyed her helpless friend with pity. Greg sensed her concern and latched on to his chance. 'Please don't leave me here alone. Please don't go.'
Rosie felt an empathetic pang. She remembered being in a similar condition herself more than once and how wretchedly awful – like the end of the world – it felt. She grabbed a face washer from the vanity and ran it under the cold tap, then folded and placed the damp cloth on Greg's brow.
'Thanks, Rosie,' he whimpered gratefully. 'Please stay. I don't want you to go.'
Rosie knew there was only one thing that helped in a situation such as this and that was the acidic burp that followed a sip of Coke. A dear friend of hers had used it on her once after a very large birthday party and it was the only thing that got her back on her feet when she felt she might never get upright again.
Hunting through Greg's minibar in search of sugary fizz, Rosie noticed it had seen plenty of action already. All the small liquor bottles had been emptied, along with the white and red wine. The last remaining bottle, the miniature of champagne, was also open – half drunk and drained of all zest. Checking out the mixers, she was in luck. Most hadn't been touched, meaning all those baby bottles had been drunk straight. Rosie shuddered at the thought, grabbed a can of Coke and sped back to the bathroom.
'Here, Greg, try to drink some of this,' she implored, placing the opened can close to his lips. 'It'll make you burp and you'll feel better, I promise.'
'I donwannit,' he yelped, his arm flailing, knocking the can from Rosie's grasp. The sticky brown liquid foamed and hissed angrily on the creamy tiled floor.
Realising Greg was in a very dark place, beyond help, Rosie conceded defeat, grabbed a large white towel from its rack and threw it around his shoulders.
'That's nice. You're nice,' he cooed, child-like. 'Stay with me, Rosie. I don't want you to go. Please tell me you won't leave me tonight?'
Looking at his pathetic state, Rosie realised she had no choice but to acquiesce. Grabbing another towel, she climbed into the bath, draped it over herself and reclined. Within minutes she was sound asleep and snoring.
CHAPTER 31
Rosie awoke to what she first thought was a twelve-gun salute, so loud was the crash. She soon realised she was not under military attack, but rather being subjected to the sound of a shower turned on at full capacity close by. As she rubbed at her itchy, mascara-clogged eyes, she wondered just what kind of hell she had woken up in. It was only when she saw Greg Leach naked in the glass cubicle that she began to put two and two together.
Rosie managed to take in the scene in more detail and was not happy. It was the bath scene from Psycho. She gathered she was the victim, the Janet Leigh, but couldn't quite comprehend why she was still alive despite feeling like death.
First off, she realised she was suffering an acute case of vulture neck. Her head was jammed ninety degrees to the right, as if she was about to overtake a car. It seemed that someone had also broken in during the night and grafted a tap onto her face, so deeply was one wedged into her throbbing left cheek. It was probably the same person who'd managed to empty a cat litter tray into her mouth.
'Order some coffee, babe, and some aspirin, will you?' a voice yelled from the thundering rain room. 'Sorry I passed out on you but it's still early. Jump into bed and I'll be out in a second.'
Rosie knew she was hung-over but was sure she had just heard Greg suggest they have sex. Greg, who was last seen retching his guts up, and her, the girl still in her borrowed, beer-drenched Prada, stuck in a bath. She may have looked like a woman deranged but she wasn't about to act like one.
Rosie lurched herself awkwardly out the bath, the exertion leaving her dizzy and disoriented. Quickly she searched for her handbag and found it in the bathroom sink, covered in goop from the tiny spilt shampoo bottles that had somehow toppled in there overnight.
She took a quick look in the mirror and recoiled at the sight of herself. Her whooshed-up hairdo made her look as though she had been plugged into a power point all night, and her eyes were a losing prize fighter's. The overall effect was bag lady sans pee smell, the latter being her only saving grace – although there was a distinct smell of RSL carpet she feared might be her own. Classy!
Rosie was wondering why it was hard to walk as she surveyed the bathroom one last time. As she reached Greg's hotel room door, she realised: one heel on her favourite silver sandals was now no longer pointing the way it should be, somehow having swivelled around during the night. How that could possibly have happened would have to wait; the only thing Rosie could contemplate at the moment was the sanctuary of her own room and getting as far away from Greg Leach as she could.
Cautiously opening the door, Rosie gave a quick glance left and right and bolted down the corridor as fast as her dodgy heels could take her. Her room shimmered, oasis-like, past the lift well, and she felt like Rocky striding those steps with every awkward hobble that took her closer. A door slammed loudly behind her, but Rosie was too focused on her glittering prize of safety to chance seeing who it might have been. Just another thirty or so metres and there was a shower with her name on it, clean clothes and, most important of all, her phone charger, so she could make her morning call to Leon at his dad's. Unfortunately, a powered-up phone would also mean she would be back in communication with work and, as such, the fallout from last night, but that was nothing compared to telling her boy she loved and missed him.
'Rosie, babe, come back.
' Greg's voice sounded urgent behind her – and loud – yet Rosie was not tempted to reply. She turned to catch sight of him, running down the hall wrapped only in a bath towel, but turned back again just as fast. Her room also had a safety chain as well as a lock to keep him out. Only a dozen more steps and she would be safe.
Bing!
The lift doors opened just as Rosie was passing. She would not have given its occupants even a sideways glance if she hadn't heard her name called. No, make that yelled.
'Rose!'
She turned to see the faces of Simon Nash, Russ Frazer and Trent Allenby staring open-mouthed like sideshow alley clowns. Rosie screeched to a halt, the heel on her sandal finally surrendering in the process, causing her to lurch forward like a drunken emu. Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Greg finally caught up with her. His towel, having slipped in the chase, now hung limply in his hand, revealing a massive purple erection.
'Honey, come on, come back to bed,' he implored, oblivious to the lift load of executives. 'Come on. You can't leave me like this,' he pleaded, staring down at his painfully erect penis.
Rosie wanted to die.
Mute with shock, none of the lift passengers could manage a coherent word before the doors closed again. Rosie watched helplessly as the indicator lights flashed from eleven to ten, nine and onwards down to the ground floor. Incandescent with rage, she turned to Greg. Her first thought was to throw him over the balcony to the lobby below, hopefully taking out the disembarking men at the same time. Instead, she turned and unleashed a rage that scared even herself.
'What the hell do you think you're doing, Greg?' she screamed, no longer giving a toss who heard her. 'Do you know what you just did? DO YOU? Do you know who just saw you asking me to come back to bed? It was Nash, Russ and Trent fucking Allenby, no less! You've just made me a laughing stock! Me! The same idiot who tried to look after you last night after you made a glutton of yourself on free booze. This is my livelihood you're fucking with here, Greg. My job! My kid's security! You're supposed to be my friend!'
Greg looked appropriately chastened, but this did little to abate Rosie's anger. 'Babe, I'll fix this, I promise you,' he replied, trying to embrace her.
'You can't fix this, Greg!' Rosie was shrieking. 'Nothing can. Just leave me alone!'
Rosie's eyes were blurred with tears as she turned on her one good heel, ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. Once inside, she fell onto the floor and let rip, unleashing a torrent of frustration, rage and disappointment as she sobbed uncontrollably, all the while wondering how she had got to this sorry place in her life.
PART III
CHAPTER 32
Rosie turned to lap the car park one more time, drawing deeply on her ninth cigarette of the day. She knew it was the ninth because she was now rationing herself to a pack a day – each one a treat to be treasured. The disappointment she felt at resuming the filthy habit did not outweigh the lovely feeling that every cigarette was somehow bolstering her emotionally, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, telling her to go on. And she certainly was not about to give up, today of all days.
Checking her watch and seeing that the little hand was even closer to four pm, Rosie knew she couldn't stay in the car park any longer. People would talk. Not that they weren't already. There was about as much chance of the entire network remaining ignorant of her lift episode as there was of The Darkness changing career and moving into stand-up. She could almost hear the crackle of the news about her sparking all over the compound, from the studios to current affairs, technical, finance, sales and beyond. If she walked into the canteen now, odds were that she, not poor Karen Day, would be the object of debate, dissection and debasement.
She sucked at the muddy filter again and contemplated just one more cigarette before making the journey to the fifth floor. She had stalled long enough by delaying her flight back to Sydney, telling Mae to let people know she was having meetings in Adelaide before heading home. She had also kept her phone off for the last hour, hoping she could extend the old 'it was turned off while flying' excuse to get herself together. But Mae had made it clear that she was not to miss the promo unveiling at four-thirty. Keith was making his first post-illness appearance at the network just for it and would want her there. Lighting another cigarette, Rosie tried to psych herself into movement. She had to walk into the boardroom and face them. All of them. Russ Frazer, Simon 'The Darkness' Nash, Johnno Johnston – even Keith!
Rosie shuddered and hugged herself to stay warm. Hopefully Johnno wouldn't remember making a pass last night. After all, he'd been wasted when he did it. She grimaced again, recalling how he hadn't quite grasped the fact that she would rather eat her own eyeballs than sleep with him. Ever.
But what if he thinks I'm actually interested?
Rosie wished she was religious and could make some sort of gesture for luck. As she wasn't, she dragged heavily on a fresh cigarette. We're all going to die one day, she rationalised as she sucked in another double lungful of noxious smoke.
You have got to do this, girl. Get your act together and get in there.
Rosie took out her compact, sat on the car-park kerb and checked her face. Her eyes were no longer as red as they had been earlier, but they still bore the telltale signs of a bawling session. Apart from that she looked fine – for once her make-up didn't look like it had been applied by a toddler with ADHD. Even her hair was behaving. That would be right. The day I'm ready to throw myself under a truck screaming mea culpa, I manage not to look like a basket case, just feel like one.
She stood up, using the garment bag containing her rancid evening gown to shield her face, and took off, bolting into the foyer and straight to the lifts. Letting go of her overnight luggage trolley, she fished in her handbag and retrieved her mobile phone, holding it to her ear earnestly as if on a call of global significance. Hopefully this ruse would at least let her reach her own office before the wolves descended.
Perhaps the god of Marlboro Lights had listened to her plea after all, as Rosie managed to travel up five floors without seeing a soul.
Her luck continued all the way to the publicity department, but upon opening the glass entrance doors and glimpsing Lisa's expression, Rosie knew her good fortune had run out.
'Well, lookie here,' Lisa said as Rosie slunk in sheepishly. She felt like a whimpering dog facing its master. 'Where do we begin with your day?' Lisa continued.
Rosie looked at Lisa's face more closely and realised her milky pallor was not from her usual expertly applied Goth make-up; she was actually white.
'You have no idea what this place has been like this morning. Where did you fucking fly from anyway? I thought it was Adelaide in Australia, not Georgia! How did you travel? By camel?'
'Lisa, please, I'm dying here,' Rosie pleaded. 'Just tell me, have you got anything to say I might find even remotely amusing?'
'Hmm, let me see. Well, I now know about your sex life, thanks to Trent Allenby telling me and the rest of Australia's biggest radio audience this morning but, no, you probably won't get a laugh out of that. What else? That's right. Graham Hunt managed to call every woman in the world a whore last night on national television, but I doubt that's going to do it for you. Oh, and you have a meeting in half an hour with the executive team, one of whom I hear you tried to seduce last night. Rosie, how could you! Not you too! I mean, Johnno Johnston – it's a bit of a cliché, isn't it?'
'I did NOT!' Rosie screamed. 'As if I would sleep with Johnno Johnston! I'd rather sleep with Simon Nash!'
'Now you're just plain out fibbing,' Lisa said drolly.
'I'm telling you the truth,' Rosie insisted. 'Greg lost it. He ended up losing his guts. I think he's got a big problem with alcohol. Oh, what am I saying? The guy's in big trouble. He's a mess. I stayed to check on him after he passed out.'
'Why does that actually make sense to me?' Lisa asked. 'I think I've been working with you too long. Now, where were we? Oh, that's right, something tha
t could make you laugh. I know, how about this one? It certainly caused a reaction in me but I wouldn't say I'm laughing exactly. I just saw Peter Ingles. You know him – possibly the network's biggest star, host of Great Gard—'
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