The Boys' Club (17 page)

Basically,
Great Gardens
was a show that ran itself. All Jason Jarvis
really did was sign invoices and try to act important, but he was
as useful as tits on a bull. However, he had power because he had
Sunday nights at seven-thirty pm, the biggest timeslot in terms of
ratings. But last season
Great Gardens
had started to slide. As Six's
programming director, it was a timeslot Johnno Johnston simply
could not afford to lose.

'I agree, Jason, that's why I've been imploring you to get through
to Peter that the show needs freshening up. I'm sure your new titles
are fantastic but I doubt the names of the people who work on the
program appearing in a new font will put on another 70,000 viewers
in Sydney and Melbourne. We need to excite people about Peter
again. He's part of the furniture at the moment, like a comfy old
lounge. We need to give him a cashmere throw and some colourful
cushions. We need him to talk again, not just about plants and
aphids, but about his life. I mean, it's not every day a seventy-year-old
man finds new love. We'd have the cover of every magazine in
Australia if he would only agree to talk. Frankly, that's the kind of
push we'll need.'

Jason Jarvis went eerily quiet, something Rosie had planned on.
But it didn't last long.

'Rosie, regardless, I think it's probably best if I speak on behalf of
Great Gardens
this year,' he continued. 'We're not sure we have Peter
on board as he's trying to screw us on syndication royalties from last
season and, well, to be honest, I just think he has a big head.'

Now it was Rosie's turn to be quiet. If anyone had an enlarged
cranium around here it was Jarvis.
Like the public could give a flying
fuck about a producer!
They loved Peter Ingles, had done for some
twenty-six years. They planted when he told them to plant, pruned
when he told them to prune. When his wife passed away from breast
cancer several years ago, the network switch went into meltdown for
days and every hospital in Sydney had to request no more flowers be
forwarded as they were at capacity. Yet here was Jarvis, a guy who
a year ago was the on-floor producer of
Caspar the Cat
, thinking
Australian audiences were interested in what he had to say. Why,
Jason Jarvis was still in nappies when Peter Ingles was consulting
on reafforestation strategies and designing the gardens for the new
parliament house.

'Jason,' Rosie began, measuring her voice in order not to sound
as impatient as she felt. 'As much as I understand that there are
contractual concerns with Peter Ingles, I think the fact that he is
seeing someone again not so long after tragically losing his wife of
forty years is something the public is really going to want to hear
about.'

'I know but—'

'No, Jason, I really think you need to accept the fact that as far as
the public is concerned, Peter Ingles is
Great Gardens
. Pesky, I know,
but the truth nonetheless. Look, I sympathise with you, honest I do,
talent can be an absolute nightmare,' she added, 'but I think Peter
should be made aware that sharing his newfound happiness with his
viewers would be the best thing all round for the show.'

Jason looked crestfallen, forcing Rosie to pull out one of the tricks
from her PR insincerity box: 'I mean, you know how Peter Ingles
looks up to you,' she continued, hating herself. 'You are his boss,
after all.'

I should have a psych degree for this job. Talk about pandering.

'I guess you have a point,' Jason responded. 'I'll talk to him again.
I'm constantly telling him he needs to freshen up his image. It would
be a weight off my shoulders, I can tell you. Saves me from talking to
those vultures in the media.'

'That's what I love about you, Jason,' Rosie said, cringing deep
within over what she was about to say next. 'You always put the
program first. You're a true professional. Anyway, I'm looking forward
to us having a good old chinwag about all of this. In the meantime,
I have to get upstairs and phone a few vultures.'

As Rosie finally ascended to the executive level in the relative
safety of the lift, she was overwhelmed with relief. It was a feeling,
she knew, that would be short lived.

Lisa's face said it all.

'Jeez, do you have a crappy day ahead,' the PA grunted as she
handed Rosie a printout of her appointments diary and phone log. It
was 8.45 am and already, it appeared, the phones had been running
hot.

'Hell! What happened to your eye?'

'Don't ask,' Rosie replied. Her attempt to cover her shiner with
make-up was the failure she had suspected.

'O-k-a-y then,' Lisa said, exaggerating each syllable. 'Let's see,
Portia phoned and said she won't be in and that you know about it.
What's that about? Her diary is almost as full as yours. It's hardly the
time to be taking a holiday!'

'I'm not sure,' Rosie replied, recalling Portia's mysterious letter,
'but I don't think things are too good for her at home at the moment
so let's just keep that under the radar should anyone come snooping,
huh? Actually, can you get me her mother's phone number from
personnel? I'm sure Portia listed it as her emergency contact. Portia
isn't answering her mobile, so I might give her mum a call just to
check she's okay.'

'All right, if you say so,' Lisa replied, clearly annoyed that Portia
was letting the team down at such a critical time. 'Now, what do you
want first, the bad news or the shit news?'

'Um,' Rosie pondered. 'Give me the shit.'

'Your mother rang – twice – and told me to tell you she'll turn up
here if you don't return her call pronto. I think she means it, Rosie.'

'That's okay, you can take her to lunch if she does,' Rosie joked,
knowing how much Vera terrified her otherwise cool PA.

'Look, there's little I wouldn't do for you, but spending more than
five minutes with your mother is one of them. I don't know how you
do it.'

'I don't, that's why she keeps ringing,' Rosie laughed. 'Don't worry,
I'll sort her out. First I need caffeine. Buckets.'

'Consider it done,' Lisa replied. 'Hey, I see you have a meeting in
the screening room at twelve to unveil Alicia's drama. Can't wait to
see what it's all about. Some of the rumours doing the rounds have it
as a cross between
Prisoner
and
Home and Away
.'

Rosie giggled. 'Great. Can't you just hear Keith – "What does that
mean, teen bulldyke tits?" '

Lisa laughed so loud that heads popped out of their offices to see
what was so amusing. Rosie shooed them back in with a dismissive
wave of her hands. It was time to get down to business.

'Oh Rosie,' Lisa yelled as Rosie was about to enter her office.
'Simon Nash has been here looking for you. He made some snide
remark about you being late. He says he has to discuss something
confidential with you. You might want to get back to him before he
starts stalking you as well.'

'Great!' Rosie said sarcastically. 'Can't wait to hear what that's all
about. Is there any good news for me?'

Lisa thought for a moment. 'Yes there is! Crystelle dropped in to
say hi. She sends her love and says she has a fun segment she's taping
this arvo if you want to pop by.'

'What would I do without that woman?' Rosie asked.

'She's a beaut, no doubt about it,' Lisa agreed.

* * *

Rosie managed to return a good number of calls, realising her day
could turn to manure very easily after Alicia's presentation. The one
person she couldn't get hold of was thankfully the one she dreaded
talking to most. Karen Day had left yet another message for Rosie,
this time saying it was urgent
.
Rosie knew what it would be about –
it was always the same thing – but there was nothing, as she had
explained before, she could do. The poor girl was miserable reading
the weather, and it was starting to show. The boys at the meeting
had expressed it crudely but it was true, Karen had put on quite a
bit of weight lately. The girls in wardrobe had rung Rosie to ask if
publicity would chip in for her clothing allowance as she was no
longer a sample size 10 and therefore had to have clothes bought
rather than borrowed.

This was a problem for the female on-air talent since Bettina's
budget cuts had come in, making the pressure to remain thin more
intense than ever. In fact, wardrobe had also complained that the
female talent were creating a mess in the toilets, purging and leaving
the acrid aroma of freshly disgorged vomit hanging in the air. But it
was obvious that Karen, now a size 14, wasn't one of them. Although
the average Australian woman was size 14, in the TV world this was
akin to morbid obesity – or, as the men so delicately put it, a distinct
lack of 'fuckability'.

What riled Rosie was that Karen was a trained journalist, not a
model. It would have been different if she'd been hired to stroke
whitegoods on
Price the Prize
or turn letters around on
What's That
Name?
Still, Karen Day would have to wait. With half an hour until
the drama unveiling, Rosie couldn't put it off any longer. It was time
to call her mother.

Breathe. Be Buddhist. Don't mention Jeff straight away. Think about
your child. Try to be calm . . .

'Vera Lang.'

Just the sound of her mother's voice made Rosie's charitable
thoughts evaporate, leaving in their place pure rage.

'Mum, it's Rosemarie. You need to speak to me?'

'Well, well, well, if it isn't my daughter, finally making a window
in her busy life to recall she has a mother who worries about her.'

Oh, break out the violins, why don't you?

'Is this urgent, Mum, or can it wait? I'm at work so I don't have
time for chitchat. I'm also very busy, so if you're about to torment me
emotionally I will have no choice but to hang up.'

'Well, I see you're in one of your moods, Rose, so I'll keep this
quick as you so obviously have more important things to attend
to than family. I just thought you might be concerned to know I
received a call from Jeff's solicitor today. It appears Jeff is intent on
trying for full-time custody of Leon and somehow expects me to be
a witness of some sort. I mean, I never—'

'You never what, Mum? You never called Jeff to tell him I'm losing
my marbles or that Leon is suffering from fucking malnutrition?'

'There is no need to swear, Rosemarie!'

'Listen to me, Mum! Did you ever stop to think that telling Jeff I
work ridiculous hours and that you think my boy is not being loved
or cared for properly might not reflect well on me? You're my mother!
What were you thinking?'

Rosie could just hear Vera sobbing over the sound of her own
seething breath.

Gee, I'm doing well with the Buddhist attitude
.

'I just . . . wanted to help . . . Rosemarie!' Vera stammered through
her tears. 'He's my grandson and I . . . I love him.'

'Calm down, Mum. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm quite fond of him
too, you know. I know I'm working too hard and I know I'm not
mother of the year but I defy anyone to love that boy more than I do.
I know you were there every day when I got off the school bus – you
tell me often enough – but those days are over. Very few women have
the luxury of not working when they have children today, especially
when they're raising them on their own, and I'm one of them. Do
you think it makes me happy to hear that my boy misses his mum? It
stabs at my very core. Do you think I want to work these ridiculous
hours in this stinking, thankless job where the only recognition I get
is abuse? I'm trying my best, Mum. I might be failing but just give
me some credit!'

Again, Rosie listened to the sobs at the other end of the line until
Vera piped up once more: 'Who abuses you, darling?'

'Mum, everyone here! Haven't you heard a word I've said? I can't
win a trick in this place. I keep something out of the press, it's not
noticed. Something gets through – usually something true, mind
you – I get abused. I don't work long enough or hard enough. I wasn't
trained in the world of TV and therefore will never know enough
about television. I have boobs, not balls I can scratch in front of the
boys, so I'm basically a waste of space. I'm miserable, I'm lonely, I'm
depressed. I haven't had sex in months. I am over it! All I have that
makes me happy is my boy. And now not only is my ex trying to take
him away, my own mother is aiding and abetting him!'

'Like hell I am!' Vera roared from the other end of the phone,
knocking Rosie for six. 'I am so sorry, darling. I had no idea. I guess
I just didn't think. I can tell you one thing, though – it will be over
my dead body that Jeff takes that boy away from you. I promise you
that, Rosemarie. I will be calling that lawyer back this very minute
and giving him an earful. How dare Jeff think he can get away with
this.'

Rosie stopped to admire her mother. Vera Lang was a feisty old
broad when she was angry and, she had to admit, would fight to the
death for her only daughter.
God help that poor lawyer!

'Thanks, Mum. And I'm sorry I yelled. Look, I'll make the same
promise to you I made to Leon. I'm going to slow down. This won't
go on much longer. But if you can just hang in there with me . . .'

'I'm here for you, Rosemarie. And I'm sorry too. Not as sorry as
your ex husband is about to be, though.'

'Yeah, well, we have Leon's birthday to get through first, Mum, so
we're all going to have to get along with Jeff – or at least act like we
do. I've promised him a party at Salty Sam's.'

'Not that terrible pirate place advertised on the telly?' Vera replied
snootily. 'Why, all they serve is artery-clogging junk food. Couldn't
we have a nice party in the backyard here, maybe get a clown in—'

'Mum! He wants Salty Sam's and he's getting Salty Sam's!'

Rosie could hear Vera grinding her teeth in frustration on the
other end of the phone.

'Oh, and another thing,' Rosie added, cutting Vera off before
another alternative venue could be suggested. 'I'm going to invite
Jeff's fiancée, Heather.'

Again there was silence.

'Are you there, Mum?'

'Yes I am, Rosemarie. Well, I guess there's no changing your mind
then, although I hate to think what your father will say.'

'He'll get over it, Mum,' Rosie sighed. Vera always used Rosie's
dad Mick as a voice of dissent when she knew hers had run out of
steam.

'Great, all set then. See you on Saturday at one o'clock.'

'All right, Salty Sam's it is then. But don't cater for your father or
me, Rose. I'll make us something to eat before we get there. I can't
risk your father eating all that refined sugar, what with his cholesterol
being so high and all.'

'Fine, Mum. I have to go now. Have work to do.'

Twenty minutes later and for the first time in a long while, Rosie
felt like she had things relatively under control. She had replied to all
her emails, cleared her two most urgent in-trays and glanced at the
'kind of' urgent pile. She had even called back a certain TV presenter
who had admonished her for not doing enough to ensure him a
gold Kennedy nomination –
prat! –
and finally booked the speech
therapist to work with the new pretty young travel reporter who
mispronounced so many words that the
Sentinel
ran an item each
Friday showcasing her 'slips and lisps' of the week. Rosie had a nagging
belief that this sweet young thing wasn't just mispronouncing – she
actually had no idea of the meaning of certain words and, as such,
was merely bluffing. Badly. Still, she was a hit with those precious
eighteen- to thirty-five-year-old males, so she wasn't going anywhere,
except down the line to Rosie with the edict 'just fucking fix her'.

With fifteen minutes until the drama unveiling, Rosie even thought
she might have time to apply some make-up and visit Mae to tell her
about her catch-up with Keith the day before. But, of course, this was
not to be, as an unwelcome visitor entered her office.

'Rosie! Simon Nash is here to see you,' Lisa said, terror etched on
her face. Rosie had no time to reply before Simon sidestepped around
Lisa, instructing her to leave – and shut the door behind her.

'Simon,' Rosie said, refusing to pander with a 'nice tie' comment
or a 'how was your weekend?' even though she knew she probably
should if she was ever to break the ice between them.

'Rose, I'm concerned that we haven't been getting on lately,' Simon
said, almost rocking Rosie out of her chair.

Not getting on? We HATE each other!

'Now why would you say that, Simon?' she replied sarcastically.

'Listen, you can try to one-up me as much as you like but the
truth is we need to get on, so if you could bite that tongue of yours
occasionally it would be appreciated.'

Suddenly Rosie felt like a smacked puppy.

'As you know,' he continued, 'Alicia is presenting in a moment and
frankly, I'm worried. I know Keith gave her free rein to be creative but
I think that was a mistake and I'm now concerned that any fallout is
going to land in my lap.'

Always thinking of yourself first . . .

'And before you start thinking I'm only worried about myself here,
it should be pointed out that you, too, will have to carry the can for
whatever is about to be unveiled and I need to know you're on my
side.'

Rosie realised Nash had a point. Whatever was ahead, they were
going to have to work together. She also realised that constantly
bickering with him was tiring her out.

'Okay, Simon. I agree. Let's shake and try to make the most of
what's ahead together.'

Rosie saw the relief in Nash's face as he handed her his sweaty,
pale palm.

'Good. I'm pleased. You know I've always been a supporter of
yours, Rose, ever since Keith suggested you for Lara's job.'

He just had to blow it with his bull . . . Breathe. This a fresh start . . .
try to be open.

'Thanks, Simon. I appreciate that.' Rosie bit the inside of her lip
in contained rage.

'Good. Oh, and Rose, there's something else . . .'