The Boys' Club (8 page)

There must have been all of seven minutes between Nash's departure
and the appearance of the red light on Rosie's phone that signalled
Big Keith on his private line. That was a personal record for Nash,
Rosie noted. She had to laugh, thinking of the entertainment head
shuffling up the stairs all flushed and ready to burst with salacious
gossip. It really was like the movie
Mean Girls
, only with grown men
playing the teenagers.

'Keith, what can I help you with?' Rosie answered, anticipating a
barrage of abuse.

'Fucking everything,' the Big Man sighed. 'What a fucker of a
day . . .'

'You're not wrong.'

'Well, it's about to get worse. You'd better come up. I've just had
Nash in here.'

* * *

'What the fuck is going on down there?' Big Keith roared as the
doors to his inner domain heaved open.

Rosie saw his profile first, a great lumpy mound in a leather chair
groaning under the tilted bulk, his huge feet propped up on his desk.
Pointing one of his numerous remote controls at the bank of eight
televisions mounted along his wall, he then slammed it onto the floor
like a recalcitrant brat. 'Fucking stupid fucking thing,' he growled
at the tiny piece of plastic on the carpet, the huge calloused pads of
his fingers now fumbling with the buttons on another set of dainty
controls. Rosie thought the scene reminiscent of a particularly cruel
cartoon published in the
Financial Forecaster
recently, which showed
the TV Goliath grappling with a nerdy, pinheaded David labelled
New Media.

Rosie walked straight towards Keith, grabbed the remote from
his hand and pressed the red button clearly marked on/off. Keith
grumbled something she hoped was 'thanks' before attempting to sit
upright. As he did, he lost his grip on an armrest and slid heavily back
into the recliner, which dipped suddenly under the shift in weight. A
thud like a dropped elevator followed as Keith was flung backwards,
grabbing Rosie's arm as he fell and causing her to topple with him.

A mangle of twisting arms, legs and torsos ensued, accompanied
by a litany of expletives and groans. When Rosie managed to
extricate herself from the melee, she stood up to see Keith on his
back, screaming in pain and holding his arm like she had seen heart
attack victims do so many times while drooling over George Clooney
on
ER
. He was flushed a virulent red that deepened rapidly until his
face was bruise-purple and looked ready to burst.

Panicking, Rosie got on her knees and tried to roll him into the
recovery position, the only thing she remembered from her Bronze
Medallion lifesaving course, most of which she'd wagged in order to
smoke ciggies behind the shopping centre near the pool. Yet another
childhood regret. She heaved at Keith's huge flank with no luck. It was
like trying to roll a mammoth. Frantic, she hitched up her skirt and
straddled the prostrate giant, bracing her feet against the oak panel
wall for leverage and putting her shoulder into it. What she was doing
was far from dignified, as the Big Man could see right up her skirt, but
she was too concerned with his imminent death to be prudish.

'Jesus, woman, get the fuck off me!' Keith roared from under her,
attempting to push her arse from his face.

Rosie thought she might wet herself, first from fright and then
from laughter.
Could this day get any more ridiculous?

Keith was still struggling to get up and away from Rosie's crotch,
which she was just as keen to remove. The two pushed in opposite
directions before falling into each other again. Rosie lost it, giggling
uncontrollably. That set Keith off with a gaspy '
Raaark! Raaaaaark!
'

'Stop laughing, you might die!' Rosie pleaded through her own
cramps.

'
Raaark, raark
. . . you silly bloody sheila. Now get me the fuck
up.'

It took a couple of tries and much more combined mortification
before they were upright once more, Keith all the while maintaining
a grip on Rosie's arm. As she looked into the Big Man's eyes she saw
fear as well as humiliation.

'Keith, it's fine,' she said softly. The redness was dissipating with
every new breath he took. Nice and easy was the way to go. 'Keep
still. I'm calling an ambulance.'

'No you're fucking not!' Keith yelled, the blush of rage returning
to his cheeks.

'Keith, come on,' Rosie pleaded.

'NO! I fucking mean it, Rose!' He was adamant.

Frustrated, Rosie concentrated on doing anything to keep Keith
calm. 'Just take a couple of deep, slow breaths.'

Keith took in two big gasps then clumsily wrestled his hefty weight
back into the uprighted chair. 'Fucking stupid thing,' he hissed, still
rattled. 'And some fucking Nurse Nightingale you are. You could
have fucking smothered me with that arse of yours. Now, where the
fuck were we?' he said, clearly wishing the incident over.

'Keith, we can talk later, why don't you take it—'

'Don't fucking tell me what I should fucking take!' he blustered.
'You sound like my wife!'

'Your wife is a fine woman, Keith, so I hardly take that as an
insult,' she replied. Rosie had never been more sincere, revering as she
did the supremely elegant Mrs Elaine Norman.

'Yeah, well don't you go telling her about what just happened here,
all right? That's all I fucking need.'

'Okay, I won't tell her you were almost smothered by a redhead's
crotch—'

'
Raaaark!
'

'—but can you take things a little easier? I'm telling you, any more
performances like that and there'll be no more cigarettes from me!
At least let me take you to a doctor. You don't look well. I may want
to kill you most days but today isn't one of them.' Rosie was worried.
Keith could have died in front of her, and she was sure the Big Man
knew it, too. 'Come on, let me make the call?'

'Ah, fuck off. You'll do what you're told,' Keith laughed. His face
then softened as he leant and grabbed both Rosie's hands in his big
bear-like mitts. 'Look, sweetie, this is just between us, okay? You
know I like you and I trust you, but I'm starting to think I'm the only
one around here who does.'

Rosie felt sick. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
Did no
one like her? At all?
Hadn't anyone seen how heinous her job was?
As one of the only departments at the network that didn't actually
generate money – just spent it – publicity was a quick ball to hit over
the no-try blame line. But had they not realised what she'd managed
to keep out of the press? The Big Man's drinking and health problems
being a big fat case in point. Did they not see how hard she was
working? That her job was hell?

When a burp of angry bile hit the back of her throat, Rosie started
scouring the office with her eyes for a bin, bag, anything – she was
suddenly so ill it was as though all that acid festering in her knotted
guts for months was demanding liberation – now!
Jesus, woman, you
can't hurl in the CEO's office! Get yourself together!!

'Look, I don't mean that to be taken too hard,' Keith said, suddenly
registering Rosie's ashen face. 'And I know it hasn't been easy and
I know your old mates back in newspapers are giving you a hard
time, but this business is about relationships. At the moment yours
here aren't good. I know Johnno probably just has his prick in a
flap because he hasn't nailed you, but Nash is on my back about
you too now. And Alicia's in my ear constantly clucking on about
drama. I just need you to try to get on with them. I know Nash is a
touchy one, especially around sheilas. They don't call him the Ankle
for nothing –'

'The Ankle?'

'Yeah, a few feet lower than a cunt –
raaaaaark!
– but you don't
want him offside. He may be a mongrel of a human being but what
that man doesn't know about TV . . .'

Rosie bit her lip. She knew there was no use even trying to
argue with Keith about Nash. The man had spent his entire career
convincing his boss he understood what ordinary Australians
wanted – not a bad effort considering he earned almost $2 million
a year plus bonuses, thought the eastern suburbs of Sydney were
Australia's heartland, and had married the first woman he ever
managed to convince to have sex with him, probably realising he
might never be so lucky again. He was hardly the every-bloke type.

'As for Johnno,' Keith continued, 'I know he tends to think through
his cock but he's under a lot of pressure at the moment so maybe try
to be a bit nicer to him? Programming isn't an easy job.'

Rosie agreed: Johnno sure was under pressure. Perceived by Keith
as one of his anointed, a lad who 'actually knew about television',
lately Johnno's sheen had lost some of its lustre, with the network
nosediving in the ratings, advertising haemorrhaging, several
program launches failing spectacularly, record numbers of viewers
complaining and press ridicule a daily event. And now, with bean
counters on board like Bettina Arthur, who only cared about the
bottom line – and not female bottoms like the lads – Johnno was
starting to smell like yesterday's prawns.

Not that he showed any vulnerability. Nope, Johnno remained
as cocky as ever, and no wonder. With his quick, laconic wit, big
blue eyes that even Rosie had to admit seemed to twinkle when he
laughed, golden blonde hair and a lean swimmer's body, he was a big
hit with the women at the network. Rosie had lost count of how many
had dropped their bundles – and their knickers – at the thought of
being the one to hook the notorious bachelor. Problem was, he never
stayed on the line long, always moving on to sport more female game
he was none too discreet about.

'Keith, I understand everything you're saying and once again I
recommend you find someone who actually wants to do this job. You
know my heart lies in news and—'

'I won't have any of that,' Keith countered dismissively. 'I know
it's hard here and you've got a shit of a job, don't think I don't. But
I picked you to come and work here and I will choose when you go
and it won't be before I fucking do, you hear? Fuck those two. We
need more like you, I know that. Consider yourself a trailblazer. If
you can survive, you'll open this place up to more women like you.
I hired you 'cause I thought you were ballsy. Don't turn into a bloody
sheila on me now.'

Rosie took a second to breathe and consider her response. Looking
around, she realised there was no point trying to illustrate the irony
in Keith's last comment. She stared at the painting hanging behind
Keith's desk, the one she called 'Who Killed Bambi?' It was your
typical men's hunting lodge fare, large, dark and imposing, featuring
a doe-eyed impala joining the food chain courtesy of a lion ravaging
its throat. In the background several more lions were heading in for
the kill. There was no better metaphor for how Rosie felt at that very
moment – and no better reminder that the Big Man, too, had others
sniffing around, waiting for a moment of vulnerability.

'Now, what happened downstairs that got Nash's nuts in a twist?'
Keith asked.

'It was nothing to do with Nash, Keith. He happened to come by
my office while one of my staff members was in distress, that's all.
Nash saw her crying and it was frankly none of his business coming
to you. She's fine now and all is good – well, as good as it can be.'

'Make it good,' Keith asserted, 'and while you're at it, quit the diet
jokes. You know the fat fuck has no sense of humour about such
things.'

'Er, okay, I guess I did take things a little far there,' Rosie admitted,
chastened.

Keith wasn't listening, though, focused once again on the jumble
of remote controls around him. Rosie had lost him but decided she
still needed to discuss a few home truths. This was always a risk with
powerful men. They liked smart women around them but usually only
when they were being reassured or agreed with. When you started
telling them what they didn't want to hear, that's when they wanted
you dumb.
Ah, to hell with it. What's left to lose?

'Keith, we have to talk about that Kennedys meeting this
morning,' Rosie said bravely. 'I mean, really, you can't speak like that
to colleagues.'

'All right, Jesus, what's up you today? It's like you're—'

'Don't say it, Keith, I warn you!' Rosie cut in.

'
Raaark
,' the Big Man squawked back, knowing how much the
perennial period jibe riled her.

Rosie couldn't help but smile as Keith laughed. She realised that
when Keith was happy, she was too.

'Honestly, how do you expect me to keep you out of the news
when every network CEO and publicity director was there at the
Kennedys meeting? Look, I know you get nervous but you have to
pull it in a little. Things have changed here. Bettina Arthur is a fact
of life. As is digital. It's a different world from the one you're used
to.' Rosie knew the Big Man was taking in her every word, despite
hating what he was hearing. She had to stop herself from reaching
over to hug him. He really was TV Rex out of his natural habitat.

'Hey, and thanks for chucking me out of the programming
meeting,' she added, trying to lighten things up. 'It's not easy to tell
the public and press what's on the network when you don't know
yourself.'

'That's fucking Johnno and Nash,' Keith snapped irritably. 'They
reckon you're talking to the
Sentinel
. Nash actually told me you used
to have a thing with one of the reporters there, Greg Leach.'

How the hell did The Darkness know that?

'That was a long time ago, Keith, and I can assure you my former
colleague and I are both respectful of each other's positions today.
That doesn't mean I haven't grilled him as to who the actual leak is,
though.'

'What does he say?'

'That it's closer than I think, which has me worried. Even the sales
guys don't know half the stuff that's made it into the
Sentinel
.'