The Boys' Club Read Free Page B

in a hurry. I
just wanted you to know I'd be happy to take Leon some afternoons
if it would help. It would sure help me to have him keeping Elroy
company while I cook dinner.'
    'I couldn't impose,' Rosie replied, realising too late she had just
duped her son out of a meal that didn't come out of a box. 'We get by.
I'm hoping things will slow down soon. You know, after the Kennedy
Awards.'
    'Oh, you work in TV!' Daniel said with a knowing grin. 'You
really are stressed then.'
    Rosie smiled at that understatement.
    'Look, here's my number,' he continued. 'If you ever need Leon
picked up or looked after or you just need a break, call me. It would
do me a favour. I think Elroy gets tired of it just being the two of us,
especially since his mum . . .'
    Rosie didn't hear Snag Dad's last sentence, having been distracted
by the carnival chimes emanating from her handbag.
    'Look, great, thanks,' she said, snatching the piece of paper with
what she guessed was his phone number from his hand while sifting
through the dark leather canyons of her bag again in search of the
offending handset. 'Gotta take this call.'
    Without bothering to ask who was on the other end, Rosie told the
caller to hold, and turned to Leon. 'Goodbye, my little champion,'
she said, kissing his forehead and handing him his lunch box, into
which she had hurriedly jammed some sad fruit, a muesli bar and a
packet of chips as they bolted from the house. Rosie knew the boy
should have been in bed being looked after by his mum but that was
just impossible today, a fact that stabbed her insides with guilt.
    'If you feel too sick, tell the teacher to call Mummy and I'll come
and get you, okay? I love you.'
    'I love you too, Mummy,' Leon replied.
    Rosie quickly punched in the code Daniel had given her and
ushered her boy in through the gate, then returned to the phone.
The call had dropped out. Damn! The missing call number indicated
the office, which wouldn't be good news. Rosie knew it would almost
certainly be Portia Richardson, her glamorous and far more punctual
2IC. Trust her to be in there already . Running to her car without even
saying goodbye to Daniel, Rosie pressed redial.
    'Okay, what's happening?' she asked, skipping any niceties such as
'good morning' – mere padding in television talk.
    'I just got a call from the producer of Drive Jive telling us to listen
to "The Dirt" report this morning,' Portia replied.
    Rosie knew this could not be good news.
    'Apparently there's an item on Graham Hunt. The producer wants
to get a comment from you for the news update.'
    'Any hints?' she asked, hoping it would be a benign story about the
get-to-know-you dinner with the media last night, contract details or
an on-air date confirmation, stuff she could deflect on autopilot. As
usual, though, deep in the recesses of her raw, knotted insides, she
knew she was kidding herself. Things were not under control.
    'It was something about Hunt partying after the press dinner last
night. Hang on, here it comes now . . .'
    Rosie pulled to the side of the road and turned the radio up.
    The nasal drone and unmistakable lisp of gossip columnist Trent
Allenby disrupted the inane giggling of Foxy Roxy, the blonde half
of the top-rating breakfast duo, Fox and Ron: 'And now for some
truly hot news. Guess who I had dinner with last night?'
    'Come on,' Roxy squealed. 'Give us the juice, Trenty.'
    'Well, it was only one certain studly god you know I am the biggest
fan of – Graham Hunt.'
    'Oh yes, what was it you told us you wanted to do with him again,
Trent?' Ron Scott, the Ron in Fox and Ron, jumped in. 'Be his gay
surfboard, I think you said.'
    'That's right, Ron, he could easily be the future Mrs Allenby if he
plays his cards right. But unfortunately, it looks like that's not going
to be the case any time soon, judging from his behaviour last night.'
    She wanted to put her head in her hands and collapse against the
steering wheel. Then again, a more fitting time for a breakdown was
only