The Boys' Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

hide her excitement.
    Mae led her towards the huge floor-to-ceiling oak doors that
opened onto the boardroom of television mythology, a place where it
was said you'd just as likely be hired, fired or laid as you'd be to eat.
Rosie delved nervously into her bag, feeling again for her recorder.
    'There are no tape recorders allowed in the dining room, Ms Lang,'
Mae instructed her calmly. 'I would be happy to hold it for you while
you dine.'
    'Oh no, that's fine,' Rosie said. The first rule of journalism was
never to let anyone take your notebook or recorder. 'I'll hang on to
it if you don't mind.'
    'Fine then, Ms Lang,' Mae replied passively. 'If you insist.'
    'It's not recording. Look, no red light,' Rosie said as she held her
bag open for inspection, holding on to the machine for dear life,
realising she looked like a shoplifter pleading innocence.
    'Yes, I can see that, Ms Lang. You may enter now and enjoy your
meal.'
    With this, Mae quietly made her way back to her desk, leaving
Rosie to face the imposing oak doors which were all that separated
her and Big Keith Norman. Psyching herself for what lay ahead, she
took a few deep yoga breaths in lieu of the cigarette she so desperately
wanted, then knocked on the door.
    'Come in,' a gruff voice bellowed from inside.
    Rosie checked herself – her best Scanlan & Theodore suit had
never failed so she knew she looked okay, but, hang on, there was a
bit of telltale cat fur lodged on her skirt. That bloody cat! If it's not piss,
it's fluff ! I should never have allowed Leon to keep it , she admonished
herself. What if Keith is allergic? What if this stray bit of cat fur led him
to have some kind of seizure? Word is, the man is in poor health. Rosie
licked her finger, ran it along the offending area, blew off the fluffy
excess, took another deep breath, crossed herself for luck, then thrust
open the doors.
    Big Keith looked smaller than Rosie had expected, but perhaps
the huge, imposing bulk of the heavy eighteen-person dining table
at which he sat was distorting the scale. Standing beside Keith was
Lara Green, the network head of PR, who Rosie had spoken to once
or twice in the past to organise quotes for stories she was writing for
the Sentinel .
    Lara was one of those immaculately presented women who
belonged in shampoo ads. Her hair was like glass with the glossiest
shine and her size 8 designer suits were cut so finely they draped
catwalk perfect from her runner-slim hips. Rosie discovered much
later that Lara Green started each working day at Six in make-up
with the G' day Australia hosts, having her maquillage professionally
applied and her hair blow-dried poker straight. Rosie didn't know
whether she liked Lara or not. There wasn't anything not to like,
as she was always pleasant enough – it was just that Rosie had
never trusted people who were always in control. In her view
unflappability could only be attained at the expense of something
really useful – like sincerity.
    'Rosie, great you could come,' Lara said, extending a slender,
perfectly manicured hand.
    'Thanks for organising the interview,' Rosie replied, her voice
suddenly sounding gratingly coarse compared to Lara Green's pitch-perfect
timbre.
    'What fucking interview?' Keith barked, suddenly paying attention
to the women. 'I'll be fucked if I'm going to have my lunch spoilt.'
    Rosie watched as Lara gave Keith a questioning look, to which he
seemed indifferent. 'Lara, you can piss off now. I'll handle things
from here,' he continued, dismissing the surprised executive with a
wave of his enormous hand. Rosie couldn't believe it, but Lara Green
actually appeared – for the briefest moment – flustered, before her
seamless smile returned.
    'Fine. Enjoy. Bon appetit .' And with that, Lara glided elegantly – and
reluctantly – from the room.
    Keith didn't stand up to offer Rosie a chair, something she was
grateful for, as it always made her feel somehow humbled or on the
back foot when men did that. Knowing the