Making Headlines Page 2

  An assistant producer, Natasha, bustled in to take a look. Her black hair, stark next to her pale skin, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. Her thin mouth twisted into a round ‘O’ as she watched Rachel’s story. She began speaking carefully.

  ‘Well, it’s all looking ah . . . fine, but a tad long. Ah, you’re still pretty new here aren’t you, Rachel? Why don’t you take a break, relax and get a coffee? I’ll take over from here. Just give it a trim.’ Natasha smiled brightly, then took Rachel by the elbow and ejected her from the edit suite.

  Dan winked at her. Rachel smiled back meekly, mouthing thank you, as she left.

  Only half an hour until the news went to air at 6 pm. She would wait at her desk to watch.

  ‘THE BEST NEWS IN MELBOURNE.’

  ‘AT SIX.’ (dramatic pause)

  ‘ON SIX.’

  The commercial playing on a television monitor was the same mantra that burst forth from full-page newspaper ads and radio commercials. The news promotions were full-scale productions, featuring reporters like Hollywood stars in action movies and the news presenters as warm, authoritative figureheads. Although Rachel was free to leave work at five-thirty, like most journalists, she stayed back to watch the news from the producers’ area. Even after six months, she had to pinch herself to believe she was part of their pack. But while she’d made it this far, she still felt she hadn’t quite won the respect of her peers and was keen to put an impressive story to air that would make them sit up and take notice.

  The clock struck six. The news theme sounded and the bulletin began. She rubbed sweaty palms on her skirt as she waited for her Shrine piece, disappointed each time another story was introduced even though she knew it wasn’t on till the end. Finally her moment arrived. She was rooted to the ground. But as it played to air, anticipation turned to horror.

  Her story hadn't been 'trimmed'. It had been butchered. Hacked to pieces with the sensitivity of Sweeney Todd. The end result lacked any emotional impact. To top it off, the story was ‘back announced’ by Jack Nolan’s co-reader, the regal Mary Masterson, who still mispronounced her name, saying, ‘That’s Rochelle Benley, reporting from the Shrine.’ She was sure she saw Natasha smirking.

  Rachel returned to her desk and threw her head into folded arms on top of her keyboard.

  ‘Not what you expected, huh?’ Julia sat down.

  ‘Nope.’ Rachel’s voice was muffled through her arms. ‘Guess you saw that piece of crap?’

  ‘Yeah, and you didn’t stay round long enough to see mine. But believe me, equally crappy.’

  ‘Just soooo humiliating to think the rest of the world saw it go to air. And I sounded like a fucking five-year-old. Did you hear my voice?’ Rachel made an exaggerated imitation of a child reading her script.

  ‘A little squeaky, but hey, I suppose a few years in radio have helped me over the line on that front. At least you look the part. I need a serious make-over.’ Julia stared pointedly at Rachel.

  ‘What, me?’ she said in surprise.

  ‘Of course you.’ Julia rolled her eyes. ‘It’s obvious you know what you’re doing on the style front.’

  Flattered, given her belated interest in fashion, Rachel started sizing Julia up from a different perspective.

  ‘Okay then. Maybe we could swap tips.’ Mentally planning a beauty makeover for Julia, a commotion from the news director’s office caught her attention. The usually reserved Tony was engaged in a full-on shouting match with sports producer Jeff Clements.

  Tony’s arms flew in every direction. ‘You arsehole! You killed the entire bulletin. I tell you night after night not to go over time and yet each night—’

  ‘It was a fucking important story mate. You can’t not tell the world a footy superstar has a life-threatening disease!’ Jeff stood nose to nose with Tony, stags locking antlers.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what is happening to who. You can’t put the whole news service at stake for your self-centred point of view. We’re only just winning the ratings and you’re putting all our hard work at risk. If you can’t learn to work as part of a team, we’ll get another frickin’ producer.’

  Tony looked to the newsroom, realising he had an audience and slammed his door.

  ‘Quite the performance,’ Julia murmured.

  Rachel picked up her bag. ‘I need a drink. Wanna join me?’

  ‘Would love to hon, but a boring family function beckons. Raincheck?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I’ll probably catch up with some girlfriends instead. Need to share the kaleidoscopic joys of working at Network Six.’

  They walked out of the newsroom down a long corridor, stepping in unison at a brisk pace.

  Julia patted her shoulder. ‘Rach, don’t give yourself such a hard time. A few hiccups are to be expected in this job.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s just . . . well, there was all that excitement when I started, you know? And now . . .’

  ‘Same. We had so many family celebrations I was starting to think we’d taken on a new religion.’

  Laughing, the girls hooked arms and walked to their cars.

  A catch-up with her girlfriends might be just the tonic she needed. She rang Kate from her car who said the girls were heading to the Dogs Bar in St Kilda for a drink. Maybe she would join them.

  Rachel drove down a narrow street, craning her neck as she searched for a park. That was the one downside of Tim’s inner-city home. The shopping was great but the parking was rubbish. Nor was it the prettiest of locations; dotted with abandoned factories and scrappy tea-trees. Finally she found a spot a block and a half from the grey weatherboard. She sprinted the distance, jumping over cracks in the asphalt paving, anxious to check the backyard to see if Tim had ditched his plants.

  Bursting through the front door, she called out. ‘Hey, Tim, it’s me.’ No answer. For a moment she wondered if he’d organised a surprise party for her birthday. It was a little over a week away, and he still hadn’t mentioned any plans to take her out or organise something with friends, which made her suspicious. The house appeared empty but as she neared his study, there was tapping on a keyboard. Of course. Tim was ensconced in front of his computer. Relief washed over her. The last thing she felt like was a surprise party.

  A technological genius, Tim had been retrenched from his programming job two months earlier and had made little attempt to find another. Rachel hadn’t been concerned. She knew how smart he was and the type of job he deserved was often difficult to come by. A recent spate of bills meant she’d had to dip into her savings, but she’d been confident it would only be short term. Until now. After learning about the marijuana crop she was concerned he was heading down a spiral from which there’d be no return. And his other hobby of playing online medieval battle games was becoming an obsession.

  ‘Hey there, sweetheart, still slaying them dragons?’ She swooped on him from behind, hugging him around the neck.

  He lifted his cheek, eyes glued to the screen as she planted kisses over his face. ‘Uh-huh . . . How was your day? Ah, shit. I was nearing an all-time record!’ He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. Overdue for a trim, it reached his shoulders.

  Standing behind him, she gently massaged his neck. ‘Pretty shitty, actually. Another kids story and even that was chopped to pieces.’

  ‘Great, that’s great,’ he said, eyes still trapped by the game.

  ‘Tim, for Christ’s sake, you’re not even listening!’ She slapped his hands away from the keyboard and planted herself in front of the computer.

  ‘Jesus, Rach, you arrived home at a bad time! What the . . . ?’

  ‘Because you’re playing a stupid computer game?’

  ‘Well, yes, as I said it was a near record and—’

  ‘Did you get rid of those plants?’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t had time . . .’

  She walked off to get her phone. ‘I may as well go out.’

  Tim followed her. ‘I’m sorry, Rach. Lo
ok, hang on, we can—’

  ‘I’m going to the Dogs Bar. You can join us later if you want to.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll come in an hour.’

  She walked away to dial a cab. Right now she couldn’t even look at him.

  ***

  The Dogs Bar hummed with conversation and jazz music — a charcoal tinge in the air from a crackling open fire. Rachel peeled off her coat, relishing the warmth of the crowded room, her skin still tingling from the autumn chill. Peering through the dim light, she spied her friends at a table against the wall. They were a close-knit group who’d stuck by each other through school years and beyond. Kate and Evie were making good progress on a bottle of wine. Rachel manoeuvred through the tables as a plate of antipasto was delivered.

  ‘Hey, TV star, just in time!’ called Kate.

  Rachel winced. The last thing she felt like was a TV star. Kate was more deserving of the title in her flashy aqua jacket. Rachel had dressed simply in comfortable jeans, black boots and the Melbourne essential — a black wool coat. ‘No star here, I just need a drink,’ she said, taking a seat.

  Evie quickly reached for a spare glass and filled it to the brim. ‘Well, we don’t have any other friends on TV so you’ll always be a star to us.’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Kate, raising her glass. ‘So here’s to the next superstar of Australian TV news.’ Full-figured and full of life, Kate always painted a bright picture with her view of the world. Six months down the track, Rachel’s TV job was still a cause for celebration.

  ‘To well-deserved success,’ added Evie. Sweet Evie, with her flowing russet hair, was a creative soul who worked as a makeup artist, mostly in musical theatre and on low-budget films.

  ‘Please, stop,’ said Rachel. ‘My story tonight was a dog’s breakfast. And it seems like I’m the resident kiddie reporter at Six, so it’s highly unlikely I’ll be winning a Walkley any time soon.’

  ‘But I bet it was a brilliant kiddie yarn,’ said Kate, tipping her glass at Rachel.

  ‘You’re a beautiful friend and I love your support, but no, it was a piece of shit.’

  ‘Great! Let’s talk about something else then,’ suggested Evie. ‘What about your birthday? Want us to organise a dinner or something?’

  ‘No, it’s on a Monday. I’m not really in a celebratory mood. And Tim seems to have forgotten about it entirely,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Has he got a job yet?’ Kate flipped her thick dark hair over her shoulder, a gesture she frequently used for disapproval. Or flirting.

  ‘Nup,’ said Rachel. ‘Things with Tim don’t seem to be working out. In fact, they’re getting worse. With Mum overseas, I’m thinking of moving back home for a bit. Just to give each other some space.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Evie. ‘But I guess it hasn’t been good for a while, has it? Does he know? He’ll be shattered.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m just thinking about it.’

  ‘I thought your sister was living there with Neil and their kid?’ said Kate.

  ‘They are while they’re renovating, but Mum has always left my room intact. She never thought of me as having fully moved out, so I’m always free to go back. In fact, she likes the idea of Lou and I spending more time together.’ Rachel grimaced. Lou had become increasingly prickly since Rachel started her job with Network Six.

  ‘But how long is your mum away?’ asked Kate. ‘Is it really worth the hassle of moving all your stuff?’

  ‘Well, she’ll be gone for at least six months. She and Brian are taking a European cruise, then stopping in Italy for a bit.’

  Evie squirmed in her chair. ‘But what about Tim? I mean, apart from being out of work, has he done something wrong?’

  ‘Well, no . . .’ Rachel hesitated. ‘Actually, yes. He’s just not there when I need him. He won’t come to things like Josh’s third birthday, or work dinners. Even when I got the job at Six and wanted to celebrate, it was like he didn’t care. And then last night I found out he’s growing dope in our backyard.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Kate. ‘I mean, just one or two plants is no big deal, is it?’

  ‘Yes it is!’ declared Evie.’ That’s terrible, Rach, that could really get you into trouble.’

  While her friends argued, she realised she couldn’t bring herself to tell them there was another big, fat reason for some space. It was her fault, as well as Tim’s. Guilt. A big, fat rock of guilt pressing down on her and making time with Tim unbearable. Sometimes she blamed Mary Masterson, even though she knew that was irrational. But if Mary’s child hadn’t suddenly needed an operation, Rachel would never have been asked to go in her place to Sydney to compete in Celebrity Battlefield. Then she would never have met Damien. ‘Let’s not talk about it right now,’ she said. ‘What about you, Evie? How’s work?’

  ‘Still on Les Mis and loving it.’ Evie leaned forward, smiling. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you talked to anyone at your makeup department yet?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘Not yet. All us regular reporters do our own makeup, so I haven’t had the chance.’

  Evie looked disappointed. Rachel knew she had to make more of an effort. She brightened, leaned forward and whispered, ‘But I’ve heard the makeup guys take an hour and a half to get Mary Masterson done.’ Rachel meowed like a cat

  ‘Gawd,’ said Evie, impressed. ‘She must have a rough head. She’d be worried about you, hon.’

  Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘I doubt that. We barely speak. However . . .’ She smiled, twisting a strand of hair around a finger, ‘I’m getting to know the guys in the newsroom a little better. And let me tell you, there’s one editor you’d all like to meet. Mitch Allan. Dirty blonde hair with a better butt than Channing Tatum.’

  ‘Then we’re coming in for a personally guided tour!’ squealed Kate, known for having a different boyfriend every two weeks. Not fussy, like Evie, who was on a never-ending hunt for old-fashioned love and romance.

  ‘What star sign is he?’ Evie said.

  Kate and Rachel groaned. Evie’s obsession with horoscopes had turned them all into unwilling experts on matters astrological.

  ‘Not sure, but if I was single, I’d change my star sign if it made us compatible.’ Rachel gulped down more of her wine.

  ‘Sounds like Tim really could be on the way out?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I’m getting jealous. I think he’s about to marry his computer.’ Rachel glanced at her watch, wondering where he was.

  ‘All this talk about men is making me hungry.’ Working in the hospitality industry hadn’t diminished Kate’s love of fine food. She pushed away the near empty plate of antipasto and signalled a waiter, ordering a range of calamari, arancini balls and pizza. The girls didn’t mind. Kate was the expert.

  Hours later, her girlfriends and copious glasses of wine had helped soften Rachel’s frustration with Tim, her Anzac story disappointment and the pressure to make some serious decisions about her future. They continued drinking, eating and laughing, until Rachel remembered she had to work the next day. Time to leave, unless she wanted to wake up with a massive hangover. Tim had failed to show, but by that stage she hardly cared.

  ***

  As Rachel sank into bed, Tim was still tapping away on his computer in the next room. She had thought that a slow, sensual session together might cap off a pleasant evening. But Tim had to conquer those dragons and lock them up in dungeons. Not to mention smoking a few joints. She was sure she’d caught of whiff of some leftover smoke in the kitchen that would have wafted in after he sat on the back doorstep – his usual puffing spot. As she dozed, rolling restlessly from side to side, she remembered her mother’s reaction when she’d told her about her job with Channel Six.

  ‘Darling, this is fabulous,’ her mother had cried. ‘And it’s just the start. From here, anything is possible. The world is your oyster!’

  Rachel drifted into a deep wine-induced sleep, wondering whether it was possible for oysters to produce fake pearls.


  ***

  More than a week later on a Sunday evening Rachel began nightshift, already exhausted. Sitting at the COS desk, she listened intently to the police radio as it spat out spasmodic two-way monotone chatter. It was almost hypnotic. She could feel her head lolling forward and her eyelids fluttering from the need for sleep.

  Just before dawn, Rachel was startled awake by a sudden loud advertisement from a TV monitor. It was just after quarter to six. She cursed herself for dozing. Time to look lively before Rob arrived with his usual barbs.

  Urgent conversation chopped with static from the police radio caught her attention. Something about a search warrant. She turned up the volume and listened closely.

  ‘It’s an 86. Warrant in place. Car 23 directly to Footscray.’ A male police officer’s voice, sharp and fast.

  ‘Roger. On the way. Suspect’s name?’

  ‘Malcolm Kent. Recently released. Paedophilia convictions. Sighted near the Torquay area last Thursday.’

  ‘Okay and out.’

  Rachel sprang out of her chair. Shit. Which crew was starting at six? She had to get to Footscray urgently. This could be the story she needed to finally earn her stripes as a serious reporter.

  Just as she was scanning the roster, Rob walked in. ‘Morning, Miss Bentley. Call Buzz in early, would you? Just had a tip-off from homicide. Seems like we have a lead on that missing kid case.’

  ‘I was just getting the details, I’m on top of this one. Just send me out.’

  Rob looked at her with mild contempt. ‘No can do, love. You’ve been up all night. Besides, Buzz is, after all, our police reporter.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rob. You often assign other reporters police stories. When are you going to give me a break?

  ‘Not today. You head home for sleepy-byes, love. See you tomorrow.’ He moved into the COS area and began scanning the morning newspapers.

  ‘What is it with you? Why don’t you ever give women in this newsroom a chance? Just look at your rostering system. How come it’s the female reporters who get all the shitty night and weekend shifts and early starts?’