Making Headlines (7 page)

Rachel sat on top of a plastic log above a pool of green gunge, facing her opponent — Damien Wilde who hosted his own TV variety show on Channel Eight — noise from hundreds of screaming audience members buzzing in her ears. The stadium was massive, filled with a dozen or so differently themed games areas and decorated with huge banners shouting ‘Celebrity Battlefield'. With an oversized inflatable club firmly in hand, she knew this was a more serious challenge than she'd envisaged. Knock Damien Wilde off his perch or she'd be the one in the green muck.

They stared at each other, half-smiling, acknowledging what a ridiculous situation they were in. He was an imposing adversary. His buzz cut and unshaven face gave him the appearance of a young Bruce Willis. Playing for the blue team, he wore aqua lycra shorts and a matching singlet that showed off his toned body. Similarly dressed in yellow, Rachel looked down at her arms, puny by comparison. A nervous rush swept through her.

A horn signalled the start of the battle and the thrashing began. Adrenalin pumping, Rachel tried to forget the clash was being broadcast ‘live to air' in full view of the nation. Her hands were sweating and it was hard to grip the club. She swung wildly, knocking Damien on the side of his head. He barely budged and laughed. A couple of random swipes from both of them failed to make contact. But Damien, with his muscle-bound physique, packed more power into each attack. Rachel copped three hefty blows before the final whack struck its mark. She teetered, gasped, dropped her club and clung to the slippery pole, then fell like a discarded fish. Weighed down by the thick goo, she struggled for air. She emerged flailing, transformed into a green sea creature. The crowd roared and an emergency siren honked repeatedly. Damien sat on the pole, both arms in the air, relishing his victory. High above the masses, a ten-metre-wide screen flashed the lights in red. ‘Rachel—Loser. Damien—Winner.'

She watched Damien lap up the crowd's applause, then he looked down at her and gave her a wink. It took her by surprise. Despite the humiliation, a fluttering she hadn't felt for a while stirred in her belly. She smiled back tentatively.

***

Fresh from a shower and wearing only a bathrobe, Rachel lay face down on her hotel bed, wishing she could dissolve into the mattress. It had taken about four washes to get the green gunge out of her hair. Now she had to decide whether she could face the after-party.

She rolled over to stare at the ceiling and thought about phoning Tim, but remembered he was having mates over for a card night. He'd probably be stoned already. She'd only just found out that what she thought had been tomatoes growing in their backyard was actually weed. She'd made him remove the plants, but he'd only done that after harvesting some heads ripe for the picking. Just as well. She wanted to report the news, not become the news.

She sighed, sitting up to take a proper look at her room. It was the perfect setting for a night of wanton indulgence — thick luxurious carpet, sensual under her bare feet; rich velvet curtains spilling onto the floor; dark reds and purples mingling in the brocade of the chaise lounge and ottoman. If her girlfriends were here, they'd be making the most it, cracking open a bottle of champagne, dancing and singing.

What the hell, she thought, she'd have her own party right here. She pulled a cold bottle of bubbly from the mini-bar and popped the cork, pouring herself a glass and turning on the radio. The station was playing music from the eighties. The Bangles. She began gyrating in front of the full-length mirror, glass in one hand, bottle held high in the other.

She chanted in time with the girl-band, mimicking their Egyptian-style movements as she strutted backwards and forwards, in and out of frame. A knocking sound in the background grew louder. She quickly turned down the music and went to the door.

‘Who is it?' she asked, without opening it.

‘Rachel, hi, it's Damien. Damien Wilde. Just wanted a quick chat.'

‘Oh. Hi.' Rachel opened the door a fraction and peered through, not wanting him to see her in her bathrobe.

He leaned forward, pushing slightly against the door. ‘I just wanted to apologise. I know it's a stupid competition and just a bit of fun, but I was probably a bit brutal and I wanted to make sure you were okay.'

He was actually quite good-looking, in a roughhouse way. A wide, lush mouth compensated for the broad unshaven face and large nose.

She smiled, slowly opening the door wider. ‘No bruises, just a slightly battered
ego. Worst part was trying to wash that green crap out of my hair.'

‘Ahh, of course. Sorry. If it's any consolation, I got knocked off in the final round by some soapie upstart who's a fitness freak and triathlon champion.' His green eyes wandered over her face, exploring, finishing with a direct hit, holding her gaze. Jolting her inside.

‘Thank God. There's no way I wanted you winning,' she huffed.

‘So can I make it up to you and buy you a drink at the after-party?'

‘Actually I'm not sure if I'm even going. It took so long to “de-green” in the shower, I lost interest.'

Damien looked down at the champagne glass in her hand. ‘I see. Well, if you don't come, I just might have to encourage the other guests to venture down here and stand outside for your singing . . .'

Rachel shot him a look of mock horror as he continued. ‘Or I can give you half an hour to get dressed and come back to take you to the party.'

She leaned against the doorway and finished her drink. ‘Guess you'd better come back in half an hour then.' She turned and shut the door. She'd better be careful. Officially, she still had a boyfriend.

***

Heart beating, Rachel walked into the foyer on Damien Wilde's arm. The music was loud and thumping. She looked down, worrying she might be overdressed, or not dressed up enough. She'd chosen a white silk Lisa Ho gown with shoestring shoulder straps. Her heart sank as she gazed around at other women squeezed into gold-sequined dresses or black shiny body-hugging numbers. Her look was conservative by comparison.

Damien passed her a glass of champagne, looking her up and down. ‘It's a beautiful dress, but I think I liked the green slime better.'

‘Only because you're evil.' She smiled back at him. They clinked glasses and walked into the nightclub.

She was glad she'd come. Now she could put the humiliating dunking episode behind her. Her dress might be better suited for a school formal, but next to Damien, she felt radiant — as if she were gliding among the sparkling crowd on silver-winged stilettos. The masses seemed to part before them, acknowledging them as important arrivals. Of course, it was Damien. As a national TV personality, he was well known in Sydney. Photographers approached, cameras flashing. Rachel posed next to him as he
pulled her closer. Her smile felt forced and she hoped the pictures wouldn't be printed in Melbourne. She could see people whispering, wondering if they were a couple.

Damian and Rachel exchanged secretive smiles. She wondered why. They didn't have any secrets. The voice he used on his TV show was loud and confident, but the voice that spoke to her was warm and gentle. Not that it mattered, of course, because she and Tim were still a couple. They mingled with the crowd, talking and laughing. He led her onto the dance floor, the music drawing them further into each other. Close dancing. Holding-hands dancing. He looked younger close-up, probably in his early thirties. Rachel felt the warmth from Damien's body through his shirt, his chest pressed closely against hers. Too close. Move apart. Then more drinking at the bar. Damien made her laugh as he gave her the insider information on Sydney's A-list crowd, pointing out the most colourful characters. They ended up in a lounge area in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the city lights. Sinking into a black suede couch, they clinked glasses.

Damien apologised again for knocking her off the perch. A churlish, ego-driven moment, he said, turning her face to his, remorseful eyes drawing her in.

‘But this is a sweet moment,' he murmured, moving his face closer. Rachel felt heady from all the champagne. But they couldn't kiss. Not in public. She moved her head aside.

‘Got an early flight home tomorrow. Better call it a night,' she said softly.

‘Excellent idea, pretty one. I'll walk you to your room.'

Stumbling a little, Rachel reached out to hold onto Damien's arm, his biceps strong and tight under the smooth silk of his shirt. A blur of revellers and flashing disco lights passed before her as they left the party.

She fumbled with the keycard to her room and he moved in to help. Taking the card, he deftly opened the door and stepped inside allowing her to pass.

‘
Entré, mademoiselle
. One more drink before we call it a night?'

It seemed rude to decline. He was already in her room. Her mind was foggy, but somewhere in the layers, she sensed it was probably inappropriate. She went to the bar fridge to open another bottle of champagne. Here in her room, the security of the party crowd evaporated, leaving unspoken possibilities hanging loudly in the air. She turned on some music to keep the mood light. They sat on the chaise lounge, and Damien reached for her hand.

‘So, did you know I might be moving to Melbourne? We could catch up again.' His voice was soft and low.

‘Really? And what's bringing you to Melbourne?' It was hard to look him in the eye.

‘Can't say for sure yet. But I think Melbourne has quite a lot to offer . . .' He touched her under the chin, forcing her to look at him. The tingle was almost unbearable.
Need to move
.

‘It does, yes. Um, just have to visit the bathroom.' She got up quickly and walked gingerly to the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror, checking and rechecking her makeup. Stalling. She heard footsteps behind her. Damien closed the gap quickly, arms enveloping her body.

‘No one's watching now.' Damien turned her around, pulling her against him, planting small kisses all over her face, her mouth. He parted her lips with his tongue. A passionate kiss that suspended her in the moment — electricity working through her as his hands moved through her hair, his hips pushed against her and then his hand moving over her breast, pressing her buttocks against him, his body hard, taut, muscular; taller. Much taller than Tim.

‘I'm sorry, I can't do this.' Rachel pushed him away slightly, feeling him tense up. ‘I should have told you. I have a boyfriend. I just can't.'

‘I'm seeing someone too.' He pulled her towards him, out of the bathroom, as he walked backwards heading for the bed. ‘But hey, let's just enjoy tonight. No one will know, and God knows we're going to have fun.' He laughed softly, nuzzling her neck and kissing the soft skin at the base.

Oh God, not the neck, thought Rachel. Be strong. She pulled away again.

‘Damien, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to let things go this far. I wasn't thinking.'

‘It's okay, we're just mucking around. We don't have to have sex. Look, come over here.' He moved to the edge of her bed, sat down, and patted a spot next to him. ‘Come on, sit down. I won't bite, I promise.'

Rachel sat. The tingling was excruciating.

‘We can just kiss and play and cuddle and . . . play . . .' Damien started kissing her again as they fell back onto the bed.

Playing was okay, wasn't it? Now his hands were moving quickly and the warmth of his body on top of hers consumed her. Rolling to one side, he undid the zipper of her dress. More kissing. He whispered for her to sit up, then to stand, and her dress
was gone and so was his shirt. Naked flesh on flesh. Her belly touching his belly. As their bodies pressed together, she drank in the muskiness of his aftershave, his smell. He reached between her legs while kissing her neck again. Rachel had no willpower left. Wanting his fingers inside her, wanting him inside her. She moved her hips in rhythm with his hand as his fingers danced, a charge searing her inner being, almost bringing her to the moment where she would lose herself. Then he was pushing her shoulders down, undoing his jeans and she knew it was her turn to keep the music playing. Her hands strayed along his chest, moving lower and lower as her mouth followed, licking and kissing, licking and kissing. He was gasping as she began moving her lips more quickly but she didn't want him to come just yet. She wanted him. Desperately. Moving upwards, she began kissing him on the mouth, reaching for his tautness and then pushing him back onto the bed.

‘Rachel, you said you only wanted to play. We should stop now.' But he kept kissing her.

‘Stop now and I'll kill you.' She straddled him, taking him inside her. The music played louder and louder until the song was complete.

Reruns of Rachel's time with Damien and her disastrous date with Tim were on a neverending loop in her mind for the rest of the weekend. That she could have let her guard down and confessed to Tim overwhelmed her. How had it happened? She was a complete idiot. The pain and rage in his eyes was gut-wrenching. The guilt made it difficult to sleep. It was especially hard on Sunday night, knowing she had such an early start with her first newsreading shift.

It was pitch black when she woke at three thirty on Monday morning. She hadn't had nearly enough sleep. Her head was heavy as if a headache was coming on. She moved quietly, trying not to disturb the rest of the household. The air was cold — even for August — the bathroom tiles icy under foot. A burst of warmth from the shower soothed her skin. Concerns about reading her first news update hammered away at the fog in her mind.

She applied eye shadow, concentrating, so it would appear as professional as possible. Painting eyeliner was the tricky bit. Lack of sleep made her hand tremble and the black line zigzagged over her eyelid. Damn. A clown reading the news. Hopefully that wasn't an omen.

Driving to Network Six seemed surreal — the roads deserted, no one walking the streets. At least it was better than working night shift. She walked into the newsroom just before five o'clock, the clickety-clack of her heels on the tiles echoing in the foyer. Seeing the usually bustling centre humming on low key never failed to surprise her.

‘Well, thanks for turning up, Rachel.' Junior reporter Gerard Martin was on nightshift, grinning broadly from the COS desk. He stretched his arms in the air, giving an exaggerated yawn. ‘Ahhh . . . Guess you'll be thinking you're too good for us lot soon, now you're going to be a star newsreader and all.'

‘Hardly,' said Rachel. ‘Better wait to see how I go before you start giving me a big rap. I'm still trying to work out makeup, let alone reading an update.'

‘True. You could be a total failure. In fact, you'll probably get the sack straight after your first shift,' he said, straight-faced.

‘Yep, it'll be back to night shift for me.' Rachel kept an equally sober face. ‘Although, I have to say I'm pleased to see you blokes do cop the night shift occasionally.'

‘Night shift? Nah, I'm the tea-lady.' He affected a camp flop of his hand with the other on his hip. Rachel had thought he might be gay but didn't know him well enough to be sure.

‘Just as well. I need someone to bring me a bun for breakfast.' She put on a faux posh English accent, channelling her best Mary Masterson. ‘And don't forget, I like lots of butter.'

‘At your service, madam.' Gerard made a mock bow. ‘In fact, I could get you a cup of tea right now, if you like?'

‘Aww shucks, thanks. Seriously though, I have to get to work, so I'll pass.' She went to her desk, randomly sorting papers, trying to decide where to start. Check the last news update, phone police media, chat to Gerard about the overnight news and check the latest AAP online. She swung into action, sorting out her research. Check the clock. Start writing. Delete the script. Type again. Delete the script. Start writing again. Good enough. Head to makeup for final face check.

In just twenty minutes, she'd be reading her first live news bulletin. Nineteen minutes. In makeup, the lights surrounding the mirrors were stark and bright.
Whole body pulsing. Apply lipstick and face powder. Try not to shake. Lipstick too bright. No, it will do. Brush hair. Spray hair. Hate hair.

She raced back to the newsroom. Ten clocks on the wall told her time was running out. Frantically, she rechecked the AAP wires to make sure she had the latest information. Fuck, a new story had broken. A home invasion with two people beaten up. Shit. Rewrite script. Stay calm. The hands on the clocks continued to spin out of control.

‘Hey, Rachel,' Gerard called. ‘Master control has given the ten-minute call. Time to get over to the update desk. Good luck.'

Rachel walked to a small platform at the end of the newsroom, near Tony's office . . . or rather, his old office. She wished he were still here to give her some guidance. A charcoal Formica bench and office chair sat on top of the dais under the silent gaze of a large studio camera. A control box, earpiece and microphone sat on the desk. She went to take a seat, then nearly tripped as a voice boomed from the control box.

‘Hi Rachel. Put your mike and ears on ASAP so we can do a sound check.' A monotone voice coming from somewhere within the bowels of Network Six.

‘Oh. Hi. Sure.' Hesitant, she reached for the microphone and pushed it under her jacket, clipping it awkwardly to her lapel. The earpiece felt sticky and she wished she'd
wiped it before poking it in her ear. To the right of the camera, her image beamed back at her from a television monitor. She grabbed a brush. Her hair. Always the bloody hair.

The voice rumbled again. ‘Right. I'll give you a countdown from ten into the update, and a ten count out. You should finish on time if you read at your normal pace, but slow down if you can hear me counting you out in your ear.'

‘Right.' Her head swam as she tried to take in all the rules.

‘Oh, and just checking, can you see yourself in the TV monitor? When you're live to air, the monitor will play the update, so you'll see the news theme intro and out-cue. That way you'll know for sure when you're on and off air.'

‘Right. Yes, I can.' She wondered why on earth Tony had thought she wouldn't need a rehearsal.

‘That's great. Now, can you count to ten for a voice check?' The voice continued to guide her. A ghost in the ether.

Rachel did as she was told, then piped up, ‘Um . . . who am I speaking to?'

‘Oh.' The voice sounded surprised. ‘Oh, this is Patrick.'

‘Great. Hi, Patrick.' Rachel smiled and gave a little wave into the camera. She felt more connected, even though Patrick could see her and she couldn't see him.

‘Okay, Rachel, all set? One minute to go.' Patrick was ready but she wasn't.

She took a deep breath. It was game on.

‘Ten, nine, eight, seven . . . two, one.' Patrick's voice stopped.

Dumbstruck, uncertain, she froze. A long pause. Far too long. Then her first words. ‘Good morning, this is Rachel Bentley with a Channel Six news update . . .'

The chase down the main straight at Flemington was underway. She gabbled through the script like a race-caller, words tripping up on words. What was happening? She was nearing the end of the update and no countdown yet from Patrick. There was no stopping. Keep going. Nearly finished.

Patrick's voice sounded in her ear. ‘Ten, nine, eight . . .'

‘More news in an hour.' Rachel finished her update as Patrick hit the six-second mark. Keep sitting there. Keep smiling, like a department store mannequin.

‘Five, four, three, two one.' Patrick stopped. Five seconds had seemed like an hour.

‘All clear.' Patrick's voice was deadpan. At least it was over.

‘Thanks, Patrick.' She exhaled, rid herself of the microphone and earpiece, then shakily made her way to the COS desk.

‘Not bad . . .' said Gerard, ‘for a first go. You'll do better next time, of course.'

‘Oh, come on, that was a disaster. I don't think I can do it again.' She leaned against the wall of his desk and closed her eyes.

‘You have to. There's no one else. Really, everyone says it gets better the more you do.' He nodded encouragement.

There wasn't much time to recover. She had to write the next update and be set to read again in an hour. Like a robot, she went through her paces. The seven o'clock update was a speed-run replica of the first. Jesus Christ, why couldn't she pull herself together? Then, time to write the third update for eight o'clock. More pressure. A new car accident on the Westgate Freeway causing major traffic chaos. As her fingers flew over the keyboard, she decided the next update had to be a big improvement. People would be arriving in the newsroom, watching, all keen to see how she fared on her debut.

She glanced at the clock. Just enough time to race back to makeup to patch up her face. She ran down the hallway but stopped at the entrance. A young man and woman were unpacking their kits, laying out brushes, powders and sponges in neat rows. ‘Oh, sorry. Um . . . hi, I'm Rachel. I just needed to redo my lippy for the update.'

The man waved her in. ‘Well come on in, honey. Don't be shy!' He wore tight dark jeans and a body-hugging pale blue polo shirt, his blue-black hair waxed into a George Michael coif. ‘I'm Rex, this is Lola, and we're the dream team when it comes to smoke and mirrors.' He beamed smugly, crossing his arms and examining her as she went to her sponge bag on the bench. ‘No, no, sweetie. Sit down over here and let me do my stuff.' He looked over at Lola. ‘She could do with some help, don't you think?'

Lola smiled. Olive-skinned with generous hips, she moved with a sensual grace, a kaftan flowing over her curves. ‘Why not? How much time do you have, Rachel?'

‘Um, not much. I'm meant to be on air in about fifteen minutes.'

‘Okay, action! Lola, you on hair, I'll take the visage.' Rex moved quickly, dabbing at her face with foundation while Lola tackled her mane with a teasing comb.

Their concentration was briefly interrupted when Brent Garrison burst through the door. Flush faced and wearing a too-tight suit, he started rummaging through drawers, scattering products over the bench in his haste. ‘Where can I get a compact around here? I've got to head out in fifteen minutes. Doing a midday cross.'

‘Third drawer on your left. You're welcome,' said Rex dryly.

‘Thanks, mate.' He grabbed what he needed, pausing to look at Rachel. ‘Geez, that's an improvement,' he said, whistling, before racing out the door.

Rex shook his head. ‘Ego as big as a crater and just as much substance. Watch and learn, my darling, watch and learn.' He pursed his lips as he took up a shading sponge and blusher brush.

Rachel stared at her reflection. Cheekbones were appearing out of nowhere and Lola gave her hair volume and shape she'd never seen before. ‘Wow, you guys really are the dream team.'

‘Good to know the girl recognises talent when she sees it.' Rex winked at Lola and she gave a throaty chuckle.

‘Wait till you see what we can do when you have a bit more time. You should come in for a practice session one day.' Lola finished her work with an ample dose of hairspray.

‘That would be great.' Rachel nodded enthusiastically, her mind racing. ‘Although I could ask my friend, Evie. She's a makeup artist too. Rather than bother you guys, I mean. In fact . . .' She paused. It was probably too early to ask, but she'd promised. ‘Well, Evie's actually looking for work. Who's in charge of makeup for her to contact? I mean, if any extra shifts come up or anything. Hope you don't mind me asking?' Rachel's face reddened an even deeper shade of crimson than Rex's brush.

Rex laughed. ‘I'm the boss man, honey. Tell her to email me her resume. We're always looking for freelancers. Not a problem. As long as she's good, of course.'

‘Oh, that's brilliant.' Rachel sighed with relief. Then panic. ‘Oh shit, must dash. Thank you guys, sooo much.'

Lola and Rex were still laughing as she raced back up the hallway. She turned into the newsroom when Brent stopped her in her tracks. It looked like he'd been waiting for her. ‘Hey, Rachel, just thought I'd run something by you—'

‘Not now, Brent. Got an update.' She went to move past him, but he grabbed her arm.

‘I'll be quick then. Just wondered what you're doing on Friday night? Thought you might like to go out to dinner with me.' He puffed out his chest, as if offering her a prized gift.

‘Sorry, I've got a boyfriend. I really have to run.' She smiled apologetically as his face clouded, but kept moving, making it to her chair with only minutes to go. She scanned her script anxiously.

‘Ten, nine, eight . . .' Patrick began the countdown into the third update. From the corner of her eye, Rachel could see Mitch walking into the office. He mouthed a
smiley ‘hello' and waved. Without thinking she waved back, just as she heard ‘. . . three, two, one' in her ear. Hand held high, she could see herself waving on the monitor, live to air. She froze, forced her mouth to move from shock to newsreader-mode, then raced through the update even more quickly than the first two.

And then it was over.

She sat very still, unable to move. The morning had been worse than she could possibly have imagined. One more update to go at nine before the reporting shift. She wondered if she'd ever be allowed to read again.

Mitch walked back, clapping his hands and grinning. ‘Well done, Rach. Pretty good for your first go.'

She looked at him incredulously. ‘You can't be serious. That was nothing short of appalling.'

‘Well, I didn't help with my waving, did I? No, you did really well. It takes a lot of control to stay focused after a distraction like that. Very professional.' Mitch walked back to the editor's area, still grinning.

The nine o'clock update was slightly better. She still finished under time, but what went to air was at least a little less gabbled. She returned to her desk, relief washing over her. Her first morning of updates had ended.

Julia was on the phone discussing a court story with a lawyer. She winked at Rachel, giving her a thumbs-up sign. It didn't make her feel any better.

Without a moment to recover, Rob summoned her to the COS desk. He didn't mention her newsreading debut. ‘The Melbourne Cup's on in a few months. Some milliners' collective is putting on a preview parade of what's hot this year for chicks to put on their heads. Know much about hats, Rachel?'

‘Not really, but I'm sure it won't be too hard.' It was another fluff story, but after the updates debacle, she hardly cared.