by Graham Guy
“Don’t let it worry you. Happens all the time. It used to really get up my nose. How do you reckon Kimberly got her job?”
Jack’s eyes opened wider.
“She went down on bloody Ricketts!”
Jack really cracked up. He had to suppress his belly-laugh to avoid the looks of other patrons in the restaurant. “I always said she didn’t get lips like that sucking ice blocks.”
“So you just let it ride over you. Georgette is typical, mate. Too damn pretty for her own good and totally cynical. Maybe that’s what happens to you if you’ve never experienced parental love. But everything to her is a lot of shit. Everything is just passé. Nothing surprises. Been there, done that. Jesus, I don’t think you’d warm her up if you put her in the oven. She’s cold, calculating and totally materialistic. Dresses in Armani and swears more than anyone I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few.”
Jack chipped in. “Mate… every second word is fuck. Fuck this. Fuck that. Get a fucking life. Jesus, she should’ve been a bloke!”
“Yeah. But she’s typical of female journos in newsrooms. Not all, but most of ‘em try and mix it in a man’s world. Fuck is just the language of currency. They reckon the more they say it, the better they’re accepted. They get off on head jobs, wet dicks and who’s screwing who. And the more vulgar the subject, the better they like it. Sometimes when I’m in the office and they don’t know I’m there, you should hear three or four of them together over the coffee machine.
“Forget the stories of the day. It’s just fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything. My God, if only a very naïve public knew what some of them were really like.” George laughed as he drank from his beer glass. “Amazing little word isn’t it? Seems to fit every occasion. Blokes use it a lot, but I find a lot of women live by it. But don’t sell our little Georgette short. I’ve seen her out and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Mate, when she dresses, you could take her to Buckingham Palace…”
“As long as she kept her mouth shut.”
“Too right, but she’s off limits. Just let her go. Upset her and you’ll upset the old man. He’ll get into Ricketts and then he’ll ring you. If push comes to shove, you won’t win. You know that.”
The meals arrived and silence fell between them as Jack attempted to absorb what George had told him. The two men enjoyed their meal, which they interrupted from time to time with various industry gossip. But George could see that his good mate was still bothered.
“Forget about Georgette, Jack.”
“It’s not that. She came to me today and asked for a film crew to go to Port Macquarie on the weekend.”
“What’s on up there?”
“Say she wants to try and grab an interview with Bill Murphy.”
“Jesus, we used to work together. Bloody good journo, Bill. But of course he’s moved on. Big star now. She won’t get him. He’s almost a recluse. Be good if she could, though. You read his books?”
Jack shook his head.
“Actually, I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone in the media since the readers of the world started to beat a path to his door. Let her go, Jack. Just remember when you put in the expenses sheet, put her name next to the trip. You won’t hear anymore about it.”
* * *
Georgette McKinley slipped out of her imported silk dressing-gown, flicked the switch at her bedside and climbed in between the satin sheets of her king-size bed. She felt good. It had been a tough day. Deadlines to meet in the cut and thrust of a big city television newsroom with an ever-present awareness to watch your back and guard your territory. And Georgette’s territory had been hard won. She knew only too well the price she had had to pay to achieve her status.
Her uncle may have made the phone call, but there was no way she wanted to start at the bottom. She only hoped gravity wouldn’t prematurely take effect and destroy what it was men wanted. And what men wanted was her. Twenty-five years of age, shoulder-length blonde hair, hazel eyes, full lips and a face which offered the qualities of mystery with alluring beauty. She had learned to carry herself with confidence.
In order to keep her figure, she attended fitness classes five days a week and pounded herself to near exhaustion on treadmills, pushbikes and rowing machines. She kept workmates at a distance. Her private life was very private. For most, what she did away from the television newsroom was very much a no-go zone. Georgette wanted another ten years on the big salary.
She felt if she played her cards right, this would enable her to be freehold and provide a nest egg, (I’m probably not even in my uncle’s will), and give her the freedom to pursue an alternative career.
“Women don’t last long on prime time TV past 36, unless you’re Barbara Walters, and there’s not many of them,” she’d tell herself.
And she knew that in maintaining a key role in a newsroom with 71 other over-ambitious egos, she’d have to play the power game… and she’d have to play it better than anybody else. Especially when it came to breaking the big stories.
If you get the scoops, you get the power and you stay in the big league.
It’s what drove her constantly. Georgette McKinley knew her colleagues would shake their heads in dismay at her revelations. There’d be office jealousies, especially when she continually came up with the big stories. She knew there’d be the gossip and innuendo. She was also aware of the price she paid for her place at RTN ELEVEN. But she put it out of her mind. She had the body. She had the looks.
So what the hell? It was all over in a few seconds.
Momentarily, ‘the price’ flashed through her mind…
Tom Ricketts was the all-powerful program manager at RTN ELEVEN. Hand picked for the job by Sylvester Monkhouse because of his astute brain in picking talent and for his years of absolute and total loyalty. Tom Ricketts was every media owner’s dream. The company came first, last and everything in between. Long live the company. He was a balding, plump man with stubby fingers and a ruddy complexion. In his late forties, he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and revelled in the almost daily routines of three-hour lunches with industry colleagues. Secretly, he feared the rapidly advancing revolution of change and rumoured takeovers. But he considered he had about five years before the advent of youth, technology and ‘suits’ began to call the shots. Time enough to collate the zeroes on his annual salary and prepare to be out-sourced. But, right now, he was king in his domain and he protected his patch through thick and thin. Any executive who looked like getting too smart or too close was quickly removed. And one thing you didn’t do to Tom Ricketts was walk in to his office, unannounced. Especially if you were ‘unknown’. Georgette McKinley took a gamble. She knocked and simply walked in.
Tom Ricketts looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked, rather bemused that someone would have the gall to do just that.
“Oh, er, hello. I’m Georgette McKinley… are you Mr Ricketts?”
“Yes. Do you have an appointment?”
“No…”
“Where the hell’s my secretary?” he bellowed. “Did you check with my secretary?”
“There wasn’t anyone there.”
Georgette knew there wouldn’t be. She had waited in the corridor until the coast was clear so she could make her move.
“Oh, Christ! What is it, young lady?’ annoyed that his space had been invaded.
“I thought you may have been expecting me?”
“What’s your name again?”
“Georgette McKinley. Mr Monkhouse should’ve spoken to you about me.”
Suddenly it dawned on him. Immediately his demeanour changed. “Oh, shit! Sorry, ma’am.” Ricketts rose quickly from his desk and held out his hand to the young woman. As he looked at the stunning young woman he was suddenly aroused. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. “So you want to work in our newsroom?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well the role of hiring and firing in that area really falls within the domain of George Hanks, the News Director. But in your case
, I gave Mr Monkhouse my assurance that I’d take care of you personally.”
“Thank you.”
“How badly do you want the job?” he asked leeringly.
Georgette was quick to spot his intentions and played along with him, not thinking it would lead to anything. “Bad enough to do whatever it is I have to do to avoid going in as a shit-kicker, but rather as a senior reporter,” she told him.
“I’m told you’ve only had five years’ experience. You mightn’t cut it in the big league…”
“Let me worry about that!”
“You’re very confident aren’t you?”
“I know I can be damn good, Mr Ricketts. I just need the chance.”
Ricketts sensed her vulnerability. He moved in closely to her and ran his hand down her cheek. She wanted to cringe as just the sight of him revolted her. But she smiled wantonly.
His hand moved to her breast. Georgette froze, but tried to disguise it. Again, she smiled. Coldly. “Mr Ricketts!…”
“Call me Tom.”
“What if someone walks in?”
He walked over and turned the key in his door. “They won’t,” he told her.
Shit! the bastard’s serious. Now what?
Georgette knew she was past the point of no return.
An excited leer fell across the program manager’s face. “So you really want to work here?”
“Wh… what do you want me to do?” she asked, almost rigid with fear.
Tom Ricketts took hold of her hand and placed it on his very hard penis. “Put it in your mouth.”
“Oh, shit! I’ve… I’ve never done that before,” she protested.
“Drop onto your knees,” he told her.
Georgette did so. Almost immediately Ricketts had undone his fly and thrust his penis into the young woman’s mouth. She nearly gagged as he put his hand behind her head and pushed. What followed was a total disaster. As he let go his hot fluid, she was forced to half-swallow and half-gag. He cursed her for screwing up. Georgette was now on all-fours, dry retching.
“The bathroom’s through there,” he told her, in a tone of disgust.
A few moments later she emerged. “Jesus, Tom! What the hell did you do to me? How am I supposed to cope with that? I told you I’d never done it before.”
“You fucked up, lady!” he told her.
“Well, bully for you! What now?”
Ricketts looked at her. A thousand things were running through his mind. But most of all he knew that if she talked to Monkhouse, he was gone. “Start Monday or as soon as you can leave the other place. You’ll get a two-year contract and sixty grand to start. Reviewed in a year,” he told her. “I’ll tell Mr Monkhouse we’ve met. That’s all I’ll tell him. I do trust you’ll also be discreet.”
“Thank you, Tom,” she said, still trying to regain her composure.
“Oh, from now on, it’ll be Mr Ricketts,” he told her.
“So this whole thing is just another day at the office for you?” she asked.
“You want to work in big-time television? Welcome to big-time television. I’ll call George Hanks and tell him to expect you. Close the door on your way out.”
Georgette glared at him. Suddenly she was enraged at his attitude and behaviour. She leaned over the desk towards him. “I will never call you Mr Ricketts! If you have a problem with that, then you know who to ring. Shall I tell him to expect your call, Tom?”
“Fuck you!”
“Nice man,” she said sarcastically, as she turned to unlock the door and leave his office.
* * *
Georgette had only been on the job a short time when she began to get frustrated at not getting a shot at the big stories. So much so that she persuaded her uncle to make another phone call which would allow her to choose her own stories.
He made the call.
But Georgette wanted more. She recalled the words of one of her first bosses. Spotting her ambition, he told her, “If you want to run with the big boys, you better learn to piss in the tall glass,” adding, “And it’s amazing in this business how many people burn out before they’ve even caught fire.”
She never forgot the advice and applied her thinking accordingly.
She also knew that once she had set the precedent of breaking big stories, there was no going back. She knew she needed three big ones a year to keep her up there. As a result, she worked the social writers and her contacts.
And she was smart enough to know that you don’t say yes to everything. She knew she had to choose carefully the opening nights she went to. The VIP functions. The cocktail circuit. And, by working her contacts, she was always able to preview the guest list. If she felt she could enhance her career by being present, she’d attend. She always sought the power-brokers. The cheque books. The decision makers. The movers and the shakers. She saw no value in making small talk with young hot-shot executives who were only interested in satisfying the lump in their pants. Her body was her bargaining chip to be spent wisely and sparingly. She also knew the dangers involved in being regarded as ‘easy’.
Georgette McKinley certainly wasn’t easy. When she felt the time was right to play her hand, she gave of herself, and invariably her lover would see his pillow talk revealed on the six o’clock news a few days later. She never blew a source or named names. Mostly, her one-night-stands were simply that. High-powered executives with wives, mortgages and children with much to lose if it ever became known that they were seduced by Georgette McKinley. And viewers came to trust her predictions. They knew full well if she stood in the middle of a mud flat and said an announcement by the government was imminent that the land was to be reclaimed for housing trust highrise, it would be.
If she stood in the middle of the international airport and said the north-south runway was to be extended by a thousand metres, it would be. Her information was always spot-on.
She didn’t always pay the ultimate price, but she was prepared to. She saw no harm in the giving of herself for another zero in her pay packet. Often she made her quarry play the waiting game. The quick, ten-minute social meeting over a cup of coffee. The discreet phone call. When she felt the time was right, the five-star suite with room service. The hotel room was always the grand finale. If the information was good, Georgette paid the price. Failure to deliver would see her quarry left to play solitaire in a very expensive hotel suite with the departing words, “And don’t call me. If you do, I’ll send your wife the hotel booking slip.”
Her technique was always the same. The warm embrace. A spa together. Just as her target was preparing to enter her, she’d pull away and reach for the towel. As she walked into the bedroom, her power-broker would be following along like a dog at its master’s heels. She knew she had the power at that very precise moment. She’d discard the towel, drop to her knees, and place him inside her mouth. Briefly. Then she’d withdraw and move to the bed, thus ensuring her man was at the very height of arousal. As he would seek out her mouth, she would then bluntly ask the question.
“What is your company doing about such and such?”
Often the reply would be a remark in jest. But she would stick to her game plan. She always got her story. In making sure it was true and not some made-up piece of nonsense, she would promise the source of her information would remain anonymous. If he was feeding her a line, she would name him to cover herself. Middle-aged men, privy to boardroom secrets with the most to lose, were always the most gullible.
And the most silent. Georgette knew it and the ploy worked every time. Especially as the targets she chose she knew to be mostly weak men. Men who wouldn’t become threatening or dangerous. Men she could string along, exploit and then discard. She was also smart enough not to exploit the practice.
She set her sights on just two a year. But each two was cultivated until she was one hundred percent sure of a result.
The steaming hot bath had eased her muscles, which made the back of her neck feel like it was on fire. But it was a good feeling.
She wiggled her toes into the smoothness of the satin, content in the knowledge she was in full control of her life.
Through a gap in the curtain, she spied a solitary star in the universe. She wondered which one it was.
Doesn’t matter, I guess, she smiled inwardly. I wonder if that’s me?
Then she berated herself for being so vain. As she focussed upon the star, her mind went back to what seemed so long ago. She wondered if offering herself for scoops was credible, then realised that also, long ago, she made the choice. No weddings. No kids. The choice was money. With money she could make her own choices. Without it, there wouldn’t be any. She didn’t want to depend on a man for the things she wanted in life. She’d seen too much divorce, too many people ending up with nothing after spending half their lives together.
No, no. None of that stuff for me.
She’d certainly had her opportunities. If ever she felt her guard beginning to drop, she’d recall her choices and cancel out of everything. She remembered how unsympathetically she was told as a five-year-old how her parents, sister and brother had died in a house fire. She remembered her years of being shuffled from one foster home to another. Of never having a place to call her own. She recalled the struggles of big-hearted, compassionate families who took her in and struggled for every cent they earned. The schools. The second-hand clothes. Her first job stacking shelves at the supermarket.
She remembered staring at the television, totally captivated. “That’s me,” she’d say. “Somehow, some day, that’s where I want to be.”
Through sheer persistence, Georgette got her first job in a television station just after she’d turned 17. Because she was such a breath of fresh air and filled with youthful enthusiasm, she became very popular, very quickly. Some of the women who had been in the business for many years were quick to spot her naïveté and her intelligence. They were also quick to pick up on the fact that every bloke in the building, young or old, was trying their hardest to bed the young woman. So several of the women got their heads together and decided on a course of action. Straws were drawn. Three times married, chain-smoking, peroxided Jill McKenzie drew the short one.
