“No. Fax their CVs to my home and I’ll let you know who I want to interview. Oh, I nearly forgot, I need you to find me a PA.”
“You’ve fired Shirley?”
“Not yet; she doesn’t know it, but she’s going on Friday. Her replacement will be young, attractive, modern and well-presented, and bear no semblance to Shirley.”
Aspine looked up to see Kurt standing sheepishly at his door. “Come in and take a seat.” He snapped. “How was it with, Tim?”
“He’s bitter and upset, but if you’re asking if he’s going to take any action, the answer’s no. He’s not the type to fight.”
“No fire in his belly. That was probably his problem.”
Kurt stared at the floor, not saying anything, but letting his body language register his disagreement.
“Anyhow, that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I’ll be tied up most of Friday, so I need you to do something for me.”
Kurt looked up, his face filled with apprehension. “What?”
“I want you to get rid of Shirley. Work out something that’ll give her no grounds for legal action, but make sure it’s not over the top.”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your damn business. I’ve made the decision.”
“Then if it’s not a rude question, why can’t you do it before Friday?”
“Because I have an important board meeting to attend, and I don’t want to give Harry any more ammunition than he already has.”
“So you want me to handle her dismissal and her final remuneration.”
“That’s right. I have a figure in mind so it’ll be interesting to see what you actually pay her. Consider it a test, Kurt. It’ll also tell me something about you.”
- 7 -
FIONA JECZIK’S WEEKLY drive to the nursing home in Warburton was a time to enjoy her yellow Audi TT, and reflect on the past. The only child of a beautiful English mother and a doting Polish father, she’d been raised in a happy household on the outskirts of London. They weren’t poor, but needed to work hard for the added luxuries, and her father often toiled sixty-hour weeks as a compositor on Fleet Street, while her mother took in washing and ironing to supplement the family’s income. As a young girl, she would sit on her father’s knee while he fired questions at her: “What is the capital of Sweden? What is twelve times eleven? How do you spell myth?” To her it was no more than playing a wonderful game with a man whom she dearly loved but never got to see enough of. Some weeks he would work seven days straight, leaving before she awoke and arriving home after she’d gone to bed. As she grew older, her father stressed the need for education and pushed her to study, the result being that she was always at the top of her class. By the time she was ten she was fluent in English, French and Polish, knowledgeable on world affairs, and had more than an elementary grasp of politics.
As she entered her teenage years, her idyllic world crashed around her, when Rupert Murdoch closed down his Fleet Street locations and relocated to new high-tech premises in Wapping, where compositors were no longer needed. There was violence on the streets as Newscorp sacked thousands, and the print unions took their members out on strike − a strike that lasted for nearly a year, and all but bankrupted the unions. During this time, Murdoch’s newspapers, aided and abetted by Maggie Thatcher, never missed a day’s publication.
Fiona’s father had been a devoted servant of the Times and Sunday Times for nearly twenty years, but this counted for nothing and he became unemployed overnight. She had never seen him drink before but, as the strike dragged on he would have his first vodka by ten o’clock in the morning and still be sitting in the same chair at midnight nursing a glass. Often he was incoherent and his rambling became indecipherable. Her mother would plead with him, “Petrosh, you can find another job in another industry,” and he would slur. “Too old, too old...I’m forty-six. I’m too old to learn something new.” Her mother took in more washing and ironing, cleaned houses, and even baby-sat in a desperate but futile attempt to make ends meet. As she toiled on relentlessly, she aged; lost weight and her once full face became lined and drawn. Fiona had never seen her mother and father fight before, but arguments and shouting became an every-day occurrence.
Against this background, in November 1987, they spent the last of their savings and boarded a BOAC Jumbo at Heathrow, bound for Melbourne and a new life. They rented a small two-bedroom apartment in North Melbourne and her father got a job with the Melbourne Age, and a little of the family happiness returned. This was not to last, as the previous two years had turned him into a bitter man and, worse, an alcoholic. At night, vodka in hand, he would ramble on about Murdoch the bastard, the loss of their savings and how unfair it had been. The following morning he would rise late for work or would phone in sick. Inevitably he was sacked, and the cycle repeated itself until he’d worked for all the local newspapers and none would have a bar of him. Fiona’s mother had been lucky enough to get a job in a supermarket, and her wages, plus what she made from washing and ironing at night, was just enough to allow them to subsist.
Fiona was enrolled in a local high school where her academic brilliance again shone through, culminating with her being dux of the school in 1993. In 1994, on a full scholarship, she commenced an Arts Degree − Media and Communications − at Melbourne University. This was a strange but considered choice, because she had already determined that the media was the most powerful and influential forum known to mankind, and she intended to use it. To help supplement the family’s income, she took part-time jobs at McDonald’s and Woolworth’s, before stumbling across an advertisement for a casual receptionist clerk with Channel Sixteen. The advertisement called for written applications, but this was not for Fiona, so, with CV in hand, she took the luxury of hailing a cab to Channel Sixteen’s offices. The receptionist had coldly informed her, “The human resources manager doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”
“Please, just let him know I’m here,” Fiona pleaded.
“I’m sorry he’s not in.” the receptionist said, as the reception doors opened and a good looking young man entered. “Oh, Mr Bentine, this young lady would like to see you, but I’ve informed her that she’ll have to make an appointment.”
Fiona could feel Bentine looking her up and down, and she flashed him a brilliant smile. “Please Mr Bentine, I only need five minutes.”
“Mr Bentine’s my father, I’m Maurice or better still, Morrie. I can give you five minutes and not a minute more Miss ...”
“Fiona, Fiona Jeczik.”
An hour and a half later she left Bentine’s office having secured the position.
Fiona’s role at Channel Sixteen was at the very bottom of the food chain: she ran errands, did the filing and filled in on reception. She stayed long after her designated working hours, chatting to the script-writers, mingling with the production staff, watching live current affairs shows and sitcoms, all the time learning. Some of the channel’s stars and executives were drawn to her looks, and in the early weeks she was continually hit on. She became adept at fending off those who she thought might help her in the future with a radiant smile, but those she assessed as of ‘no account’ were met with an icy stare which said, ‘stay away from me’. After completing her degree, it was only natural that she would join Channel Sixteen on a full-time basis. Appointed as a sales executive, which was a fancy television description for sales representative, she soon found out first-hand the power of ratings, and the power of the stars fronting the top-rating programs. In the evenings she hung out with the camera operators and the sound technicians on the sets of live productions, just waiting for an opportunity. One wet murky night, just before six o’clock the channel received a call from the Cabrini Hospital advising that Martha Stern, the creator and presenter of Your Family Today, had been involved in a serious car accident. With less than an hour to find a replacement, the management and production staff panicked, until someone suggested Fiona. “Look, it’ll only be for one night, and
we’ll use one of the news presenters tomorrow night. We just have to get over tonight.”
So Fiona fronted the cameras for the first time, her radiant looks, flashing smile, impeccable dress and precise presentation beaming into thousands of households around the nation. By noon the following day the worst was over for Martha Stern, but she would
not be well enough to host Your Family Today for at least another eight weeks. Executives and production staff were unanimous in their praise for Fiona, and it was decided that she would continue to host the show, until Martha returned.
Fiona had never been a fan of Your Family Today and thought it lightweight, banal and boring. The stories were repetitive; typically about weight loss, diets, women’s issues, fashion, health, fitness and well-being. She was amazed that it occupied the prime six-thirty time slot, but not surprised that it was being killed in the ratings by its two commercial competitors, which televised genuine current affairs programs. Halfway through the eighth week, Fiona was summoned to a senior executive’s office, and informed that the channel’s CEO and significant shareholder, Barry Seymour, had been impressed by her performance and wanted her to continue to anchor the show.
“What about Martha Stern?” she asked.
“She’s past her ‘use-by’ date,” the senior executive laughed. “Besides, you actually managed to gain a few rating points. Mind you, it’s nothing to boast about because you’re still running last.”
“Has Martha been told?”
“Fiona, don’t worry about her. She’ll be well looked after, and so will you. From this Monday your salary will be quadrupled, and you’ll become the permanent host of the show. How does that sound?”
“It’s acceptable,” she said, knowing that Martha had been paid far more. “Will I have input into the production of the show? Can I change the format? Can we make it more current affairs based?”
“Whoa! Slow down. Your Family Today was created to differentiate us from the others. We don’t want to copy what they’re doing.”
“But we’re getting murdered in the ratings. Why can’t we do some investigative journalism, and start breaking stories?”
“Fiona, let us worry about the ratings and just present the show in its existing format.”
She bit her tongue hard at his condescending attitude. “I’ll do that,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t.
During the ensuing two years, Fiona, and a small team of investigative journalists led by her brilliant young producer, Craig Chisholm, broke major stories on loan sharking, prostitution in the suburbs, paedophilia, corporate greed, government rorting, real estate fraud, stock manipulation and insider trading. The day after the stories went to air, she was invariably summoned to the office of a senior executive and read the riot act. She would apologize, kowtow and promise that it wouldn’t occur again, while at the same time planning her next exposé. She didn’t understand management, as ratings had increased every month since she had first anchored Your Family Today. It now rated second, although it was a long way behind Roy Merton, who anchored The Front Page on Channel Five. Fiona had become a slave to the ratings, knowing management might criticize her for changing format, but wouldn’t fire her so long as she continued to pick up points.
The phone call from her father was rambling, teary and slurred. “Yo...your mother has passed away. Victoria, she has died.”
He had never called her Victoria. It had always been Vicky. It was like he was talking about someone else. Fiona felt the sting in her eyes as she fought to maintain her composure, and her voice quivered. “How?” She heard herself ask.
“Heart attack. You muss come home, Fiona. We need to be together,” he slurred.
She felt the tears welling up and blinked rapidly, in a forlorn effort to stop them. She was angry. Her mother hadn’t died of a ‘heart attack’, but of overwork as a result of her father’s drinking. “I’ll be home right after seven.
“You’re still going to do your show? You can’t.”
“I have to. They can’t get anyone to replace me in half an hour,” she lied, fighting back the urge to choke. She had seen what had happened to Martha Stern, and didn’t intend to give anyone else the opportunity to impress.
Her father somehow managed to stay sober until the funeral, but afterwards drank himself senseless, wallowing in guilt, self-pity, loss and anger about the man who had brought this dreadful ill-fortune down upon him.
Despite management’s edicts, Fiona continued to take Your Family Today deeper into investigative journalism and current affairs. She was at the forefront in condemning
the banks for mass retrenchments when they were making record profits; she delivered scathing rebukes to Roy Walton for destroying the lives of thousands of FIF insurance policy holders; and Sydney Filder and Gene Askin for insider trading. Night after night she bombarded ASIC and the DPP for what she saw as their weak-kneed efforts in bringing Mike Blizzard to justice. Ratings soared and Your Family Today finally knocked Roy Merton and The Front Page from its number-one spot. The criticism from senior executives ceased, and some of those who’d been caustic and outspoken now feared for their own positions. Rumour had it that Barry Seymour had given her carte blanche regarding production and content. She was one of the highest paid television presenters in the land and was Channel Sixteen’s most precious property. Ratings equated to power, and huge ratings equated to huge power.
Fairhills Nursing Home was about an hour from Melbourne, and she enjoyed putting the top down on the Audi and letting the breeze run through her hair. The driveway to the home was flanked by towering cypresses and, as she drew closer they thinned and were replaced with beds of roses, tulips, azaleas and rolling manicured lawns. She had placed her father in the home shortly after the death of her mother, when his attacks on the vodka had become uncontrollable. He could hardly walk and it was only on his good days that he could even remember her. The reception was peaceful and filled with beautiful flowers from the grounds. She spoke briefly with the receptionist and then went and sat in one of the many chairs on the long veranda. A few minutes later, a male nurse wheeled her father out and she took his hand, and kissed him gently on his almost transparent forehead. His hands were bony, his face gaunt, and the few strands of hair he still had were stark white. He looked like he was a hundred years old, and she found it hard to believe he was the same man whose knee she had sat on less than twenty years ago. There was no sign that he recognized her. “Leave us please,” she said, looking at the nurse.
“Yes, Ms Jeczik.”
She took her father’s hands, placing her own around them, massaging gently. “Do you recognize me Daddy?” she said, staring into his blank eyes. “Daddy, it’s me, Fiona.” The tears welled up and she gently touched his face, hoping that he would respond. He didn’t, and she sat holding his hands, staring at the beautiful gardens. After an hour, she looked deeply into his eyes, but there wasn’t even a flicker. “Poor Daddy. They’ve hurt you so badly. Now I’m going to hurt them.”
- 8 -
TOM DONEGAN WAS as good as his word. As Aspine drove out of the car-park there was no sign of the picketers, the barbecues or the tents. Did Donegan bribe Lawson and McBain, or did his representatives intimidate the picketers, to such an extent that they’d packed up and gone home? No matter, they were gone and Donegan had confidently undertaken they would not be back.
Charlie hadn’t phoned, which was surprising, as she always had when he’d sent a present or flowers. He knew he must have said or done something to upset her on Friday night, but didn’t know what. The traffic was at a standstill and he phoned her, but all he got was the answering system. He phoned her mobile, but she didn’t answer and he left a message, “Hi Charlie, it’s me. Hope you liked the flowers. Phone me.”
He returned Trevor’s wave as he entered the driveway, and his thoughts went to a larger house with a four-car garage. Trevor’s Ford had to be parked out in the street and he always seemed to be in it, counting the days to when he could
drive it by himself.
The Mercedes wasn’t in the garage and when he entered the house it was strangely quiet. Jemma was sitting cross-legged on the sofa watching television, with a soft drink on one side of her and chips on the other. “That looks really healthy. Where’s Mark and your Mum?”
She held her fingers to her lips and whispered, “Just a second, Daddy, I don’t want to miss the last of Home and Away.” The channel panned to an advertisement and Jemma said, “They’re at school. It’s China Orientation night. Mum’s left sandwiches in the fridge for you, and there’s coffee in the percolator. She told me to tell you that you received a lot of faxes today that are on your desk.” She’d hardly looked at him, her concentration focused on the box, even during the advertisements.
“Thanks darling,” he sighed.
The covering fax from Jeremy set out his recommendations and apologized for forwarding the CV of a young accountant, Kerry Bartlett. He was highly qualified, obviously very bright, but had only just turned twenty-nine and was inexperienced. The position of financial controller would be a quantum career leap for him. The recommended candidate was forty-two and vastly more experienced, having worked for public companies in senior financial positions for most of his working life. He came across as being strong-willed, savvy, confident and competent, and just the type of financial controller Aspine didn’t need. There was room for only one king at Mercury Properties, and he sure as hell didn’t want any princes. He skim-read the third applicant’s CV, but already knew that he would only be interviewing one candidate. Jeremy described Brad Hooper as a long shot for the position of sales manager, and suggested that he run extensive advertisements to attract better-qualified candidates. He was thirty-two and his CV stated that he had sold life insurance, used cars, home loans, funeral plots and tax schemes, but had never managed a sales team. He had been the leading salesman in every company that he’d worked for, and Aspine knew he was going to employ him. Maybe not as sales manager but, if not, as the company’s gun sales rep who would set the standard for the rest of the sales team.