‘Here!’ Corinne held up the back page of the previous day’s Daily Telegraph—the very same paper that had featured her on the front. When they were sitting around the table at Foxglove Spires, none of them had thought to turn to the sports section.
‘TABBY IN REHAB HIDEAWAY’ screamed the headline. Nina snatched up the paper and scanned the story:
The Richmond Football Club is in damage control over the latest AFL drugs scandal. Team manager Brad Brown told the Daily Telegraph last night that Kyle ‘Tabby’ Hutchinson has entered a secret drug rehabilitation centre on the Gold Coast and is determined to work through his ‘personal issues’.
On Monday Melbourne police formally charged the star Richmond midfielder with possession of a prohibited drug. He will appear in the Melbourne City Magistrates Court next week.
The Richmond Tigers issued a formal statement last night: ‘The club is not in a position to make any comment regarding Kyle Hutchinson being questioned by police,’ the statement said.
‘The police have advised the club that they will detail the circumstances of the interviews at the appropriate time and until then no club official will be available to the media.’
However the Tele tracked down Brad ‘Kingie’ Brown and he confirmed that Hutchinson has checked into a drug rehabilitation facility ‘on the Goldie’. Brown also said that both he and Tabby’s fiancée, aspiring model Emma Pang, are with him at this secret location and that they were all united as he ‘reviews some personal issues’. He declined to give any more details. The Tigers have now lowered the ‘cone of silence’ over the troubled star. All calls to team management have since gone unanswered.
Nina dropped the paper on the counter, snatched her champagne glass and fell back onto a stool next to the kitchen counter. Her beaded scuffs dropped to the floor. Annie grabbed the paper, and she and Meredith read the article with their heads together.
‘I always told Brad that Tabby was going to be trouble!’ Nina babbled. ‘They’ve pinged him before on drug tests. I knew it was just a matter of time before the police found out.’
Meredith noticed that Corinne had suddenly engaged her intelligent little bird brain and was staring intently over her champagne as Nina prattled on: ‘Brad’s found coke, ecstasy in his locker. He’s always been an accident waiting to happen.’
‘Really?’ Corinne took a casual sip of her drink and reached for an encouraging squeeze of Nina’s hand. ‘How awful! Why didn’t anyone at the club say anything? Why didn’t Brad report him to the police?’ Corinne’s line of questioning was way too forensic for Meredith’s liking. Maybe the seasoned TV interviewer wasn’t as out-of-it as she appeared. Time for a little diversion.
Meredith waltzed the length of the massive adjoining entertaining area. ‘Corinne, I adore your feature wall!’ She extravagantly praised the lemon granita ‘velour’ textured expanse, which soared a good two storeys to a glass canopy. The paint finish was so three years ago, and she couldn’t miss the giant Warhol-esque portrait of Corinne above the white glass-tiled fireplace. Meredith had always thought that it was acceptable to hang one’s ancestors in pride of place, but a picture of your own self—no matter how fabulous—was pushing the limits of good taste.
‘And this portrait of you . . . !’ As Meredith had guessed, her supplication at the shrine of Corinne proved to be irresistible.
‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’ Corinne was at her side in an instant.
‘The whole place is brilliant!’ Meredith surveyed the hand-painted silver orchids on white wallpaper, the mirrored chandelier the size of a Volkswagen, the black sculpted floor rugs . . . and thought that it all looked like an exclusive bordello—appropriate enough for a media whore like Corinne Jacobsen. She ladled on more compliments, and Corinne greedily lapped them up.
‘We’ve just had it done. Malcolm brought the decorators over from Switzerland. They did our chalet in Gstaad and we adored it so much that we knew we just wouldn’t find anyone in Australia who could do a better job.’
Meredith gritted her teeth. That was the first insult from Corinne, and she’d only been in the door ten minutes. No doubt there’d be plenty more to come. Meredith remembered that Corinne had been an expert at the sly put-down. She’d turned it into an art form.
‘Meredith, you must go and have a look at the shoe sale in Georges, they’ve got all the big sizes left.’
‘Meredith, would you like to borrow my lipstick? I know you have political