‘So how did the budget pan out?’ asks Pete, as I try to manoeuvre my sleeve down over my hand so I can hold my too-cold beer. Pete works as a lawyer doing I am not too sure what. It’s a bit complicated for me really. All I know is he’s good at it and enjoys it. What else does a bloke need to know?
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Seemed to go ok. No great stuff-ups, which is always the number-one priority in my game. Just fucking glad it’s over.’
Gav, who has always been a more sensitive type, more worried about me than I really deserve, asks how I’m coping with all the madness of the job. At various times I have told both of them versions of my life. Not the full catastrophe, just the edited highlights. I’d like to think that’s because of some vestige of loyalty to Sloan, but it’s more likely that if I verbalise my inner thoughts I will realise how unpleasant my working day really is.
I have told them some of the milder Ray moments and the looks on their faces reminds me of how far from the norm my daily life has strayed.
‘Not too bad, actually,’ I tell Gav. ‘More or less under control. No life-threatening moments to report.’
‘How’re the nighttime adventures of big Ray coming along?’ asks Pete. Like many people I meet, Pete is always keen to get the goss on the evening ramblings of my boss, which by this point have become more rooted in lurid fantasy than reality. A variety of people, friends and strangers, enjoy asking me about the Ray rumour file. Some of them swear blind they saw him out late the night before with some young thing when I know for a fact he was out of town, others relay fourth-hand reports as fact on anything from a fondness for prohibited substances to doing the bidding of any number of property developers. All nonsense.
‘Highly exaggerated,’ I assure him. ‘Almost monk-like is our Ray these days.’
Mercifully, the siren goes to start the game and brings down the curtain on the serious talk and allows me to escape into the protective arms of the footy.
‘For fux sake, umpire, you win that fucking whistle in a raffle?’ I was hoping for a nice easy win for my boys, but as a rule they don’t do nice or easy. Tense and difficult, yes.
I was on the march to pick up the half-time beers when I ran into my old boss Ian Cavendish. I hadn’t seen him since I left the paper. Didn’t even know he liked the footy. I saw him from a distance near the beer shed. He was on his own and looking around as if he’d lost someone or something. His head swivelled and he saw me and I had the distinct impression the person he was looking for was me.
The gap between us closed and he stuck out his hand, smiling, full of cheer. ‘Jack, Jack, mate, good to see you. Didn’t expect to run into you today. How’s it going? How’s life with Sloan?’
‘Fine, Ian. How are you? Didn’t know you were a footy fan?’
‘I’m not really, just catching up with an old mate who’s in one of these grandstands somewhere, just trying to find him.’
‘How’s life at the paper?’ I enquire.
‘Funny, you should ask. Leaving as it happens. Last day was yesterday.’
‘You’re kidding. What’re you doing?’
‘Decided it was time to jump from the newspaper death spiral before it was too late. You know, find something a little more permanent. Just like you.’
I thought of my life as more precarious than permanent but never mind.
‘So who are you jumping to?’
‘Bruce Fox.’
This is a surprise. Fox is a property developer with a reputation for playing it hard and loose. He’s also a major donor to my lot. Not that he’s our way inclined, he just distributes large sums of money to anyone he thinks may be able to help him—and will be suitably grateful for his largesse.
‘Fox?’ I say, unable to keep the note of surprise out of my voice.
‘Yep, it will be good. Better money, big plans. I reckon you might be hearing something from us soon as well.’
He says this last part with what I can only describe as a gleam in his eye. I don’t know why but it leaves me feeling most uncomfortable and with a desire to be out of his company as soon as possible.
‘Well, I’ll look forward to that I’m sure. Good to see you, Ian, but I must run. Time and beer wait for no man.’
The encounter with Cavendish soon falls from my mind. My team goes entirely missing in the third quarter and heads into the last break five goals down. I have worked my way through my entire dictionary of invective and to make life even better the rain has settled into a steady downpour and my toes are swimming in my socks.
Just another happy day at the footy.
14
Politics is full of tradition. Some are quaint, such as the practice of dragging the latest parliamentary speaker to the chair for the first time. Some just seem silly. For example, it’s an offence to call a politician by their first name on the floor of parliament. Other traditions just seem self-indulgent, especially when it comes to the perks and the odd bits of comfort that takes the harsh edges off life as an MP.
Bipartisanship occurs rarely in the cut and thrust of parliamentary life but it always seems to make a comeback if it is ever suggested too much taxpayers’ money is being spent making sure our politicians can live the life they clearly think they are entitled to.
Of all the lurks in this game there is no doubt overseas travel is top of the heap. Every year, any number of no-name backbenchers, people who could walk unmolested and unrecognised down the city’s busiest street, take to the nation’s airports and first-class lounges and head overseas. Needless to say, Sloan loves an overseas trip. The comfy seats in business class, the five-star hotels, people who have never heard of him treating him with deference because someone mentioned he is someone important, somewhere in the world. But I think what he likes most of all is just being out of the state. Away from colleagues he doesn’t like and who don’t like him. Away from the eternal media battle and away from the having to front up to meetings with people he has no time or regard for.
It’s a little holiday. Which is nice for him, if not for those who have to travel with him. I won’t be a hypocrite. I love travelling. I love it even more when someone else is paying and I am at the pointy end of the aircraft. It’s a hangover from my years as a journalist when such largesse was happily common, the days before everyone started counting their pennies.
So, while a few of my newspaper colleagues once commiserated with me when I was sent to London for a press conference that meant I was on the ground for less than twenty-four hours I was delighted. Especially as it was an airline press conference and I would be flying first class.
It was all ‘More Krug, sir?’ and ‘How would sir like his steak cooked this evening?’. Phrases I didn’t hear too often flying back in economy when I was paying my own bills. Shallow? Yes. But I’ve always been a sucker for international travel.
I had only been with Sloan a few months when I went on my first trip with him. I was surprised to be chosen. I was the new boy, I thought I’d have to bide my time before being sent on a fat junket. Of course, Sloan was a nightmare to travel with and nobody else wanted to go. I soon found out the lure of business class and nice hotels didn’t compensate for the stress of travelling with the monster. For a start you’d have to sit beside him for over fifteen hours on a flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. The biggest problem in travelling with Sloan is probably an ego one. And for a change it’s mine and not his.
On good days in the office you see yourself as the sharp end of the political process; the trusted adviser dispensing sage advice helping both boss and the world generally. On overseas travel you are reduced to a valet. It’s like the man can do nothing for himself. You look after his luggage, book the hotels and cars, find the cars, give him money for taxis, remind him what time to be in the lobby each morning, pay for the hotel, pay for his breakfast, lunches and dinners, find a dry cleaner, get him to airports, collect him from airports.
It was an imposition for him to take care of his own passport. Every morning you were ex
pected to deliver him printouts of the morning’s paper from home, even though he could easily find out anything he wanted on his iPad. On that first trip to LA I had been in my room for about five minutes and trying to resist the obvious temptation to fall into an enormous, highly comfortable bed with crisp white sheets when there was a knock on the door. Sloan. ‘Something up?’ I say. There he stands, not looking at me, but around me. Into my room. ‘Just checking. I thought my room was a bit small and maybe you had been given mine by mistake.’ Then he turned and was off. Leaving me to assume my room, at the very least, was the same size as his. And heaven help you if anything went wrong. On my first day of that first trip to Los Angeles he was invited to some high-power dinner, an event far too exclusive for a humble functionary such as myself to attend, much to my relief. I was in charge of the details and so booked a car through the concierge for 7 pm to take him away in accustomed style. I double-checked an hour beforehand and was assured it was taken care of by the highly professional hotel staff. I offered to come down before seven to make sure all was running smoothly but he assured me it was fine and I should head out and have a good night.
But I wasn’t that stupid. There was no way I was leaving the hotel before he did. And just as well. At 7.02 pm my mobile rang. Sloan. ‘Where’s my fucking car, mate?’
‘It was booked for 7 pm,’ I stammered.
‘Well, it’s not fucking here, mate.’ And he hung up. I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack when the phone rang again thirty seconds later. ‘Well, where is it, mate? Do I have to get a fucking taxi or what? I can’t be late to something like this.’
He hung up again. My hotel room was at the front of the building. I looked out the window and sure enough, twenty-two floors below was a familiar figure pacing up and down with a phone to his ear. From my vantage point I could also see a line of black Lincoln Town Cars snaking into the hotel and hoped that surely to fuck one of those was for the boss.
The phone rang again. ‘I don’t know why I bother bringing any staff on these trips. What the fuck do you lot do?’ There’s a pause and I hear a ‘Car for Mr Sloan’ in the background.
‘Yep.’ Then, ‘See you, mate.’ It was now 7.04 pm.
15
This post-budget trip is going to be an epic as well, three weeks as we make our way through LA, San Diego, Dallas, Houston, New York and Seattle. On the plus side, Harry is coming as well. Not to mention a couple of former military types who now work in the public service as defence experts. At least there will be plenty of protection this time around, and some of them have been trained to kill by their country. Could be useful.
On the downside, and it’s a big one, Ray is bringing his girlfriend. This means for the last month he has spent more time worrying about the trip than the budget he has just delivered. At every staff meeting for weeks the same question has been asked. ‘What about Charlotte’s flights, have you sorted those out yet?’
The problem is that Charlotte is not entitled to free government travel. Sloan therefore is trying to book her entire trip using frequent flyer points and the cheapest fares he can find. As you can imagine this causes any number of headaches for Irene, the poor woman with the worst job in the world—Sloan’s PA.
Actually, I quite like Charlotte, although she is clearly a bit nuts. I mean, she is with Sloan and that fact alone must call anyone’s judgment into question. Sloan is clearly smitten by Charlotte and to our respective delights she seems to have brought a little stability into his life. Ten years younger than him and attractive, she loves to be seen in the social pages and has a history of dating highly successful, rich men. It’s bad news for the paranoid side of the boss’s character. As far as I can tell they spend half their time fighting and the other half making up. It’s a weird relationship.
So a motley crew including Ray, Charlotte, Harry, and I, with the defence guys Angus and Norman, are setting off to explore the US like a superannuated backpackers tour. Harry and I have had some private meetings in the days leading up to departure to set ground rules so we don’t go mad in the next three weeks. Wherever possible we will find ways to make sure Angus and Norman are our first line of defence. Both are ex-military, so we figure they are used to taking orders without question, no matter how barking mad. If anything goes wrong, which is inevitable, we will not blame each other. It will be Angus and Norman’s fault. If we have to tell Sloan anything unpleasant we will do it together. And each night, when not bogged down by an official function, we will have a quiet beer and a debrief just to make sure we are not about to explode.
This should not be too hard to arrange. Sloan does work hard on these trips but he is not one of those politicians, like Boyle, who bangs in meetings back-to-back-to-back and by the end of the day he has forgotten who the hell he has just met.
Sloan has different rules. It’s a maximum of four meetings a day. If we schedule dinner meetings on consecutive nights he gets in a huff and will complain about the ridiculous schedule.
But it’s also a fine line. Freedom of information has become an epidemic and every smart-arse reporter in town wants to expose how someone like Sloan is spending tens of thousands of bucks on overseas jollies with nothing to show for it. Even Sloan understands this so we to try to plug some of the more obvious gaps.
On this trip we have scheduled a meeting with a couple of vice-presidents of Apple in New York. Sounds impressive. Not really. All of the senior people were away on their summer holidays and these two were the best of the few left behind to keep an eye on the company. A Google search after the meeting was finalised revealed Apple has something like 2000 people with the vice-presidential label. And an organisational chart of the upper echelons of Apple’s management team, which covers about 50 people, had no mention of the two blokes we were seeing. Still, it will look good on the itinerary should it ever get FOI’d.
My role on this trip is a bit of a mystery. Sloan has insisted I come along but when I raise the possibility of a few story ideas, perhaps making a few calls to journos on the road to spruik the trip, or even arranging to talk to a few Australian reporters based in the US, he’s not keen. The paranoid side of my nature has me starting to believe my job will be to handle any emergencies that erupt.
So it’s with a little trepidation I finally board the Qantas plane and head off to the US. Three weeks feels like an awfully long time to be away as well. Not just because of the thought of travelling with Sloan but because it feels like I am abandoning Emily and Lily to embark on a mad adventure.
16
It takes a single day for the whole show to fall apart. We are in San Diego. A lovely town. A nice harbour. The Gaslamp Quarter is full of good pubs and restaurants.
I annoy Sloan more or less immediately. San Diego is close to the Mexican border. The infamous party town of Tijuana is less than an hour’s drive away. The day after we arrive in the US is a rest and recovery day—a Sunday as well, so not too much is expected. But Sloan has an idea. ‘Why don’t we hire a car and drive to Tijuana?’ he says. I splutter an immediate ‘no’. He looks indignant and tells me not to be soft. It will be fun. I point out Tijuana routinely has more than 800 murders a year, hosts one of the most vicious drug cartels in the world, and is home to just about any other kind of depravity you can think of. And that he is not bloody going.
What I don’t say is that someone with Sloan’s reputation as a bit of a party boy, and a generally angry man, could get himself in serious trouble in a place like Tijuana. The headline generator is spinning through my head and all I can see is a front-page picture of a dishevelled-looking Sloan being manhandled by Mexican police under a screaming headline: ‘Sloan Arrested’.
As per our arrangement, Harry pipes up in agreement. ‘We are tired enough as it is, let’s have a quiet day tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ answers Sloan. Then looks at us like we are currently the two dullest fuckwits in continental America and slopes off to find Charlotte to share his misfortune.
What pa
sses for his good humour returns that night. The six of us have dinner at a decent Indian restaurant before Angus and Norman decide to call it a night. But the rest of us hit a couple of those bars you only find in America: recently opened but made to look old and decorated by an interior designer who doesn’t drink. The numerous TVs are showing one of their incredibly dull sports while weak beer is being served to loud and happy people. It’s fun in that kind of ‘we’re not at home anymore’ way.
But Charlotte is looking for something a bit more groovy. A barman points us down the road to a club he says is pretty cool and we troop off. There’s a couple of bouncers at the door checking IDs. Not a problem. Harry is the youngest at twenty-eight. However Charlotte, who has just turned thirty-two, has nothing with her to prove her age. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ one of them says in that infuriatingly polite way that Americans affect when they are telling you to fuck off, ‘but we can’t let you in without ID.’ This is a pain but there are several hundred other bars and clubs round here so Harry, Charlotte and I start to walk away.
Not Ray. He goes right up to the bouncer and tells him not to be ridiculous. ‘She is thirty-two, mate, she’s not some kid. Use some bloody common sense.’ The bouncer is unperturbed and politely restates the rules.
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