Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  She answered immediately. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Stephen King would have nightmares about that door.’

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No, I didn’t hurt myself,’ I said. ‘Your evil beast of a door hurt me—I haven’t had grazed knees since I was six!’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, darling.’

  ‘Just talk me through the rest of it.’

  ‘Get the eighth key—’

  ‘They’re unnumbered.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart. Count clockwise from the green key.’

  I fumbled through them.

  ‘That one’s for the top lock on the door inside the garage.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘The key two back from the eighth key goes in the lock below and then the green key works with the third lock.’

  So far, so good.

  ‘Are you in?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You’re so much like your mother when you’re angry.’

  If I hadn’t been so furious, I’d have been able to appreciate the place. It was a striking old warehouse converted into a large loft with high ceilings and graffitied walls. The kitchen was the centrepiece, with an enormous woodfired stove between two electric ovens.

  I tended to my knees using the plasters in my Toolkit, and called Debs.

  Her PA answered. ‘She’s in a meeting,’ he said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  I explained about my luggage.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruby. She hasn’t been able to get there yet. She should be there by sixish.’

  I looked at my watch. It was 4.30 p.m. ‘I need you to get an urgent message to her,’ I said. ‘I’m flying with the Leader of the Opposition to Sydney at half six, so I’ll need it within the hour.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘Even if she leaves now, which she can’t, with peak-hour traffic she won’t be at your aunt’s in time.’

  ‘Cock.’ I was dishevelled, dusty, bruised and bloodied. I had nothing to change into except the spare bra and pants in my Toolkit.

  ‘Ruby?’ he said. ‘You need to get to the airport pronto if you’re going to make that flight. I’ll arrange a cab. In the meantime—and this didn’t come from me—Debs keeps an overnight bag in Daphne’s closet.’

  Close to despair, I limped into the vast, main bedroom and rummaged through the rainbow of Irish linen in Daphne’s wardrobe for something structured. Nada. But there, at the end, was the pot of gold: an ostrich-leather overnight bag embossed with Debs’ initials. I grabbed it along with my handbag and ran down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind me. I sent up a quick prayer to the Goddess of Garages, pressed the button and jumped into the waiting taxi.

  ‘Tullamarine. Fast.’ In the back seat, I dug through the overnight bag. ‘Hallelujah!’

  The cabby shot me a quizzical look as I held up a stunning pair of black Scanlan & Theodore cigaretteleg trousers. Size eight and clearly intended for giraffes, judging by the length of them. Underneath was a folded white-collared shirt. It would be a squeeze, but one worth making. The pièce de résistance was the cosmetics bag containing a range of travel-sized La Prairie products.

  Out the window, everything about Melbourne appeared artistic; from buildings to overpasses, there was an eye for the aesthetic. Beneath a phallic yellow sculpture arching over the airport expressway, my driver asked which terminal I was going to. I showed him the instructions Beryl had given me.

  ‘That’s for charter jets, mate.’

  Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would not be boarding a commercial flight. My plan to occupy the disabled cubicle at the airport and force my body mass into the hopelessly skinny trousers had to be scrapped. There was no way in hell that I would board a private plane in torn couture. I needed to be Jackie Onassis, not Jackie Oh-no-sis.

  ‘Pull over.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of the bloody Tullamarine Freeway, love.’

  ‘I need to change.’

  ‘Change what?’

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘I can’t pull over, mate. It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’ll have to do it here then. Now, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your eyes on the road…’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he said, turning up the radio.

  I took a deep breath and held it, hitched my dress up over my hips and wriggled into the beautifully tailored trousers, hoping the recent higher-than-average carb intake hadn’t added critical centimetres to my circumference.

  Grunting and panting, I thrust my pelvis skywards, untangled my underpants from the knot they’d formed between my buttocks and gave the trousers one last tug before zipping the fly. I was in. The hard part was over. I pulled my dress over my head and slipped into the crisp, clean shirt, buttoning it from the top down.

  ‘That was quite a show,’ said the cabby while I folded the trouser legs under with the help of a little double-sided tape from my Toolkit.

  ‘You were supposed to be watching the road.’

  ‘I bloody did!’ He pointed out the window. ‘It’s those guys that got the show—isn’t that the Masters bloke?’

  I ducked. ‘As in Max Masters?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s him.’ He waved excitedly at the car next to him.

  ‘Stop waving!’

  ‘It’s my taxi; I’ll wave if I want to.’

  I moaned. ‘Is he waving back?’ My head was firmly between my knees.

  ‘Yeah, he seems real nice.’ The car slowed to a stop. ‘Hey, I reckon he’s going to the same place you are—what a fluke!’

  I kept my head down.

  ‘He’s coming over to talk to us. I can’t wait to tell my wife about this.’ He jumped out of his cab to greet Max.

  Reaching forwards to put fifty dollars on his seat, I shuffled to the passenger side in a bid to escape unnoticed. There was a tap on my window.

  ‘G’day, Roo,’ Max said, grinning down at me. Di giggled; Luke blushed; Flack the Cop couldn’t stifle his smile. Clutching at scraps of dignity, I slung my bags over my shoulder, lowered my sunglasses and walked towards the terminal, my head held high. ‘Don’t we have a plane to catch?’

  Luke’s phone rang, cutting short the second awkward moment in as many days.

  Di ran to catch up with me. ‘We didn’t have a chance to meet properly before,’ she said, chivalrously overlooking the fact that she had just seen my pelvic floor muscles at work. ‘I’m Dianna Freya—I handle Max’s media.’

  ‘Ruby Stanhope,’ I said, my face still hot with humiliation. ‘I do complimentary mobile peep shows with a bit of financial policy advice on the side.’

  She laughed. ‘We’ve all done it,’ she said. ‘I love your shoes, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks. I was admiring your red ones earlier.’

  ‘They’re my arse-kicking shoes,’ she said, ‘which come in handy on a day like this. Anyway, we’ve got Sunset coming for a prerecord in ten, so I’d better find somewhere quiet to do it—do you mind helping me out?’

  ‘Sure.’ I added a handful of new items to Google to my list.

  ‘Just give my bags to the RAAF lady over there. This is our first trip on the BBJ, but I’m told they just put our luggage in the hull.’ She gestured towards a uniformed officer who stood at the foot of a small white jet marked ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE .

  Before I could ask her for a quick translation, she’d already taken a call on one phone and was texting from another while running towards an approaching satellite truck.

  The uniformed lady came across the tarmac to help with the two handbags, overnight bag, suit bag and Di’s dilapidated briefcase.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, not knowing whether I should be addressing her by title. ‘I’m Ruby Stanhope. These belong to Dianna Freya and me.’

  She crossed our names off the list on her clipboard as if she was front of house for the opening of a club. ‘Would you like to come aboard?’

  ‘Is anyon
e else there?’

  ‘Mr Harley is taking a phone call.’

  I followed her up the flip-down stairs. The last time I’d been on a private jet was when I flew to an oil project in western Kazakhstan in a ‘revamped’ Soviet plane that had all the interior charm of a Soho dustbin on a Saturday night. Now I walked down a narrow corridor with shiny wood panelling on my left and silk-covered walls on my right. It opened onto a small room. Twenty or so large leather lounges sat on either side of glossy coffee tables, which displayed a spread of newspapers and magazines.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked the flight attendant.

  ‘I’d love some water,’ I said, taking a seat.

  She returned shortly with a bottle and a selection of biscuits. ‘Mr Harley asked if you would join him when you’re free.’ She showed me to a small meeting room at the front of the plane, which contained four seats and a large table. Luke, who stood in the corner staring out the window, was on the phone. He turned to usher me in.

  ‘How awesome is this?’ he said when he finished his call. ‘Quite. Who owns it?’

  ‘The people,’ he said. ‘This will be our maiden voyage— the Opposition doesn’t get to use them until we’re in campaign mode.’ When he finished the sentence, it seemed to dawn on him that he was now running a spontaneous election campaign. He closed his eyes and pressed his index fingers to his temples.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you asked.’ Luke opened his eyes and removed the lid from a takeaway cappuccino with pathetic froth. ‘We need help.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘None of us saw this coming: we haven’t started fundraising properly; the party is completely drained of dosh thanks to two recent state campaigns; we’re polling terribly on the economy because people lean on the incumbent to take them through these sorts of global cluster fucks; and now we’re up against the first female PM, who is bound to have a bit of a honeymoon between now and polling day.’

  We watched people scurry around the tarmac, juggling phones and luggage.

  Luke continued: ‘Somehow, we’ve got to get our shit together and get the message out that we know what we’re doing and that we’re better than they are—but that’s a pretty big ask with virtually nothing in the coffers, only a handful of fully developed policy platforms and a shitload of semi-marginal seats without preselected candidates.’ He stopped to draw breath.

  ‘How, pray tell, can I, an unemployed Brit with not an iota of political background, help you do that?’

  Luke slurped the froth from his cappuccino. ‘I’m so sick of these hacks who’ve done nothing else with their lives but politics. Sure, they’re useful because they understand the process, but we need a few new ideas if we’re going to make it through.’

  ‘I don’t have a working visa,’ I blurted out.

  ‘We’ll sort something out.’

  I imagined what Bruce at Immigration would say to that.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘this is going to be a miscellaneous gig—not quite the straight financial stuff I had in mind for you when we first met.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It might mean that you need to donate the occasional hair-removal tool and salad-scented paraphernalia in the middle of writing a policy speech for the Business Council of Australia conference. Or provide adult entertainment for weary colleagues en route to the airport…’ He stopped to laugh at his own joke then cleared his throat.

  ‘Very funny.’

  He changed tenor. ‘The LOO’s on Sunset so we’d better get someone down there with a dictaphone. Do you mind?’ For a second, I contemplated his proposition before realising I barely understood it. ‘Sure,’ I bluffed. ‘Where’s this loo?’

  He pulled a dictaphone from a crusty old Law Institute of Victoria knapsack and handed it to me. ‘L-O-O. Leader of the Opposition.’

  The mother of all To Do lists

  Over a glass of merlot on the way to Sydney, I reflected on the day. Nothing that had happened resembled, even remotely, the life I’d planned.

  I recalled tete-a-tetes with my foppish Oxford ex. Smitten with each other and the life we would share, post-coital future-planning had been almost as electric as the act itself. Propped up on pillows in bed, sharing tea from a thermos, we would fantasise.

  ‘There should be at least two children by the time I’m thirty and you’re twenty-seven,’ he’d say, ‘which will give me time to make partner at Preston & Fiddle and you a chance to establish yourself at the bank before you take a few years off with our first child until he goes to school.’

  Thanks to his presumptuousness, these conversations would escalate into full-blown arguments climaxing in pre-emptive custody negotiations. Make-up sex ensued and so the dysfunctional cycle continued until my final year, when he fell head over heels for his father’s secretary, married her and moved to Lexington, Kentucky.

  Naivety aside, I had always thought my life would meet basic deadlines as set out in the mother of all To Do lists:

  Early twenties: Get graduate position with bank, and boyfriend

  Mid-twenties: Get promotion and engaged

  Late twenties: Get promotion, married and Holland Park house

  Early thirties: Get promotion, first child and holiday villa in Umbria

  Mid-thirties: Get promotion, second child and interior decorator for holiday villa

  Late thirties: Get promotion, third child and country house

  Early forties: Get promotion with transfer to New York office and chichi house in the Hamptons

  Mid-forties: TBC.

  To date, the only items I could tick off the list were job-related—that part was relatively on track until last Wednesday, when I was made redundant, got trollied on a tremendous bottle or three of red, booked a ticket abroad and took an unexpected career detour via an Australian federal election campaign.

  The cabin was now full of fellow campaigners, all bewildered by the day’s events. Di, who sat beside me, dwarfed by oversized noise-cancelling headphones, unfurled fish and chip paper on the coffee table and drew six columns with a red marker. Luke and Max were holding a strategy meeting in the office with the party director, Mirabelle Halifax—a voluptuous lady with a thick mane of purplish hair fastened high with nothing but a gravity-defying pencil.

  Di removed her headphones. ‘Did that cow on Sunset really ask him whether the term “bull” was appropriate?’

  I nodded.

  I’d never realised what a satellite interview is like. It takes skill to stare down the barrel of a camera with the voice of your interviewer echoing through a flesh-coloured earpiece, knowing that people eating their dinner around the country are watching your every move.

  Di had briefed Max while doing his make-up. They ran through a couple of lines before the cameraman counted Max in with his fingers. I recorded the interview from a makeshift green room in the terminal. Nothing of note happened until Max was asked ‘Mr Masters, do you really think it’s appropriate for the alternative prime minister of this country to be using expressions like “load of bull” in a press conference?’

  Max hadn’t flinched. ‘Sure, Stacey—this is Australia. I think most people would be pretty comfortable with that sort of language.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Masters,’ said Stacey, ‘a Sydney radio program did a quick poll this afternoon and sixty-seven per cent of listeners thought it was inappropriate. Are you suggesting these people are unAustralian?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Stacey, I haven’t seen the poll you’re referring to, but if I’ve offended anyone I apologise—I guess it’s just my navy background coming out.’

  When the interview ended, Max had muttered crossly to Di about having been blindsided. She now scrawled ‘bull’ in the first column, along with the words ‘team’, ‘national service’ and ‘SMEs’.

  Then, a frazzled fat man with a pile of papers distributed a stapled booklet to everyone on the plane.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked Di.r />
  ‘Today’s coverage and tomorrow’s schedule, which is likely to change a trillion times.’

  The schedule read like an extreme Choose Your Own Adventure. Unless I was mistaken, we would be doing a media round-up at 4 a.m., three radio and two TV interviews before 7 a.m., a breakfast team-meeting at party HQ before 8 a.m., a school visit in the western suburbs at 9 a.m., and a travelling media briefing at 11 a.m. At midday we’d be flying to Brisbane with media, going to a fundraising lunch, a small-to-medium-enterprise policy launch, a meeting with pollsters and an After Dark prerecord, before attending a fundraising dinner and then a strategy meeting.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ I said to Di. ‘It isn’t humanly possible.’

  ‘I was thinking it looked a bit light on,’ she said. ‘I’ve got forty journos, snappers and crews joining us tomorrow and they’re going to want to know what the next week holds.’ She swigged at a neat whisky. ‘And the truth is, I’ve got no fucking idea.’

  ‘You mean, the media will travel with us?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a spare plane and bus for them at every location. It’s my job to look after them and make sure they’ve got enough of a story by the end of the day so we get some decent coverage. And I’ll be working closely with our advance team—that’s assuming we get another couple of advancers; right now it’s just Maddy—to make sure each event runs smoothly. Otherwise all the coverage will be about gaffes and cock-ups rather than the LOO and his policy agenda.’

  ‘And what exactly is his policy agenda?’

  ‘Good question, mate.’ She stared blankly out the window. ‘All I know is that this week we’re doing something on national service to focus people on the LOO’s military background; something on “the team” to let everyone know we’ve got one and they don’t; and tomorrow we’re going to say something about small business because this election is going to be fought on the economy.’