by Jessica Rudd
Oscar waved as we pulled away from the curb.
‘I need to buy some clothes,’ I said to my eighty-inthe-shade driver.
‘I can see that.’
He deposited me at a large pedestrian mall and said, ‘David Jones is just in there. It’s a bit pricey, but there’s quite the collection of fashions.’
Inside the air-conditioned building I slumped at the nearest counter, behind which stood a woman with a cantaloupe-sized grey bun.
She looked at me. ‘Oh, sweet pea.’
I had found the Fairy Godmother.
‘Take a seat and I’ll bring you a few things. You probably shouldn’t try anything on because you’re a bit…’
‘Damp,’ I said. Despite being marinated in caffeine, I was dog-tired and couldn’t be bothered with shopping: an altogether unfamiliar sensation.
‘Sweet pea,’ said the Fairy Godmother a few minutes later. I glanced up at a chic dove-grey pencil skirt, a capped-sleeve, silk indigo top and a cotton, charcoal cardigan.
‘You’re a ten, yes?’
‘I am.’ I stood to touch the fabrics.
‘I brought you something else,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know if you’ll like it.’
It was the kind of little black dress women spend their lives searching for. Scooped in neck and back, it was sleeveless and fitted to the knee with a short slit in the back. I did a mental raid of my shoe cupboard in London for the perfect match.
‘I’ll take it all,’ I said, ‘and I’ll need three bras, three pairs of pants, another top, jeans and a pair of not-too-high pointed black pumps.’
I emailed Di.
D, doused myself in coffee so I’m at a place called David Jones. I realise we’ve only just met, but if you want me to buy your pants, I can. R Thanks Roo. Hipster. Size twelve. Black. D
Houndstooth shopping bags in hand, I cabbed it to the hotel.
‘Today was the first complete day of this bizarre election campaign and it was a cracker, with new Prime Minister Gabrielle Brennan promoting her arch nemesis, Bart Stein, to the coveted Treasury position.’
Oscar’s six o’clock report cut to a shot of the Burwood High School sign and then footage of Max on the cricket field. ‘But in the western suburbs of Sydney, Opposition Leader Max Masters was busy making amends for his bull-in-a-china-shop gaffe with high school cricket team the Burwood Bulls.
‘It’s been a busy day in the Masters camp,’ said Oscar, ‘where in Brisbane this afternoon the Opposition Leader announced plans to establish a national mediation centre for banks and small businesses, in what the business community is calling a “positive step forwards”. But banks used the opportunity to take a swipe at the Opposition’s inexperience.’ The coverage switched to footage of a groomed woman with tattooed-on eyebrows.
‘This shows a degree of naivety on the part of the Opposition,’ she said. ‘When businesses default, banks often have no option but to move in and seize assets. It’s not personal—it’s business. Mr Masters would do well to understand the distinction.’
Di dimmed the volume and the LOO left in a funk, followed closely by Luke, who was using his debacle of a tie to stretch his arms behind him.
‘I thought it was good,’ I said.
‘It was,’ said Di. ‘He’s just too tired and close to it to know. Anyway, for now we need to finalise an event for tomorrow, tell the cops so they can advance it, watch the rest of today’s coverage and figure out what radios we’re doing in the morning.’
‘Now?’
‘Well, yes,’ laughed Di, ‘but there’s nothing to say this can’t be done over room service and a glass of wine.’
Theo staggered past us, stretching his arms above his head. ‘Two days down,’ he said, ‘only thirty-one to go.’
‘I’ll get the wine,’ I said.
Bankers anonymous
Having crawled into bed at 2 a.m., I wasn’t particularly impressed to find myself back on the BBJ waiting to take off for Perth at half six. The knowledge that I had myself to blame made the experience considerably less enjoyable.
The night before, Maddy had called from Perth to complain about an event she was advancing for later in the week. It was supposed to be the launch of a policy to get unemployed school-leavers to do two months of community service before starting further education, a gap year or a job. Max called it ‘Serve the Nation’.
Serve the Nation was to be the perfect Sunday papers story, full of colour and controversy to get people talking about us rather than them.
‘I got to the refugee centre in Perth where we were supposed to be launching the thing and found a handwritten “back in five” sign on the door,’ Maddy told me. ‘Forty minutes later, a dude with six eyebrow rings turned up and asked if I could come back later because he had an Indonesian lesson. I asked whether he was learning Bahasa as part of his work with the refugee centre. He goes, “Nah, man, I met the hottest chick surfing in Bali.”’
So that’s how Maddy came to be desperate and eventless in Perth.
Meanwhile in Brisbane, Gewurztraminers in our grip, Di and I had decided Day Three was going to be about our cohesive leadership team in contrast with the ‘bunch of back-stabbers’ on the other side. The problem was that shadow ministers were now scattered across the country. There was no way we could have sixteen of them in Sydney in a matter of hours, so we scrapped that.
Plan B was Ballarat. Our advancer on the ground had checked into his hotel only to be asked by the concierge when the Prime Minister would be arriving.
‘I work for Max Masters,’ he said, ‘the Leader of the Opposition.’
‘A thousand apologies,’ said the concierge. ‘I assumed you were with the Prime Minister’s office because they’re due to check in tomorrow morning.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I’d asked Di.
‘Ballarat’s a big town,’ she said, ‘but way too small for two prime ministerial candidates at once.’
Crestfallen, she had returned to her caesar salad deep in thought about Plan C. My BlackBerry buzzed.
Good news—found venue. Children’s hospital radio program. Lovely, enthusiastic young team entertains sick kids. Will keep you posted. Maddy
I showed it to Di to cheer her up. She lit up like a bride at the altar. ‘Gold,’ she said, almost knocking me off my chair with an impassioned high five. ‘Ask Maddy to have it ready for tomorrow. I’ll call Luke, and have Beryl get the planes ready.’
‘You can praise me later,’ Maddy said when I called. ‘I’ve got to keep sorting through the logistics if we’re going to make this happen by Thursday.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
Maddy lowered her voice a few octaves. ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I was so excited that I told Di, who was overwhelmed by the idea and is intent on doing it.’
‘Shit, Roo, I’m on my own out here; I can’t pull this off for tomorrow night.’
‘Afternoon.’
‘Fuck a duck. I’ll call you back.’
Within an hour, we had an event to match the planned and costed Serve the Nation policy. Patch Radio, a children’s community radio program for inpatients at the WA kids’ hospital, would show us work being done by its volunteers. It was a perfect match for our policy launch. Di, Luke and the LOO had been ecstatic, but my new friendship with Maddy was on shaky ground.
Now, back on the BBJ, Archie was ready to brief us on the morning’s coverage over a few slices of toast.
‘I reckon we won yesterday,’ he said.
Max looked pleased with himself, but it could just have been that Shelly had joined us for the Perth trip. He took her hand in his.
‘This morning’s biggest news is the fallout from Patton’s demise, with a whole bunch of Brennan’s moles coming out of the woodwork claiming credit for getting rid of Patton. They’re being called “Brennan’s Brutus Brigade”, and the Herald reckons her honeymoon is the shortest in history. Spinnaker gave us a good run on our SME policy.’
&nbs
p; ‘Roo must’ve laced his Big Mac with an upper,’ said Di on speakerphone. She was at the airport waiting to board the media jet.
‘I want you all to be prepared for tomorrow’s Southpoll,’ said Luke. Today’s tie looked like metallic seeded mustard. ‘Who knows how it’ll pan out, but it could be dire. Our own pollsters are telling us that things aren’t as rosy as they should be for a new PM, but her novelty will definitely count for something. We stand to lose a few points and we’ll need to get to the end of Week One looking relaxed and steady but ready to govern.’
As he talked, I drafted a new To Do list on my BlackBerry.
1. Ask Di about how polls work
2. Put coffee-stained clothes in hotel laundry bag
3. Ask Di who pays for Item 2
4. Confirm visa
5. Sign contract for negligible remuneration
6. Confirm details of Perth event with Maddy
7. Call parents.
The best and worst thing about Perth was that it was so far away from the east coast. Best because it gave Maddy an additional six hours to arrange the event; worst because I was rendered useless for the entire duration of the flight. My BlackBerry sat on my lap like a temptress, tantalising but totally untouchable thanks to the strict ‘flight mode only’ policy on board the BBJ. The only productive thing I could do was to work with Theo on Max’s speaking notes to add a little colour about Patch Radio.
I asked him for a copy.
‘I don’t have one,’ said Theo.
‘Do you know who does?’
‘No, but if you find one can you let me know so I can stop writing it?’
It was too early to be messed with. ‘Are you saying you haven’t even written a first draft?’ I demanded, surprised by my own tone.
Theo rubbed his greasy glasses on his tie. ‘I’ll tell you what: how about I show you what I’ve written so far and if you’ve got any feedback just let me know.’
He unbuckled himself and stood up, leaving me with the Word document open on his screen. I handed him my cleaning cloth. ‘Which document is it?’ I scrolled up and down the page to find the text, but there was none. ‘This is quite an elaborate joke to play for someone who has an entire speech to write in five hours.’
‘Thanks.’ He handed back my cloth. ‘Now, will you leave me alone so I can get some work done?’
He might have had the appearance of a golf-loving retiree from Bournemouth who considers Burger King in Ibiza an exotic dining experience, but Theo was as big an oddball as I’d ever come across.
I returned to my seat, rested my eyes for a minute and opened them four hours later.
‘You snore,’ said Theo.
‘You’re rude,’ I said, mopping up the crusted drool in the corner of my mouth.
‘Can you have a read of this speech? It needs a bit of…I don’t know. Just read it.’ He thrust his laptop onto my tray table, took the newspaper on my lap and went to the toilet. I tried not to think about it.
As I read the speech, I could hear Max giving it. The rhythm matched his style of delivery. It captured the spirit of Patch Radio, the policy’s purpose and Max’s belief in community service. Annoyingly, there was nothing for me to add but praise.
The toilet flushed and Theo returned to his seat, handing me my newspaper.
‘Keep it,’ I said.
‘Thank you. See what I mean about the speech?’
‘I think it reads beautifully.’
‘Surely you’ve got something to say about it.’
I shook my head. He snatched back his laptop and stomped off.
As I searched my mind for something worthwhile to contribute to the speech, Shelly came to sit with me. She looked far more energetic than the rest of us—this was her first day on the campaign trail.
‘So you were an investment banker,’ she said. ‘So was I.’
Until then, I had been labouring under the misapprehension that the Leader of the Opposition’s wife probably didn’t do much else. Not once had I thought she might have an independent career, and I hated myself for it.
Talk shop, Ruby, said my head.
‘Corporate finance?’
‘Securities. Commodities, mainly.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Max became Shadow Minister for Resources and Energy, so I took a break. It’s good to be around while Abigail is at school.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Don’t pry, Ruby, said my head.
Shelly nodded. ‘I loved it. It made me tick.’ She fiddled with her gold wedding band and extended her slender, manicured fingers to examine it. ‘If you were a journo I’d tell you I didn’t and that I’m honoured to be supporting Max in this very important role. But in truth, it shits me to tears that I can’t do both.’
‘Why can’t you?’ I backtracked. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to talk about this, of course. I’m just interested in how it works.’
She smiled. ‘There are no hard and fast rules, but if there’s a public perception of conflict, we err on the safe side. In reality, as a shadow minister or even as LOO, Max never made any decisions that would affect my work or vice versa, but because the perception could have been used against us both, we decided to choose between careers.’ She leaned in so close I could smell her shampoo. ‘Great email, by the way,’ she whispered.
‘Which email?’
‘One of my old banking buddies forwarded it to me. You should be proud.’
Don’t encourage her, my head begged.
I flushed red and buckled for landing. ‘Does anyone else—’
‘I haven’t told a soul.’
That’s when it occurred to me. ‘Theo,’ I called. He couldn’t hear me. ‘Theo!’
‘What?’ he asked, still annoyed.
‘You didn’t say why this policy makes us different.’
He stared at the ceiling, then pulled out his laptop, which was supposed to have been stowed for landing, and tapped furiously at his keyboard until the flight attendant confiscated it.
That afternoon at the hospital in Perth, one of the radio hosts led Max, Shelly and a cohort of cameras through a brightly coloured ward. Maddy was in her element. She had spoken beforehand to the Health Department and a group of patients’ parents to seek their permission to film. Everyone was thrilled to be meeting Max and Shelly.
Genevieve, a little girl not much older than Clem, showed Shelly how the radio worked. ‘You see, Shelly’— her big brown eyes gleamed from beneath an electric-blue bandana—‘I have my own headphones so I can hear Patch. Sometimes they have music and sometimes they read stories to us. If I call them I can request a song.’
‘What’s your favourite song?’ asked Shelly, sitting on the hospital bed, next to Genevieve’s dad.
Genevieve pulled Shelly in close, whispering something into her ear. Shelly smiled. The sound technicians leaned in with their boom mikes.
‘What did she say, Shelly?’ asked one of the journalists, notepad at the ready.
‘Can I tell them?’ she asked the little girl, who nodded coyly.
‘Genevieve loves Chris Isaak’s “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing”.’
Genevieve buried her head in Shelly’s arm to hide from the laughing journalists. Max was standing at the end of Genevieve’s bed. ‘Max loves that song too,’ said Shelly. ‘It’s on his iPod.’
‘I can request it for you, if you’d like,’ offered Genevieve.
‘I’d like that very much,’ said Max.
Julius, one of the volunteers, showed Max into the tiny studio and handed him a pair of headphones. ‘Hi, everyone,’ said Julius. ‘I’d like to introduce a friend of ours, Max Masters. He’s the Leader of the Opposition.’
‘Hi, kids,’ said Max. ‘I want to say a special hello to Genevieve in ward sixteen, who said you would play me “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing”—we both love that song.’ Julius obliged and Max bopped embarrassingly to the music. From outside, I saw a beautiful shot of Max, Shelly and Genevieve on the preview screen
of a snapper’s camera.
The scrum pushed through to the press conference room to set up, while Max collected his thoughts.
‘Can you do his make-up?’ asked Di, shoving a toiletries bag into my hand before running into the conference room.
From Subprime to Primer, joked my head. Ruby Stanhope’s bestselling memoir.
I unzipped the bag, pulling out a latex sponge and powder pack, and edged towards Max.
‘Have I got BO or something?’ he teased. ‘Believe me, I’d do it myself, but Di says I’m crap at it.’
He closed his eyes. This wasn’t like doing my own make-up. The sponge rasped against the stubble on his chin and I couldn’t figure out how to highlight a man’s cheekbones or whether I was even supposed to.
‘How long have these guys at Patch been going for?’ Max asked.
‘Ten years,’ I said, dabbing at his nose. ‘They’ve had the volunteer program in place for about eighteen months and take senior school kids and university students on six-month rotations.’ I started on Max’s forehead. ‘You’ve met Julius already and you’ll meet Ying and Praneeta. They’re all school-leavers. Julius is about to start medicine at UWA. Ying’s little brother is a patient here in the oncology ward and she’s taking a gap year next year. Praneeta is starting a newspaper cadetship in six months.’
Di exploded into the room with Shelly. ‘Okay, ready when you…Christ! He looks like a bloody inpatient!’
I stood back as if I’d been caught at the scene of a crime. Max looked like a geisha.
‘I see you found the powder,’ Di said.
‘Sorry, I’ve never done this before.’ I dug through my handbag for the wet tissues in my Toolkit.
‘You’re like Mary Poppins,’ said Max, wiping at his face.
‘I’ll fix this,’ said Di. ‘You go and tell them he’s on his way in.’
I raced into the conference room next door where everyone was staring at the wall clock. ‘Sorry people,’ I said, ‘two minutes max.’
Oscar laughed at my unintended pun.
Shortly afterwards, a less creamy Max paced into the room and stood beside the Patch Radio volunteers.