Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  The trampolining sprang back into action. Theo was pacing in the corridor outside, chanting to himself like a tone-deaf Gregorian monk. I wheeled my suitcase into the Ladies and pulled out a clean bra and matching pants, diamond studs, knee-length blueberry silk dress, and a pair of vertiginous inky python slingbacks, the first pair of different shoes other than flip-flops I had worn in a fortnight. I washed my face, painted it, spritzed my décolletage and brushed the life back into my hair.

  It was time.

  Theo stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. ‘You don’t look like shit anymore.’

  ‘Thanks, Theo.’ I must have looked fabulous. ‘We’ve got to take our seats now.’

  He shuddered. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Come on, Theo.’ It was like talking a cat out of a tree. ‘We’ve done all we can now—the rest is up to him.’ As we walked through the corridors, we saw the bright lights of a fast-moving media stampede. Sound guys led their cameramen backwards by their belt loops so they didn’t fall over. At the epicentre was the Prime Minister. She looked different in person. Taller, somehow. Dressed in a black skirt suit and turquoise top, she appeared calm but determined.

  ‘How are you feeling, PM?’ yelled a journalist at the front of his species.

  ‘Terrific. Looking forward to it.’

  From a safe distance, we watched the phenomenon move through the doors and onto the parquetry floors of the Great Hall, where rapturous applause broke out.

  I knew Luke would be with Max. I called him.

  ‘Luke?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘The PM’s wearing turquoise.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Green.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Max is wearing green.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Tell Milly from me that Max needs to change his tie.’

  ‘On it. Thanks, Roo.’

  Theo and I took our seats next to a wide-eyed Beryl, behind rows of shadow ministers, MPs and their spouses. On stage, Oscar was chatting with the press panel while make-up artists powdered their faces. The familiar trill of clicking cameras emerged through the doors. The scrum broke, giving way to Max, who sported a red tie. We leaped from our seats and gave him the rockstar entrance he deserved. Shelly and Abigail took their seats in the front row.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ crooned Oscar. ‘Tonight’s debate will be broadcast live, and in order to get through it and give each candidate equal time we need to refrain from applause and heckles until the end. We’re going live in thirty seconds, so switch off your phones—that includes you, press secretaries—and try to get all the coughs and sneezes out of your systems.’

  ‘He’s such a hunk of spunk,’ whispered Beryl.

  My mind wandered as Max delivered the opening statement I had in large part drafted.

  I’m too tired to argue with you about this now, my head pleaded. You know my views on Oscar, Ruby. Don’t make me reiterate them on less than three hours’ sleep.

  For once, my heart seized the microphone, demanding equal time. Darling Ruby, I heave and surge in that man’s presence. I’m all aflutter just thinking about his kiss, those sweet messages, that thoughtful gift. Look at him. Feel me. I’ve been out of action for years thanks to that killjoy on your shoulders. Why not just go with it? Let go. See what happens. And that’s just me—you should hear what your poor, forsaken body has to say!

  I shut them out and tuned back in to the rhythm of the other debate.

  ‘Mr Masters and his party say they plan to give Australian jobs to highly skilled foreigners. I have always governed in the national interest, no matter how difficult the circumstances of those abroad. They are not my responsibility. The Australian people are.’ The Prime Minister sipped from a tumbler of water.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Max. His pause was prolonged and uncomfortable. Theo clutched my leg. ‘The thing is…’ His voice softened. ‘We all know it would be popular for me to bury my party’s skilled immigration policy and send it off into the abyss for a prolonged committee review until it’s forgotten and covered in dust.

  ‘But I’m not prepared to do that. And the reason is simple: I have been chosen to lead, not follow. This policy, however unpopular, will inject the skills that our economy needs to grow. Growth brings with it more jobs. More jobs will spur more growth; and growth, jobs.’ Theo’s grip eased.

  ‘Ditching this policy is in my political interest. I was told this week that these sorts of policies are the things you do when you’re in government, not when you’re trying to win it.

  ‘But I’m not going to lie; I’m going to lead. If people want a follower, a cynic, a clever, calculated tactician, then I guess my opponent will be pouring champagne on the third of April. But I will sleep soundly beside Shelly knowing that I did the right thing.’

  We didn’t need to see the smiley face graphic. We felt it.

  At the end Max and the Prime Minister shook hands and she oozed off the stage.

  Back in Max’s office, bottle tops were flying off beers. Luke poured me a glass of wine.

  ‘Tasmanian pinot,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ I sipped. It was good. ‘Not wearing a tie?’

  ‘I was. Milly confiscated it.’

  We smiled.

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t in Darwin this week,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No, I mean I’m glad you were here working with Theo and the team. You should be proud of your contribution, Roo.’ He paused for a second. ‘I’ve been meaning to say sorry for being hard on you the other day after your wife-beater incident. I was just trying to—’

  My phone rang once.

  ‘Trying to?’ I asked.

  My phone rang again. Oscar’s name flashed up on caller ID.

  ‘Trying to—’ Luke said.

  My phone rang a third time. ‘Sorry, I’d better take this.’ I picked up and excused myself from the room.

  ‘Roo, I’m in a commercial break. Are you free later for dinner at my place?’

  My heart thumped against my rib cage. ‘Text me your address.’

  I rejoined the celebration, where Luke was proposing a toast. ‘To Max—you’ve done us proud.’

  ‘To Max,’ we chorused.

  I grabbed my handbag and made a beeline for the taxi rank.

  ‘Joining us at the pub, Ruby?’ Luke picked up his briefcase.

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Come on, Ruby, the house red’s a pinot.’

  I shook my head. Luke put down his briefcase. Di raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Where are you off to, Roo?’ asked Max. ‘Hot date?’

  ‘No, I’m having a quiet night in—I’m shagged.’

  ‘Or about to be,’ said Di. I shrugged off my colleagues’ wolf-whistles and made my way to the cab rank.

  I pressed his doorbell. Miles Davis was playing. Footsteps crescendoed towards the door. It opened. My God, he was gorgeous.

  ‘Hi.’ He kissed the no-man’s-land between my lips and cheek. ‘Come on in—I’m making pasta.’ He took my hand and led me to his kitchen, which was sectioned off by a wall of wines. ‘The last time I saw you, you were definitely a spirits girl.’

  ‘That, I assure you, was an aberration.’ I helped myself to a corn chip. ‘Wine is my life partner.’

  He handed me a glass and clinked it with his. ‘Same here.’

  I used my remaining energy to lift myself onto his stainless-steel counter.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘this is the first home I’ve been to in two weeks.’ I swirled the wine around my mouth. It was a rosé, a little pink for my liking. The alcohol rebounded off the cavernous pit of my stomach, going straight to my head.

  His sauce was burning.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ I asked, resisting the Type A urge to stage a kitchen coup.

  ‘I think I’m okay.’ He hacked an avocado into inedible chunks. ‘I rang my mum from Coles to ask how to do it.’

 
That didn’t sound promising. From the counter beside the stovetop I stirred and turned down the heat, tasting the sauce from the back of a spoon. Ghastly. There was an overpowering smell. Melting plastic, I concluded.

  ‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘something’s on fire.’

  ‘Hmm?’ He swivelled from his chopping board to face me.

  I lifted the pan from the hob. The Usage Guidance sticker remained on its base.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I peeled off all the other ones.’

  Before I could say ‘Don’t, you’ll burn…’ he reached out to pick at a singed corner of the sticker.

  ‘Ow!’

  I turned off the stove and pushed him over to the sink, turning the tap to tepid.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow!’

  ‘Hold it under here until I tell you to remove it.’

  He winced, holding his scorched index finger up to the light. ‘It hurts.’

  I grabbed his wrist and forced it back under the running tap.

  ‘Oooowww!’

  I kissed him to shut him up.

  ‘Oowww…’ I kissed him again, this time with gusto.

  ‘Wwww,’ he said into my mouth. He seemed to forget about his injured finger and brought his hand to my face. I returned it to the running water.

  ‘This seems a dangerously elaborate ploy to get me to kiss you,’ I said.

  ‘It still hurts and I’m hungry.’

  ‘I should have brought my Redskins. Some guy gave them to me.’

  ‘He sounds like a keeper. But while I believe in the healing power of Redskins, I’m in need of something more substantial.’

  I took off my cardigan. ‘Let me look in your fridge.’

  ‘Voila!’ He opened the stainless-steel doors.

  ‘Are you a mad scientist?’ I was overwhelmed by pungent furry plates and half-opened takeaway containers.

  ‘I prefer “pioneering” to “mad”.’ He poured more wine.

  ‘I’ve always thought it remarkably unfair that some people, like you, are born with newsreader voices, like Guy Smiley, while the rest of us, like me, are stuck with the dulcet tones of Miss Piggy. Everything you say sounds perfectly reasonable even if it’s utter rubbish.’

  ‘You mean, if I were to say’—he cleared his throat—‘“in breaking news from the twin peaks of Mount Buggery this afternoon, Prime Minister Gabrielle Brennan and Opposition Leader Max Masters have formed a coalition and will job-share the role of Benevolent Dictator so as to enjoy better work–life balance”, you would think it totally legit?’

  ‘Perfectly so,’ I laughed, holding a plastic packet of cheddar at arm’s length to inspect its best-before date. ‘Except perhaps for the Mount Buggery bit.’

  ‘Mount Buggery is fair dinkum. Very pretty place— near Mount Beauty in Victoria. I could take you there.’

  ‘How romantic,’ I said. ‘“Dear Mummy and Daddy, I’ve met a lovely Australian boy. He took me picnicking between the twin peaks of Mount Buggery. Much love, Rubles.”’

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say “Rubles”?’ he laughed.

  ‘Do you have any more sauce?’ I pushed past the moth farm in his pantry to the tin of kidney beans.

  ‘There’s more in the fridge, but isn’t this stuff salvageable?’ He tried to pull the wooden spoon from his taffy-like concoction.

  ‘I’m not sure how to put this delicately,’ I said, shaking the sauce bottle. ‘It’s the sort of thing you might scrape off your shoe with a long, sturdy stick.’

  ‘Geez, tell me what you really think, Rubles.’ He braced to taste it. ‘Fuck me, that’s feral.’ He spat into the sink then covered its remains with a tea towel, as one might a corpse. ‘I don’t cook all that often.’

  I suspended my disbelief. ‘I need a tray, a cheese grater and an oven.’

  ‘This is incredible,’ he said to me later, eyes full of adulation over a simple supper of make-do nachos and guacamole. ‘I didn’t know that thing still worked—I figured they would have disconnected it years ago.’

  ‘Ovens aren’t usually subscription-based services.’ It was nearly midnight and the quiet night had grown cooler on the back deck of his cottage, which was surrounded by overgrown lavender and rosemary. A light breeze lifted the scent of his next-door neighbour’s climbing rose. There was something pleasantly English about Canberra’s gardens which I found comforting and familiar.

  ‘Masters did really well tonight,’ said Oscar. ‘How do you think it went?’

  ‘It was a good debate.’ I helped myself to a stem from the thriving lavender shrub within reach, savouring its perfume. ‘Do you always compere these things?’

  ‘Actually, this was my first. It’s always our network’s gig, but Anastasia, who’s one of my more senior colleagues, usually does it. She’s on her way out, though. Not rating so well these days. Viewers think she’s a bit batty.’

  ‘I thought you did a good job of it. It must be difficult to know how to cut people off when they go over time.’

  ‘That’s the challenge,’ he said, putting one of his perfect arms around me and smoothing the goose pimples from my chilly shoulder. I nestled into his warm chest. He smelled like cedar. ‘Brennan must be kicking herself for missing the opportunity to fight back on the immigration question. It was a brilliant play by your guy. It must be quite fun rehearsing these things; is it?’

  My neck stiffened. The guard I had only just dropped resurrected itself. ‘Who’s asking? Oscar the journalist or Oscar my dinner companion?’

  Good question.

  He smiled until he caught a glimpse of my expression in the fickle light of the remaining tea candle. ‘Hey, what happens on the deck stays on the deck.’

  ‘Do you ever broadcast from the deck?’

  ‘Roo, I swear: anything you say to me is deeply off the record.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.’

  I wanted to believe him; I longed to let go. But my sister always told me that protection is mandatory for sensible girls, so I pulled away and said, ‘If it’s all right by you, I think we need to establish some rules here to inoculate against any unintended consequences—for now, let’s just try to draw the line at talking about work.’ I held my breath and made a solemn vow to my head: if he hesitates, I will call Canberra Cabs.

  ‘Of course.’ He took my hand. ‘Come to think of it, if it’s all right by you, I’d prefer not to talk at all.’

  When we reach his bedroom door and the zip of my dress snaked down my spine from thoracic to lumbar, I put it to a final vote in the name of parliamentary democracy. All those in favour say ‘aye’. Aye, said my heart. Aye, aye, said my body. Those to the contrary, say ‘no’.

  Um…said my head.

  I think the ayes have it.

  Ex-PMS

  It was the best three hours’ sleep I’d had in weeks. I stretched luxuriously, checked for lingering Tex-Mex breath and rolled counterclockwise. Empty, tangled sheets were disconcerting before the sound of a whistling kettle reassured me. While I’d have preferred a little spooning, Oscar’s absence meant there was still time to make myself look like a naturally pretty-in-the-morning person, which I am not.

  According to the space-age alarm clock on his bedside table, it was a quarter past four: half an hour until the first phone hook-up. There goes the leisurely breakfast, I thought; but at least I wouldn’t be forced to eat anything cooked by Oscar. I tiptoed nude to the bathroom, collecting and donning various items of clothing strewn along the way. Face clean, hair smoothed and mouthwash gargled, I was ready to face the morning.

  I went to the kitchen. Oscar was out on the deck looking scrumptiously rumpled in the dewy dawn, scrolling through his BlackBerry and oblivious to my presence. Checking the coverage of last night’s debate, I guessed. I needed to do the same.

  I found my handbag on the kitchen bench and held it up to the brightest downlight to search for my phone. It wasn’t in its usual spot, or in any other likely crevice. I
retraced my steps. I had checked it when we were cooking last night. I’d put it in my pocket when I took the nachos out of the oven. Then it had buzzed on the outdoor table with the usual series of alerts at midnight, when the national newspapers published online. After that, I’d abandoned it and most of my other belongings for a more direct form of communication.

  Pouring boiling water over a pair of squashed English Breakfast tea bags in the two cleanest-looking mugs, I opted for a proven phone-locating technique: calling it. I dialled my number, nursing Oscar’s cordless landline between ear and shoulder while carrying the steaming mugs towards the deck. My phone rang. The decibels of each ring seemed to rally with each step towards the glass doors. With my hands full I knocked gently on the glass with my knobbly knee, keen to avoid a boiling spillage. Oscar turned to see me, then his deck chair appeared to eject him, which in turn launched his phone from his hand like an air-to-surface missile. It landed somewhere in the darkness. Chivalry executed with such urgency should not go unrewarded, I noted.

  ‘I didn’t know you were up,’ he said, opening the door to relieve me of the mugs. ‘I came out early to make you breakfast.’ He kissed me fervently. ‘So go back to bed and I’ll bring it in to you.’

  My stomach lurched at the prospect of a breakfast made by Oscar. ‘That’s very sweet, but I really must get going, just as soon as I find my BlackBerry.’ I hit redial on the cordless. My phone rang again, sounding close.

  ‘I’ll find it for you.’

  ‘It sounds like it’s coming from under the deck.’ I dropped to my knees. ‘It must have slipped through the cracks last night.’ On all fours, I pressed my ear to the floorboards.

  ‘Well, how about you get some breakfast while I find the phone,’ said Oscar, but I was hot on its tail. I crawled along the weatherbeaten deck, tracking the ringtone to a terracotta pot.

  ‘Voila.’ I brandished my ringing phone. ‘One lavender-scented BlackBerry.’

  ‘Well sleuthed, Nancy Drew,’ said Oscar. ‘Now, what’ll it be, vegemite or jam?’

  Vegemite suffers from excess salinity at the best of times. Add the ecosystem in Oscar’s pantry to the equation and you could de-ice a 747 with half a jar. ‘Jam, please,’ I said. ‘You get the toast and I’ll turn my mind to your phone—I’m on a roll.’