Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  ‘My phone’s in the kitchen.’ He helped me to my feet and we went inside.

  Oscar was definitely not a morning person. ‘Perhaps you’ve got a bout of campaign brain,’ I suggested. ‘You were on your BlackBerry when I came to the door, before the poor little thing was catapulted into the garden, remember?’

  ‘Actually, come to think of it, that was probably your phone,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I thought it was mine.’

  That’s when it hit me with the force of an articulated lorry. My head span. My body shuddered. My heart squirmed. He lowered four pieces of white bread into a retro-looking, brushed-metal toaster. ‘Butter?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ I blew the granules of dirt from the trenches around each key on my BlackBerry and entered my password, checking its vitals.

  ‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘you don’t have a BlackBerry.’

  ‘So?’ He was defensive. ‘One piece or two?’

  ‘Two.’

  I called his phone with mine. Within seconds, Nina Simone was singing ‘Sinnerman’ from the kitchen bench.

  ‘You have an iPhone.’ I held his sleek, shiny songstress in my left hand, and my newly perfumed, navy-blue brick in my right. ‘They’re the apples and oranges of telephonic devices. Your phone has about as much in common with mine as a Transformer has with a Teletubby.’

  He laughed, but his smile soon twitched into an awkward grimace. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’ ‘When you believed I was sound asleep in your bed, you thought you might take my phone and plunder it for information.’

  ‘Roo,’ he purred, brushing my hair from my eyes, ‘don’t you think you’re being a bit melodramatic?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’ I disengaged.

  ‘Come on, gorgeous,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I saw anything—the bloody thing’s password-protected anyway.’ The toast popped.

  ‘Be a gentleman and call me a cab.’ I stepped into my slingbacks and clutched my handbag to my chest.

  Standing stupefied on the footpath, I watched the paper boy pedal halfheartedly towards me, scouting out the most inconvenient nooks and crannies in which to wedge his customers’ plastic-wrapped news.

  ‘The cab’s on its way,’ said Oscar, joining me. ‘Listen, I get that you’re angry, but I don’t want you to think this was some sort of calculated manoeuvre on my part.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I’m not that clever.’

  Still numb, I distracted myself with a quick To Do list while he went on.

  1. Sandbag eyelid levees to avert tear overflow (RECURING ITEM )

  2. Get in cab

  3. Suppress temptation to use hairbrush as bludgeon

  4. Depart with decorum

  5. Dial into conference call.

  He was still going when the familiar smell of LPG arrived; my trusty steed pulled up with the kind of screeching noise I was learning is universal to Australian taxis.

  ‘It was just sitting there on the table and I guess I fucked up.’

  Item 1 had become superfluous and Item 3 imperative. ‘I really like you, Roo. I had a great time last night.’

  ‘It’s just so’—I rummaged for the right word as I slipped into the back seat—‘clichéd.’

  He shut the door, pressing his palm against the window and holding it there until we pulled away from the curb. Ticks for Items 2 and 4.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘Parliament House, please.’

  I texted Maddy when we paused at a red light. Next to us was a road island being used as a stopover for a congregation of cockatoos flaring their mango mohawks.

  Wearing last night’s clothes. En route to House. Any chance you could bring my suitcase into the disabled cubicle down the corridor? Will reward you with Redskins. R

  The driver turned on the radio. ‘Former prime minister Mick O’Donoghue has let loose on his party and its leader today in a highly critical opinion article for the National. O’Donoghue, who was succeeded by Hugh Patton almost thirteen years ago, is known for his episodic outbursts, but the timing of his latest damning appraisal, just a fortnight before polling day, will lead many Opposition candidates to despair. Esme Eisteddfod has the story.’

  It was shaping up to be an exquisite Monday.

  OK but need four Redskins and an explanation. M

  I swiped through security and dialled in for Item 5 on my list while making my way to our meeting place. Maddy, also on the call, scurried down the corridor, wheeling my precious travelling wardrobe behind her. She wiggled a suggestive eyebrow up and down which, without warning, rendered Item 1 disastrously overdue. Boiling tears streamed fast and free down either cheek, dripping one by one off my chin like lemmings. Phones to our ears on the same call, Maddy and I sat on the tiled floor, her hand patting my back in time with the ticking clocks.

  ‘If I ever get this job,’ said Max, ‘can one of you please restrain me from ranting like Sir Mick when I lose it?’

  ‘He seemed fine in Cloncurry,’ said Maddy. I cringed at the mention of the place.

  ‘Ex-PMS, or Former Prime Ministers’ Syndrome, is a highly debilitating condition,’ explained Luke. ‘Specialists say there are very few symptoms in the lead-up to an attack, aside from higher than usual phone usage, by which time it’s often too late to prevent an outbreak. Triggers can include relevance deprivation, boredom, alcohol, natural light or the good fortune of his successors.’ He laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Has anyone read it?’ asked Max.

  ‘Yeah, he’s taken pot shots at all of us,’ said Di. ‘He reckons we’ve got the wrong stance on immigration, which will lose us the election, and apparently we’ve had to hire hot-shot consultants from the UK because we haven’t got a clue how to run a campaign.’

  ‘Roo Stanhope: Political Consultancy,’ mocked Archie, distracting me from my misery.

  I pulled myself together. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve obviously missed something here so I’d be happy to refund this morning’s extortionate consulting fee if I’m mistaken, but isn’t O’Donoghue supposed to be on our side?’

  ‘Ex-PMS tends to blur vision,’ Luke continued with what he must have thought was winning wit. Clearly he’d had a better night that I had.

  I never thought I’d say this, but you should’ve gone to the pub.

  ‘In other news,’ Di pressed on, ‘Max kicked arse in the debate last night and the PM has ruled out an additional debate, leading everyone to conclude she’s chicken. The general feedback from punters is that even if they disagree with us on skilled immigration they think Max is a strong leader, so all in all it’s a good result.’

  ‘Thanks for your hard work on that, team,’ said Max. ‘I just got a call from Mirabelle. Our pollsters are saying we’ve probably picked up a few points since the debate, so we’re pretty much neck and neck again. Do we have an agreed plan for the week ahead?’

  Luke took the reins. ‘Today you’re in the Gold Coast to launch our 2021 High Speed Rail Network, then we’re off to the other end of it in Fremantle. Our new ads will be coming out tonight in time for the Southpoll—they criticise the government’s dirty tactics. Shelly is a guest host on Brekky tomorrow morning and we’ve got a few big FM interviews lined up for you.’

  ‘Remind me to ask Abigail about what’s cool at the moment,’ said Max.

  Maddy rolled her eyes and smiled.

  ‘We’re told Brennan will be making some sort of resources announcement,’ said Luke, ‘but she’ll hammer home her tax cuts all week. On Wednesday night we’ll be doing an economic policy announcement in Sydney. Thursday and Friday will be spent in Melbourne, and then country Victoria, reiterating our higher education policy and recycled water proposal. Saturday will be largely dominated by the “one week to go” analysis. At this stage you’ll be with Shelly and Abigail in Melbourne for the day—get some rest. Next Thursday is the launch and then we’ve got Southpoll coming out on Saturday, before the PM’s launch on the Tuesday before polling day. Any questions?’

  I had some questions. Why did
I shag a journalist? What’s the maximum penalty for common assault occasioning bodily harm in Australia? Please can I take a duvet day? But there wasn’t time. I gave Maddy the rest of my Redskins, took a raincheck on the explanation and had a lightning-speed shower. In convoy to the airport to catch our Coolangatta-bound flight, we listened to O’Donoghue on the airwaves. He used sentences beginning with ‘back in my day’ and ending with ‘not good enough’.

  My phone buzzed. It was Luke texting from the car in front.

  Missed you at the pub. Sorry for late notice, but I need you to salvage a candidate in Tassie. Get yourself a flight to Launceston. I’ll brief you when you get there. L

  Excellent, said my head, exile is exactly what you need.

  Any chance Launceston is a tropical coastal resort with day spa and daiquiris aplenty? R

  No. L

  When we reached the airport, Maddy bade me farewell with a hug while I reluctantly booked my flight to what she called Woop Woop.

  My phone rang again. Fran.

  ‘How are you?’ I didn’t need to ask. She was terrible; I could hear it in her voice.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Why would you think I’m not fine?’

  ‘You sound very unfine.’

  ‘Unfine isn’t even a word, Ruby. I’m completely fine. Clementine’s fine. We’re all fine. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘So you rang to tell me you’re fine?’

  ‘No, of course not. I rang to see how you are. You should try it sometime.’

  I deserved that. ‘Sorry, things have been really hectic here because we only have a fortnight until the election.’ I scanned the lounge for intelligence-gatherers from the fourth estate. I lowered my voice just in case. ‘I’ve been in Canberra, we’ve just had the debate, I was on the prep team for it, and there’s a particularly good-looking journalist who turned out to be a—’

  ‘Mark’s having an affair.’

  ‘What?’ I was flabbergasted.

  ‘I mean Mark Gardner, the man I married. The father of my daughter. Your brother-in-law. He is having an affair.’ Her news made my articulated lorry feel more like a unicycle.

  ‘Are you sure?’ It seemed a logical question to ask until I got the answer.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. We woke up yesterday morning and he told me he’s been sleeping with the professional indemnity partner.’

  ‘Christ.’ I urged my body to get over the shock as quickly as possible. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I think this is the most distressing part. I said, “Hurry up and get dressed; we’re going to be late.”’ She heaved hysterically and slurred, ‘“Hurry up and get dressed, we’re going to be late.”’

  ‘Late for what?’

  ‘The church fete.’

  ‘Are you drinking?’

  ‘Yes. Wodka.’

  Fran doesn’t even like vodka. In fact, she has loathed it since becoming terribly ill on excess flirtinis at a work function, the projectile result of which also put me off the stuff. That and pineapple juice.

  ‘Good lass,’ I encouraged. I needed to be there. There was no way I could do this from a chesterfield in the Qantas Club, Canberra.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Ruby. Clementine seems oblivious to it, which is good. I can’t bring myself to talk to Mark about it and even if I could he’s at a jurisprudence conference in Bangladesh.’ She swigged at her drink, ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.

  ‘This is what you’re going to do,’ I improvised. ‘You’re going to get on a plane with Clem and fly to Melbourne. You need time to digest this and you can’t very well do that when you’re drinking alone and caring for a five-year-old.’

  ‘I can’t go to Australia,’ she wailed. ‘Clementine has school.’

  ‘She’s five, Fran. What important life skill will she miss? Advanced Hopscotch? Communal Hamster Care? Colouring Inside the Lines 101? She’s obnoxious enough as it is without superior crayon abilities.’

  She laughed and hiccoughed. ‘Where would we stay? What would we do?’

  ‘Let me call Daphne and Debs. I’ll just say Mark is away on business and you’re thinking of coming out for a visit. I’m sure they’ll put you up at their place in the Yarra Valley. Daphne couldn’t be broodier at the moment and Clem will love it—there are puppies.’

  ‘Will you be there, Ruby?’ she asked with heart-wrenching desperation.

  Now it was my turn to be the grown-up. ‘I will be there.’

  Sailing blind over Cataract Gorge

  Woop Woop had the hottest candidate I’d ever seen. Melissa Hatton, who had the kinds of curves that would make Marilyn Monroe weep with envy, picked me up from the airport in her equally va-va-voom emerald vintage Jaguar. She was on the phone and so was Luke, so he couldn’t brief me.

  ‘Thanks, mate, I’ll see you at the fundraiser tonight.’ Melissa drove under the boom gate at the car park. ‘I really appreciate your support. Yep. Yep. See you there. Bye.’

  She turned her head slightly. ‘I sincerely hope you’re Roo Stanhope,’ she said, holding the parking receipt between her perfect teeth. ‘Otherwise I’ve just picked up a complete stranger from the airport and someone from Max Masters’ office is waiting at the luggage carousel.’

  ‘I am.’

  She smiled. ‘I like to drive and talk so I figured this would be a good opportunity to fill you in.’

  I’d like to drive and talk too if I had wheels like hers. The crème-caramel leather interior was almost edible. I ran my fingers along the smooth, glossy wood panelling. ‘She was my dad’s pride and joy,’ Melissa said, answering my unasked question. ‘He bought her brand new from the dealer in 1987, and got in a bit of strife with Mum when he drove home that day. The stock market had just crashed so a lot of people were doing it tough, but Dad loved this car until the day he died.’

  At the traffic lights, Melissa twirled her platinum-blonde hair into a flawless chignon fastened with a tortoise-shell clip, and used the rear-view mirror to apply 1950s pin-up red lipstick to her pronounced pout. ‘So, you’re here because everyone reckons I’m going to fuck up.’

  It didn’t seem to be a question, so there was little point in denying it.

  ‘The local papers and radios hate me because the current member and even some of the guys on our side are running a shit-sheet campaign against me, saying I only got the gig because of nepotism and sex.

  ‘It’s a very tight margin—about 0.1 per cent with redistribution. That makes my campaign a national media issue so the vultures are feeding on my misfortune.’ We whizzed around a corner and across a narrow bridge suspended between two vertiginous rocky cliff faces. ‘If you’ve got time for a coffee I’ll take you somewhere spectacular that looks out over Cataract Gorge.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, trying not to think about how eerily still the water was below us. ‘Have you done anything to dispel the rumours?’

  ‘I took all the editors, radio blokes and even a proprietor out to lunch weeks ago. All of them. I answered every question, addressed every rumour in full; but apparently mine is the story of a vixen political princess and that sells, so they publish it.’

  ‘Where do the rumours come from?’ I stuttered, hoping that my question wasn’t the Tasmanian equivalent of asking Paris Hilton the secret to her extraordinary internet hit rate. There was something vaguely ironic about sailing blind over Cataract Gorge.

  ‘Well, for one, some party members who didn’t like my old man when he was local member have taken a stand against me. Two, the party pushed through my preselection, making it look like I thought I was entitled to the gig and that I don’t respect party processes.’ She swung into a parking space out the front of a cafe. ‘And here’s the cherry: I’m a hot blonde. People think hot blondes are airheads. So despite my being one of the state’s best legal brains, people compare me to my fat and failed used-car salesman of an opponent and think that he’s got a better idea about what’s best fo
r Donaldson.’

  She sashayed inside, towards a secluded table, with the kind of walk that should always be accompanied by the brass section of a big band. ‘Evening, Joyce,’ she said to the frost-pink-lipped proprietor.

  ‘G’day, Missy, what can I get you?’ Joyce asked, ignoring the sniggering pair of nose-pierced waitresses clearing the adjacent table.

  ‘My usual malted milkshake. And you, Roo?’

  ‘Sounds delicious.’

  ‘Two, then.’ She rolled up the sleeves of her chocolate-brown business shirt.

  ‘What shits me to tears,’ she said when Joyce was out of earshot, ‘is that the party virtually begged me to run in Donaldson. I gave it a lot of thought, of course. I’m a public prosecutor, for fuck’s sake—why would I want to throw that in to run for one of the most marginal seats in the country? Frankly, I was holding out for something safe. But I can’t very well go and say that on the record, can I?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Add to that an unfortunate photograph from a cocktail party in the early nineties—I had a fling with a prominent businessman when his divorce wasn’t finalised—and Bob’s your uncle: you’ve got a scandal.’

  My phone rang. ‘Do you mind if I take this?’

  Melissa nodded and I stepped outside.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier,’ Luke said. ‘Things have been frantic up here with this rail announcement. How’s Donaldson?’

  ‘A bit grim, to be honest. I’ve just had a chat with Melissa Hatton.’ I checked she was still inside and whispered, ‘She seems oblivious to the intimidating image she’s built for herself.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Our polling is terrible in Donaldson and it’s a key seat. She needs to pick up her game. Do you think it’s salvageable?’

  ‘I think you’re better placed than I am to answer that.’

  ‘Come off it, Roo. Tell me what you think.’

  ‘Okay, in all my weeks in politics I’ve never met a woman so loathsome to other women. Even in this cafe, the waitresses can’t stop whispering about her.’