Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I forgot to sign my employment contract.’

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘Luke knows—he got me out of it—and long-socked Bruce from Immigration.’

  ‘Why do they wear long socks?’

  ‘Not sure, but if we win this election let’s make long-sock prohibition a policy priority.’

  ‘Agreed. What did you tell Pretty Boy?’

  ‘Nothing—I ended the call. He did mention something about an email I wrote.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘When I was made redundant in London, I replied to the bank and it went a bit viral.’

  ‘I know. I Googled you. Great email.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Let me handle it from here, Roo.’

  ‘No, I’m on my way in.’

  ‘Go home and let me handle it.’

  ‘No. Can’t we have him whacked or something?’

  She sighed. I could see her face. ‘You told me not to shit where I eat and I didn’t listen.’

  ‘Tastes bad, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Tastes rubbish.’

  ‘Look, this didn’t happen because you screwed the crew. Pretty Boy’s just doing his job and now I need you to let me do mine.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And a word of advice: do not under any circumstances watch the Channel Eleven news, and, if you do, make sure you don’t have access to sharp or blunt objects at the time. Screen damage is irreversible. Take my word for it.’

  ‘Thanks, Di.’

  ‘No worries. Now piss off.’

  I told Debs to turn the car around. We drove in total silence while I seethed with self-loathing. You nincompoop. You elementary fool. You’ve done this to yourself, you know. First with the visa, then with that wretched unconscionable creep. Now you’re about to face public humiliation and there’s nothing you can do about it. You might even derail the campaign.

  ‘Hey, kiddo, you’re not beating yourself up, are you?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I groaned. ‘I fell for a creep.’

  ‘It’s human, Ruby. He’s the moron. Fancy letting a great chick like you slip through his fingers. I hope he suffers in his jocks.’

  ‘Thanks, Debs.’ We pulled up at the house.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She gave me a bone-crunching embrace. ‘Now, you’ll be pleased to know it’s wine o’clock.’

  Fran kissed me hello and led me to the kitchen, past Clem, who was singing to an audience of puppies on the deck.

  ‘Just you wait, ’enry ’iggins, just you wait.’

  Tug of war

  For once I took Di’s advice. Granted, I had intended to watch the six o’clock news, but at 5.47 p.m., when simmering slate-grey clouds overhead came to a sudden boil, a thunderstorm clapped across the Yarra Valley, blacking out everything in its path.

  Debs and Daphne snuggled under a tartan blanket on deck chairs to watch the lightning illuminate pockets of the countryside. Fran had been fast asleep on the couch since lunch, leaving me with a jet-lagged Clem, who doesn’t much like the dark, let alone without her mother.

  ‘Come on, Clem. Let’s tuck the puppies in.’

  We took a torch from the kitchen and led Champagne to the laundry. Clem gave her a kiss goodnight and Pansy welcomed her little girl back to the familial basket. The Widdler was trying his hardest to steal a holey old sock from JFK. They growled unconvincingly. Pansy looked on disapprovingly.

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked Clem.

  ‘Playing a game.’

  ‘Like toggle ball?’

  ‘A bit like tug of war, yes.’

  ‘JFK sounds angry.’ Clem yawned.

  ‘Well, he had it first.’

  I picked Clem up and slung her around my hip, carrying her to the bedroom and tucking her in.

  ‘Aunty Wooby, do you want me to look after you so you don’t get frightened?’

  ‘That would be nice, Clem.’ I crawled into bed next to her. Two yawns later, she was snoring like a Harley-Davidson. I fumbled for the torch and, when I couldn’t find it, I decided to stay and rest awhile.

  There was a particularly sharp pull on my right arm and a lapping sound in my left ear. ‘Aunty Wooby, you’re making funny noises,’ said Clem, dislodging a puppy from my neck.

  I jumped out of bed, giving The Widdler a catastrophic fright. ‘What time is it, Clem?’

  ‘Ruby, darling,’ yelled Fran, ‘there’s a chauffeur car here for you.’

  ‘The Widdler wet the bed,’ announced Clem.

  ‘Bugg— bother. I need to pack. And I need to wash the dog drool out of my ear and hair. Now.’

  ‘Clem and I will pack for you, darling,’ offered Fran, rushing in. ‘Get in the shower.’

  ‘What day is it?’ I called out.

  ‘Tuesday,’ yelled Debs.

  ‘Wednesday,’ corrected Daphne.

  Silence. ‘Is it…ouch…Tuesday or Wednesday? Fuck, shit, bother.’

  ‘Ruby!’ shouted Fran.

  ‘Sorry, I got shampoo in my eye!’

  ‘Count to ten and the stinging will stop, Aunty Wooby.’ I turned the shower off, wrapped myself in a towel and counted to eleven. Still stinging. Twelve. Stopped.

  ‘Thanks, Clem.’ The steam rushed out of the bathroom and into the hall as I made a near-naked dash to my bedroom.

  ‘G’day,’ said a suited man.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, picking up my pace. ‘Bollocks, who is that?’ I asked Fran.

  ‘That’s your driver: George.’ Fran was changing the sheets. ‘Daphne has given him a hot cross bun and cup of tea while he waits.’

  ‘Has anyone seen my shoe?’ I pulled skinny jeans over damp skin.

  ‘What colour is it?’

  ‘Black.’ I was on all fours looking under the bed. ‘It’s a black pump. It looks much like this one except it’s for the left foot.’

  Debs poked her head around the door. ‘Is anybody missing a shoe?’

  ‘Aunty Wooby is missing a shiny black one just like this one except for the other foot.’

  ‘Bad news, mate. Champagne has demolished it. I think she’s teething or something. She’s taken to chewing the underwire from our bras too.’

  ‘Sh—’

  ‘Language, Ruby,’ anticipated Fran.

  ‘Right, I’ve got to go.’ I stepped into a pair of wedges which I knew to be uncomfortable. ‘The launch is tomorrow and we’re preparing today. Love you all.’

  ‘May I please give your other shoe to The Widdler?’ asked Clem. I nodded, kissing the top of her head.

  ‘Good luck, darling,’ said Daphne. ‘Have a great week and remember to enjoy it.’ She handed me a thermos and a large warm paper bag.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See you, kiddo. Try not to get deported.’

  Fran carried my handbag to the car. ‘When will I see you next?’

  I threw my arms around her. ‘You should all come to the election after-party or wake, whatever the case may be. It’s a bit more than a week away. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk.’ I kissed her cheek and let go. She smiled, her upper lip trembling. She contained her emotions by looking up to the sky, proclaiming it a glorious day, just as our mother had always done when she dropped us off at boarding school.

  George lowered his sunnies and drove off. ‘Great buns,’ he said. I think he was referring to Daphne’s baking.

  It was time to face the music and dial in. ‘Morning people, sorry I’m late,’ I said to the conference call.

  ‘Hi, Roo,’ said Di. Everyone else was silent. ‘We’re just doing a coverage wrap-up from last night and this morning.’

  ‘We had a blackout in the Yarra Valley, so I didn’t see it,’ I explained. ‘Was it awful? I’m really sorry, everyone. It was stupid of me.’

  ‘It was barely a story. Pretty Boy gave it a damn good go, and everyone’s seen your wife-beater and thongs now, but there’s been no follow-up this morning because it’s been swamped by…this oth
er thing.’

  Brilliant.

  ‘You can all go now,’ said Luke. ‘Archie, stick around.’

  I hung up and called Maddy. ‘What other thing?’

  ‘The government has a copy of a leaked email from Archie to someone else in the party sourcing dirt on Gabrielle Brennan,’ she said. ‘They gave the story to the papers and the PM has slammed us for it, calling us hypocrites for running the whole dirty politics agenda against her.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘How bad is the email?’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ said Maddy. ‘He writes “Married or not, everyone knows she’s the village bicycle, but nobody has the balls to come out and claim having had her. Get me something concrete on her.”’

  ‘That’s terrible. What did Max say?’

  ‘Not a word. Speechless, I suppose. Archie told us to calm down. “Clean campaign?” he said. “Do you still believe in Santa too?” It’s as if he’s completely disconnected from what we’re doing.’

  ‘Did he apologise?’ I asked as we drove past a newsagent where a Herald newsstand poster read MASTERS OF DIRT.

  ‘He apologised for putting his request in writing but wasn’t at all sorry for doing it. Where are you? Are you coming in for the launch prep?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be there soon. I’ve got another call coming in.’

  It was Melissa Hatton. ‘What the fuck are you pricks playing at?’

  I held the phone at a safe distance from my ear.

  ‘Here I am, on your advice, running a campaign denouncing gutter tactics, and your deputy press sec is on email scouring for grot about the Prime Minister’s sex life!’

  ‘Melissa, I assure you we had no idea about this. Everyone is pretty shocked.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit how you all feel. I’m drowning in interview requests. Blobby’s going to have a field day in tomorrow’s papers. My opponent is doing a press conference about it. I’m screwed.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Melissa. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  I called Di. ‘How are we handling this?’

  ‘Not sure yet. We’re working on a few lines to put distance between Archie’s role and the campaign, but that’ll be pretty tricky because everyone knows him and has seen him on the media plane, the bus—’

  ‘Is Max doing a doorstop somewhere today?’

  ‘Not really. We’re supposed to be doing launch prep all day.

  ‘I think he needs to cut Archie loose.’

  ‘But then it will look like he’s not taking responsibility for his staff, Roo. He can’t do that. It’ll look like he’s making excuses.’

  ‘Then Archie should resign.’

  ‘Preaching to the choir,’ said Di. ‘Let me get back to it, Roo. My phones are going crazy.’

  ‘Thanks for handling things for me yesterday.’

  ‘No worries, mate. By the way, I thought you said Luke knew about your little issue?’

  ‘Huh?’ I took a cautious sip of Daphne’s scalding tea.

  ‘Didn’t you say that Luke knew about you and Pretty Boy?’

  ‘No, I said Luke knew about my visa issue.’ I added ‘pick up visa’ to my To Do list. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. No wonder he was knocked for six. Gotta go.’

  Now he thinks you’re a trollop.

  Not that my head should care what my boss thinks of my sex life. Although, it would be nice if he didn’t think I was a gullible idiot. Or, for that matter, a promiscuous one. I drafted a text to clear the water.

  Sorry for Oscar and visa issues…

  I backspaced to the blank screen.

  Thanks for your support on the visa…

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  I know you’re busy, but I’m not seeing Oscar. He’s a wank…

  What’s he supposed to say to that? intervened my head. Dear Ruby, yes, I know he is a wanker. The entire world knows he’s a wanker. You slept with a wanker. What does that say about you? Kind regards, Luke, Your Boss, Whose Opinion of Your Personal Life Shouldn’t Matter.

  ‘We’re here,’ said George. I thanked him and went inside.

  The auditorium was abuzz. A purple backdrop was being fitted on the stage. The lectern was plain with a simple, light oakwood finish. Young party members roamed the room in purple T-shirts.

  A girl approached me. ‘Oh my God, you’re the illegal immigration staffer, aren’t you?’ Her excitement was the sort usually reserved for encounters on the Oscars red carpet. ‘Sorry, I’m a total news junkie.’

  ‘What does your T-shirt say?’ I ignored her question.

  She pulled it flat over her stomach. ‘VOTE NO TO DIRTY POLITICS.’

  I spotted Maddy adjusting the giant white-felt P for Party onstage and made my way towards her. ‘What are we going to do about the T-shirts?’

  ‘It’s too late now. They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Is Di here yet?’

  She nodded, texting simultaneously. ‘Di, Luke and Theo are backstage figuring out what the fuck they’re going to do next.’

  I picked up coffees for everyone and took them to the backstage room. Theo and Luke were at the whiteboard, sketching out ideas, while Di sat in the corner attached to her charging phone. Theo greeted me with a nod; Luke kept writing.

  ‘Who wants coffee and my aunt’s homemade hot cross buns?’

  ‘Fuck, yeah,’ said Di.

  ‘Just give us some time, please,’ snapped Luke without looking at me.

  ‘Ease up, Luke. Have you got your period or something?’ asked Di.

  ‘I’ll have Luke’s coffee,’ said Theo. ‘And buns.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I put their coffees on a table and closed the door behind me.

  Maddy was in an adjacent room. ‘Can I do something to help?’ I asked, handing her a coffee and bun.

  ‘I need someone to inflate three thousand balloons.’ She pointed to a tall cylinder of helium in the corner.

  ‘Sign me up.’

  My fingers might have ached from all the knot-tying, but it was indescribably satisfying to perform a task with such limited capacity for error. Fix balloon to nozzle. Check. Turn tap to release helium. Check. When balloon inflates, close tap. Check. Tie balloon. Check. Tie ribbon. Check. Next balloon.

  Theo came to join me. ‘Can I play?’

  ‘Sure.’ I handed him a balloon. ‘How are things going?’ ‘Badly.’

  ‘What’s the strategy?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’ He accidentally released an untied balloon, which went whizzing around the room before it landed limply in the corner. ‘Any more buns?’ He helped himself to the paper bag.

  I wanted to ask him about Luke, but as Theo had the emotional and social intelligence of a lawn mower it would have been a pointless pursuit. ‘Has Archie resigned?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve got nothing to apologise for,’ said Archie, emerging from behind a balloon bouquet. He seemed lost, like a jester with no court.

  ‘Sorry, Archie, but I disagree.’ I resisted the temptation to be mean about it.

  ‘I did what you guys should’ve been doing,’ he said, clearing a path. ‘It’s neck and neck. This new PM offers about as much change as people can stomach at the moment. It’s a case of same horse, new jockey—that’s what mums and dads want. We need something big to bring her down and so that’s what I tried to do. You don’t think they’re not out there looking for exactly the same stuff to shoot Max with?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I said. ‘We’ve campaigned in earnest on this high moral ground and now you’re what they’re going to shoot us with. You dug for dirt and put it in writing and you did so when there was no need to. We were doing fine on policy grounds. I think that warrants some remorse, don’t you?’

  He considered it for a second. ‘No, I really don’t. I get it, Roo. This is your first shot at politics, but I’ve been doing this my whole life. This is how it works. Don’t like the game? Don’t play.’

  ‘You
’re right. This is my first time. Maybe more people like me would get involved in politics if people like you weren’t. You’re a walking stereotype. You’re the lonely, bitter cynic who has never done anything else but spin, and this is the result—you can’t see right from wrong anymore.’

  ‘Is your aunt single?’ Theo looked into the empty paper bag.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bummer.’ He scrunched the bag and turned to Archie. ‘Look, just do the right thing or you’ll be sacked. At least you maintain some integrity by offering your resignation; otherwise, your career will be even more fucked. That’s my advice.’

  Archie kicked the A-frame I had been using to anchor my inflated balloons, and stomped off. The balloons floated to the ceiling. Teetering dangerously on my wedges, I bounced up and down, clutching at dangling ribbons while cursing my father for the short gene. Theo shrugged and left.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, chasing a passing conference centre attendant down the hallway, ‘you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of kitchen tongs, would you?’

  ‘Try catering. Ground floor.’

  The enormous commercial kitchen was full of chefs with their bouffant hats. There must have been fifty of them. I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me,’ I hollered, ‘does anyone have a pair of kitchen tongs I can borrow?’ They either couldn’t hear me or didn’t want to.

  I moved between two long stainless-steel bench-tops and repeated my request. Nothing. Was I invisible? I cupped my hands around my mouth to perform Di’s megaphone trick. ‘EXCUSE ME, DOES ANYONE HAVE A PAIR OF—’

  The man stationed behind me must have been preparing to feed delegates of the International Vegans Convention because in his fright he upended a steel vat full of vinaigretted alfalfa sprouts all over me, coating my face, neck and chest in a slick of forage.

  ‘My garnish!’

  The white coats parted, making way for a smaller one. ‘Oo is ziss?’ he thundered.

  Alfalfa man shrugged.

  ‘My balloons have floated to the ceiling. Do you have any tongs?’ I licked the over-seasoned dressing from my lips.

  ‘Security!’

  I trudged through the sprout sludge and made my way to the lift. It pinged open, revealing Max, Shelly and Luke. Of course.

  ‘Roo, you’re covered in salad,’ pointed out Shelly.