Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  ‘What’s up?’

  When Di explained, they laughed before realising what it could mean for their daughter: unnecessary public exposure. Max flopped onto a chair. The adrenaline crutch that had been holding him upright gave way. He was too tired to think. Shelly stood next to the window. Outside, Melbourne was grey and stormy.

  ‘Let me talk to Spinnaker.’ Shelly unfolded her arms. ‘Give me his number. I’ll call him.’

  ‘With respect, Shelly, I’d need to know what you were going to say,’ said Di.

  ‘I’m going to remind him that she’s thirteen years old, just a year older than his son, the one he told me about at Christmas drinks.’

  Di pondered it. ‘But if Spinnaker doesn’t write it, someone else will.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them, too.’

  ‘I think you should make light of it,’ I said. ‘Max is lucky to have such a savvy critic in the family. This time, she says, her grandfather made the better speech.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Di closed her eyes to capture her thoughts. ‘How about you say something like, “Max and I consider ourselves lucky to have such an honest and savvy critic in the family. We encourage her to have her own opinion on things and are immensely proud of her.” If Spinnaker presses you on why you took her out of school for the event, tell him you made the decision to pull Abigail out of sports day for the same reason his wife pulled his kids out of school to attend the Walkleys.’

  ‘I’d do it again in a heartbeat,’ said Shelly.

  ‘We might need to keep a bit of an eye on what she says online in future,’ said Di.

  ‘Let her be,’ said Max through closed eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today if Mum and Dad had told me to shut up when I was a kid, and that’s what I’ll say if anyone asks me about it.’

  ‘Come on, love,’ said Shelly, ‘let’s get you home for a nap.’ She helped him to his feet and led him to the door.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ he yawned.

  ‘I’ll text you Spinnaker’s number and let him know to expect your call, Shelly,’ said Di.

  ‘Ta,’ said Shelly.

  ‘You’re not bad at this, you know, Roo,’ said Di, before her phone rang. ‘G’day Gary, I was just about to call.’

  A dish best served with mini-pies

  Archie’s final contribution to the campaign shaved two whole points off us in that Saturday’s Southpoll, dampening Max’s post-launch high. The two-party-preferred count put us at fifty-one to Brennan’s forty-nine, giving her the perfect underdog status with which to start the final week of the campaign. With the finish line in sight, Max and Shelly found new energy. We spent the weekend visiting key marginal seats like Donaldson in Tasmania to shore up support. Now, in our seventh city in four days, Max read his brief as I sponged oily make-up onto his sweaty face.

  ‘Do I really need that?’

  My head was unkind. With those eye bags and crow’s feet, he could probably audition for the before shot in a Botox commercial. The polls open in less than four days.

  ‘We just need to make sure your face isn’t too shiny for the cameras.’

  ‘I’m at a defence base in Woop Woop,’ he said. ‘It’s thirty-four degrees. If I wasn’t shiny I wouldn’t be human.’

  ‘Isn’t Woop Woop in Tasmania?’

  His laughter made my hand slip, printing a lightning bolt of concealer across his forehead.

  ‘Keep still. You look like Harry Potter.’

  ‘Woop Woop is a generic description of somewhere a long way from anywhere.’

  Oh.

  My phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Aunty Wooby, I saw you on the television yesterday wearing a yellow Bob the Builder hat, an orange vest and white trousers with mud on them.’

  Yesterday’s mine visit had been a brutal lesson in allowing the day’s schedule to inform wardrobe selection. ‘Mummy said orange isn’t easy to wear. Debs said you are very brave to wear white trousers to the ironing mine. I thought your hat was a bit big for you because I couldn’t see your eyes. How did you get on the television?’

  ‘Sorry, Clem, I can’t talk right now,’ I whispered.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m painting someone’s face.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Skin colour.’

  ‘Boring. At my birthday party Mummy painted pink stars on our cheeks with itchy violent glitter.’

  ‘Violet,’ I corrected. I covered the phone. ‘My five-year-old niece thinks I should paint you pink with glitter.’

  ‘Can I talk to her?’

  Splendid idea. Maybe Clem can tell Max how you tripped and fell on a journalist.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Clem, I’m going to put you on to my boss, Mr Masters. He might be the prime minister soon. He wants to say hello.’

  Max took the phone while I prayed.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Max…That’s a very long name for a little girl. Do you mind if I call you Clementine?…You’re right, it does get itchy up the nose…That’s good advice. Thank you for that, but I’m not sure if they’ll let you vote yet…Bye, Clementine.’ He handed me the phone and I said goodbye to Clem.

  ‘She’s an incredible interviewer,’ Max said. ‘She makes Anastasia Ng look shy.’

  I dusted Max down and plucked the tissues from around his collar. He went back to his brief while I washed my hands. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a $3.7 billion announcement,’ said Max, scanning his copy of the media release. ‘This says $4.7 billion.’

  Fuck. ‘Good point.’

  ‘What time’s this press conference?’

  ‘In ten minutes,’ I said. ‘Let me check if the release has been distributed.’ I called Luke.

  ‘You’ve reached Luke Harley, Chief of Staff to the…’

  ‘Godspeed,’ said Max, reading my next move.

  I scampered down the steps out to the lawn where the press conference was to be held. It had been a civilised morning tea until my arrival. Under a shade cloth, the local candidate and press pack chatted with their hosts, a pride of sickeningly handsome uniformed officers, the kind you can’t help but unbutton with your eyes. I paused to fully appreciate the visual feast before me.

  Focus, Ruby.

  A hundred yards across the lawn stood Luke, shuffling a pile of paper. The press releases. I waved my arms to catch his attention. ‘Yoo hoo!’ If I’d had the fluorescent green tie he was wearing I could have used it as a signal. ‘Luke!’ Nothing. To stop him, I would have to make it across the grass in thirty seconds. This meant discarding my Up Yours, Oscars, a pair of red platform patent peeptoes christened by Maddy on the plane that morning. I bolted barefoot towards Luke, my floaty bias-cut skirt puffing up like a hot-air balloon.

  Luke turned to Gary Spinnaker and licked his index finger, poised to release the release. My pace quickened from trot to canter.

  There’s Pretty Boy.

  I attempted a nod, which would have conveyed the perfect cocktail of professionalism and nonchalance if I hadn’t felt a crippling spike in my right foot.

  ‘Ugh!’ The pain felled me. ‘Fuck,’ I screamed when my patella pressed against the nest of prickles. Onlookers gasped; teaspoons clinked against saucers. I put out my hand to steady myself, which, with hindsight, was unwise given the ferocious clusters surrounding me. ‘Fugh.’ Having spotted the causal relationship between movement and pain, I adopted a pose resembling a wounded crab, the kind one might strike in an epic Twister showdown. I couldn’t see the expressions on the thirty-five or so faces, but I could imagine them.

  A pair of knights in matt camouflage rushed to my aid. ‘Gotta watch out for bindies, ma’am,’ said one, lifting me off the ground.

  ‘Watch out for what?’ I retracted my landing gear for fear of further attack, electing to hang from his arm like a Christmas ornament.

  ‘Bindies,’ said the second knight, as if it might make more sense to me at greater volume. They deposited me on the platform beside the lectern.

  ‘Roo,’ Luke said, suppre
ssing a grin when he reached me.

  I looked around to see Gary Spinnaker underlining. I was too late. ‘The press release is wrong.’ I plucked at the thorns embedded in my knee cap. ‘It’s supposed to be 3.7, not 4.7.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ he said. ‘The new costing came through this morning.’

  The pain worsened. ‘Do you think someone could have told me that?’

  ‘It’s in the brief.’

  ‘Oh.’ I collected myself, stepping back into the Up Yours, Oscars.

  ‘I haven’t stood in a bindi patch since I was about twelve.’ He helped me up.

  ‘Why give a vicious predator such an adorable name? How about Nature’s Land Mines or Grasstards?’

  He pulled a blade of grass from my hair. ‘I guess I should go and get the LOO.’

  ‘You do that,’ I said. ‘I’m off to the airport.’

  It was half three in the afternoon and I hadn’t eaten all day. By the time I reached the lounge, the crockenbouche of tepid mini-pies could have been a Michelin-stamped smorgasbord. I settled into a corner couch with a magazine and chowed down on soggy pastry and processed meat. Heaven.

  Over the top of Vogue Australia, I spotted a familiar woman. Spiral notepad under arm, thick black hair streaked with silver. Anastasia Ng slung a beaten leather satchel over her shoulder and approached the desk.

  ‘Welcome back, Ms Ng,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Thanks, I’m going to need the remote.’ She made her way to the television area via a fruit bowl, switched the football to Two Cents and turned up the volume. ‘Sorry,’ she said to the startled gentleman on the couch beside her. She wasn’t sorry at all. He picked up his beer and stormed off. She crunched into an apple and watched.

  I moved to sit beside her. Oscar appeared with his regular late-afternoon segment, focusing on the PM’s launch, which had been full of fanfare. The PM presented as a strong person of sterling intellect with marital integrity and a mother’s warmth. Talkback radio hosts had been bombarded with calls crying shame on Max for trying to smear such a lovely lady.

  There wasn’t time for contemplation. I was on that couch for a reason. When Oscar signed off, I said, ‘Anastasia, we haven’t met; I’m Ruby Stanhope.’ She didn’t turn. ‘New to Max Masters’ office,’ I persevered.

  Her almond eyes widened in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, of course.’ She shook my hand. ‘I thought you looked familiar.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Back to Melbourne. How are things at Camp Masters during the final days?’

  ‘I don’t speak for anyone else, but I’m excited,’ I smiled. ‘As your network pointed out the other day, this is my first campaign.’

  She closed her eyes for a second longer than a blink in order to track down my file. I could visualise it. A manila folder, thin. Stanhope, R. Age: 28. Background: English banker, infamous emailer, political virgin, migrant worker.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For what it’s worth, had it been up to me, I doubt I’d have run that story.’

  ‘It’s worth a lot,’ I said. I took a deep breath. ‘I was saddened to hear that you’re winding down your role. The gallery will seem empty without you.’

  She turned to face me fully. ‘Winding down?’

  ‘Yes, handing over your role.’

  ‘I think you must be confusing me with someone else,’ she said. ‘I’m not going anywhere—I took leave to be with my husband, who has been ill.’ Anastasia raised the apple to take a bite.

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I misinterpreted him. As you know, I’m new to this game.’

  She spared the apple mid-crunch. ‘Misinterpreted who?’

  ‘Never mind.’ I tried being coy. ‘I hope I haven’t put my foot in it.’

  She paused, lids closing to hide those gleaming black eyes. Inside my Up Yours, Oscars I crossed my toes, hoping the bait would be too tantalising for her to resist. The eyelids opened. ‘I’d be interested to know who told you.’ Hooked.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to cause any internal friction.’

  She flinched at the word. ‘Not at all: it would remain between us.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was your colleague, Oscar. He told me that his superior in the network was on her way out, hence his hosting the debate and taking on a bigger role. Something about ratings…Anyway, I’ve said too much. I’m glad to hear he was mistaken.’

  Crunch. The blood rushed visibly beneath the surface of her porcelain skin.

  They called our flight.

  ‘Do tell me if I’m asking too much,’ she said, ‘but I’d appreciate it if you could keep this information quiet.’

  She seemed uncomfortable with her request, but I decided to put her at ease. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I like to keep the sisterhood strong.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  As we made our way to the departure gate, I catastrophised about the consequences of my disclosure. What if she confronts him and he denies it? What if I get a reputation as a loose woman?

  No objections up here, said my head.

  In any case, a squirt of vengeance was the perfect condiment to accompany my cold party-food feast.

  One more sleep

  I woke up early on election eve between a snorer and a tooth-grinder having barely slept a wink.

  The night before, Fran and Clem had invited me to join them for supper and a sleepover at Daphne’s apartment in Melbourne. Clem had fallen asleep to a singalong DVD of My Fair Lady. Fran had cooked and talked. I had poured wine and listened.

  ‘I’ve been approached by a headhunter to establish an intellectual property practice as partner at my old firm,’ she had said, apportioning pasta bake.

  ‘Fran, that’s brilliant. Are you going to take it?’

  ‘No, but I’m going to do the bar exam in September. Mummy’s friend has offered me space at his chambers.’ She grinned. ‘I’m going to be a barrister.’

  ‘I’m so excited for you.’ I clinked her glass with mine. ‘It’ll be a walk in the park after five years of Clem.’

  ‘I’m excited for me too.’

  I’d had to ask. ‘Have you and Mark spoken?’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know what to do, Ruby. I hate what he’s done, but I don’t hate him.’

  I couldn’t bear the thought of her going back to Mark or the idea that Clem might grow up with two bedrooms. ‘Take all the time you need and know that I will support whatever you choose to do.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘My new visa expires in twelve months.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  She’s right, said my head.

  ‘I know, but I don’t have a better answer than that at the moment.’

  I had tossed and turned all night, pondering her question. Now, it was time to start the day.

  Maddy and I were in charge of election eve drinks.

  We had booked a roof garden at a pub in St Kilda. The sun was gentle and the sea breeze reviving. Shelly had made a special request. Unbeknown to the rest of us, she had been photographing the campaign at her husband’s side. She’d asked Maddy and me to put together a presentation of the photographs as a surprise.

  ‘Isn’t there something more important for us to be doing right now?’ I asked Maddy.

  She smiled. ‘Nope. That’s what sucks about the last day of the campaign. It’s kind of like the Melbourne Cup. You can train the horse and jockey, but the night before the big race there’s nothing to do but rest and pray.’

  So that afternoon, with a pair of mango daiquiris, Maddy and I bundled up our nervous energy and injected it into a slideshow, set to Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’— Shelly’s request. The photos were brilliant. Theo asleep on the plane using an empty packet of Tim Tams as an eye mask. Milly laughing hysterically on a white studio floor covered in a rainbow of ties. The cops throwing a football in a hotel corridor. Maddy showing off the holes in her riding boots. Di on a phone attached to a power source in the dress-ups
room at a childcare centre. Max playing snakes and ladders with residents at an assisted care facility in Mildura. Luke, suit trousers rolled up, on the phone standing ankle-deep in the water at Airlie Beach. Me in the paper wearing my wife-beater.

  By the time we were finished, it was 7 p.m. and we were, as Maddy put it, ‘maggoted’.

  ‘Cheers.’ She charged her daiquiri. ‘Twenty-four hours until the polls close.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, thinking that this wasn’t something we should be drinking to.

  Maddy checked the news online. ‘Shit. One of the snappers has a shot of a shadow minister holding a brief face-up. They’ve zoomed in on it—it’s full of lines. We always cover this in media training. Do not under any circumstances be photographed holding a document face-up. Any camera will be able to pick up content. She’s a shadow minister, for crying out loud.’

  ‘Did they get anything controversial?’

  ‘Just bits and pieces to do with her portfolio. She’s got stuff in there on family law, unemployment benefits, adoption for singles and gay couples.’

  ‘What does it say about gay adoption?’

  ‘Just party policy. What we agreed at national conference.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Maddy looked up. ‘We don’t support adoption— international or local—for gay and single parents.’

  My stomach churned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I dunno, Roo. We just don’t. The other side doesn’t either. It’s contentious. I guess if anything we’re lucky her stupid brief stuck to policy. Nobody’s picking it up—it’s a pretty small story in the scheme of things—’

  ‘I’m sorry, why does the party have a problem with single or gay people adopting children?’

  She looked at me like I was losing the plot. ‘Seriously, mate,’ she said, ‘I’ve got no bloody clue. I’m just the advancer.’

  ‘Well, who can I talk to about this? It’s ridiculous and it needs to be fixed.’

  ‘Um, Roo.’ She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I know how you feel—we’re all a bit jumpy at the moment. Let’s get another daiquiri.’

  ‘I’m not jumpy,’ I said. ‘If you’d told me this on Day One I’d have said the same thing. I’m not going to support a party that doesn’t SUPPORT THE rights of people to parent.’ The churning fast became nausea. ‘I need to get some air.’