Campaign Ruby Part 20

No, you didn't.

'And what were you doing in the loo for ten minutes anyway?'

'That's no question to ask a lady.'

'You're not a lady; you're a policy advisor.'

'No, I'm not: you haven't given me a single piece of policy work since I joined.'

'Diddums.'

His sarcasm was unattractive.

'Why the h.e.l.l are you wearing a wife-beater to work? It's f.u.c.king unprofessional.'

'I had to improvise. It's exceptionally hot here. My flip-flops are melting. You've no idea...'

'So why did every member of the national press gallery manage to come in appropriate attire? And Maddy?'

'Maddy must be reptilian because she ate hot porridge for breakfast in three-hundred-degree heat! She's the kind of person who'd order bread and b.u.t.ter pudding in Bora Bora!' My voice bounced off the corrugated-iron awning. 'In any case, I'm rather surprised to be receiving fas.h.i.+on advice from a man with a tie collection resembling landfill!'

Silence.

'Luke?'

'I expected more from you, Roo. Much more.'

'Well, I'm sorry to have been such a disappointment.' The lump in my throat made my voice waver.

'Di is livid. You'll be in the papers tomorrow and on the TVs tonight.'

'Terrific. I'm going to make my television debut wearing promotional beer gear.'

The smoker took offence, stubbed his cigarette and walked back inside.

'Jesus, Ruby, did you stop for a second to think about how this might impact on Felicia Lunardi? Her campaign already looks like a f.u.c.king freak show.'

I bit my lip and lowered my Aviators.

'By the way, where's my dictaphone?'

'I believe the LOO has it.' Technically true.

'What?'

He cut out. I kicked an empty beer can at my feet.

It's not too late to join yodelling Kev, you know, said my head.

'f.u.c.k off.'

'Sorry,' said a voice behind me, 'I just thought you could use some company.'

I turned to see Oscar unb.u.t.toning his collar and rolling up his sleeves.

'Sorry, I was talking to myself.'

'Do you always tell yourself to f.u.c.k off?'

'Only when I'm very cross with me.'

'For what it's worth, Channel Eleven viewers will miss out on seeing Fourex Roo.'

I looked up at his strong jaw and warm smile. 'That's very kind of you.'

'There's a caveat.'

'And what's that?'

'That we get off this barbeque of a balcony and rejoin the sane people in the air-conditioning. You did promise to have a drink with me.'

Lord knows how many rum and c.o.kes later, I was dancing on the pool table singing 'Land Down Under' into a cue, to an audience of miners and journalists. It was safer up there; Di was barely speaking to me, though Maddy had a.s.sured me it would blow over. Cyclone warnings in Townsville meant that our planes were grounded until morning.

Halfway through 'True Blue', Maddy, Di and the journalists headed for the door.

'What's with the ma.s.s exodus?' I said into my pool cue.

'It's getting late, Roo,' said Maddy. 'We're on an early flight.'

Oscar was at the bar, buying me another.

'It's only ten, Maddy. Stay for one more round!'

She shook her head and ran to catch up with Di.

At midnight, the publican called last drinks, and I tried to get down off the pool table.

'Let's get you some air,' said Oscar, lifting me. He took me by the hand and led me up a narrow staircase to what looked like an attic.

'I don't need air,' I giggled. 'I'm not as think as you drunk I am.'

Oscar opened a window and climbed outside. 'Come on, Roo.'

I stepped out onto the sloping tin roof, still warm from the sun, and looked up. 'Stars are very s.h.i.+ny.'

'Astrologists in western Queensland tonight confirmed stars are, quote, very s.h.i.+ny,' he said in his newsreader voice.

'Astronomers,' I corrected.

'Whatever.' He kissed my eyelids closed.

'It's quite an important distinction,' I said. 'Astrologists wear purple velvet in the middle of the day and like crystals.'

'Also s.h.i.+ny.' He kissed my mouth.

Oscar Franklin is kissing you.

Well spotted, head.

'Oscar?'

'Hmm?'

'You taste like a pirate.' I pulled away from his delectable lips.

'It's the rum.'

'Yes, I suppose it is the rum.'

We continued.

'Oscar?'

'Hmm?'

'It's important to point out at this juncture that I haven't had much experience with pirates, so I'm not really sure how they taste. Probably a bit salty, with a touch of parrot'-he opened his left eye-'not that I'm a parrot-eater.'

Now you're kissing Oscar Franklin. This one's a bit more intense. I'm no expert, but perhaps it's best not to talk about parrots and pirates when you're being kissed.

Wise counsel, head.

'All right, you two.' The publican clapped her hands behind us. 'Pub's closed. I'm locking up now.'

Oscar pulled me to my feet and swivelled me towards the publican. 'Thanks for a splendid evening. This is a lovely pub.'

She laughed. 'No worries, love. Hoo roo!'

'I am.'

Territorial.

Di marched me to the tiny WC on the media plane.

'Tell me you didn't pash Oscar Franklin,' she demanded in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

'Pash?'

'Yes, Roo, pash,' she said, before morphing into a thesaurus. 'Neck, snog, tongue, suck face, make out with...'

Admittedly, I was familiar with the verb, but had hoped to buy myself some time to formulate an appropriate response. 'Firstly, I wasn't so much a pasher as a co-pashee'-at least for the first one-'and secondly, definitionally, it wasn't a pash, just a quick kiss.'

She smashed her head rhythmically against the wall. 'At the pub, I take it.'

'Kind of on the pub.'

'I'm not going to ask what that means.'

'How did you find out?'

'It's Clon-f.u.c.king-curry, Roo. It's not every day that famous journalists are in town with former prime ministers. People talk.'

'Does anyone else know?'

'No,' she said. 'Just me, the publican and presumably Oscar, unless you spiked his drink. What happened?'

I told her the story, skipping over some of the detail, like the part where it took us an hour to cross the road from pub to motel or when he said my lips were so red and swollen that I looked like I'd just eaten a Redskin, which he a.s.sured me was an Australian delicacy.

'There's nothing to be concerned about,' I rea.s.sured her. 'It's not as if I fancy him.'

I hurt, throbbed my head, playing a particularly graphic montage of the incident in question. How do you expect me to do my job properly if you poison me with liquor? I could have prevented all of this.

Di leaned in close. 'Let me give you a piece of well-trodden advice, Roo: don't s.h.i.+t where you eat.' She slid the latch to release the bifurcating door. 'By the way, you're in shot but not mentioned on page eleven of the Queenslander and two of the Herald with a little caption: "Advisor Roo Stanhope copes with the heat." I had to work hard to bury it like that. I know Luke's already spoken to you about it. Don't let it happen again.' With that, she rejoined the cabin.

I was knackered, brutally hungover and had a To Do list the length of the Trans-Siberian Railway. With the FASTEN SEATBELT sign on for our descent into Darwin, I returned to my seat, which was a safe distance from Oscar's-we hadn't yet spoken-pulled a worn sc.r.a.p of paper from my handbag and tried to prioritise some items.

1. Confirm visa (LIFE/DEATH URGENT) 2. Sign contract for negligible remuneration (FINANCIALLY URGENT) 3. Track down luggage (STYLISTICALLY URGENT) 4. Track down coffee-stained trousers from hotel laundry in Perth (SEE ABOVE) 5. Call Fran, Clem, parents, Daphne, Debs, etc. (LONG OVERDUE) 6. Arrange birthday present for Clem (MUST DO BEFORE MONDAY).

'b.a.l.l.s.' I saw MONDAY at the top of the day's media brief. Counting back the hours in my head to allow for the time difference, I discovered a small window of opportunity in which I might save myself from the ferociousness of an almost five-year-old.

As soon as the wheels. .h.i.t the tarmac, I Googled 'same day gift delivery London'. Of seventy-two thousand results, including fruit baskets, champagne and edible underwear, I came across Balloons on a Bike, which boasted 'tasteful balloon bouquets hand-delivered across western London'. I placed an online order for two dozen fuchsia helium balloons (some pearlescent, some with polka dots) and a big silver 5 to be delivered by noon in London. Hurrah.

Darwin is vastly underrated, I concluded as we made our way on the media bus to the seat of Forster, where we were due to visit a market. Avoiding Oscar's knowing gaze, I distributed bottles of water and spread the good news that we'd be spending at least a day in the Top End. As we waited for Max and Fred Smythe-the local member-to arrive for a photo opportunity, I lost myself for a moment in the exquisite aromas emanating from each stall. It was as if the myriad of flavours from the tropical East were being pounded by a pestle in a ma.s.sive mortar: lemongra.s.s, ginger, lime, garlic, chilli, star anise, fish sauce and coconut, fused with the smell of onions caramelising on a barbeque at the nearby burger hut.

Max pulled up with Sh.e.l.ly and Luke, followed closely by Fred. A relaxed posse formed around them to capture a few shots.

Luke came over, straightening his solar system tie. I wondered if it glowed in the dark. 'Hi,' he said.

I stared at my shoes and then straight at his chest. 'Nice tie,' I fibbed, 'but potentially risky given Rings of Love.'

'Good point.' He removed it.

'I need to get back to the hotel,' said Luke. 'Think you can manage this photo op?'