Campaign Ruby Part 24

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 rea.s.sured 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 s.p.a.ce-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 gla.s.s doors. With my hands full I knocked gently on the gla.s.s with my k.n.o.bbly 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.'

'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. 'b.u.t.ter?'

'Yes, please.' I blew the granules of dirt from the trenches around each key on my BlackBerry and entered my pa.s.sword, 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, s.h.i.+ny 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, brus.h.i.+ng 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 b.l.o.o.d.y thing's pa.s.sword-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 f.u.c.ked 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-'cliched.'

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 c.o.c.katoos 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 d.a.m.ning 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 a.r.s.e 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. Sh.e.l.ly 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. Sat.u.r.day will be largely dominated by the "one week to go" a.n.a.lysis. At this stage you'll be with Sh.e.l.ly and Abigail in Melbourne for the day-get some rest. Next Thursday is the launch and then we've got Southpoll coming out on Sat.u.r.day, before the PM's launch on the Tuesday before polling day. Any questions?'

I had some questions. Why did I s.h.a.g a journalist? What's the maximum penalty for common a.s.sault 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 Ta.s.sie. 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 la.s.s,' 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 gla.s.s.

'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.'