Campaign Ruby (29 page)

‘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.

‘Garnish,' I said as we passed the first floor.

Max laughed. ‘Mind if I ask why?'

‘Long story.'

Luke shook his head.

Ping, went the lift. I scurried to the Ladies to scrape the sprouts into the loo; that's where I learned that vinaigrette stings when it makes direct contact with your eyes.

‘Roo, are you in here?' It was Maddy. ‘I just bumped into Shelly. She said you were covered in'—I emerged from the cubicle—‘salad.'

‘Garnish.'

‘Archie just resigned,' she said, sniffing my cheek. ‘His own decision. Press conference at the hotel in an hour.'

‘I'll do it,' I said. ‘Can you call Melissa Hatton and tell her to sit tight until Max has spoken?'

‘Sure.'

During my second shower for the day, I thought about what I should say to Luke. It was inappropriate to apologise. I used my finger to draft a text message on the fogged-up shower glass.

Luke, sleeping with Oscar was stupid. I regret it. I just thought you should kno…

No, that was even more stupid than sleeping with Oscar. I turned off the tap, stepped out of the shower, and continued on the mirror.

Please don't think I'm something I'm not.

The fog subsided and I was faced with my own flushed reflection. I erased my handwriting with a towel, dressed and ran to set up the press conference.

An hour later, the media were rolling in. The cameras, the snappers, the journalists. Serious ones came first and used the time to study the media release, jotting down notes here and there. Then came Oscar, strutting like a peacock.

What on earth did we find attractive about that man?

A lady I barely recognised sat in the front row. She did not read the release. She had her eyes closed, like she was meditating. ‘Who's that?' I asked Di.

‘That, my dear, is Anastasia Ng. She's only the greatest journo on our planet. Pretty Boy's boss. She's been on leave because her husband had surgery.' Di sighed. ‘If I wasn't doing what I'm doing now, I'd want to be her. She's incredible. Incisive. Balanced. Lethal when she disapproves. Genius.'

That's the ‘batty' one Oscar is going to replace?

‘Is she the one who's on her way out?'

‘Ng? I don't bloody think so. Sharp as a tack, that chick. There's no way anyone else could even begin to fill her shoes.'

Max strode in. ‘Thanks for coming,' he said when he took to the lectern. ‘I wanted to say a few quick words about my former staff member Archibald Andersen. Mr Andersen has offered me his resignation following a unilateral decision on his part to try to dig into the Prime Minister's personal life. I have accepted his resignation.

‘I want it to be known that I have enormous respect for the Prime Minister. She is a competent politician and should be judged as such. I have no interest whatsoever in her personal life. It is none of my business or anybody else's.

‘That is why Mr Andersen was right to offer me his resignation. Gutter politics have no place in my office or any public office. In fact, as you all know, I denounce it. My party and I are capable of tackling the government on policy and policy alone, and that's what we intend to do.

‘I apologise to the Prime Minister and seek the forgiveness of the Australian people and hope we can put this behind us.

‘Of course, I will take any questions you might have.'

I watched Anastasia Ng.

‘Mr Masters,' said Gary Spinnaker, ‘how do you expect to maintain your advertising campaign against the government's dirty tactics in the light of this scandal?'

Max answered. Anastasia was the only journalist in the room looking and listening rather than scribbling in her notepad. She was like a photojournalist, absorbing every word as though it was an image.

She took the last question. ‘Did you ask for Mr Andersen's resignation or did he offer it? And if he hadn't offered it, do you think you would now be calling him a former staff member?'

Not exactly a batty question.

Max stumbled. ‘I'm not going to speculate on a hypothetical. What's done is done.' He thanked everyone for their time and left with a smile plastered on his dial. Ouch. ‘See what I mean?' whispered Di. ‘Slice.' She followed Max out.

Oscar was too busy staring into the Mirror app on his iPhone to witness Anastasia's incision, let alone understand it.

Surely you're not going to stand by and watch Pretty
Boy screw over another smart woman, are you?

No. I'm not.

Hallway of shame

I rolled over: 2.53 a.m. Blast. I begged my bladder to hold out for another hour. I tried to get back to sleep, but when my smooth leg encountered a hairy one I wondered whether it might belong to someone else. No such luck: just a fatigued shaving omission from the night before. Grumpily, I staggered out of bed and felt my way around the dark hotel room. My bare hip hit a sharp corner. ‘Ouch.' I rubbed the newest bruise of my collection.

Mercifully, I had remembered to leave the bathroom light on, a trick of the trade to help steer weary campaigners through uncharted hotel rooms.

I edged towards the lit strip of carpet before me, closed my eyes and opened the door. It sprang shut behind me. ‘What sort of daft designer carpets a hotel bathroom?' I wondered aloud. I blinked the coloured stars away, waiting for my pupils to adjust.

This was either the longest bathroom known to man or I was standing in the seventeenth-floor hallway. I tried the door to my room behind me. No joy. In vain, felt my side pockets for the key. No key. No pockets. No bottoms, in fact. Just frayed cotton knickers, a buttock-scraping Financial Services Authority T-shirt and one shaven leg. Crap.

Using both hands to stretch my T-shirt down to micro-mini level, I waddled to the lift and prayed for an empty lobby. Ping pong, sang the lift. Its doors opened and I stumbled in. My nose hit the G button. I pictured the security guard spraying his coffee at the screen as he watched my misfortune unfold. Mirrored walls gave an unflattering multifaceted view of my sleeping ensemble. Two knotted tufts of hair stood at an acute angle to my scalp. A rivulet of drying dribble had escaped my mouth. Still holding down the FSA, I made use of my shoulder to wipe it off. Mission impossible.