Campaign Ruby (7 page)

‘That's my girl,' beamed Debs.

I followed Debs' billowing silk gown into the kitchen.

‘So, how was the shindig?' she asked.

‘Weird—it was a political fundraiser.'

‘Shit, yeah, I should've told you.'

Yes, she should have,
said my grumpy head. I carried a cafetière back out to the deck.

‘Should have told her what?' asked Daphne, serving the hot bread on earthenware plates.

‘That it was a fundraiser for Masters.'

Daphne sighed. ‘Anyway, as it turns out, Ruby was offered a job.'

‘No I wasn't; he was just suggesting a coffee.'

‘Don't be bashful, Ruby. He said he could
use
someone like you.'

‘Jesus Christ, that's bolshie,' said Debs. ‘I had a feeling Benny would have a crack at keeping you around.' She shot me a cheeky wink.

‘It wasn't Benedict,' Daphne said. ‘It was Max Masters' Chief of Staff.'

‘You're shitting me.' Debs' lips were encrusted with ricotta. ‘Isn't little Lukey Harley working for Masters now?' ‘You know Luke? He's the one who asked me for a coffee.'

‘Luke's a good bloke. He used to be my clerk when I was senior associate. Bright kid: cute one, too. Terrible suits. He was a Melbourne Uni medallist, worked for me while he finished his degree, then as an associate to a High Court judge. When he finished his associateship he got a gig as a policy advisor to someone. That must've been about ten years ago.'

Daphne piled her bread with preserved apricot cheeks and drizzled them with syrup. ‘Masters will probably get in at the next election. I can't imagine anyone will be able to stomach another three years of Hugh Patton.'

‘Me neither,' Debs agreed. ‘Masters is the first half-decent Opposition leader we've seen in a decade. Before now it didn't matter how sick to death people were of Patton. No one's going to jump ship when the economy's gone tits up, not when the alternative's a leaky boat. Masters is different, though.'

‘He's a good speaker,' I said. ‘I was impressed. The audience was full of sleazy industry types and yet he seemed to connect with everyone there. He was real.'

‘You going to take the job then?' asked Debs.

I laughed. They didn't.

‘Serious question,' said Debs.

‘Look, I'm here on a tourist visa. The closest thing I've had to political experience was competing with my sister for my parents' Chelsea flat when I finished university. I'm an investment banker. I don't even know which party he's from, or which party is in government, or how the system works here—or anywhere for that matter. He hasn't offered me a job and…I'm supposed to be on holiday!'

‘Codswallop.'

‘I'm sorry?' Now I was annoyed.

‘Means horse shit,' Debs explained.

‘It might surprise you, but I do in fact know what codswallop means,' I muttered. ‘It's an English term. And I appreciate your intentions, but that's not who I am. I'm
me
. I live in
London
. I have a lovely flat in
Notting Hill
. And I'm an
investment banker
.'

‘No, you're not,' said Debs.

‘Deborah!' My aunt lowered her sunglasses to reveal the full force of her glare.

‘Settle, petal,' said Debs. ‘Just telling it like it is. There's a wine glut in Australia and an investment banker glut in the UK—you're a dime a dozen, kiddo.'

She wasn't wrong. When I returned to London, I, like thousands of my former colleagues, would march zombie-like to interview after hopeless interview without finding a comparable job. Emerging markets no longer existed. Most markets were well and truly
sub
merged. My future flashed before me. My parents would call everyone they knew, desperate to find me respectable work. I would get some rubbish, back-office contractor role in a two-bit bank and spend every six months begging for renewal. I would be forced to surrender my flat and share a room with Clem at my sister's. I'd have to eBay my wine and my Louboutins.

My aunt's hand on mine broke the panic. ‘It doesn't hurt to have coffee with him, love,' she said gently. ‘Who knows, politics for you might be like bread for me.'

I channelled my mother for a bit of polite conversational transition. ‘I've never asked how you got into baking in the first place.'

‘At school,' she said, drizzling syrup from the apricots over her breakfast, ‘I was certain I'd become a lawyer. I didn't want to be particularly, though I'd have been quite good at it.

‘When I was reading law at university, I had a falling out with your grandmother about my sexuality. I rebelled a bit and took some time off. One night, when I was walking home from a club, I passed a bakery.

‘It was about four in the morning and there were three people inside, working away. I envied them. They had their own peaceful, beautiful-smelling world away from the hubbub of normal trading hours, like Father Christmas and his elves.'

‘Farver Cwistmiss,' teased Debs, attempting to mimic our accent.

Daphne ignored her. ‘Better still, they created bread. Everyone loves the smell of fresh bread. It's primal—a simple, common staple. It meets people's needs. Nobody feels that way when they pay their lawyers.

‘So I got an apprenticeship at a French patisserie and deferred my studies. Daddy was delighted, which surprised me. Mother wasn't. Anyway, I love what I do, I'm good at it and it makes money. I own two shops and I'm about to open a third.'

‘I've got a meeting in town tomorrow,' said Debs, clearing the plates. ‘If you did want to meet up with little Lukey, I could drop you off.'

That evening, I emailed him.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Luke

Good to meet you last night.

As it happens, I'll be in Melbourne tomorrow and thought I might take you up on that coffee if you're free.

Hope the interview with ‘your guy' went well this morning.

Kind regards

Ruby

A few seconds passed.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

R

Come to the CPO (4 Treasury Place) at midday. Ask for me and they'll point you in the right direction.

My totally platonic boss did fine this morning.
Doorstopped this arvo too. Check out the six o'clocks.

L

I went looking for Debs and found her lying on the floor talking to the pups. Pansy thumped her tail against the floorboards twice to greet me, alerting Debs to my presence.

‘I was just going through some emails.' She grabbed her BlackBerry.

‘No, you weren't,' I said, ‘you were doting.'

‘I don't dote.'

‘I know a doter when I see one.'

‘They're pink,' she observed, ‘like little marshmallows.'

‘Indeed. Have you named them yet?'

‘Fuck, no.' She sat up. ‘You shouldn't sneak up on people.'

‘I wanted to ask you a question.'

‘Shoot.'

‘Luke has asked me to meet him at something called the CPO tomorrow. He also said to watch the six o'clocks and that he had doorstopped. Do you know what any of that means?'

‘I think the CPO's the Commonwealth Parliamentary Offices up at Treasury Place.' She stood up and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

I followed her to the kitchen, where Daphne was cooking dinner. ‘These are the six o'clocks,' said Debs, flicking on the telly to a balding man with the skin tone of an Oompa Loompa. ‘There are three main commercial stations, two of which broadcast the news at six. This is Channel Eleven.'

She opened a bottle of red. ‘Ruby's off to have coffee with Luke tomorrow,' she told my aunt.

‘Wonderful,' clucked Daphne.

I was drawn to the screen.

‘First on tonight's bulletin,' said the Oompa Loompa, ‘Prime Minister Hugh Patton participated in a fun run for charity in Canberra today. But Opposition Leader Max Masters suggested that his opponent is a skilled athlete, having had much experience “running away” from his political reality. Senior political correspondent Oscar Franklin has more of the story.'

The report began with footage of a perspiring Prime Minister in a pair of unflatteringly short shorts. Smiling through his exhaustion, he stumbled across the finish line to half-hearted applause.

‘With thirty-six degrees on the barometer here in Canberra,' said the even hotter reporter, ‘organisers of today's annual Fun Run for Prostate Cancer Awareness were delighted but surprised when the Prime Minister's office called early this morning to say that Hugh Patton was eager to participate—causing speculation that, however severe the temperature outside might be, nothing quite compared to the heat inside the government's party room.

‘For at least a fortnight there have been mutterings from prominent government backbenchers that his party is no longer confident Mr Patton can deliver a fifth consecutive win at the next election, due in eighteen months.

‘Senior government figures, including the Health Minister, were this morning forced to defend their leader and call on detractors to put up or shut up.'

A confident and relaxed Max Masters stood open-collared outside radio studios surrounded by journalists and fluffy microphones.

‘There's Luke.' I spotted the bad suit in the background.

‘Mr Masters,' said a journalist, ‘the Prime Minister is at a fun run today—are you going to wish him luck?'

‘Of course I wish him luck,' said Masters, ‘but he doesn't need it. He's a practised athlete—he knows how to run away from a political reality.'

‘Tellingly,' said Oscar Franklin, in a voice so manly it made Russell Crowe sound like Shirley Temple, ‘Treasurer Gabrielle Brennan was unavailable for comment. It should be an interesting week in parliament. Back to you, Peter.'

‘I wish that Oscar guy would wear a tie—he's the only political journalist in the country who never bothers,' said Daphne.

I, too, was staring at his open-necked shirt. ‘In Oscar's case,' I murmured, ‘I'm not sure many other women would agree with you.'

‘He's fucked.' Debs muted the television.

‘Who?' asked Daphne.

‘The Prime Minister?' I asked.

‘Yeah,' said Debs, ‘not a good look to go on a fun run when your backbench is plotting against you.'

Daphne carried a platter of roast chicken to the table.

‘Masters' analogy was clever,' I said.

‘You're going to be great at this.' My aunt patted my shoulder.

You're in way over me
, said my head.

‘It's just a coffee.' I helped myself to peas.

‘You know,' Daphne said, ‘afterwards you should spend the night at my place in the city. It'll give you a chance to look around—unless you'd prefer to come back here with Debs.'

I contemplated her offer. Having admired the work of a few Australian designers online, a quick shop wasn't out of the question. Mmm, Bettina Liano, Kirrily Johnston, Akira, Scanlan & Theodore, Fleur Wood…

‘Actually, I'd love to spend some time in Melbourne.'

And sleep on a bed
.

While Daphne watched
Australian Idol
, Debs and I did the washing up. ‘Do either of you have a belt I could borrow for tomorrow?' I handed her a soapy dinner plate. ‘I'll lend you a belt if you don't make a big deal out of me spending time with the pups,' she said under her breath.

‘You mean doting?'

‘Whatever you want to call it,' she said. ‘I don't want Daph thinking I want to keep those little critters, because I don't. They're nice 'n' all, but we can't have four dogs running around here.'

‘Deal. I promise not to tell Daphne that you're a hopeless puppy-doter.'

‘You're dangerously close to missing out on my cream, waist-cinching Stella McCartney.'

Dishes done, I packed an overnight bag. For some reason when we packed Fran and I had images of sandy beaches, the outback and quaint towns. Anyone looking at my suitcase would be forgiven for concluding I had picked from the washing lines of Miss Universe and the cast of
Australia
. For tomorrow, I settled for a watermelon shift dress with capped sleeves, the Mius and the Stella belt.

I switched off the living-room lights and lay down on the couch. On the back of a boarding pass, I wrote:

1. Set alarm for seven o'clock

2. Get up; have breakfast

3. Wash hair and shave legs

4. Pack toiletries

5. Call Fran

6. Buy newspapers

7. Find out meaning of ‘to do a doorstop'.

Yarrawhatla?

I was in the public gallery in what looked like the House of Commons with Daphne and Debs. On one side sat British members of parliament. On the other, a raft of rowdy Australians. Dame Edna Everage was Thatcheresque in a skirt suit; Rolf Harris wore a wig and robes; Kylie Minogue sat in the prime minister's seat and chatted with fellow frontbencher Dannii.

Max Masters stood. ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker. I invite members of the gallery to do The Doorstop.' The lights dimmed and a disco ball lowered from the ceiling. The members stood back and hung their heads.

Then two huge trap doors opened, sinking both front-benches and the table between them. In their place, a giant, wedge-shaped wooden doorstop slowly emerged. Covered in rich green leather, its highest point reached the balcony of the public gallery and its lowest stopped just short of the Speaker's chair.

The galleries cheered. ‘Order, order,' said the jowly Speaker, before breaking into song. ‘Keep on, do The Doorstop,' he grooved, ‘don't stop 'til you get enough.' The MPs joined a conga line, led by Alf Stewart. Back in the public gallery, two Qantas flight attendants in roller-skates stood on either side of The Doorstop. Rolling in time with the music, they pointed towards it with spirit fingers.