Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  ‘Ruby?’ said Luke, rescuing me from an imminent bout of narcolepsy.

  I smiled, trying to wake myself up.

  ‘What brings you here?’ He loosened his tie, which reminded me of a banana tree on account of its yellow, brown and green stripes. It was a poor match for his illfitting, three-button charcoal suit. Come to think of it, banana trees make a poor match for most things. I wanted to flip it over and note down the maker. Nut-brown socks didn’t inspire hope, especially when tucked into scuffed black shoes with plastic-tipped nylon laces: the kind I’d worn at school. Aside from that, he was pleasant to look at. Kind green eyes, a square jaw, albeit in need of a razor, like his overgrown buzz cut.

  ‘My aunt’s dog went into labour this afternoon just as I arrived. She and her partner were down to go to this function, so they asked me to go on their behalf.’

  ‘I meant, what are you doing in Australia?’

  ‘Oh, I’m pinot-hunting through the Yarra Valley.’ It sounded so much better than the long version.

  ‘So you’re in the wine business as well as an investment banker?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘three days ago I was an investment banker— in emerging markets, actually—and I was made redundant. Economically speaking, things are a bit grim. I got riotously drunk on an incredible Toolangi pinot noir—’

  ‘Good choice,’ he interrupted.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘and, in the midst of my inebriation, booked myself a ticket to Melbourne. My aunt and her partner have a place in Warburton. So here I am.’

  ‘So all in all, a sizable couple of days.’ Luke sipped his wine, then gestured towards a man in the corner. ‘That’s my guy.’

  Luke hadn’t exactly struck me as gay, what with the banana tree. I took a closer look at his partner. He occupied visual space as if he was spotlit. It wasn’t that he was attractive: average height, thin grey hair, an ecru complexion. He wouldn’t have looked out of place at an auditors’ convention, and yet there was something magnetic about him. He was the guy you listened to at a dinner party or who caught your eye at a gallery.

  Benedict Jones took to a stage made of upturned wine crates and tapped his glass with the end of a fork. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘we’re here tonight to show our support for Max Masters.’

  People clapped politely.

  ‘Max is a great friend of ours. A proud Melbournian. Max has been engaged in this community and others all over Australia for most of his working life. He has been a military man, a small-business owner and a mayor, and now he’s in Canberra working in some building with a flag on top.’ People laughed.

  ‘What many of you probably don’t know is that he was once a grape-picker, but in the Barossa, which is probably where he went wrong.

  ‘Unlike most pickers, Max isn’t just here for the harvest; he’s here when it’s tough too. After the bushfire season when we lost some of our vines, Max was the guy who’d call every week to offer his help. Come to think of it, he’s not just a friend of the wine industry; he’s a friend of all Australian businesses. He understands us. He understands that some times are great and others are a real struggle. But he’s there with us, all the time, to help make it better.

  ‘So, it’s my privilege tonight to host this function for the man I hope will add another line to his CV at the election next year. Give it up for Max Masters, Leader of the Opposition and next prime minister of Australia.’

  Profuse clapping filled the open space and Luke’s guy took to the stage.

  ‘Thank you all for coming, not that many of us needed encouragement when we heard our wonderful host would be putting on a dinner with matched wines from all around this beautiful valley.’

  Benedict Jones nodded appreciatively to more applause. Max continued: ‘But this valley, which is full of great Australian businesses, has had its fair share of turmoil. When bushfires swept across it, we all wanted to do something to help. And we did. Many of you here—in fact, probably all of you and the businesses you represent—have made some contribution to help this community pick itself up and dust off the ashes.

  ‘I’m proud to see how far the Yarra Valley has come. I am proud to see businesses, homes and lives rebuilt. Because we did this. All of us.’

  Approving nods moved like a Mexican wave across the room.

  ‘That’s a nation I want to lead. That’s an energy I want to harness. That’s a community I want to serve.

  ‘Now, as I walk around this room tonight, I look forward to hearing from you about how we can make this nation even better. That’s enough from me; enjoy the wine—in moderation, of course!’

  More applause fizzled, replaced by loud, individual conversations as Max worked the room, followed closely by Luke.

  No one will notice if you leave now, said my head. Edging closer to the loos, I looked to see if there was a side door somewhere.

  ‘Trying to escape?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Yes, but it’s difficult when you’re dressed as a Smurf.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘Look, I’d be a little offended if you left now. I’ve rearranged things so we can sit together. I’ve had a gutful of fundraisers—one every night this week—so it’ll be fun not to talk shop.’ He paused. ‘If you’re willing to stay, of course.’

  ‘Why not? All that waits for me at home is a couch and a pair of lesbians.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same for my hotel room,’ he laughed.

  ‘So you’re, as it were, ambidextrous?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s quite unusual to meet a gay man with a penchant for girl-on-girl action,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Didn’t you say the Opposition Leader is “your guy”?’

  ‘He’s my boss,’ he said, losing colour.

  ‘An office romance?’

  ‘Good grief.’ He was mortified. ‘I’m straight as a rod. Not that kind of rod.’ His colour returned and darkened. ‘Straight as a cricket bat, a really manly cricket bat. It’s the suit, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, the suit has the opposite effect.’

  ‘Thank Christ—this is my only clean one,’ he said, mistaking my insult for a compliment. ‘I’m going to need another glass of wine.’

  We moved to a table writhing with property developers, each of them rocking back on their chair to get closer to Max. This left Luke and me to chat about the Australian wine industry over dinner. He talked me through the various challenges it faced, courtesy of both the wildfires and the global financial crisis, for which he blamed ‘my people’. When a pair of leggy lobbyists strutted towards him, Luke had me call his mobile just in time to excuse himself from an odious entree of name-dropping.

  As I cracked the surface of my crème brûlée, I gave him my precis of what was happening to the economy back home. Then we discussed everything from the timing of the Australian federal election, due the following year, to our host’s wine selection; our brutal tasting notes included ‘chewy’ and ‘hints of wet dog’.

  A few raffle draws later, Luke stopped mid-sentence and stood up. ‘I just got the nod—he’s ready to go.’

  ‘The nod?’

  ‘When he’s ready to go, Max gives me a sign so that I can pave a smooth exit. Otherwise, he’d never leave these gigs—everyone wants a piece of him.’

  ‘So you’re going too?’ His departure would take the fun out of fundraiser.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, ‘we’ve got an interview first thing in the morning, so I’ll be up at sparrow’s fart to read the papers.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you.’

  ‘You too, Ruby.’ He reached into his pocket for a card. ‘If you’ve got time to come up to Melbourne next week, I’d like to have a chat with you about working as a financial policy advisor on our team.’

  I choked on a sip of sickly sticky. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Here’s my card,’ said Luke. ‘Come to Melbourne for a coffee.’

  I smiled awkwardly, partly because I didn’t know wh
at to say and partly because a globule of dessert wine was tickling my trachea. Tears welled in my eyes as I tried not to cough.

  Luke stared. ‘You’re choking, aren’t you?’

  I nodded. Max joined us.

  Excellent, my head enthused.

  ‘Max Masters.’ He shook my hand.

  ‘Ru…’ My lungs failed. I reddened like a chameleon at La Tomatina.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Roo,’ he said, moving towards the door.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Luke, torn between his boss and me.

  I nodded.

  ‘Awkward,’ Luke observed, then he winked. ‘See you later.’

  I tried to wink back, but it felt more like a glistening, one-eyed squint, followed by a loud bark and pig-like snort. Thankfully, Luke and Max were disappearing into the back seat of a white saloon.

  On the driveway as I waited for a lift, in a jet-lagged haze at the end of my first day in Australia, I stood beneath the vivid night sky and tilted Luke’s card towards me. The moonlight hit each embossed letter. Luke Harley. Chief of Staff. Office of the Leader of the Opposition. My head caught me considering his offer. What are you doing, Ruby? it asked. I couldn’t answer.

  The morning after

  Feeling seedy thanks to the putrid blend of day-old jet lag and matching wines, I awoke the next morning to the sound of oven trays clashing. I peeled myself off the hot couch.

  ‘Hope I didn’t wake you, darling,’ said Daphne, tying a white apron over her lilac nightgown.

  ‘Not at all.’

  Debs was on the deck reading the papers. I wandered out to join her in my pyjamas and sunglasses. She folded the corner of the Herald and craned her long neck to greet me. ‘Morning, kiddo.’

  ‘Thought we might have a little Turkish bread for breakfast,’ said Daphne, bringing a steaming rustic loaf to the table. ‘Go and grab the poached apricots and ricotta from the fridge, darling.’

  ‘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 submerged. 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: Luke.Harley@aph.gov.au

  From: Ruby.Stanhope@gmail.com

  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: Ruby.Stanhope@gmail.com

  From: Luke.Harley@aph.gov.au

  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.’