by Jessica Rudd
‘Saturday. Will that be all, ma’am?’
‘Actually, Michelle, I was wondering whether you could tell me which hotel I’m in.’
‘The InterContinental, ma’am.’
There was no way to ask the next question without sounding stoned. ‘And which InterContinental is that?’
‘Collins Street, ma’am—there’s only one InterContinental in Melbourne.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Very kind of you.’
If nothing else, our encounter might have given Michelle something to talk about with her graveyard-shift colleagues. ‘You’ll never believe this,’ she would say to the porter. ‘Some hussy on the fifth floor has no idea where she is, let alone whose bed she’s in.’
Go back to sleep, Ruby, said my head.
‘I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I’m wide awake now.’
Well, do some exercise or something. Don’t just lie there. Your body and I are fed up with these sleepless nights, so you may as well do something productive with them.
‘Sorry,’ I said. Clearly, I was well on my way to Barking.
I opted for a swim. A plain black bra and pants would have to suffice. I threw the fluffy white robe over the top of my makeshift ensemble, grabbed a towel and headed for the fitness centre.
It was quiet. The plopping sound my feet made as they entered the water ricocheted off the walls. I went in up to my torso. The temperature change triggered an outbreak of goose pimples. With one deep breath, I immersed myself.
Underwater, the blue lights turned my skin the colour of powdery snow. My hair pulsed out in front of me like a blonde jellyfish and tiny baubles of air escaped my lips, shattering when they hit the surface.
I came up for air, heard the filter whirr and plunged back under, soaking up the silence. My head had stopped hectoring me; my body was grateful for the stretch. The peace was intoxicating. Not because I was distressed, but because I knew no one could hear me, I opened my mouth to scream. The sound was muted; bubbles scurried.
When we were kids, during long summer holidays in Bellagio, Fran and I held underwater screaming competitions. We would pretend we were mermaids jostling for the position of Mer Queen, which was usually determined by the loudest scream or highest number of consecutive underwater somersaults. As there were but two contestants for Mer Queen, both of whom were the competition’s only adjudicators, they were summers fraught with fights. We would jet up and down the pool for hours until our hair turned green and our eyes pink from the chlorine.
After about an hour of mermaid jetting, I was ready for a shower. I towelled off, re-robed and headed for the lift. It reached me with a ping and opened to reveal a sleepy Oscar Franklin. He was deliciously rumpled, with messy hair, faded shorts and a moth-eaten T-shirt. Gone was his usual pristine TV state; this was far sexier. His face was still creased from the bedsheets.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to normalise near-nudity with small talk. ‘Why are you up so early?’ I tightened the belt around my robe.
‘I could ask the same of you.’ He stopped the lift doors from closing with an outstretched arm, the kind of limb I thought belonged only to plastic action-hero figurines.
‘I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to go for a swim.’
He scanned my face. ‘I can see that.’
I dabbed at lingering water droplets with the collar of my robe. ‘Well, I’d better go.’ My heart beat a little faster for seeing him, but it was easy enough to tell myself that it was nothing more than swim-related breathlessness.
‘Why? What’s there to do at 4 a.m.?’
‘You’re a political journalist. You should know the day starts in half an hour.’
‘I was going to hit the gym,’ he said, swinging his iPhone headphones around his finger, ‘but if breakfast with you was on the table, I’d ditch the treadmill in a heartbeat.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to get showered and read the papers.’ I stepped into the lift. He didn’t leave it.
‘See you, Roo,’ he said after a moment. ‘Let’s grab a drink sometime.’
The airconditioning was freezing on my wet skin.
‘That would be nice,’ I said, fumbling with the key card. My eyes wouldn’t stop looking at his until the doors closed between us.
Descending, I exhaled in a bid to regain control of my erratic heart beat. I examined myself for stray bra straps in the mirrored walls of the lift.
Ruby, pooh-poohed my head, he’s a journalist.
‘I know,’ I whispered.
After a hot shower, I decided that today was the day to break out the little black dress. I’d heard from Di that Saturday night was drinks night, and I wanted to be a little bit gorgeous for it. I dressed, repacked my bag just in case I had to leave again, then went to the temporary office, where Archie was leafing through the fat weekend papers over tea and toast.
‘Morning, Roo.’
‘Morning, Archie. Need a hand?’
He frisbeed a copy of the Saturday Herald. ‘Go for your life.’
A campaign diary piece from Gary Spinnaker on the front page read like a time-lapse video of my week. ‘Spinnaker says we won the week.’
Archie nodded, brushing crumbs from his jeans.
I read aloud. ‘Masters gets kudos for transforming the rude shock of this early election into a golden opportunity. In contrast, our new Prime Minister started her week as patriot and strategist but ended it rather on the nose.’
‘We’re copping it on other fronts, though,’ said Archie. ‘The Weekender has homed in on the preselection situation— there’s a feature on the quality of candidates—and in Adelaide, they’ve cottoned on to the billboard situation. On the bright side, yet another member of Brennan’s Bruterati has come out to play today.’ He gleefully handed me a copy of the Queenslander.
A leaked voicemail message from a disgruntled backbencher had made its way into the inbox of a senior journalist. The transcript was delectably detailed.
Mate, it’s Gabby. Listen, we can’t do this without you and, as I said, you’ll be rewarded for your support. I need to be able to count on you [inaudible] the transition as smooth as possible if we’re going to do this at all. Give me a call when you’ve decided.
‘That’s just careless,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well, today’s mould can be tomorrow’s blue cheese in this game.’
The LOO burst into the room dressed in a grotesque pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, followed closely by Di and Luke. ‘Okay, girls and boys,’ Max said, ‘where are we?’
‘Melbourne,’ I said, thinking he might have felt as bamboozled as I had at 3 a.m.
He laughed.
Luke, who was wearing a tie that resembled spaghetti bolognaise, gave a more businesslike answer. ‘We might have won Week One, but there’s a dangerous perception out there that we’re a shoe-in because Brennan’s honeymoon was over before it began. We have thirteen seats to win in twenty-seven days, and that’s if we hold on to the ones we’ve got.’
‘Way to poop the party, Luke,’ joked Max.
‘The fact is,’ Luke continued, ‘they haven’t even begun to probe our policies because they’ve been so distracted by our opponents. The Sunday papers are working on something for tomorrow. I got a call this morning to ask if I would be around early this afternoon if they needed comment. I reckon it’s going to be the preselection angle.’
‘Me too,’ said Di. ‘I got wind of it last night on the plane—one of the guys knew off the top of his head how many outstanding preselection battles there were. We’ve only got three days before the nominations close.’
‘But they’re not winnable seats,’ said Archie. ‘They’re all safe government seats.’
Max dropped the spoon in his cereal bowl with a clunk and stared at Archie. ‘There’s no such thing as an unwinnable seat, mate. We need to be running great local candidates in every seat. It’s our fucking duty. People need choice.’
‘I was just saying—’
Max cut h
im off. It was the first time I’d seen him angry. ‘You were just saying that some seats aren’t worth fighting for. Let me tell you something: every seat matters to me. Luke’s right. The party’s inability to organise itself reflects poorly on us, and there’s no way we’re going to take any of this week’s coverage for granted. Understood?’
‘Sure,’ said Archie, ‘I didn’t mean to—’ Max shook his head dismissively and resumed eating his cereal. ‘When’s this ad shoot?’
‘We leave in ten minutes,’ said Luke. ‘Milly has all your gear—she’ll meet us there. You can change when we get to the studio.’
‘Roo,’ said Max, ‘can I see you for a minute?’
Now what have you done?
I gulped. ‘Sure.’ Had I overstepped the line with Shelly? Had he seen me in the lift with Oscar? Shit, shit, shit.
‘Mate,’ he said quietly.
I leaned in.
‘Would you mind getting me some shaving cream?’
Relief. ‘Any particular brand?’
‘Well,’ he said, his voice even quieter, ‘I don’t mind that stuff you gave me.’
‘The avocado one?’
‘Shhh. Yes. I’ve run out.’
‘I’ll find out if they sell it in Australia and get back to you.’
‘Good job, Roo.’
Di was packing her briefcase. ‘What was that about?’
‘Top secret,’ I said, and wrote ‘avocado’ into my scrappy-looking To Do list.
We made our way out to the waiting cars. It was a baking day in Melbourne. My shoes felt like hot water bottles as we stepped onto the steaming bitumen.
Suddenly, a man emerged from the bushes, yelling ‘Max!’ The LOO, on his mobile, turned around just in time to be snapped. He smiled tensely to mask his surprise and got into the car, the smile plastered on his face.
Di was red with anger. ‘I scanned the exits earlier for snappers and there was no one here—not even the cops saw him. Stealthy bugger.’ One of her phones beeped. It was the LOO from the car in front.
The cops said he’s tailing us. Very A-list. Imagine his disappointment when he realises I’m not George Clooney—just a politician in his tracky dacks! MM
The photographer was on a motorbike behind us. Di asked our driver to stop. ‘I’m going to find out what he wants. You keep going. Find a way for us to lose him.’
On my BlackBerry, I found a number for the staff member at the scene. Her name was Millicent.
‘It’s Ruby Stanhope calling. I’m in the car with Di behind the LOO en route to the shoot.’
‘Hello there, how far away are you?’ asked a posh voice as Di leaped out of the car and accosted the biked crusader.
‘Listen, Milly, we’re being followed by a snapper on a bike. He’s already got a shot of Max in sweat pants and he wants more.’
‘That’s awful, darling—not the ghastly grey ones with the yellow speed stripes?’
‘The very same.’
‘Quelle catastrophe!’
‘Which is precisely why I called. Is there any way we can get him in underground somewhere?’
‘There’s a basement car park around the side of the building. I’ll be waiting there to open the garage door.’ I could hear the clip-clop of high heels on concrete.
The photographer came zooming around the corner in time to see us disappear into the basement. An effervescent woman with raspberry-red fingernails cantered along behind the car in a pair of the tallest possible studded Jimmy Choos. I recognised them instantly from various online shopping sessions.
Max and Luke tumbled out of the other car.
‘Do we know who that was?’ asked Luke.
‘Di’s trying to find out.’ I averted my gaze from the perfect Jimmy’s as they caught up with us.
Millicent doubled over to catch her breath. ‘Hold this.’ She thrust the most delicious-smelling Balenciaga tote into my hands so that she could yank up her jeans. ‘I’m Milly, by the way.’
‘Roo,’ I said, breathing in its leathery goodness, ‘but you mightn’t get this back.’
‘Millicent the Magnificent,’ bellowed the LOO, his voice echoing around the car park.
‘Maximilian.’ She kissed him on either cheek. ‘You told me you donated that heinous ensemble to charity—not that there’s anything remotely charitable about grey marle.’
‘I did,’ he said, pulling at the drawstrings of his elastic waistband. ‘These are new.’
‘Remind me to talk to you about appropriate workout gear.’ She linked arms with him and led him to the studio. ‘Today we’re shooting two thirty-second ads and something longer for YouTube. I have three outfits for you. Let’s get you into make-up.’
We entered a brightly lit, white-walled studio where about forty people were waiting for us, all in spray-on skinny jeans, canvas sneakers and Buddy Holly glasses. In the centre of the room was a contemporary desk beside an Australian flag and an array of personal items from Max’s Melbourne office.
A stumpy man in a black cowboy hat strode towards Max in the make-up chair.
‘That’s Marc Tully,’ whispered Milly in my ear. ‘He runs the ad agency.’
‘Max,’ swooned the Napoleonic ad man, his ample belly spilling out over strangulating acid-wash jeans, ‘glad you could make it.’
‘G’day, Tully,’ said Max. ‘How long’s this going to take?’
‘Shouldn’t be longer than three hours.’ He handed Max a script and tapped his foot.
‘I’m going to need a biro,’ said Max, flipping through the script. I grabbed one from my Toolkit.
‘Luckily for you and me, I picked up this month’s Vogue this morning,’ said Milly. ‘It looks like we’re going to be here all day.’
No self-respecting clotheshorse could support her habits on a staffer’s salary. ‘So, Milly, what’s your role on the campaign?’
‘I’m an advisor.’
‘What kind?’
‘General,’ she said cryptically, pulling a pile of glossy magazines from her bag.
‘Are you with the LOO’s office?’
‘No.’
‘The party?’
‘No.’
‘How many questions do I have left?’
She shut her magazine and looked me dead in the eye. ‘I’m Max’s sister.’
Google before you speak, Ruby. Balls. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘I’m a fashion-buyer but in my spare time I try to rescue my kid brother from stylicide.’
‘So you do this on a voluntary basis?’
‘Precisely. It’s more selfish than it sounds—in my line of work, I can’t have him swanning around looking like a dag.’
‘What’s a dag?’
She pointed at Luke, his spilt-spaghetti tie glistening beneath the studio lights.
‘Do you choose Max’s ties?’
She nodded.
‘He’s lucky to have you. Maybe you could consider giving Luke a bit of pro bono guidance.’
Di charged into the room, returned from the stalker confrontation. ‘I’m fucking irate,’ she yelled. ‘Where’s Luke?’
I pointed to a coffee machine in the corner where he was expertly frothing milk in the middle of an animated phone call. Di approached him and whispered something in his ear. I saw him turn pale.
‘We need a minute with Max,’ Luke said to the make-up artist, who was grooming Max’s eyebrows with a toothbrush.
‘Almost finished,’ she said perkily, oblivious to the mounting tension.
‘A minute,’ Luke repeated, but she ignored the cue.
I stepped in. ‘Amanda, isn’t it?’
‘Armada,’ she corrected. ‘Like the Spanish one.’
Max bit his lip to squash amusement.
‘What a lovely name.’ I imagined a flotilla of her clones making their way across the Pacific Ocean. ‘Armada, before you do anything else, we need your advice on ties.’
‘Of course,’ said A
rmada, liberating Max, who went with Luke and Di into what looked like a storage room. A minute later Max came tearing out, gasping at air. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ he said, scanning the perimeter for a bathroom.
‘Come on, darling,’ said Milly, ‘come with me.’
‘Did he eat the California rolls?’ asked Armada, patting her stomach, ‘cos I’m feeling a bit funky too.’
I found Di prostrate on the floor of the storage room.
‘What on earth is going on?’
‘Remember the story for the Sundays?’
‘Yes…’
She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, letting her forehead rest on the heels of her hands. ‘It’s not about the preselection. It’s far worse. When Max was serving in the Persian Gulf, one of his subordinates assaulted an unarmed civilian. The victim suffered serious head injuries.
‘Max was the officer in charge of reporting the incident and disciplining the perpetrator, but he never did anything about it. The man has given an interview to the Sunday, saying that he can no longer live with himself and feels duty-bound to talk about it. He has post-traumatic stress syndrome. They also have interviews with the family of the victim, who has since died.’
She handed me her BlackBerry. There was an email from a journalist outlining a series of allegations against Max. He had already dubbed the scandal Slaughtergate. We had until 4 p.m. to comment. My palms grew clammy. ‘Cock,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Work through the allegations and develop an exhaustive list of questions that Max might be asked at a press conference. We’re going to prep him in half an hour. We need to deal with this head-on. I’m working up some messaging for him and Luke’s trying to work through the facts with Max.’
‘Does he deny it?’
Di shook her head.
Outside the storage room, Armada sailed towards me. ‘Um, I need to like finish his make-up now.’
Tully joined us, imperiously clapping his hands. ‘So, where’s Max? We’ll do a run-through in five.’
‘Sorry, I don’t think that’s going to happen. You’ll need to talk to Luke.’ I looked around the studio for somewhere to sit and think.
‘Babe,’ Tully said, ‘you’re not suggesting we won’t be filming today, are you? We’ve got a cast of thousands here. Unless we get the three ads in the can by this afternoon we’ll forfeit our prime-time slots.’
