Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  ‘Astrologists in western Queensland tonight confirmed stars are, quote, very shiny,’ he said in his newsreader voice.

  ‘Astronomers,’ I corrected.

  ‘Whatever.’ He kissed my eyelids closed.

  ‘It’s quite an important distinction,’ I said. ‘Astrologists wear purple velvet in the middle of the day and like crystals.’

  ‘Also shiny.’ He kissed my mouth.

  Oscar Franklin is kissing you.

  Well spotted, head.

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You taste like a pirate.’ I pulled away from his delectable lips.

  ‘It’s the rum.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is the rum.’

  We continued.

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘It’s important to point out at this juncture that I haven’t had much experience with pirates, so I’m not really sure how they taste. Probably a bit salty, with a touch of parrot’—he opened his left eye—‘not that I’m a parrot-eater.’

  Now you’re kissing Oscar Franklin. This one’s a bit more intense. I’m no expert, but perhaps it’s best not to talk about parrots and pirates when you’re being kissed.

  Wise counsel, head.

  ‘All right, you two.’ The publican clapped her hands behind us. ‘Pub’s closed. I’m locking up now.’

  Oscar pulled me to my feet and swivelled me towards the publican. ‘Thanks for a splendid evening. This is a lovely pub.’

  She laughed. ‘No worries, love. Hoo roo!’

  ‘I am.’

  Territorial

  Di marched me to the tiny WC on the media plane.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t pash Oscar Franklin,’ she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Pash?’

  ‘Yes, Roo, pash,’ she said, before morphing into a thesaurus. ‘Neck, snog, tongue, suck face, make out with…’

  Admittedly, I was familiar with the verb, but had hoped to buy myself some time to formulate an appropriate response. ‘Firstly, I wasn’t so much a pasher as a co-pashee’—at least for the first one—‘and secondly, definitionally, it wasn’t a pash, just a quick kiss.’

  She smashed her head rhythmically against the wall. ‘At the pub, I take it.’

  ‘Kind of on the pub.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask what that means.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘It’s Clon-fucking-curry, Roo. It’s not every day that famous journalists are in town with former prime ministers. People talk.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just me, the publican and presumably Oscar, unless you spiked his drink. What happened?’

  I told her the story, skipping over some of the detail, like the part where it took us an hour to cross the road from pub to motel or when he said my lips were so red and swollen that I looked like I’d just eaten a Redskin, which he assured me was an Australian delicacy.

  ‘There’s nothing to be concerned about,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s not as if I fancy him.’

  I hurt, throbbed my head, playing a particularly graphic montage of the incident in question. How do you expect me to do my job properly if you poison me with liquor? I could have prevented all of this.

  Di leaned in close. ‘Let me give you a piece of well-trodden advice, Roo: don’t shit where you eat.’ She slid the latch to release the bifurcating door. ‘By the way, you’re in shot but not mentioned on page eleven of the Queenslander and two of the Herald with a little caption: “Advisor Roo Stanhope copes with the heat.” I had to work hard to bury it like that. I know Luke’s already spoken to you about it. Don’t let it happen again.’ With that, she rejoined the cabin.

  I was knackered, brutally hungover and had a To Do list the length of the Trans-Siberian Railway. With the FASTEN SEATBELT sign on for our descent into Darwin, I returned to my seat, which was a safe distance from Oscar’s—we hadn’t yet spoken—pulled a worn scrap of paper from my handbag and tried to prioritise some items.

  1. Confirm visa (LIFE/DEATH URGENT)

  2. Sign contract for negligible remuneration (FINANCIALLY URGENT)

  3. Track down luggage (STYLISTICALLY URGENT)

  4. Track down coffee-stained trousers from hotel laundry in Perth (SEE ABOVE)

  5. Call Fran, Clem, parents, Daphne, Debs, etc. (LONG OVERDUE)

  6. Arrange birthday present for Clem (MUST DO BEFORE MONDAY).

  ‘Balls.’ I saw MONDAY at the top of the day’s media brief. Counting back the hours in my head to allow for the time difference, I discovered a small window of opportunity in which I might save myself from the ferociousness of an almost five-year-old.

  As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, I Googled ‘same day gift delivery London’. Of seventy-two thousand results, including fruit baskets, champagne and edible underwear, I came across Balloons on a Bike, which boasted ‘tasteful balloon bouquets hand-delivered across western London’. I placed an online order for two dozen fuchsia helium balloons (some pearlescent, some with polka dots) and a big silver 5 to be delivered by noon in London. Hurrah.

  Darwin is vastly underrated, I concluded as we made our way on the media bus to the seat of Forster, where we were due to visit a market. Avoiding Oscar’s knowing gaze, I distributed bottles of water and spread the good news that we’d be spending at least a day in the Top End. As we waited for Max and Fred Smythe—the local member—to arrive for a photo opportunity, I lost myself for a moment in the exquisite aromas emanating from each stall. It was as if the myriad of flavours from the tropical East were being pounded by a pestle in a massive mortar: lemongrass, ginger, lime, garlic, chilli, star anise, fish sauce and coconut, fused with the smell of onions caramelising on a barbeque at the nearby burger hut.

  Max pulled up with Shelly and Luke, followed closely by Fred. A relaxed posse formed around them to capture a few shots.

  Luke came over, straightening his solar system tie. I wondered if it glowed in the dark. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  I stared at my shoes and then straight at his chest. ‘Nice tie,’ I fibbed, ‘but potentially risky given Rings of Love.’

  ‘Good point.’ He removed it.

  ‘I need to get back to the hotel,’ said Luke. ‘Think you can manage this photo op?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He didn’t seem angry anymore, which was fortuitous because I couldn’t have coped with that in addition to everything else.

  We made our way through the market, Max and Fred shaking hands and tasting local produce, Shelly complimenting handicrafts.

  Under the cover of my dark glasses, I hadn’t been able to gauge whether Oscar saw the night before as a slip of the tongue, so I was relieved when he approached me with a cup of home-brewed ginger beer. ‘It’s supposed to be excellent for hangovers.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a quick sip and checked my periphery for onlookers.

  ‘I had fun last night, Roo.’ It was barely audible, but resonated.

  ‘I did—’

  Flack the Cop startled me with a tap on my shoulder. ‘A word, Roo?’

  ‘Excuse me, Oscar,’ I said in my most professional voice and followed Flack to a quiet spot behind a Malaysian laksa stall.

  ‘Territory Police have informed us there’s a small group of protesters approaching the market.’ He removed his curly earpiece. ‘They’re demanding to speak with Max.’

  ‘What are they protesting?’

  ‘Apparently they’re unhappy with the Opposition’s immigration policy. We think they’re possibly dangerous— they’re linked to a white supremacist group and have a history of violence. We’re getting Max and Shelly out of here in two minutes.’

  ‘Maybe he should confront them,’ I suggested. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t do us any harm to be tough on these arseholes.’

  ‘With respect, I’m not asking your opinion, Roo.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads up,’ I said. ‘Let’s keep this low key—let me tell Max and Shelly what we’re doing.’
He nodded.

  I pushed through the friendly crowd. Max was sampling chicken satay when I reached him. ‘We’ve got to head to the cars now,’ I said calmly, smiling. ‘Violent white supremacists are on their way. We need to get out of here for everyone’s safety. Follow Flack the Cop.’

  As he posed for a camera phone with a local supporter, I could see the curiosity in Max’s eyes as he weighed risk against political opportunity, then Shelly gave him the sort of look that only a spouse is entitled to give, a look he reluctantly obeyed.

  ‘Thanks for showing me around, Fred.’ Max shook his hand.

  ‘There’s plenty more to see,’ said Fred, confused.

  But Max had already veered off the agreed course and was making his way, smiling and waving, surrounded by cops, towards the cars. They sped off into the sunset as soon as he and Shelly were safely inside.

  It was obvious to the media contingent that something was up.

  ‘What’s going on, gorgeous?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Do you mind holding this for me?’ I handed him my ginger beer. ‘Duty calls.’

  I found Fred and whispered in his ear. ‘I’m Ruby Stanhope from Max’s office. On advice from the police, I need you to head back to your office.’

  ‘These are my constituents, mate,’ he declared, raising his voice a little. ‘They’re expecting me to walk the length of this market, so that’s what I’m going to do—with or without Max and his missus.’

  We were surrounded by cameramen and hungry boom mikes. Oscar moved closer, his eyes pleading for an explanation. I was stuck. I couldn’t tell the world the LOO skedaddled because we got a tip-off that a squadron of skinheads was on its way. I couldn’t try to get the media back onto the bus because it would look like a cover-up. It was a case of waiting for the inevitable.

  We didn’t have to wait for long. Minutes later, a seething mob of crazies marched towards us, surrounded by uniformed police. Carrying vile banners, the protesters chanted maniacally. Cameras lapped up the commotion while journalists emptied their pockets in search of pens and dictaphones.

  Too short to see past the onlookers, I watched a sequence of stills on the digital display of a Herald photographer’s camera in front of me. One man’s back was tattooed blue with a white cross in the centre. A middle-aged woman’s face was painted with the Australian flag, but the blue and red had combined in the tropical humidity, turning her an unpleasant shade of violet. I’d seen these sorts of demonstrations back home. Seething haters are the same the world over: ugly. The laksa lady pulled down a roller door to shut up shop, and Fred the MP stood paralysed at the sidelines for a moment before fleeing to his car.

  Oscar’s satellite truck pulled up on the footpath. With the protest as his backdrop, he used the camera to pick his teeth and readied himself for a live cross.

  ‘Thanks, Peter, I’m reporting live from a Darwin street market in the seat of Forster, where anti-immigration activists are protesting the Opposition’s new immigration policy, announced yesterday.’ He had to yell above the din. ‘The policy would see an increase in skilled migration as a means of boosting economic activity if the Opposition was indeed to win…’

  The aubergine extremist bounded into shot. ‘Masters wants to let ’em take our jobs,’ she howled, ‘so we’ll make sure he won’t get the job he wants.’

  ‘I guess that says it all,’ said Oscar, who was very pleased with himself for being in the right place at the wrong time. ‘Back to you, Peter.’

  My BlackBerry buzzed in my bag.

  ‘Hello?’ I shouted.

  ‘I just saw your lover boy and his purple friend on telly,’ said Di, ‘and now my phone’s going ballistic.’

  I let the lover boy remark slide. ‘I know. It’s frantic here. Fred fled. What should I do? I can’t very well bundle everyone back onto the bus—they’re all trying to get as much of this story as possible.’

  ‘Tell them the bus is leaving in five minutes and if they’re not on it they’ll need to find their own way back to the hotel. And don’t answer any questions—not even from your boyfriend. After Dark wants an interview with Max.’

  I bit my tongue and did as I was told.

  My relentless phone rang.

  ‘Wooby Stanhope?’ said a little voice.

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘Yes, this is Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope calling.’

  ‘Happy birthday to you,’ I sang, ‘happy birthday to you, happy birthday—’

  ‘Please stop singing, Wooby.’

  ‘So now that you’re five you don’t need to call me Aunty anymore?’ I felt the beginnings of a sore throat.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not talking to you, but Mummy made me call you to say thank you for the balloons.’

  ‘Why are you cross? Didn’t you like them?’

  ‘No, I did not like the balloons you sent me.’ A foot stomped. ‘I did not like them one little bit.’

  I could hear Fran in the background urging her to show some manners.

  ‘Thank you, Wooby. There, Mummy, I’ve said it, now can I hang up?’

  Fran seized the phone. ‘Hello, Ruby,’ she said, to the sound of a slamming door.

  ‘Isn’t it a little early for adolescence?’

  ‘The delivery company came this morning, Ruby. When a five-year-old girl receives a floating mass of inflated buggies, storks and rattles in an array of blues led by a giant helium baby proclaiming IT’S A BOY ! this is the kind of reaction you can expect.’

  ‘Bloody Balloons on a Bike. They must have confused the order or something. Somewhere in western London, proud new parents are welcoming their son to the world with a bunch of pink balloons and a helium number 5. It cost me a small fortune.’

  ‘She’s inconsolable, Ruby.’

  ‘Put Clem back on for me,’ I pleaded. ‘I can explain it to her.’

  ‘I can’t; she’s refusing to speak with you—she now refers to you as “Mummy’s sister”.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said, ‘I don’t have time to fix this now—I’m trying to round up the nation’s media to distract them from a group of white supremacists.’

  ‘Well, we all have our priorities, don’t we, Ruby? I have to go. I have eighty cupcakes to ice, twenty-seven allergy-safe party bags to fill and a piñata to papier-mâché.’

  She hung up on me.

  It hadn’t been the best twenty-four hours, what with the Luke reprimand, uncouth canoodling, lingering hangover, pirate breath, warning from Di, white supremacists, Clem cluster-fuck and the beginnings of man flu. Now, for the finale, Max was about to be interviewed on After Dark about the immigration backlash. And it was only Day Eight.

  As the bus pulled into the hotel car park, there was a new text on my BlackBerry. Oscar.

  Dramatic afternoon. Can’t imagine what this means for your Immi policy? Sorry if the ginger beer was too public. Had fun last night. We must do it again…

  But not the worst twenty-four hours either.

  Stuffed up

  ‘Rhinosinusitis,’ said the doctor, disposing of the foul-tasting ice lolly stick she’d just shoved down my throat.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I sprayed.

  ‘You have an acute case of bacterial rhinosinusitis.’

  Bloody Oscar. My head was quick to blame.

  ‘You know, there are nicer ways of telling your patients they’re be-horned and beastly.’ I mopped up the slurry of liquids streaming from my nose. I was proud of my little joke, given my condition, but the doctor seemed unamused.

  She passed me another tissue with her left hand while writing a script with her right. ‘It just means your sinuses are stuffed.’ She ripped a piece of paper from her pad. ‘Here, take these three times a day with food—that ought to clear it—and keep taking paracetamol to keep your temperature down.’

  Having tested its limits, I jettisoned my newest tissue, thanked the doctor for her humourless diagnosis and stepped out into the fresh Canberra air.

  Yes, Canberra. Two nights earlier
in balmy Darwin, Luke had pulled me aside when the LOO finished his gruelling After Dark interview, which had focused almost entirely on immigration, a topic now dominating the headlines. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Sure.’ What I really wanted was to make a run for it, mortified at the thought that Di had broadcast my lip-locking adventures in Cloncurry—soiling my dinner plate, or however she tactfully put it.

  Why should you care? asked my head. It’s not as if it’s any more unprofessional than, say, interrupting a press conference with a ‘ta da’ or sending a recording device to its watery grave or allowing a harmless photo opportunity to morph into a race riot.

  ‘I need you in Canberra, mate,’ said Luke.

  Relief rushed through my arteries. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘One, you look like death and I don’t want any of the travelling party catching whatever that is. Rest tomorrow.’

  It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but understandable given that Maddy had asked me earlier in the evening if I’d mistakenly used a coral lip pencil in place of my usual charcoal eyeliner.

  ‘Two, the debate’s on Sunday night and I’d like you to join the prep team.’

  Now, that was a compliment. I might not have been in the game for long, but I knew that The Debate was a campaign event trumped only by The Launch and Polling Day itself.

  As Luke explained, the politics leading up to it are like those surrounding a mediaeval duel. As soon as there’s a whiff of an election date, each candidate races to become the challenger. Once challenged, the opponent must either accept or have very good reason to decline. The debate then becomes focused on timing, venue, format and the like. ‘My opponent has expressed a preference for a single moderator—I would prefer a panel of three journalists from the press gallery,’ one candidate might say. ‘Three journalists?’ the other would reply. ‘I thought we should invite the audience to adjudicate—they are, after all, the ultimate adjudicators.’ And so, the one-upmanship would continue until the minutiae were sorted and the parameters set.