Campaign Ruby (11 page)

He pulled a dictaphone from a crusty old Law Institute of Victoria knapsack and handed it to me. ‘L-O-O. Leader of the Opposition.'

The mother of all To Do lists

Over a glass of merlot on the way to Sydney, I reflected on the day. Nothing that had happened resembled, even remotely, the life I'd planned.

I recalled tete-a-tetes with my foppish Oxford ex. Smitten with each other and the life we would share, post-coital future-planning had been almost as electric as the act itself. Propped up on pillows in bed, sharing tea from a thermos, we would fantasise.

‘There should be at least two children by the time I'm thirty and you're twenty-seven,' he'd say, ‘which will give
me
time to make partner at Preston & Fiddle and
you
a chance to establish yourself at the bank before you take a few years off with our first child until he goes to school.'

Thanks to his presumptuousness, these conversations would escalate into full-blown arguments climaxing in pre-emptive custody negotiations. Make-up sex ensued and so the dysfunctional cycle continued until my final year, when he fell head over heels for his father's secretary, married her and moved to Lexington, Kentucky.

Naivety aside, I had always thought my life would meet basic deadlines as set out in the mother of all To Do lists:

To date, the only items I could tick off the list were job-related—that part was relatively on track until last Wednesday, when I was made redundant, got trollied on a tremendous bottle or three of red, booked a ticket abroad and took an unexpected career detour via an Australian federal election campaign.

The cabin was now full of fellow campaigners, all bewildered by the day's events. Di, who sat beside me, dwarfed by oversized noise-cancelling headphones, unfurled fish and chip paper on the coffee table and drew six columns with a red marker. Luke and Max were holding a strategy meeting in the office with the party director, Mirabelle Halifax—a voluptuous lady with a thick mane of purplish hair fastened high with nothing but a gravity-defying pencil.

Di removed her headphones. ‘Did that cow on
Sunset
really ask him whether the term “bull” was appropriate?'

I nodded.

I'd never realised what a satellite interview is like. It takes skill to stare down the barrel of a camera with the voice of your interviewer echoing through a flesh-coloured earpiece, knowing that people eating their dinner around the country are watching your every move.

Di had briefed Max while doing his make-up. They ran through a couple of lines before the cameraman counted Max in with his fingers. I recorded the interview from a makeshift green room in the terminal. Nothing of note happened until Max was asked ‘Mr Masters, do you really think it's appropriate for the alternative prime minister of this country to be using expressions like “load of bull” in a press conference?'

Max hadn't flinched. ‘Sure, Stacey—this is Australia. I think most people would be pretty comfortable with that sort of language.'

‘Actually, Mr Masters,' said Stacey, ‘a Sydney radio program did a quick poll this afternoon and sixty-seven per cent of listeners thought it was inappropriate. Are you suggesting these people are
un
Australian?'

‘Absolutely not. Stacey, I haven't seen the poll you're referring to, but if I've offended anyone I apologise—I guess it's just my navy background coming out.'

When the interview ended, Max had muttered crossly to Di about having been blindsided. She now scrawled ‘bull' in the first column, along with the words ‘team', ‘national service' and ‘SMEs'.

Then, a frazzled fat man with a pile of papers distributed a stapled booklet to everyone on the plane.

‘What's this?' I asked Di.

‘Today's coverage and tomorrow's schedule, which is likely to change a trillion times.'

The schedule read like an extreme Choose Your Own Adventure. Unless I was mistaken, we would be doing a media round-up at 4 a.m., three radio and two TV interviews before 7 a.m., a breakfast team-meeting at party HQ before 8 a.m., a school visit in the western suburbs at 9 a.m., and a travelling media briefing at 11 a.m. At midday we'd be flying to Brisbane with media, going to a fundraising lunch, a small-to-medium-enterprise policy launch, a meeting with pollsters and an
After Dark
prerecord, before attending a fundraising dinner and then a strategy meeting.

‘This can't be right,' I said to Di. ‘It isn't humanly possible.'

‘I was thinking it looked a bit light on,' she said. ‘I've got forty journos, snappers and crews joining us tomorrow and they're going to want to know what the next week holds.' She swigged at a neat whisky. ‘And the truth is, I've got no fucking idea.'

‘You mean, the media will travel
with
us?'

‘Sort of,' she said. ‘We've got a spare plane and bus for them at every location. It's my job to look after them and make sure they've got enough of a story by the end of the day so we get some decent coverage. And I'll be working closely with our advance team—that's assuming we get another couple of advancers; right now it's just Maddy—to make sure each event runs smoothly. Otherwise all the coverage will be about gaffes and cock-ups rather than the LOO and his policy agenda.'

‘And what exactly
is
his policy agenda?'

‘Good question, mate.' She stared blankly out the window. ‘All I know is that this week we're doing something on national service to focus people on the LOO's military background; something on “the team” to let everyone know we've got one and they don't; and tomorrow we're going to say something about small business because this election is going to be fought on the economy.'

Luke surfaced from the office, his sleeves pushed up and tie askew. ‘Di, do you mind joining us?'

She rolled up her fish and chip paper and followed him in, whisky in hand.

I went to the back of the plane to introduce myself to the others. I found a vacant seat next to an older man with lenses as thick as Di's whisky glass. ‘Hi, I'm Ruby.' He didn't look up from his papers, so I extended my hand to grab his attention. ‘I'm Ruby.'

He held out his index finger as if to silence me. ‘Theo,' he said, and then went back to his book.

Rejected, I returned to my original seat and merlot. Minutes later, I was joined by a middle-aged man in distressed jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt sprouting tufts of chest hair.

‘Don't pay any attention to him,' he said.

‘Who?'

‘Theo.' He sat down in Di's seat. ‘He was told about half an hour ago that we need an SME policy by first thing tomorrow morning. The Shadow Minister and his staff are on their way back from Israel and have no idea the election has even been called, let alone that there's going to be a major policy announcement in their portfolio tomorrow.'

‘So why Theo?'

‘He's the policy guru. I'm Archie, by the way.'

‘Ruby.'

‘You're the banker, right?'

‘I was. What about you?'

‘I've just finished up as press secretary to the Queensland Premier. Now I'm here to help Di shepherd her flock.'

The pilot announced we would soon be landing. Coffee tables were lowered, seats moved upright and merlot confiscated. No great loss.

‘Archie, you don't happen to know if there's going to be accommodation provided for us tonight, do you?'

He laughed. ‘Beryl sorts those logistics. You'll be right.'

As soon as we landed, people reached frantically for their phones and switched them on, triggering a trill of ring tones.

Archie took a call. ‘Gary, how're you travelling? You're what? Are we off the record, Gary? Good, then I'll speak plainly. You can't seriously be running with a story about the word “bull” when one of the country's longest serving prime ministers has been unceremoniously replaced by his once-loyal minister and we've been plunged into an early election to “reassure” her that she made the right decision?'

Archie winked at me and scribbled the name ‘Spinnaker' on a piece of paper. He held it up to show Di, who was on a call with another journalist about the same issue. She rolled her eyes and made a wanking gesture.

‘See you, mate. Hope you'll be joining us on the trail— we should grab a beer.' Archie pretended to stick his fingers down his throat.

Di finished her call just after Archie. ‘Spinnaker's such a—'

‘Princess,' Archie cut in.

They appeared to be getting on famously, but I suspected that Di wasn't overly comfortable with sharing her ‘flock'.

She clasped her hands around her mouth to form a megaphone. ‘Listen up, kids. We've got snappers downstairs looking for a few action shots of the LOO using the BBJ for the first time—a bit of colour for tomorrow's papers. The coppers and Max will walk downstairs first. Luke and I will go next. Give us about three minutes before you follow. Don't look forlorn, please. Don't smile, but don't look depressed—we need to look in control and businesslike.'

She turned to the party director. ‘Do you mind staying put for a bit? I don't think your being here sends the right message.'

‘Of course.' Mirabelle stepped back into the office.

‘Showtime,' said Max, disembarking to a flurry of flashes. Luke and Di waited a minute before leaving.

Then, to our astonishment, Archie went to the door. I coughed to grab his attention.
Shoosh, Ruby
, ordered my head. He turned and caught my gaze.

‘Aren't we waiting here for a few minutes?' I asked casually.

‘No need, Roo.' He winked. ‘They've already got what they came for.' He proceeded down the stairs. Flash, flash.

Those of us remaining exchanged disapproving glances. ‘Di is
not
going to be happy with that,' said Theo.

A few minutes later, we piled into a coach waiting on the tarmac. Di and Archie were sitting in diagonally opposite seats, on separate calls. The ensuing break from conversation, however awkward, provided an opportunity to call Fran.

‘Hewwo, this is Cwementine speaking.'

‘Clem, it's Aunty Ruby. How are you?'

‘Tewwible, Aunty Wooby. Da dentith said thumb childwen take a wong time to wooz teef, so I fought I might make it go a wittle bit more quickwy.'

Fran picked up the extension. ‘Hang up, please, Clementine.'

Clunk.

‘She saw a cartoon about connecting your tooth to a door and slamming it to make it fall out.'

‘You mean that really works?'

‘No,' Fran said. ‘But she fell flat on her face in the process and almost bit through her tongue.'

I tried not to laugh.

‘I have a self-harming four-year-old, Ruby. If this is how she is over the Tooth Fairy, can you imagine the lengths she'll go to when she hears what people pay for organs in the Far East?'

Now I had to laugh. ‘At least she's entrepreneurial.'

‘I suppose,' she sighed. ‘How's the Yarra Valley?'

‘I'm in Sydney.' While we'd been talking, the bus had left the airport. I peered out the window at the brightly lit billboards.

‘Sydney! Good grief, you haven't married some hideous surfer dude, have you, Ruby?'

‘I
have not
and
will not
marry a surfer dude,' I said sternly. Several of my new colleagues turned to stare at me. I smiled awkwardly and lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘A snap election has been called by the new Australian Prime Minister. She got rid of her predecessor this morning.

‘I met the Leader of the Opposition's Chief of Staff at that party I went to on the weekend. Luke offered me a job on the campaign. I accepted. Sort of.' Saying it excited me. ‘I've just flown on a government jet from Melbourne to Sydney, where I'm hoping someone has looked into organising a visa for me so I can do this lawfully. Now, you may speak.'

‘Ruby! How long is the campaign?'

‘The election is on the third of April.'

‘Clementine really misses you, Ruby,' she said, in a neat transfer of emotion.

‘I really want to do this, Fran.'

‘Well,' she said, then paused to prevent herself from telling me to come home at once, ‘Clementine will understand— she'll be happy for you, darling.'

‘Thank you,' I said sincerely. ‘Must go.'

We had arrived at a hotel outside which Beryl stood with a clipboard. As we got off the bus, she handed us each a room key and our luggage.

At my turn, she said, ‘Roo, I have a laptop and log-in details for you, a phone and number, and an employment contract from the party. And someone there is sorting your visa. I've sent an email about this to your new address. Next!'

I ran for the lift and hit the button for the twelfth floor. As the doors closed a manicured hand reached in and stopped them. It was Di. She was still livid. The elevator began to move.

‘Archie shouldn't have done that,' I said.

‘Too fuckin' right.' The doors opened to the twelfth floor and she breathed slowly out. ‘Brekky tomorrow?'

‘Love to. What time?'