Campaign Ruby (28 page)

Cue the emotional blackmail. ‘I'm going through an exceptionally difficult time in my life at the moment, Ruby, as you're well aware, so I think I have the right to know who my baby sister is bonking.'

Debs and Daphne exchanged concerned glances.

‘Bonked. Single occurrence. Past tense.'

‘Okay,' said Debs, scrolling sadistically. ‘There are only four possible candidates—the rest are female, unless…?'

I shook my head.

‘Okay, so that leaves us with Michael Joyce?'

‘Is he still alive?' asked Daphne, checking the buns in the oven.

‘Apparently so,' said Debs.

I stood still and silent.

‘What about that Patrick man from Network Six?' asked my aunt, dismounting the moral high horse she'd only just saddled.

‘No, he's screwing the proprietor. Everyone knows that. What about that Oliver what's his name?'

‘Oh, I know who you're talking about.' Daphne clicked her fingers and bit her bottom lip to make her brain work faster. ‘Oscar Franklin!'

Debs stopped scrolling. All three of them stared at me. The oven timer buzzed.

‘Bingo!' squealed Fran delightedly, high-fiving Debs. ‘Show me a picture!'

Naturally I was pleased to see my discomfort bring such renewed vivacity to my sister. ‘He's
hot
, Ruby!'

‘I'll set the table,' I said.

It was both impressive and amusing to watch three grown women find a plethora of sexual innuendoes in religious buns at teatime. Thankfully, halfway through, my phone rang.

‘Roo speaking.'

‘Roo, it's Oscar.'

My shoulders tensed. ‘Hi.' I stepped outside.

‘How are you?'

‘Completely fine,' I said, a little too convincingly.

‘Good to hear. Are you in Melbourne?'

‘No.'

‘Oh. Listen, I feel really bad about this, but…'

This is your time to shine, I said to my head.

‘Oscar, you don't need to explain. Really. It's nothing. I was tired. Let's just move on.'

‘That's not what I feel bad about.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Roo, I've had a tip-off from a source at Immigration that you've been working in the country illegally and I wanted to put it to you for comment.'

‘I'm sorry—are you telling me you're calling as a journalist who's doing a story about me?'

‘I tried calling Di Freya first but her phone was busy. I thought the least I could do after, well, you know, would be to let you know that this is what we're running with tonight and see if you wanted to comment.'

‘No.'

‘Are you the same person who wrote the email, by the way? The banker?'

I threw my BlackBerry onto the paved pathway. It disintegrated. My body shook with rage as I bent down to pick up the pieces. Pansy came over to help me. She sniffed the battery and licked the gravel from my quivering fingers.

Fran approached cautiously. ‘Is everything okay, Ruby?'

‘No, everything is not okay.' I ran into the house and picked up my bags. ‘I have to go. Can I borrow a car?'

‘Darling, you've only just arrived,' said Daphne.

‘Ruby, I'm sure whatever it is we can work it out from here,' said Fran.

‘I'm really sorry; I know I said I'd be here, but I must go.'

‘I'll drive you, kiddo.' Debs handed me my reassembled BlackBerry.

‘Thanks.'

Fran hugged the breath out of me. ‘I'm not leaving you,' I told her. ‘I'll be back later.'

I tried to compose myself as we zoomed down the drive in Debs' Aston Martin.

‘Di,' I said when I got through to her, ‘I need to talk to you about a media issue.'

‘Roo, you're supposed to be having a day off.'

‘Oscar Franklin has had a tip-off from Immigration that I've been working in Australia unlawfully. I'm on my way back into the city now. He's going to run with the story tonight.'

There was a pause. ‘Are you here unlawfully?'

‘No, and I wasn't working unlawfully because I wasn't technically employed.'

‘Why not?'

‘I forgot to sign my employment contract.'

‘Who else knows about this?'

‘Luke knows—he got me out of it—and long-socked Bruce from Immigration.'

‘Why do they wear long socks?'

‘Not sure, but if we win this election let's make long-sock prohibition a policy priority.'

‘Agreed. What did you tell Pretty Boy?'

‘Nothing—I ended the call. He did mention something about an email I wrote.'

‘What about?'

‘When I was made redundant in London, I replied to the bank and it went a bit viral.'

‘I know. I Googled you. Great email.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Let me handle it from here, Roo.'

‘No, I'm on my way in.'

‘Go home and let me handle it.'

‘No. Can't we have him whacked or something?'

She sighed. I could see her face. ‘You told me not to shit where I eat and I didn't listen.'

‘Tastes bad, doesn't it?'

‘Tastes rubbish.'

‘Look, this didn't happen because you screwed the crew. Pretty Boy's just doing his job and now I need you to let me do mine.'

‘Okay.'

‘And a word of advice: do not under any circumstances watch the Channel Eleven news, and, if you do, make sure you don't have access to sharp or blunt objects at the time. Screen damage is irreversible. Take my word for it.'

‘Thanks, Di.'

‘No worries. Now piss off.'

I told Debs to turn the car around. We drove in total silence while I seethed with self-loathing. You nincompoop. You elementary fool. You've done this to yourself, you know. First with the visa, then with that wretched unconscionable creep. Now you're about to face public humiliation and there's nothing you can do about it. You might even derail the campaign.

‘Hey, kiddo, you're not beating yourself up, are you?'

‘Of course I am,' I groaned. ‘I fell for a creep.'

‘It's human, Ruby. He's the moron. Fancy letting a great chick like you slip through his fingers. I hope he suffers in his jocks.'

‘Thanks, Debs.' We pulled up at the house.

‘You're welcome.' She gave me a bone-crunching embrace. ‘Now, you'll be pleased to know it's wine o'clock.'

Fran kissed me hello and led me to the kitchen, past Clem, who was singing to an audience of puppies on the deck.

‘Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins, just you wait.'

Tug of war

For once I took Di's advice. Granted, I had intended to watch the six o'clock news, but at 5.47 p.m., when simmering slate-grey clouds overhead came to a sudden boil, a thunderstorm clapped across the Yarra Valley, blacking out everything in its path.

Debs and Daphne snuggled under a tartan blanket on deck chairs to watch the lightning illuminate pockets of the countryside. Fran had been fast asleep on the couch since lunch, leaving me with a jet-lagged Clem, who doesn't much like the dark, let alone without her mother.

‘Come on, Clem. Let's tuck the puppies in.'

We took a torch from the kitchen and led Champagne to the laundry. Clem gave her a kiss goodnight and Pansy welcomed her little girl back to the familial basket. The Widdler was trying his hardest to steal a holey old sock from JFK. They growled unconvincingly. Pansy looked on disapprovingly.

‘What are they doing?' asked Clem.

‘Playing a game.'

‘Like toggle ball?'

‘A bit like tug of war, yes.'

‘JFK sounds angry.' Clem yawned.

‘Well, he had it first.'

I picked Clem up and slung her around my hip, carrying her to the bedroom and tucking her in.

‘Aunty Wooby, do you want me to look after you so you don't get frightened?'

‘That would be nice, Clem.' I crawled into bed next to her. Two yawns later, she was snoring like a Harley-Davidson. I fumbled for the torch and, when I couldn't find it, I decided to stay and rest awhile.

There was a particularly sharp pull on my right arm and a lapping sound in my left ear. ‘Aunty Wooby, you're making funny noises,' said Clem, dislodging a puppy from my neck.

I jumped out of bed, giving The Widdler a catastrophic fright. ‘What time is it, Clem?'

‘Ruby, darling,' yelled Fran, ‘there's a chauffeur car here for you.'

‘The Widdler wet the bed,' announced Clem.

‘Bugg— bother. I need to pack. And I need to wash the dog drool out of my ear and hair. Now.'

‘Clem and I will pack for you, darling,' offered Fran, rushing in. ‘Get in the shower.'

‘What day is it?' I called out.

‘Tuesday,' yelled Debs.

‘Wednesday,' corrected Daphne.

Silence. ‘Is it…ouch…Tuesday or Wednesday? Fuck, shit, bother.'

‘Ruby!' shouted Fran.

‘Sorry, I got shampoo in my eye!'

‘Count to ten and the stinging will stop, Aunty Wooby.' I turned the shower off, wrapped myself in a towel and counted to eleven. Still stinging. Twelve. Stopped.

‘Thanks, Clem.' The steam rushed out of the bathroom and into the hall as I made a near-naked dash to my bedroom.

‘G'day,' said a suited man.

‘Hello,' I said, picking up my pace. ‘Bollocks, who is that?' I asked Fran.

‘That's your driver: George.' Fran was changing the sheets. ‘Daphne has given him a hot cross bun and cup of tea while he waits.'

‘Has anyone seen my shoe?' I pulled skinny jeans over damp skin.

‘What colour is it?'

‘Black.' I was on all fours looking under the bed. ‘It's a black pump. It looks much like this one except it's for the left foot.'

Debs poked her head around the door. ‘Is anybody missing a shoe?'

‘Aunty Wooby is missing a shiny black one just like this one except for the other foot.'

‘Bad news, mate. Champagne has demolished it. I think she's teething or something. She's taken to chewing the underwire from our bras too.'

‘Sh—'

‘Language, Ruby,' anticipated Fran.

‘Right, I've got to go.' I stepped into a pair of wedges which I knew to be uncomfortable. ‘The launch is tomorrow and we're preparing today. Love you all.'

‘May I please give your other shoe to The Widdler?' asked Clem. I nodded, kissing the top of her head.

‘Good luck, darling,' said Daphne. ‘Have a great week and remember to enjoy it.' She handed me a thermos and a large warm paper bag.

‘Thanks.'

‘See you, kiddo. Try not to get deported.'

Fran carried my handbag to the car. ‘When will I see you next?'

I threw my arms around her. ‘You should all come to the election after-party or wake, whatever the case may be. It's a bit more than a week away. Sorry we didn't get a chance to talk.' I kissed her cheek and let go. She smiled, her upper lip trembling. She contained her emotions by looking up to the sky, proclaiming it a glorious day, just as our mother had always done when she dropped us off at boarding school.

George lowered his sunnies and drove off. ‘Great buns,' he said. I think he was referring to Daphne's baking.

It was time to face the music and dial in. ‘Morning people, sorry I'm late,' I said to the conference call.

‘Hi, Roo,' said Di. Everyone else was silent. ‘We're just doing a coverage wrap-up from last night and this morning.'

‘We had a blackout in the Yarra Valley, so I didn't see it,' I explained. ‘Was it awful? I'm really sorry, everyone. It was stupid of me.'

‘It was barely a story. Pretty Boy gave it a damn good go, and everyone's seen your wife-beater and thongs now, but there's been no follow-up this morning because it's been swamped by…this other thing.'

Brilliant.

‘You can all go now,' said Luke. ‘Archie, stick around.'

I hung up and called Maddy. ‘What other thing?'

‘The government has a copy of a leaked email from Archie to someone else in the party sourcing dirt on Gabrielle Brennan,' she said. ‘They gave the story to the papers and the PM has slammed us for it, calling us hypocrites for running the whole dirty politics agenda against her.'

‘Shit,' I said. ‘How bad is the email?'

‘Disgraceful,' said Maddy. ‘He writes “Married or not, everyone knows she's the village bicycle, but nobody has the balls to come out and claim having had her. Get me something concrete on her.”'

‘That's terrible. What did Max say?'

‘Not a word. Speechless, I suppose. Archie told us to calm down. “Clean campaign?” he said. “Do you still believe in Santa too?” It's as if he's completely disconnected from what we're doing.'

‘Did he apologise?' I asked as we drove past a newsagent where a
Herald
newsstand poster read MASTERS OF DIRT.

‘He apologised for putting his request in writing but wasn't at all sorry for doing it. Where are you? Are you coming in for the launch prep?'

‘Yeah, I'll be there soon. I've got another call coming in.'

It was Melissa Hatton. ‘What the fuck are you pricks playing at?'

I held the phone at a safe distance from my ear.

‘Here I am, on your advice, running a campaign denouncing gutter tactics, and your deputy press sec is on email scouring for grot about the Prime Minister's sex life!'

‘Melissa, I assure you we had no idea about this. Everyone is pretty shocked.'

‘I don't give a shit how you all feel. I'm drowning in interview requests. Blobby's going to have a field day in tomorrow's papers. My opponent is doing a press conference about it. I'm screwed.'

‘Leave it with me, Melissa. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'

I called Di. ‘How are we handling this?'

‘Not sure yet. We're working on a few lines to put distance between Archie's role and the campaign, but that'll be pretty tricky because everyone knows him and has seen him on the media plane, the bus—'