One True Thing (7 page)

‘You can finally shut up about it,' he says. He has bags under his eyes – big, puffy bags – and the campaign hasn't even started yet.

‘I'll be glad when it's all over,' I say.

Dad frowns. ‘The concert?'

‘The election. You look like crap,' I say, shrugging to lighten my tone.

He shakes his head. ‘It's fine – really. I'm just distracted. This damn book is killing me, and I'm way past deadline.'

It's so clear he's lying that it's almost embarrassing. The media have been all over Mum the past few weeks, angling for Dad too. He's trying to act like it's no big deal, but Mum's never home at the moment, all those late nights and evening events cutting into our lives. Half the time we only know what she's up to by reading the papers or asking Harry.

‘It'll be okay,' I say, wishing there was something I could do.

‘You're a good kid,' he says unexpectedly.

‘Yeah, well,' I say lamely, wishing all his weirdness would go away. ‘I'm all you've got, apart from Loser Luke.'

‘Right.' He laughs and heads for the door. ‘Let's make your mum proud, shall we?'

The room is packed with every party member, their families and about a thousand other hangers-on. People who I've never seen before are pumping my arm up and down, congratulating me by name, as though
I've
just landed the candidacy, not Mum. Luke is beside me, his hair barely dry from the pool, staring at the sea of wellwishers like they've all just arrived from Mars.

‘Who are all these people?' he hisses after a total stranger ruffles his hair and asks him about his swimming carnival.

‘I have no idea!' I laugh. It's crazy – insane – but kind of cool too. All these people believe in
my
mum and want her to be their voice. It's almost like an election victory
party except this is just the first stage and there's a long way to go.

‘Come through. We'll tidy you up for the announcement.' Harry shepherds us towards the backstage entrance, pushing through the crowd with one arm, waving at anyone who approaches us with his other.

‘Where's Dad?' I ask, because Harry
always
knows where everyone is. He even checks in with Gran a couple of times a week, just to make sure she's not making outrageously racist comments about ‘boat people' to the press, or complaining too noisily about the youth of today in her countless letters to the editor. Harry's tried a few times to convince Mum to ask Gran to stop speaking to the media, but Mum just shakes her head and says that her mother has as much right as anyone else. Dad says it's hardly the same thing because ‘anyone else' is shouting at the moon, while the mother of the Premier will make the national news.

Then again, Dad's never been a fan of Gran's.

‘He's with your mum,' Harry says, gesturing towards the backstage entrance. ‘You'll see him on stage.'

The make-up team gets to work on me, primping and fluffing every bit they can. I rarely bother with make-up, but having someone apply it for me is different. Besides, photos are one thing – and there have been a few shockers
I would gladly burn if I could get my hands on them – but TV? Even footballers wear make-up for TV. Next to me, Luke is squirming and twisting in his seat while a girl who looks barely older than him is attempting to brush his hair flat – and failing.

When they're done, I slip over to the stage wings to scan the sea of heads crowding the floor below. I spot Kessie and her family near the front of the stage. Kessie is waving madly, while her mum and dad stand beside her like adoring statues.

As nice as they are, Mr and Mrs Blythedale are, well, plain. Mr Blythedale is of barely average height, and has faded, orange hair and freckles that would make Anne of Green Gables reach for the lemon juice. He looks like a punctured basketball with eyes. Mrs Blythedale has flat features and washed-out skin. She's also tiny – only a bit taller than Luke. They're nothing like Kessie at all. In fact, I've come to believe that Kessie is a classifiable freak of nature.

I wave at her, touching my hair and doing a theatrical curtsy to demonstrate my fabulous new look. She claps her hands in silent applause while I grin stupidly. I'm about to perform a brief interpretive dance for effect when I realise that beside Kessie and her parents is Tyler.

I don't remember inviting Tyler. But I smile at her and wave, glad she's here.

She waves back, a little haltingly. Then Kessie says something to her and the moment passes.

‘Mum wants us onstage,' Luke says.

I glance across the wings on the opposite side and see Dad and Mum waiting for their names to be called. Dad looks so tall and lanky next to Mum's elegant curves. He smiles across the stage, his face flushed with the heat of the stage lights and – I'm guessing – the champagne he and Mum shared before they got here.

Someone from Canberra – the party president, I think – introduces Mum. ‘The party's nomination to lead the next government of Victoria: Premier Rowena Kate Mulvaney!'

The place erupts like a football match, a grand final even. Everyone's eyes are on Mum as she walks across the stage. She looks like a queen. I don't know how else to describe her. Regal and graceful, her long neck and straight back showing off the many years of deportment classes my gran forced Mum to attend in her teenage years.

I look over at Dad. He almost seems startled as the crowd whoops and cheers like maniacs. No – not startled …
sad
. He's two steps behind, those long legs somehow not able to keep pace with my mother's. Or not trying to. He takes his place behind her left shoulder, a position he's been told allows the cameras to get Mum's best angle and his while always keeping the focus on Mum, his enduring support safely tucked behind her.

I glance down at Luke to see if he's noticed anything, but he's staring out at the cheering crowd, fidgeting
nervously, knowing it will be his turn soon. I take his hand in mine and, surprisingly, he lets me.

The Canberra bloke then welcomes us onto the stage, and Luke and I take our positions beside Mum. Our best, camera-ready smiles are firmly in place, and our hands hang rigid by our sides. The noise is thunderous, and for a long minute I wonder if they'll ever let Mum speak. But after forever, Mum reaches for the microphone, tilts her chin high as she does whenever she's about to say something important, and I watch as the screaming lunatics of seconds before fall completely, pin-drop-audible silent. In that low, smoky voice of hers, that touch of brogue rounding it off, she says simply, warmly, ‘Thank you.'

Before the applause reaches the crescendo of before, she raises her hand and the whole room stills; all those faces turned towards her, rapt. I watch Mum take in the crowd, the stage, the whole setting, like the leader she was born to be, and I think about how she is the same woman who cried on my first day of school, spent afternoons with me covered in finger paint and sparkles, that warm smile aimed squarely at me. And I realise that, from this moment onwards, she'll never be all mine again.

This shouldn't be news. I've always shared her – with Dad and Luke and her job. But this seems much bigger. All these faces staring up at her, hopeful and expectant, as though she belongs to them. I've always understood
her career is an important part of who she is, but it has also been something she's kept at bay, shoving it into the gaps Luke and I no longer occupied. But here are these strangers demanding more. Demanding
her
. If she wins, Luke and I will have to squeeze into the space the voters leave behind. No longer just Luke and Francesca, we'll become the children of the first elected female Premier of Victoria. I have no idea how exactly this new life will
look
, but it feels like we'll never be the same again.

Maybe this is why Dad's been so weird – he's afraid he's lost her.

Maybe I should be afraid I've lost her too.

Mum's speech goes down a treat, as expected. We pose for photos until one of Mum's junior staffers takes Luke home. A part of me is tempted to go with him although it's barely 10 pm. Kessie, Tyler and the Blythedales approach as soon as I'm free, coming up to congratulate Mum and chat for a bit before disappearing into the crowd. Kessie has a protest to go to in the morning, and apparently Tyler was planning to go with her. I feel a tiny pang when I hear that, even though Kessie gave up asking me along to protest marches ages ago. I shake it off and say what I always say when Kessie's off to wreak havoc: ‘Have fun and don't get arrested.' Tyler follows the Blythedales, but Kessie hangs back, gives me a quick hug and looks at me intently.

‘What?' I say.

She smiles. ‘Thanks.'

‘Um … You're welcome?' I have no idea what she's talking about, but the stifling air of this packed hall is becoming my main concern. Memories of the disastrous school event hover unpleasantly at the back of my mind. That's all I need.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘For not wigging out.'

‘About Tyler? I don't know why I didn't invite Tyler and Van in the first place.'

Kessie blinks, then her expression switches swiftly to her usual grin. ‘Yeah, well, next time.'

She leaves me standing there wondering what just happened. The crowd closes around her and suddenly I need air. Fresh, petrol-fume-filled CBD air.

I force my way through the room, avoiding eye contact any chance I can, and finally make it to the double doors. I push through them into the foyer of the Grand Marin, and take a minute to orient myself. An older woman I recognise from Mum's office is standing by a trestle table scattered with a few leftover ‘Rowena Mulvaney for Premier' badges and flags. She beams at me, removing any hope of slipping by unnoticed.

‘Pretty wild, isn't it?' she says, nodding at the double doors.

‘Crazy,' I agree.

‘You looking for someone?' She does that half-smile,
half-frown thing people do when they're speaking to children. I guess I look upset
and
lost.

‘No, not really. It's just hot in there.' I push my hair off my face, trying not to imagine what I look like right now, despite all the efforts from the make-up team.

The woman comes around the table as if to guide me but I wave her off. I want to be alone. Like,
properly
alone. ‘Thanks. I'm just going to step outside for some air.' I turn confidently towards I-have-no-idea-what and head for one of those rotating glass doors.

The cool air feels so good on my skin that I just stand there breathing for a minute.

‘You in training for something?' a voice says from behind me.

I don't jump so much as stagger back. While these high-heeled ankle boots looked really pretty in the shop window, they should have come with an OH&S warning. I recover and look up to see Jake D'Angelo grinning at me.

‘Thanks a lot,' I snap. I hate being snuck up on. Luke went through a stage of leaping out of my wardrobe at unexpected times, and it scared me half-blind every time. He'd say he was
helping
me to prepare for an ambush should I ever find myself in, say, a Congo jungle. And I'd tell him what he could do with his Congo jungle. I'm about to tell Jake what
he
can do with his Congo jungle too, but manage to hold it in. Too many ways that can go wrong.

The city traffic is quiet. Only the occasional angry honk and the distant sound of sirens break through the hum of passing cars.

‘Your mum was pretty impressive up there,' Jake says. His voice is steady and sure, but there's a twitch at one corner of his mouth, and every now and then he runs his hands along his jeans. It's possible he's as nervous as I am.

‘You saw her?'

‘Yeah, I finished work early …' He glances along the street, up the hill. ‘I work across the road.' I follow his gaze, land on Pad Thai Dining, a restaurant Harry and the staff often go to for lunch.

‘They let you in?'

He cocks his head and shows me the media pass I now see hanging around his neck.

I remember the theatrical curtsy I did on stage, intended for Kessie's eyes only, and cringe. ‘What time did you get here?'

He hesitates again. ‘A while back. I basically showed up for my shift and they turned me around. Quiet night, apparently. I figured, since you were here …'

‘What's my mum got to do with your piece on grassroots bands?' I ask, already knowing the answer.

‘Nothing.' He lifts one shoulder. ‘Not really.' He smiles sheepishly, like he's had to explain this before but also like he doesn't expect me to understand. ‘All those people, the
emotions …' He looks wistful, almost dreamy. ‘It's pretty powerful stuff.'

A cool breeze cuts through my thin sleeves and I rub my arms distractedly.

‘Have you eaten?' Jake glances along the street, seeming to hesitate at Pad Thai, then moves on. ‘I've been working all week and can't face another mouthful of Penang curry.'

‘No Penang curry, then.'

‘There's a cafe in the foyer,' he suggests.

‘I could eat.'

‘Let's go.' He swings his backpack on his shoulder and heads in. I take a careful step to test my ankle and these unwieldy boots, then follow him inside.

We find a booth in the corner of the empty cafe and sit on opposite sides, both looking everywhere but at each other. I search for something to say that won't sound rehearsed but my mind is blank. The waitress arrives to put us out of our misery, standing above us, her pad and pen poised for attack. ‘What can I get you guys?'

I'm about to order one of the chicken and avocado wraps I saw in the display case when I realise I have maybe five dollars in my pocket – at best. ‘Um … Hot chocolate, please.'

‘I thought you were hungry?' Jake asks.

I feel his knee jumping around beneath the table, and I wonder again if this is a mistake. Should we even be friends? ‘No. You know, now that I've sat down …'

His whole expression changes. He's suddenly casting about the room as if looking for an escape. I decide maybe it's a good thing I don't have enough money to eat. At least I'll have an excuse to leave too.

‘I'll have the same,' he says to the waitress. She scribbles our order, then disappears.

‘So, why did you come?' I say to break the silence, but it comes out sharp and accusing.

‘I –' Jake looks at the door again.

‘Listen, it's late,' I say, before he can make his excuses. ‘Campaign launches are boring as hell for everyone but the party faithful. I'm sure there are plenty of other things you'd rather be doing on a night off.'

He looks confused. When his phone beeps, he pulls it out of his pocket. He scans the message, his lips pressed together.

‘Everything all right?' I ask.

‘Yeah, just Dad being …'

‘Dad?' I offer helpfully.

‘A dick,' he says with a tight smile. ‘Same thing, really.'

‘Do you need to go?' I hold my breath, hoping he'll say no, half-expecting him to say yes.

He laughs. ‘Probably.'

I force down my disappointment. ‘I don't want you to get into trouble.'

He sits back, pushing the phone away. ‘Screw him.'

‘Is that wise?'

Jake shakes his head. ‘No.' He smiles then, and it seems truer somehow. ‘I don't want to talk about him.'

‘Right. So, what do you want to talk about?'

Jake considers me, then he slides out of his seat and into the one beside me. I don't move – not immediately. He's watching me so intensely that I feel trapped. And yet every part of me feels alive.

‘Here's the thing,' he says, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I can't stop thinking about you.' He gives an almost helpless shrug. ‘I tried because you clearly want me to … to just leave you alone.'

I blink, unprepared for his honesty. ‘I … don't know what I want.'

He touches my cheek with the back of his hand, the feel of his skin against my face shocking and welcome all at once. He turns his hand over, traces my lips with his fingers, feather-light and cool.

‘I don't know,' I say again.

He leans in so close that I can feel his breath on my face, his fingers falling away. ‘Yes, you do.'

My gaze falls to his mouth. ‘Yes, I do,' I whisper, and lean in.

Our lips touch, soft but firm –

‘Francesca Mulvaney-Webb!' a voice booms beside us, trumpeting my name to the entire city block. ‘What on
earth
are you doing?'