Luke came over, straightening his solar system tie. I wondered if it glowed in the dark. âHi,' he said.
I stared at my shoes and then straight at his chest. âNice tie,' I fibbed, âbut potentially risky given Rings of Love.'
âGood point.' He removed it.
âI need to get back to the hotel,' said Luke. âThink you can manage this photo op?'
âAbsolutely.' 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. âIt's supposed to be excellent for hangovers.'
âThanks.' I took a quick sip and checked my periphery for onlookers.
âI had fun last night, Roo.' It was barely audible, but resonated.
âI didâ'
Flack the Cop startled me with a tap on my shoulder. âA word, Roo?'
âExcuse me, Oscar,' I said in my most professional voice and followed Flack to a quiet spot behind a Malaysian laksa stall.
âTerritory Police have informed us there's a small group of protesters approaching the market.' He removed his curly earpiece. âThey're demanding to speak with Max.'
âWhat are they protesting?'
âApparently they're unhappy with the Opposition's immigration policy. We think they're possibly dangerousâ 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.'
âMaybe he should confront them,' I suggested. âI mean, it wouldn't do us any harm to be tough on these arseholes.'
âWith respect, I'm not asking your opinion, Roo.'
âThanks for the heads up,' I said. âLet's keep this low keyâlet 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. âWe've got to head to the cars now,' I said calmly, smiling. âViolent 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.
âThanks for showing me around, Fred.' Max shook his hand.
âThere'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.
âWhat's going on, gorgeous?' asked Oscar.
âDo you mind holding this for me?' I handed him my ginger beer. âDuty calls.'
I found Fred and whispered in his ear. âI'm Ruby Stanhope from Max's office. On advice from the police, I need you to head back to your office.'
âThese are my constituents, mate,' he declared, raising his voice a little. âThey're expecting me to walk the length of this market, so that's what I'm going to doâwith 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.
âThanks, 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. âThe policy would see an increase in skilled migration as a means of boosting economic activity if the Opposition was indeed to winâ¦'
The aubergine extremist bounded into shot. âMasters wants to let 'em take our jobs,' she howled, âso we'll make sure he won't get the job he wants.'
âI guess that says it all,' said Oscar, who was very pleased with himself for being in the right place at the wrong time. âBack to you, Peter.'
My BlackBerry buzzed in my bag.
âHello?' I shouted.
âI just saw your lover boy and his purple friend on telly,' said Di, âand now my phone's going ballistic.'
I let the lover boy remark slide. âI know. It's frantic here. Fred fled. What should I do? I can't very well bundle everyone back onto the busâthey're all trying to get as much of this story as possible.'
âTell 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 questionsânot 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.
âWooby Stanhope?' said a little voice.
âClem?'
âYes, this is Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope calling.'
âHappy birthday to you,' I sang, âhappy birthday to you, happy birthdayâ'
âPlease stop singing, Wooby.'
âSo now that you're five you don't need to call me Aunty anymore?' I felt the beginnings of a sore throat.
âNo,' she said, âI'm not talking to you, but Mummy made me call you to say thank you for the balloons.'
âWhy are you cross? Didn't you like them?'
âNo, I did
not
like the balloons you sent me.' A foot stomped. âI did not like them one little bit.'
I could hear Fran in the background urging her to show some manners.
âThank you, Wooby. There, Mummy, I've said it, now can I hang up?'
Fran seized the phone. âHello, Ruby,' she said, to the sound of a slamming door.
âIsn't it a little early for adolescence?'
âThe 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.'
âBloody 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.'
âShe's inconsolable, Ruby.'
âPut Clem back on for me,' I pleaded. âI can explain it to her.'
âI can't; she's refusing to speak with youâshe now refers to you as “Mummy's sister”.'
âShit,' I said, âI don't have time to fix this nowâI'm trying to round up the nation's media to distract them from a group of white supremacists.'
âWell, 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 againâ¦
But not the worst twenty-four hours either.
âRhinosinusitis,' said the doctor, disposing of the foul-tasting ice lolly stick she'd just shoved down my throat.
âExcuse me?' I sprayed.
âYou have an acute case of bacterial rhinosinusitis.'
Bloody Oscar
. My head was quick to blame.
âYou 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. âIt just means your sinuses are stuffed.' She ripped a piece of paper from her pad. âHere, take these three times a day with foodâthat ought to clear itâand 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. âCan I have a word?'
âSure.' What I really wanted was to make a run for it, mortified at the thought that Di had broadcast my lip-locking adventures in Cloncurryâsoiling 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 âta da' or sending a recording
device to its watery grave or allowing a harmless photo
opportunity to morph into a race riot.
âI need you in Canberra, mate,' said Luke.
Relief rushed through my arteries. âWhatever for?'
âOne, 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.
âTwo, 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. âMy opponent has expressed a preference for a single moderatorâI would prefer a panel of three journalists from the press gallery,' one candidate might say. âThree journalists?' the other would reply. âI thought we should invite the audience to adjudicateâthey are, after all, the ultimate adjudicators.' And so, the one-upmanship would continue until the minutiae were sorted and the parameters set.
In the present case, the LOO had challenged the Prime Minister to a debate. She had duly accepted, but on the condition that it be held in the Great Hall of Parliament House on the second Sunday of the campaign. The LOO accepted, but pointed out how unusual it was to hold the debate so early in the campaign and requested that his opponent leave open the possibility of a second debate. She had not ruled it out. So if one candidate did badly there could well be another round.
With a pile of reading in my laptop bag, I'd boarded a midnight flight to Canberra. It hadn't been such a good idea to catch the eight-hour flight from Darwin (via Adelaide, where the lounge was closed) to Canberra with nasal passages full of ball bearings and eyes that might pop free of their sockets if I sneezed. Business Class was full, so I had found myself inexorably sandwiched between a man the size of a Smart Car and a woman with a teething baby.
I wasn't just sick; I was homesick and miserable. My niece was fuming, my sister distant and my aunts a faint memory. Cobwebs and a few hundred quid were all that remained of my bank account because I kept forgetting to sign my employment contract. I hadn't slept properly in a fortnight and I'd been cruelly close to the Barossa Valley and Margaret River on several occasions without picking up a brochure, let alone a bottle. To top things off, I'd fallen in lust with the political equivalent of Romeo Montague. As the infant beside me howled through the turbulence, I too had shed a few quiet tears.
It was a glorious Thursday morning in Canberra when I filled my script at the Manuka chemist, a perfect twenty-four degrees. I tilted my head skywards and basked in the gentle sunlight, asking that it warm my face and hair. My prep meeting wasn't until noon, so I had a rare ninety minutes to myself. I probably should have done something productive with them, like find a laundromat or remove the chipped pearl lacquer from my fingernails, but I erred on the side of indulgence. Securing a half-sunned table for one at a tiny cafe, I read only the Food & Wine, Arts and Literature sections of the papers over two lattes, a mushroom risotto and a lightly dusted gelatinous cube of rose and pistachio Turkish delight.