Campaign Ruby (33 page)

‘That's what we call a rort.' Her tone hardened.

‘What's up?' asked Graeme when I rejoined him.

‘I can't vote,' I said. ‘I forgot I'm not Australian.'

‘Oh, Roo, I'm so sorry.'

‘That's okay, just try to make your vote count for me too.'

‘I'll tell you what, you can have half of it, presuming we vote the same way.'

A lady walked up the footpath towards the booth. She was barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, wearing aviator sunglasses, car keys in hand. When she neared us, I said, ‘Max Masters for PM' with a smile, handing her our pamphlet. ‘Give Gabrielle a go,' pleaded Phoebe, whose handful of how-to-vote cards was diminishing faster than mine.

‘Hmmm,' said the lady, a finger poised. ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.' She landed on me, taking my card. ‘They're all the same—vote for a politician and you'll get a politician.'

I had a hankering to slap her right across her vote-squandering face, so it was serendipitous that Daphne arrived to pick me up.

I thanked Graeme (who had come over in an enviable post-vote glow) and invited him to the after-party in the city. He got a bit emotional, but it was the least I could do for a stranger who had given me half of his precious democratic right.

We had done everything we could. Now for the result.

This is it

‘How did Aunty Wooby get butterflies in her stomach?'

‘It means she's nervous about something.'

‘Why is she nervous?'

‘Because tonight she'll find out if all of her hard work has paid off. Tonight, you might be one of the first people to meet the new prime minister of Australia.'

‘Will there be face painting?'

The car was still moving when I jumped out, leaving Graeme and my family to find a park.

Max's venue of choice for the evening was his local RSL Club. ‘That's where we spend every election night,' he'd said, ‘so this one won't be any different.' The media team loved it and the advancers loathed it, as is usually the case with bad ideas.

It was a quarter to seven and the place was already overflowing. People were standing in the car park watching huge television screens broadcasting live from the tally room in Sydney. I pushed past the crowd to the front door and called Beryl, who came to collect me.

‘Roo, you look hot. Where did you get those shoes?' She handed me a pass.

I twirled and curtsied. ‘A man by the name of Louboutin made them for me. I know it's a bit hot for boots, but they have been good to me before, so I couldn't resist them.'

Debs and Fran had gone shopping to buy me an election-night gift to go with them: a Collette Dinnigan black silk sheath dress, tied at the middle with a loose bow. My hair was behaving as well as it could, my burnt shoulders had settled into a healthy-ish looking tan and red lips and shimmery cheeks distracted from the thirty grams or so of industrial-strength concealer encircling my eyes.

‘Please tell me you have two of those shirts,' I said to Hawaiian Theo when I saw him.

‘A man would have to be exceptionally lucky to have two lucky shirts,' he said, uncharacteristically kissing me on the cheek. ‘You are exquisite tonight, Ruby Stanhope.'

‘Has he been drinking?' I asked Beryl as she led me towards the RSL sub-branch president's office.

‘Since last night. I hope we don't win this—transition to government might be awkward with an inebriated policy wonk.'

Luke was wearing his inaugural banana tree tie. His worst and my favourite. He and Di sat in opposite corners on the floor of the president's office—a man with two basset hounds, Verbena and Vanilla, and a moggy called Chuck, according to the homemade matchstick photo frames on his desk.

Maddy stood at a whiteboard, marker in hand. She had drawn up a table listing every seat in the country by state and territory in alphabetical order.

‘I haven't had a shower,' said Di. ‘Don't come near me.'

‘Me neither,' said Luke.

‘Does anybody have a spare whiteboard pen?' asked Maddy. ‘This one's lost its pluck.'

I handed her the one from my Toolkit.

Luke scratched his head. ‘The exit polls from WA are in, but they can't be right.'

‘Why not?' I asked.

‘Because they average out to us getting about fifty-four per cent, two-party-preferred.'

This probably wasn't the time to ask what an exit poll was. It sounded like a horrendous workplace injury.

‘They're always wrong,' said Maddy. ‘Just discard it.'

‘Hang on a tick,' said Di. ‘Those results are consistent with the swing we're seeing in South Australia, Queensland and New South Wales. Write it down somewhere.'

I looked at the president's circa-1991 television, which sat atop a crocheted doily. ‘Looks like Eleven has changed its commentary team.' Oscar wasn't on it.

‘Yep, they ditched Pretty Boy for Ng,' said Di. ‘Apparently he's been sent to cover Donaldson, the seat Missy Hatton is running for in Tasmania.'

‘A friend of mine who writes for the
Herald
told me Pretty Boy is going to be moving back to Melbourne to cover state politics after this,' said Maddy. ‘Bureau chief or some similar trumped-up title.'

My head, heart and body rejoiced in chorus, but this wasn't the occasion for a victory dance.

‘Mirabelle just texted me some of the preliminary results for Forster in Darwin,' said Luke. ‘It's a four per cent swing to us. That would mean Fred Smythe now has one of the safest seats in the country, even after all that immigration stuff.'

‘Four?' I asked. Luke looked up at me and nodded.

Maddy wrote the number on the board.

A private number called my phone. ‘Roo, it's Felicia Lunardi calling from Cloncurry. I wondered whether you could do me a favour.'

‘Anything, Felicia. How's it all going up there?'

‘Mick O'Donoghue has told me that exit polls for Rafter are indicating a clear victory, but I can't get through to anyone at party HQ. Can you look into it for me?'

‘I'm on it.' I hung up. ‘That was Lunardi. Who should I talk to at party HQ to check exit polls?'

‘Give Mirabelle's office a call. What did she say?'

‘Something about exit polls and victory.'

Maddy laughed. ‘I'd eat my hat.'

‘It's Roo Stanhope from the LOO's office,' I said to one of Mirabelle's men. ‘What are you seeing in Forster?'

‘We're not reading anything into the exit polls,' he said. ‘It's not possible. It said something like 47.3 on the primary in key booths. With preferences she'd be looking at…No. That's ridiculous. Just don't read anything into these figures. Keep in mind that the bulk of that seat will come down to postal votes.'

I wrote it down, far-fetched as it was.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I'd appreciate it if you could keep me posted on that seat.'

Felicia, stay calm, but exit polls in some booths say you've got 47.3% of the primary vote. Let me know if you hear anything else. Roo

‘Um, Maddy, Mirabelle's office is saying 47.3 on the primary in Forster.'

No sooner had her whiteboard marker squeaked the digits than she erased them.

‘Write it down,' I said.

‘I need to bring Max and the family in,' Di said. ‘Roo, can you give me a hand?'

I followed her out.

‘Roo, I want to talk to you about something,' said Di as we walked. ‘Two things, actually. One, regardless of what happens tonight, Luke has asked me to step into his shoes as Chief of Staff. If Max is fine with that, I want to know that I can count on you to stick around.'

I opened my mouth to speak.

‘Think about it,' she cut in. Her phone rang. ‘Di speaking, can you hold for a minute?' She muted her phone and gave me her full attention. ‘Two, if you're going to fuck over senior journalists in future, would you mind checking with me first? I mean obviously it worked and all, but Christ that was risky—not just for you but for all of us. We need to be a team here, okay?'

There was no defence. ‘Sorry, Di.'

‘No worries,' she said. ‘How did it feel?'

The answer to that question was obvious in my smile. She took the call.

‘Right, they're outside,' she said. ‘Let's grab them. There's going to be a scrum and it's a bit dangerous out there with all those people, so I'll need you to steer them in pretty tightly with me and the cops.'

She wasn't wrong. When we stepped out into the mild April night the cicadas' shrill din drowned out the crowd, but as soon as Max got out of his car it was mayhem. The cameras clung to us. ‘I love you, Max,' screamed a lady near me. ‘Good luck, mate,' said a man with a toddler on his shoulders. Shelly and Abigail cowered, squeezing my hands. Milly grabbed her dad's arm to give him something to lean on. Max smiled and strolled into the building as casually as he could. A purple-clad fanatic shrieked in my ear. ‘He looks like a Ribena berry,' said Abigail. Finally, we made it inside.

‘It's like the FIFA World Cup out there,' said the LOO.

‘Don't flatter yourself, Dad,' said Abigail.

The RSL bar was now full of our friends and family, including mine. Max stuck his head in to say hello to everyone, but fast became overwhelmed. You could see the pulse in his neck.

‘Come on,' said Milly, ‘let's get you guys some food.'

‘I can't eat,' said Max, walking into the president's office, ‘but I can't just sit here.'

‘Max, I need you to have a look at your speeches,' said Di.

‘Plural?'

‘There
are
two possible outcomes.'

‘Shit, I hadn't even thought about the speech.'

‘Get Theo for me, Roo,' Di said.

I gave her a look that I hoped might say perhaps this isn't the most appropriate moment to be throwing a drunkard in a novelty shirt into the mix. The look failed, so I went to find him.

‘Where's Theo?'

Beryl pointed to the Gents.

I knocked on the toilet door and covered my eyes to open it. ‘Theo?' I called out. ‘Are you all right?'

‘It depends on who is asking.'

‘Roo. Which other Englishwoman would come to find you in the loo at an RSL?'

‘I'm fine, Roo.'

‘Bullshit,' I said, searching my Toolkit. ‘I'll get Beryl to get you some food. And you need a shower. What was the last meal you ate?'

‘Kebab,' he groaned.

‘I've put my emergency toothbrush next to the sink as well as some shower-in-a-can, a razor and cream—use all of it, wash your face and then join us in the president's office.'

When I went back into the room, Senator Flight was on the Channel Eleven panel. ‘Anastasia, I've just had a call from a colleague who tells me that preliminary results from forty per cent of the votes in the Tasmanian seat of Donaldson show a swing to our fantastic candidate, Melissa Hatton. The figure they mentioned was over three per cent.'

‘Of course, these are early results and we should be cautious, but it does look like a worrying trend is emerging for the government, doesn't it, Hugh Patton?' Anastasia asked her co-panellist, the former prime minister.

‘It certainly does, Anastasia. That's a significant proportion of the vote counted across what I'm told is a representative swag of booths in that seat. Donaldson has always been the one to watch. It's a knife-edge marginal.'

Max's face lightened as if someone was air-brushing him. Melissa's number popped up on my phone.

‘Roo, can you believe it? Whatever happens, thank you for your support. I couldn't have done any of this without you.' Her voice was raw and teary.

‘Nonsense, Missy. You are a highly capable person and you're going to be a magnificent local member. Good luck and have a great night.'

Theo walked in wearing a clean purple campaign T-shirt and smelling of mint, musk and avocado. ‘Shall we go through the speeches?' he asked. Max nodded and followed him into another room.

‘Now for an update,' said Anastasia. ‘Based on preliminary results, and with a view to the thirteen seats the Opposition requires to win government, we're calling this a narrow victory for Max Masters. There are at least fifteen seats with more than fifty per cent of the vote counted and swings of around four per cent.'

‘With respect, Anastasia,' said Hugh Patton, ‘it's a quarter to nine and there's a lot more counting to be done—isn't it a little early to call?'

‘Does that mean Dad won, Mum?' Abigail removed a headphone from one ear.

‘Not yet, darling,' said Shelly. ‘The night is young.'

The headphone was replaced.

‘How are you feeling?' I asked Shelly, who was having her make-up done.

‘Part of me wants to drink champagne and another part wants to steel itself for the possibility that these figures are all just a cruel trick. I want to be strong for him for either speech and at the moment I'm a nervous wreck.'

‘Whisky?' I offered her a hip flask of single malt Debs had given me in the car.

She took a swig and screwed up her face as she swallowed it. ‘Can we use waterproof mascara?' she asked the make-up artist.

Max rejoined us with two stapled A4 piles under his arm. He put them on the table. One was headed WIN, the other LOSE .

‘Roo, can you put this on a charger somewhere?' he asked, handing me his phone. Di was using all of the power points in the president's office, so I plugged it into the hallway.

I texted Felix Winks in Adelaide.

What's Watson looking like?

I went to find Debs to give her a glass.

‘Thanks, but no thanks, kiddo.'

‘What's wrong with you?'

‘Nothing. Yet. I'm going to the gyno tomorrow to get my oils checked and Daph wants me clean. It looks like we might have a donor.'