Part 5 (2/2)

Daphne piled her bread with preserved apricot cheeks and drizzled them with syrup. 'Masters will probably get in at the next election. I can't imagine anyone will be able to stomach another three years of Hugh Patton.'

'Me neither,' Debs agreed. 'Masters is the first half-decent Opposition leader we've seen in a decade. Before now it didn't matter how sick to death people were of Patton. No one's going to jump s.h.i.+p when the economy's gone t.i.ts up, not when the alternative's a leaky boat. Masters is different, though.'

'He's a good speaker,' I said. 'I was impressed. The audience was full of sleazy industry types and yet he seemed to connect with everyone there. He was real.'

'You going to take the job then?' asked Debs.

I laughed. They didn't.

'Serious question,' said Debs.

'Look, I'm here on a tourist visa. The closest thing I've had to political experience was competing with my sister for my parents' Chelsea flat when I finished university. I'm an investment banker. I don't even know which party he's from, or which party is in government, or how the system works here-or anywhere for that matter. He hasn't offered me a job and...I'm supposed to be on holiday!'

'Codswallop.'

'I'm sorry?' Now I was annoyed.

'Means horse s.h.i.+t,' Debs explained.

'It might surprise you, but I do in fact know what codswallop means,' I muttered. 'It's an English term. And I appreciate your intentions, but that's not who I am. I'm me. I live in London. I have a lovely flat in Notting Hill. And I'm an investment banker.'

'No, you're not,' said Debs.

'Deborah!' My aunt lowered her sungla.s.ses to reveal the full force of her glare.

'Settle, petal,' said Debs. 'Just telling it like it is. There's a wine glut in Australia and an investment banker glut in the UK-you're a dime a dozen, kiddo.'

She wasn't wrong. When I returned to London, I, like thousands of my former colleagues, would march zombie-like to interview after hopeless interview without finding a comparable job. Emerging markets no longer existed. Most markets were well and truly submerged. My future flashed before me. My parents would call everyone they knew, desperate to find me respectable work. I would get some rubbish, back-office contractor role in a two-bit bank and spend every six months begging for renewal. I would be forced to surrender my flat and share a room with Clem at my sister's. I'd have to eBay my wine and my Louboutins.

My aunt's hand on mine broke the panic. 'It doesn't hurt to have coffee with him, love,' she said gently. 'Who knows, politics for you might be like bread for me.'

I channelled my mother for a bit of polite conversational transition. 'I've never asked how you got into baking in the first place.'

'At school,' she said, drizzling syrup from the apricots over her breakfast, 'I was certain I'd become a lawyer. I didn't want to be particularly, though I'd have been quite good at it.

'When I was reading law at university, I had a falling out with your grandmother about my s.e.xuality. I rebelled a bit and took some time off. One night, when I was walking home from a club, I pa.s.sed a bakery.

'It was about four in the morning and there were three people inside, working away. I envied them. They had their own peaceful, beautiful-smelling world away from the hubbub of normal trading hours, like Father Christmas and his elves.'

'Farver Cwistmiss,' teased Debs, attempting to mimic our accent.

Daphne ignored her. 'Better still, they created bread. Everyone loves the smell of fresh bread. It's primal-a simple, common staple. It meets people's needs. n.o.body feels that way when they pay their lawyers.

'So I got an apprentices.h.i.+p at a French patisserie and deferred my studies. Daddy was delighted, which surprised me. Mother wasn't. Anyway, I love what I do, I'm good at it and it makes money. I own two shops and I'm about to open a third.'

'I've got a meeting in town tomorrow,' said Debs, clearing the plates. 'If you did want to meet up with little Lukey, I could drop you off.'

That evening, I emailed him.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Luke Good to meet you last night.

As it happens, I'll be in Melbourne tomorrow and thought I might take you up on that coffee if you're free.

Hope the interview with 'your guy' went well this morning.

Kind regards Ruby A few seconds pa.s.sed.

To: [email protected] From: R.

Come to the CPO (4 Treasury Place) at midday. Ask for me and they'll point you in the right direction.

My totally platonic boss did fine this morning.

Doorstopped this arvo too. Check out the six o'clocks..

L.

I went looking for Debs and found her lying on the floor talking to the pups. Pansy thumped her tail against the floorboards twice to greet me, alerting Debs to my presence.

'I was just going through some emails.' She grabbed her BlackBerry.

'No, you weren't,' I said, 'you were doting.'

'I don't dote.'

'I know a doter when I see one.'

'They're pink,' she observed, 'like little marshmallows.'

'Indeed. Have you named them yet?'

'f.u.c.k, no.' She sat up. 'You shouldn't sneak up on people.'

'I wanted to ask you a question.'

'Shoot.'

'Luke has asked me to meet him at something called the CPO tomorrow. He also said to watch the six o'clocks and that he had doorstopped. Do you know what any of that means?'

'I think the CPO's the Commonwealth Parliamentary Offices up at Treasury Place.' She stood up and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

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