Part 6 (1/2)

I followed her to the kitchen, where Daphne was cooking dinner. 'These are the six o'clocks,' said Debs, flicking on the telly to a balding man with the skin tone of an Oompa Loompa. 'There are three main commercial stations, two of which broadcast the news at six. This is Channel Eleven.'

She opened a bottle of red. 'Ruby's off to have coffee with Luke tomorrow,' she told my aunt.

'Wonderful,' clucked Daphne.

I was drawn to the screen.

'First on tonight's bulletin,' said the Oompa Loompa, 'Prime Minister Hugh Patton partic.i.p.ated in a fun run for charity in Canberra today. But Opposition Leader Max Masters suggested that his opponent is a skilled athlete, having had much experience ”running away” from his political reality. Senior political correspondent Oscar Franklin has more of the story.'

The report began with footage of a perspiring Prime Minister in a pair of unflatteringly short shorts. Smiling through his exhaustion, he stumbled across the finish line to half-hearted applause.

'With thirty-six degrees on the barometer here in Canberra,' said the even hotter reporter, 'organisers of today's annual Fun Run for Prostate Cancer Awareness were delighted but surprised when the Prime Minister's office called early this morning to say that Hugh Patton was eager to partic.i.p.ate-causing speculation that, however severe the temperature outside might be, nothing quite compared to the heat inside the government's party room.

'For at least a fortnight there have been mutterings from prominent government backbenchers that his party is no longer confident Mr Patton can deliver a fifth consecutive win at the next election, due in eighteen months.

'Senior government figures, including the Health Minister, were this morning forced to defend their leader and call on detractors to put up or shut up.'

A confident and relaxed Max Masters stood open-collared outside radio studios surrounded by journalists and fluffy microphones.

'There's Luke.' I spotted the bad suit in the background.

'Mr Masters,' said a journalist, 'the Prime Minister is at a fun run today-are you going to wish him luck?'

'Of course I wish him luck,' said Masters, 'but he doesn't need it. He's a practised athlete-he knows how to run away from a political reality.'

'Tellingly,' said Oscar Franklin, in a voice so manly it made Russell Crowe sound like s.h.i.+rley Temple, 'Treasurer Gabrielle Brennan was unavailable for comment. It should be an interesting week in parliament. Back to you, Peter.'

'I wish that Oscar guy would wear a tie-he's the only political journalist in the country who never bothers,' said Daphne.

I, too, was staring at his open-necked s.h.i.+rt. 'In Oscar's case,' I murmured, 'I'm not sure many other women would agree with you.'

'He's f.u.c.ked.' Debs muted the television.

'Who?' asked Daphne.

'The Prime Minister?' I asked.

'Yeah,' said Debs, 'not a good look to go on a fun run when your backbench is plotting against you.'

Daphne carried a platter of roast chicken to the table.

'Masters' a.n.a.logy was clever,' I said.

'You're going to be great at this.' My aunt patted my shoulder.

You're in way over me, said my head.

'It's just a coffee.' I helped myself to peas.

'You know,' Daphne said, 'afterwards you should spend the night at my place in the city. It'll give you a chance to look around-unless you'd prefer to come back here with Debs.'

I contemplated her offer. Having admired the work of a few Australian designers online, a quick shop wasn't out of the question. Mmm, Bettina Liano, Kirrily Johnston, Akira, Scanlan & Theodore, Fleur Wood...

'Actually, I'd love to spend some time in Melbourne.'

And sleep on a bed.

While Daphne watched Australian Idol, Debs and I did the was.h.i.+ng up. 'Do either of you have a belt I could borrow for tomorrow?' I handed her a soapy dinner plate. 'I'll lend you a belt if you don't make a big deal out of me spending time with the pups,' she said under her breath.

'You mean doting?'

'Whatever you want to call it,' she said. 'I don't want Daph thinking I want to keep those little critters, because I don't. They're nice 'n' all, but we can't have four dogs running around here.'

'Deal. I promise not to tell Daphne that you're a hopeless puppy-doter.'

'You're dangerously close to missing out on my cream, waist-cinching Stella McCartney.'

Dishes done, I packed an overnight bag. For some reason when we packed Fran and I had images of sandy beaches, the outback and quaint towns. Anyone looking at my suitcase would be forgiven for concluding I had picked from the was.h.i.+ng lines of Miss Universe and the cast of Australia. For tomorrow, I settled for a watermelon s.h.i.+ft dress with capped sleeves, the Mius and the Stella belt.

I switched off the living-room lights and lay down on the couch. On the back of a boarding pa.s.s, I wrote: 1. Set alarm for seven o'clock 2. Get up; have breakfast 3. Wash hair and shave legs 4. Pack toiletries 5. Call Fran 6. Buy newspapers 7. Find out meaning of 'to do a doorstop'.

Yarrawhatla?

I was in the public gallery in what looked like the House of Commons with Daphne and Debs. On one side sat British members of parliament. On the other, a raft of rowdy Australians. Dame Edna Everage was Thatcheresque in a skirt suit; Rolf Harris wore a wig and robes; Kylie Minogue sat in the prime minister's seat and chatted with fellow frontbencher Dannii.

Max Masters stood. 'Thank you, Mr Speaker. I invite members of the gallery to do The Doorstop.' The lights dimmed and a dis...o...b..ll lowered from the ceiling. The members stood back and hung their heads.

Then two huge trap doors opened, sinking both front-benches and the table between them. In their place, a giant, wedge-shaped wooden doorstop slowly emerged. Covered in rich green leather, its highest point reached the balcony of the public gallery and its lowest stopped just short of the Speaker's chair.

The galleries cheered. 'Order, order,' said the jowly Speaker, before breaking into song. 'Keep on, do The Doorstop,' he grooved, 'don't stop 'til you get enough.' The MPs joined a conga line, led by Alf Stewart. Back in the public gallery, two Qantas flight attendants in roller-skates stood on either side of The Doorstop. Rolling in time with the music, they pointed towards it with spirit fingers.

Daphne pulled out a life jacket from underneath her seat and put it on. 'Come on, darling,' she shouted, 'that's our cue.' She kicked off her sandals, stepped up onto the railing and slid effortlessly down The Doorstop. When she reached the bottom, she looked back at Debs and me. 'Come on, darlings!'

'Your turn,' said Debs. The flight attendants flashed their torches at me, creating a spotlight.

'I don't want to.'

'Ruby, get up,' she said, putting on her life jacket.

I gripped the seat.

'Come on, Ruby, it's time.' She kicked off her shoes.

'No.' I turned my head.

'Ruby!' Debs shook me. 'You slept through your alarm-we have to leave in twenty minutes!'