Part 10 (1/2)

We watched people scurry around the tarmac, juggling phones and luggage.

Luke continued: 'Somehow, we've got to get our s.h.i.+t together and get the message out that we know what we're doing and that we're better than they are-but that's a pretty big ask with virtually nothing in the coffers, only a handful of fully developed policy platforms and a s.h.i.+tload of semi-marginal seats without preselected candidates.' He stopped to draw breath.

'How, pray tell, can I, an unemployed Brit with not an iota of political background, help you do that?'

Luke slurped the froth from his cappuccino. 'I'm so sick of these hacks who've done nothing else with their lives but politics. Sure, they're useful because they understand the process, but we need a few new ideas if we're going to make it through.'

'I don't have a working visa,' I blurted out.

'We'll sort something out.'

I imagined what Bruce at Immigration would say to that.

'But,' he continued, 'this is going to be a miscellaneous gig-not quite the straight financial stuff I had in mind for you when we first met.'

'How so?'

'It might mean that you need to donate the occasional hair-removal tool and salad-scented paraphernalia in the middle of writing a policy speech for the Business Council of Australia conference. Or provide adult entertainment for weary colleagues en route to the airport...' He stopped to laugh at his own joke then cleared his throat.

'Very funny.'

He changed tenor. 'The LOO's on Sunset so we'd better get someone down there with a dictaphone. Do you mind?' For a second, I contemplated his proposition before realising I barely understood it. 'Sure,' I bluffed. 'Where's this loo?'

He pulled a dictaphone from a crusty old Law Inst.i.tute of Victoria knapsack and handed it to me. 'L-O-O. Leader of the Opposition.'

The mother of all To Do lists.

Over a gla.s.s of merlot on the way to Sydney, I reflected on the day. Nothing that had happened resembled, even remotely, the life I'd planned.

I recalled tete-a-tetes with my foppish Oxford ex. Smitten with each other and the life we would share, post-coital future-planning had been almost as electric as the act itself. Propped up on pillows in bed, sharing tea from a thermos, we would fantasise.

'There should be at least two children by the time I'm thirty and you're twenty-seven,' he'd say, 'which will give me time to make partner at Preston & Fiddle and you a chance to establish yourself at the bank before you take a few years off with our first child until he goes to school.'

Thanks to his presumptuousness, these conversations would escalate into full-blown arguments climaxing in pre-emptive custody negotiations. Make-up s.e.x ensued and so the dysfunctional cycle continued until my final year, when he fell head over heels for his father's secretary, married her and moved to Lexington, Kentucky.

Naivety aside, I had always thought my life would meet basic deadlines as set out in the mother of all To Do lists: Early twenties: Get graduate position with bank, and boyfriend Mid-twenties: Get promotion and engaged Late twenties: Get promotion, married and Holland Park house Early thirties: Get promotion, first child and holiday villa in Umbria Mid-thirties: Get promotion, second child and interior decorator for holiday villa Late thirties: Get promotion, third child and country house Early forties: Get promotion with transfer to New York office and chichi house in the Hamptons Mid-forties: TBC.

To date, the only items I could tick off the list were job-related-that part was relatively on track until last Wednesday, when I was made redundant, got trollied on a tremendous bottle or three of red, booked a ticket abroad and took an unexpected career detour via an Australian federal election campaign.

The cabin was now full of fellow campaigners, all bewildered by the day's events. Di, who sat beside me, dwarfed by oversized noise-cancelling headphones, unfurled fish and chip paper on the coffee table and drew six columns with a red marker. Luke and Max were holding a strategy meeting in the office with the party director, Mirabelle Halifax-a voluptuous lady with a thick mane of purplish hair fastened high with nothing but a gravity-defying pencil.

Di removed her headphones. 'Did that cow on Sunset really ask him whether the term ”bull” was appropriate?'

I nodded.

I'd never realised what a satellite interview is like. It takes skill to stare down the barrel of a camera with the voice of your interviewer echoing through a flesh-coloured earpiece, knowing that people eating their dinner around the country are watching your every move.

Di had briefed Max while doing his make-up. They ran through a couple of lines before the cameraman counted Max in with his fingers. I recorded the interview from a makes.h.i.+ft green room in the terminal. Nothing of note happened until Max was asked 'Mr Masters, do you really think it's appropriate for the alternative prime minister of this country to be using expressions like ”load of bull” in a press conference?'

Max hadn't flinched. 'Sure, Stacey-this is Australia. I think most people would be pretty comfortable with that sort of language.'

'Actually, Mr Masters,' said Stacey, 'a Sydney radio program did a quick poll this afternoon and sixty-seven per cent of listeners thought it was inappropriate. Are you suggesting these people are unAustralian?'

'Absolutely not. Stacey, I haven't seen the poll you're referring to, but if I've offended anyone I apologise-I guess it's just my navy background coming out.'

When the interview ended, Max had muttered crossly to Di about having been blindsided. She now scrawled 'bull' in the first column, along with the words 'team', 'national service' and 'SMEs'.

Then, a frazzled fat man with a pile of papers distributed a stapled booklet to everyone on the plane.

'What's this?' I asked Di.

'Today's coverage and tomorrow's schedule, which is likely to change a trillion times.'

The schedule read like an extreme Choose Your Own Adventure. Unless I was mistaken, we would be doing a media round-up at 4 a.m., three radio and two TV interviews before 7 a.m., a breakfast team-meeting at party HQ before 8 a.m., a school visit in the western suburbs at 9 a.m., and a travelling media briefing at 11 a.m. At midday we'd be flying to Brisbane with media, going to a fundraising lunch, a small-to-medium-enterprise policy launch, a meeting with pollsters and an After Dark prerecord, before attending a fundraising dinner and then a strategy meeting.

'This can't be right,' I said to Di. 'It isn't humanly possible.'

'I was thinking it looked a bit light on,' she said. 'I've got forty journos, snappers and crews joining us tomorrow and they're going to want to know what the next week holds.' She swigged at a neat whisky. 'And the truth is, I've got no f.u.c.king idea.'

'You mean, the media will travel with us?'

'Sort of,' she said. 'We've got a spare plane and bus for them at every location. It's my job to look after them and make sure they've got enough of a story by the end of the day so we get some decent coverage. And I'll be working closely with our advance team-that's a.s.suming we get another couple of advancers; right now it's just Maddy-to make sure each event runs smoothly. Otherwise all the coverage will be about gaffes and c.o.c.k-ups rather than the LOO and his policy agenda.'

'And what exactly is his policy agenda?'

'Good question, mate.' She stared blankly out the window. 'All I know is that this week we're doing something on national service to focus people on the LOO's military background; something on ”the team” to let everyone know we've got one and they don't; and tomorrow we're going to say something about small business because this election is going to be fought on the economy.'

Luke surfaced from the office, his sleeves pushed up and tie askew. 'Di, do you mind joining us?'

She rolled up her fish and chip paper and followed him in, whisky in hand.

I went to the back of the plane to introduce myself to the others. I found a vacant seat next to an older man with lenses as thick as Di's whisky gla.s.s. 'Hi, I'm Ruby.' He didn't look up from his papers, so I extended my hand to grab his attention. 'I'm Ruby.'

He held out his index finger as if to silence me. 'Theo,' he said, and then went back to his book.

Rejected, I returned to my original seat and merlot. Minutes later, I was joined by a middle-aged man in distressed jeans and a white V-neck T-s.h.i.+rt sprouting tufts of chest hair.

'Don't pay any attention to him,' he said.

'Who?'

'Theo.' He sat down in Di's seat. 'He was told about half an hour ago that we need an SME policy by first thing tomorrow morning. The Shadow Minister and his staff are on their way back from Israel and have no idea the election has even been called, let alone that there's going to be a major policy announcement in their portfolio tomorrow.'

'So why Theo?'

'He's the policy guru. I'm Archie, by the way.'