Part 17 (1/2)

'The avocado one?'

'Shhh. Yes. I've run out.'

'I'll find out if they sell it in Australia and get back to you.'

'Good job, Roo.'

Di was packing her briefcase. 'What was that about?'

'Top secret,' I said, and wrote 'avocado' into my sc.r.a.ppy-looking To Do list.

We made our way out to the waiting cars. It was a baking day in Melbourne. My shoes felt like hot water bottles as we stepped onto the steaming bitumen.

Suddenly, a man emerged from the bushes, yelling 'Max!' The LOO, on his mobile, turned around just in time to be snapped. He smiled tensely to mask his surprise and got into the car, the smile plastered on his face.

Di was red with anger. 'I scanned the exits earlier for snappers and there was no one here-not even the cops saw him. Stealthy b.u.g.g.e.r.' One of her phones beeped. It was the LOO from the car in front.

The cops said he's tailing us. Very A-list. Imagine his disappointment when he realises I'm not George Clooney-just a politician in his tracky dacks! MM The photographer was on a motorbike behind us. Di asked our driver to stop. 'I'm going to find out what he wants. You keep going. Find a way for us to lose him.'

On my BlackBerry, I found a number for the staff member at the scene. Her name was Millicent.

'It's Ruby Stanhope calling. I'm in the car with Di behind the LOO en route to the shoot.'

'h.e.l.lo there, how far away are you?' asked a posh voice as Di leaped out of the car and accosted the biked crusader.

'Listen, Milly, we're being followed by a snapper on a bike. He's already got a shot of Max in sweat pants and he wants more.'

'That's awful, darling-not the ghastly grey ones with the yellow speed stripes?'

'The very same.'

'Quelle catastrophe!'

'Which is precisely why I called. Is there any way we can get him in underground somewhere?'

'There's a bas.e.m.e.nt car park around the side of the building. I'll be waiting there to open the garage door.' I could hear the clip-clop of high heels on concrete.

The photographer came zooming around the corner in time to see us disappear into the bas.e.m.e.nt. An effervescent woman with raspberry-red fingernails cantered along behind the car in a pair of the tallest possible studded Jimmy Choos. I recognised them instantly from various online shopping sessions.

Max and Luke tumbled out of the other car.

'Do we know who that was?' asked Luke.

'Di's trying to find out.' I averted my gaze from the perfect Jimmy's as they caught up with us.

Millicent doubled over to catch her breath. 'Hold this.' She thrust the most delicious-smelling Balenciaga tote into my hands so that she could yank up her jeans. 'I'm Milly, by the way.'

'Roo,' I said, breathing in its leathery goodness, 'but you mightn't get this back.'

'Millicent the Magnificent,' bellowed the LOO, his voice echoing around the car park.

'Maximilian.' She kissed him on either cheek. 'You told me you donated that heinous ensemble to charity-not that there's anything remotely charitable about grey marle.'

'I did,' he said, pulling at the drawstrings of his elastic waistband. 'These are new.'

'Remind me to talk to you about appropriate workout gear.' She linked arms with him and led him to the studio. 'Today we're shooting two thirty-second ads and something longer for YouTube. I have three outfits for you. Let's get you into make-up.'

We entered a brightly lit, white-walled studio where about forty people were waiting for us, all in spray-on skinny jeans, canvas sneakers and Buddy Holly gla.s.ses. In the centre of the room was a contemporary desk beside an Australian flag and an array of personal items from Max's Melbourne office.

A stumpy man in a black cowboy hat strode towards Max in the make-up chair.

'That's Marc Tully,' whispered Milly in my ear. 'He runs the ad agency.'

'Max,' swooned the Napoleonic ad man, his ample belly spilling out over strangulating acid-wash jeans, 'glad you could make it.'

'G'day, Tully,' said Max. 'How long's this going to take?'

'Shouldn't be longer than three hours.' He handed Max a script and tapped his foot.

'I'm going to need a biro,' said Max, flipping through the script. I grabbed one from my Toolkit.

'Luckily for you and me, I picked up this month's Vogue this morning,' said Milly. 'It looks like we're going to be here all day.'

No self-respecting clotheshorse could support her habits on a staffer's salary. 'So, Milly, what's your role on the campaign?'

'I'm an advisor.'

'What kind?'

'General,' she said cryptically, pulling a pile of glossy magazines from her bag.

'Are you with the LOO's office?'

'No.'

'The party?'

'No.'

'How many questions do I have left?'

She shut her magazine and looked me dead in the eye. 'I'm Max's sister.'

Google before you speak, Ruby. b.a.l.l.s. 'Oh,' I said. 'I'm sorry, I didn't know.'

'Not at all,' she smiled. 'I'm a fas.h.i.+on-buyer but in my spare time I try to rescue my kid brother from stylicide.'