Part 20 (2/2)

'Astronomers,' I corrected.

'Whatever.' He kissed my eyelids closed.

'It's quite an important distinction,' I said. 'Astrologists wear purple velvet in the middle of the day and like crystals.'

'Also s.h.i.+ny.' He kissed my mouth.

Oscar Franklin is kissing you.

Well spotted, head.

'Oscar?'

'Hmm?'

'You taste like a pirate.' I pulled away from his delectable lips.

'It's the rum.'

'Yes, I suppose it is the rum.'

We continued.

'Oscar?'

'Hmm?'

'It's important to point out at this juncture that I haven't had much experience with pirates, so I'm not really sure how they taste. Probably a bit salty, with a touch of parrot'-he opened his left eye-'not that I'm a parrot-eater.'

Now you're kissing Oscar Franklin. This one's a bit more intense. I'm no expert, but perhaps it's best not to talk about parrots and pirates when you're being kissed.

Wise counsel, head.

'All right, you two.' The publican clapped her hands behind us. 'Pub's closed. I'm locking up now.'

Oscar pulled me to my feet and swivelled me towards the publican. 'Thanks for a splendid evening. This is a lovely pub.'

She laughed. 'No worries, love. Hoo roo!'

'I am.'

Territorial.

Di marched me to the tiny WC on the media plane.

'Tell me you didn't pash Oscar Franklin,' she demanded in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

'Pash?'

'Yes, Roo, pash,' she said, before morphing into a thesaurus. 'Neck, snog, tongue, suck face, make out with...'

Admittedly, I was familiar with the verb, but had hoped to buy myself some time to formulate an appropriate response. 'Firstly, I wasn't so much a pasher as a co-pashee'-at least for the first one-'and secondly, definitionally, it wasn't a pash, just a quick kiss.'

She smashed her head rhythmically against the wall. 'At the pub, I take it.'

'Kind of on the pub.'

'I'm not going to ask what that means.'

'How did you find out?'

'It's Clon-f.u.c.king-curry, Roo. It's not every day that famous journalists are in town with former prime ministers. People talk.'

'Does anyone else know?'

'No,' she said. 'Just me, the publican and presumably Oscar, unless you spiked his drink. What happened?'

I told her the story, skipping over some of the detail, like the part where it took us an hour to cross the road from pub to motel or when he said my lips were so red and swollen that I looked like I'd just eaten a Redskin, which he a.s.sured me was an Australian delicacy.

'There's nothing to be concerned about,' I rea.s.sured her. 'It's not as if I fancy him.'

I hurt, throbbed my head, playing a particularly graphic montage of the incident in question. How do you expect me to do my job properly if you poison me with liquor? I could have prevented all of this.

Di leaned in close. 'Let me give you a piece of well-trodden advice, Roo: don't s.h.i.+t where you eat.' She slid the latch to release the bifurcating door. 'By the way, you're in shot but not mentioned on page eleven of the Queenslander and two of the Herald with a little caption: ”Advisor Roo Stanhope copes with the heat.” I had to work hard to bury it like that. I know Luke's already spoken to you about it. Don't let it happen again.' With that, she rejoined the cabin.

I was knackered, brutally hungover and had a To Do list the length of the Trans-Siberian Railway. With the FASTEN SEATBELT sign on for our descent into Darwin, I returned to my seat, which was a safe distance from Oscar's-we hadn't yet spoken-pulled a worn sc.r.a.p of paper from my handbag and tried to prioritise some items.

1. Confirm visa (LIFE/DEATH URGENT) 2. Sign contract for negligible remuneration (FINANCIALLY URGENT) 3. Track down luggage (STYLISTICALLY URGENT) 4. Track down coffee-stained trousers from hotel laundry in Perth (SEE ABOVE) 5. Call Fran, Clem, parents, Daphne, Debs, etc. (LONG OVERDUE) 6. Arrange birthday present for Clem (MUST DO BEFORE MONDAY).

'b.a.l.l.s.' I saw MONDAY at the top of the day's media brief. Counting back the hours in my head to allow for the time difference, I discovered a small window of opportunity in which I might save myself from the ferociousness of an almost five-year-old.

As soon as the wheels. .h.i.t the tarmac, I Googled 'same day gift delivery London'. Of seventy-two thousand results, including fruit baskets, champagne and edible underwear, I came across Balloons on a Bike, which boasted 'tasteful balloon bouquets hand-delivered across western London'. I placed an online order for two dozen fuchsia helium balloons (some pearlescent, some with polka dots) and a big silver 5 to be delivered by noon in London. Hurrah.

Darwin is vastly underrated, I concluded as we made our way on the media bus to the seat of Forster, where we were due to visit a market. Avoiding Oscar's knowing gaze, I distributed bottles of water and spread the good news that we'd be spending at least a day in the Top End. As we waited for Max and Fred Smythe-the local member-to arrive for a photo opportunity, I lost myself for a moment in the exquisite aromas emanating from each stall. It was as if the myriad of flavours from the tropical East were being pounded by a pestle in a ma.s.sive mortar: lemongra.s.s, ginger, lime, garlic, chilli, star anise, fish sauce and coconut, fused with the smell of onions caramelising on a barbeque at the nearby burger hut.

Max pulled up with Sh.e.l.ly and Luke, followed closely by Fred. A relaxed posse formed around them to capture a few shots.

Luke came over, straightening his solar system tie. I wondered if it glowed in the dark. 'Hi,' he said.

I stared at my shoes and then straight at his chest. 'Nice tie,' I fibbed, 'but potentially risky given Rings of Love.'

'Good point.' He removed it.

'I need to get back to the hotel,' said Luke. 'Think you can manage this photo op?'

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