Part 22 (2/2)

'But it's the right thing to do,' said Theo.

'n.o.body's arguing with you,' said Max, 'but I need to give them something a bit more persuasive than that if we're going to win this thing.'

It could have been the hit of Ibuprofen or maybe the sleep deprivation. One thing was certain: at that moment, my head allowed me to trust my instincts. 'I'm new to this game,' I said, 'but I think Theo has a point here.' Archie sent discouraging signals which I promptly ignored. 'If you back down on this issue, the gallery will eat you for breakfast. It'll be all flip and flop, no backbone. The issue will probably fizzle out in a week, but won't you lose even more ground from the about-face?'

'Go on,' said Max.

I took a deep breath. 'I think you should stick to your guns because it's the right thing to do. It will serve as a point of differentiation between you and Brennan. Brennan will say and do anything to win this election, just like she said and did anything to topple Patton. You won't lie to the Australian people. You won't compromise on what you know to be right. Be the hero.'

'That's all very nice, Roo,' said Archie, in the tone of a children's television presenter. If my nose hadn't required urgent attention, I would have pointed out that I read History at Oxford while he was cold-calling arts and crafts magazines to sell in his clients' exciting new knitting patterns. 'Problem is, Max,' Archie continued, 'you'll be more martyr than hero when we can't squeeze the complex detail of this policy into a sound byte.'

'Maybe you can't, Archie,' skewered Di, 'but I'm willing to give it a shot.'

'The stakes are too high,' said Archie. 'You do this sort of thing when you're in government, not when you're trying to win it.'

Max sighed. 'I think the debate's the time to get this message across. I'm going to plough on. Have it ready for me to look at by this afternoon when I'm on the plane to Canberra.'

The Debate.

'Is it your birthday, Roo?' asked Beryl, poking her head around the corner of my part.i.tioned nook in the press office. She was all gussied up, even wearing make-up in honour of the debate, which was less than a couple of hours away. I thought hard about her question and checked the date on my BlackBerry. March the fourteenth, two days since the polls had dived.

'No,' I said, 'why's that?'

'There are three deliveries for you at reception.'

This was exactly the distraction I needed from the Pre-Debate Jitters, the name I'd given to the acrobatic troupe using my bladder as a trampoline. Grabbing a pair of scissors, I sat at Beryl's desk, which reeked of her musky perfume, and ripped into the largest of the three packages. 'Hallelujah!' I squealed, giving the senator rather too amorous an embrace as she waddled through the door. 'My suitcase has arrived-he's been on a national tour without me and I've missed him so.'

I cradled the battered and bruised Samsonite like a handsome beau returning from war. There was a little note inside.

Dearest Ruby, We've taken the liberty of packing all of your things into this suitcase.

All our love, your aunts, Pansy & her pups With such a happy reunion, the other two packages seemed ancillary, but when I opened the medium-sized one, it was all too good to be true. Inside were Debs' black pants and white s.h.i.+rt, both unblemished. Luckily for the senator, she wasn't within reach. By parcel number three, my eyes glistened with joy. This one was a fat cylindrical shape and came with an elegant cream card.

Get well soon, Roo. Believe in the healing power of Redskins. See you tonight?

Oscar x Beneath layers of bubble wrap was a curvaceous kitchen canister in thick, warped gla.s.s with a s.h.i.+ny silver lid: the kind one might find filled with vanilla sugar in Nigella Lawson's pantry. It was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with individually wrapped sweets. 'Roo's Redskins' was handwritten in Tipp-Ex on the lid.

'Yummo,' said Di, helping herself. 'Who gave you these?'

I blushed.

'Christ almighty,' she said. 'Pretty Boy's compering the f.u.c.king debate tonight, Roo!'

I couldn't look her in the eye. It wasn't shame that prevented me, just that I hadn't had enough time to make any sensible decision about where things with Oscar might go next. Until I had the answer to that question, defending myself was pointless. I had seen the inside of my eyelids for only eleven of the past seventy-two hours, a violation for which my spinning head was yet to forgive me.

Sh.e.l.ly's arrival with Milly and Abigail saved me from further interrogation. 'Abigail,' said Sh.e.l.ly, 'have you met Roo?' The girl, who had her father's features, shook her head, clearly bored. She was busy listening to her iPod.

'Redskin?' I offered.

'Thanks.' She unwrapped one.

'You look great tonight, Sh.e.l.ly.' She was wearing a sh.e.l.l-pink asymmetric s.h.i.+ft dress, nude peep-toe platforms and a wooden necklace which tied with ribbon at the side.

'She does, doesn't she?' said Max, who had pushed through the hinged doors of his office into the reception. 'Dad!' squealed Abigail, taking a running leap into his arms.

The trampolining sprang back into action. Theo was pacing in the corridor outside, chanting to himself like a tone-deaf Gregorian monk. I wheeled my suitcase into the Ladies and pulled out a clean bra and matching pants, diamond studs, knee-length blueberry silk dress, and a pair of vertiginous inky python slingbacks, the first pair of different shoes other than flip-flops I had worn in a fortnight. I washed my face, painted it, spritzed my decolletage and brushed the life back into my hair.

It was time.

Theo stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. 'You don't look like s.h.i.+t anymore.'

'Thanks, Theo.' I must have looked fabulous. 'We've got to take our seats now.'

He shuddered. 'Not yet.'

'Come on, Theo.' It was like talking a cat out of a tree. 'We've done all we can now-the rest is up to him.' As we walked through the corridors, we saw the bright lights of a fast-moving media stampede. Sound guys led their cameramen backwards by their belt loops so they didn't fall over. At the epicentre was the Prime Minister. She looked different in person. Taller, somehow. Dressed in a black skirt suit and turquoise top, she appeared calm but determined.

'How are you feeling, PM?' yelled a journalist at the front of his species.

'Terrific. Looking forward to it.'

From a safe distance, we watched the phenomenon move through the doors and onto the parquetry floors of the Great Hall, where rapturous applause broke out.

I knew Luke would be with Max. I called him.

'Luke?'

'Yes,' he whispered.

'The PM's wearing turquoise.'

'What's that?'

'Green.'

'So?'

'Max is wearing green.'

'So?'

'Tell Milly from me that Max needs to change his tie.'

'On it. Thanks, Roo.'

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