Part 24 (1/2)

Um...said my head.

I think the ayes have it.

Ex-PMS.

It was the best three hours' sleep I'd had in weeks. I stretched luxuriously, checked for lingering Tex-Mex breath and rolled counterclockwise. Empty, tangled sheets were disconcerting before the sound of a whistling kettle rea.s.sured me. While I'd have preferred a little spooning, Oscar's absence meant there was still time to make myself look like a naturally pretty-in-the-morning person, which I am not.

According to the s.p.a.ce-age alarm clock on his bedside table, it was a quarter past four: half an hour until the first phone hook-up. There goes the leisurely breakfast, I thought; but at least I wouldn't be forced to eat anything cooked by Oscar. I tiptoed nude to the bathroom, collecting and donning various items of clothing strewn along the way. Face clean, hair smoothed and mouthwash gargled, I was ready to face the morning.

I went to the kitchen. Oscar was out on the deck looking scrumptiously rumpled in the dewy dawn, scrolling through his BlackBerry and oblivious to my presence. Checking the coverage of last night's debate, I guessed. I needed to do the same.

I found my handbag on the kitchen bench and held it up to the brightest downlight to search for my phone. It wasn't in its usual spot, or in any other likely crevice. I retraced my steps. I had checked it when we were cooking last night. I'd put it in my pocket when I took the nachos out of the oven. Then it had buzzed on the outdoor table with the usual series of alerts at midnight, when the national newspapers published online. After that, I'd abandoned it and most of my other belongings for a more direct form of communication.

Pouring boiling water over a pair of squashed English Breakfast tea bags in the two cleanest-looking mugs, I opted for a proven phone-locating technique: calling it. I dialled my number, nursing Oscar's cordless landline between ear and shoulder while carrying the steaming mugs towards the deck. My phone rang. The decibels of each ring seemed to rally with each step towards the gla.s.s doors. With my hands full I knocked gently on the gla.s.s with my k.n.o.bbly knee, keen to avoid a boiling spillage. Oscar turned to see me, then his deck chair appeared to eject him, which in turn launched his phone from his hand like an air-to-surface missile. It landed somewhere in the darkness. Chivalry executed with such urgency should not go unrewarded, I noted.

'I didn't know you were up,' he said, opening the door to relieve me of the mugs. 'I came out early to make you breakfast.' He kissed me fervently. 'So go back to bed and I'll bring it in to you.'

My stomach lurched at the prospect of a breakfast made by Oscar. 'That's very sweet, but I really must get going, just as soon as I find my BlackBerry.' I hit redial on the cordless. My phone rang again, sounding close.

'I'll find it for you.'

'It sounds like it's coming from under the deck.' I dropped to my knees. 'It must have slipped through the cracks last night.' On all fours, I pressed my ear to the floorboards.

'Well, how about you get some breakfast while I find the phone,' said Oscar, but I was hot on its tail. I crawled along the weatherbeaten deck, tracking the ringtone to a terracotta pot.

'Voila.' I brandished my ringing phone. 'One lavender-scented BlackBerry.'

'Well sleuthed, Nancy Drew,' said Oscar. 'Now, what'll it be, vegemite or jam?'

Vegemite suffers from excess salinity at the best of times. Add the ecosystem in Oscar's pantry to the equation and you could de-ice a 747 with half a jar. 'Jam, please,' I said. 'You get the toast and I'll turn my mind to your phone-I'm on a roll.'

'My phone's in the kitchen.' He helped me to my feet and we went inside.

Oscar was definitely not a morning person. 'Perhaps you've got a bout of campaign brain,' I suggested. 'You were on your BlackBerry when I came to the door, before the poor little thing was catapulted into the garden, remember?'

'Actually, come to think of it, that was probably your phone,' he said sheepishly. 'I thought it was mine.'

That's when it hit me with the force of an articulated lorry. My head span. My body shuddered. My heart squirmed. He lowered four pieces of white bread into a retro-looking, brushed-metal toaster. 'b.u.t.ter?'

'Yes, please.' I blew the granules of dirt from the trenches around each key on my BlackBerry and entered my pa.s.sword, checking its vitals.

'Oscar,' I said, 'you don't have a BlackBerry.'

'So?' He was defensive. 'One piece or two?'

'Two.'

I called his phone with mine. Within seconds, Nina Simone was singing 'Sinnerman' from the kitchen bench.

'You have an iPhone.' I held his sleek, s.h.i.+ny songstress in my left hand, and my newly perfumed, navy-blue brick in my right. 'They're the apples and oranges of telephonic devices. Your phone has about as much in common with mine as a Transformer has with a Teletubby.'

He laughed, but his smile soon twitched into an awkward grimace. 'I'm not sure what you're getting at.' 'When you believed I was sound asleep in your bed, you thought you might take my phone and plunder it for information.'

'Roo,' he purred, brus.h.i.+ng my hair from my eyes, 'don't you think you're being a bit melodramatic?'

'No. I don't.' I disengaged.

'Come on, gorgeous,' he said. 'It's not like I saw anything-the b.l.o.o.d.y thing's pa.s.sword-protected anyway.' The toast popped.

'Be a gentleman and call me a cab.' I stepped into my slingbacks and clutched my handbag to my chest.

Standing stupefied on the footpath, I watched the paper boy pedal halfheartedly towards me, scouting out the most inconvenient nooks and crannies in which to wedge his customers' plastic-wrapped news.

'The cab's on its way,' said Oscar, joining me. 'Listen, I get that you're angry, but I don't want you to think this was some sort of calculated manoeuvre on my part.' He smiled apologetically. 'I'm not that clever.'

Still numb, I distracted myself with a quick To Do list while he went on.

1. Sandbag eyelid levees to avert tear overflow (RECURING ITEM ) 2. Get in cab 3. Suppress temptation to use hairbrush as bludgeon 4. Depart with decorum 5. Dial into conference call.

He was still going when the familiar smell of LPG arrived; my trusty steed pulled up with the kind of screeching noise I was learning is universal to Australian taxis.

'It was just sitting there on the table and I guess I f.u.c.ked up.'

Item 1 had become superfluous and Item 3 imperative. 'I really like you, Roo. I had a great time last night.'

'It's just so'-I rummaged for the right word as I slipped into the back seat-'cliched.'

He shut the door, pressing his palm against the window and holding it there until we pulled away from the curb. Ticks for Items 2 and 4.

'Where to, love?'

'Parliament House, please.'

I texted Maddy when we paused at a red light. Next to us was a road island being used as a stopover for a congregation of c.o.c.katoos flaring their mango mohawks.

Wearing last night's clothes. En route to House. Any chance you could bring my suitcase into the disabled cubicle down the corridor? Will reward you with Redskins. R The driver turned on the radio. 'Former prime minister Mick O'Donoghue has let loose on his party and its leader today in a highly critical opinion article for the National. O'Donoghue, who was succeeded by Hugh Patton almost thirteen years ago, is known for his episodic outbursts, but the timing of his latest d.a.m.ning appraisal, just a fortnight before polling day, will lead many Opposition candidates to despair. Esme Eisteddfod has the story.'

It was shaping up to be an exquisite Monday.

OK but need four Redskins and an explanation. M I swiped through security and dialled in for Item 5 on my list while making my way to our meeting place. Maddy, also on the call, scurried down the corridor, wheeling my precious travelling wardrobe behind her. She wiggled a suggestive eyebrow up and down which, without warning, rendered Item 1 disastrously overdue. Boiling tears streamed fast and free down either cheek, dripping one by one off my chin like lemmings. Phones to our ears on the same call, Maddy and I sat on the tiled floor, her hand patting my back in time with the ticking clocks.

'If I ever get this job,' said Max, 'can one of you please restrain me from ranting like Sir Mick when I lose it?'

'He seemed fine in Cloncurry,' said Maddy. I cringed at the mention of the place.

'Ex-PMS, or Former Prime Ministers' Syndrome, is a highly debilitating condition,' explained Luke. 'Specialists say there are very few symptoms in the lead-up to an attack, aside from higher than usual phone usage, by which time it's often too late to prevent an outbreak. Triggers can include relevance deprivation, boredom, alcohol, natural light or the good fortune of his successors.' He laughed at his own joke.