Part 25 (1/2)

Sailing blind over Cataract Gorge.

Woop Woop had the hottest candidate I'd ever seen. Melissa Hatton, who had the kinds of curves that would make Marilyn Monroe weep with envy, picked me up from the airport in her equally va-va-voom emerald vintage Jaguar. She was on the phone and so was Luke, so he couldn't brief me.

'Thanks, mate, I'll see you at the fundraiser tonight.' Melissa drove under the boom gate at the car park. 'I really appreciate your support. Yep. Yep. See you there. Bye.'

She turned her head slightly. 'I sincerely hope you're Roo Stanhope,' she said, holding the parking receipt between her perfect teeth. 'Otherwise I've just picked up a complete stranger from the airport and someone from Max Masters' office is waiting at the luggage carousel.'

'I am.'

She smiled. 'I like to drive and talk so I figured this would be a good opportunity to fill you in.'

I'd like to drive and talk too if I had wheels like hers. The creme-caramel leather interior was almost edible. I ran my fingers along the smooth, glossy wood panelling. 'She was my dad's pride and joy,' Melissa said, answering my unasked question. 'He bought her brand new from the dealer in 1987, and got in a bit of strife with Mum when he drove home that day. The stock market had just crashed so a lot of people were doing it tough, but Dad loved this car until the day he died.'

At the traffic lights, Melissa twirled her platinum-blonde hair into a flawless chignon fastened with a tortoise-sh.e.l.l clip, and used the rear-view mirror to apply 1950s pin-up red lipstick to her p.r.o.nounced pout. 'So, you're here because everyone reckons I'm going to f.u.c.k up.'

It didn't seem to be a question, so there was little point in denying it.

'The local papers and radios hate me because the current member and even some of the guys on our side are running a s.h.i.+t-sheet campaign against me, saying I only got the gig because of nepotism and s.e.x.

'It's a very tight margin-about 0.1 per cent with redistribution. That makes my campaign a national media issue so the vultures are feeding on my misfortune.' We whizzed around a corner and across a narrow bridge suspended between two vertiginous rocky cliff faces. 'If you've got time for a coffee I'll take you somewhere spectacular that looks out over Cataract Gorge.'

'Sure,' I said, trying not to think about how eerily still the water was below us. 'Have you done anything to dispel the rumours?'

'I took all the editors, radio blokes and even a proprietor out to lunch weeks ago. All of them. I answered every question, addressed every rumour in full; but apparently mine is the story of a vixen political princess and that sells, so they publish it.'

'Where do the rumours come from?' I stuttered, hoping that my question wasn't the Tasmanian equivalent of asking Paris Hilton the secret to her extraordinary internet hit rate. There was something vaguely ironic about sailing blind over Cataract Gorge.

'Well, for one, some party members who didn't like my old man when he was local member have taken a stand against me. Two, the party pushed through my preselection, making it look like I thought I was ent.i.tled to the gig and that I don't respect party processes.' She swung into a parking s.p.a.ce out the front of a cafe. 'And here's the cherry: I'm a hot blonde. People think hot blondes are airheads. So despite my being one of the state's best legal brains, people compare me to my fat and failed used-car salesman of an opponent and think that he's got a better idea about what's best for Donaldson.'

She sashayed inside, towards a secluded table, with the kind of walk that should always be accompanied by the bra.s.s section of a big band. 'Evening, Joyce,' she said to the frost-pink-lipped proprietor.

'G'day, Missy, what can I get you?' Joyce asked, ignoring the sn.i.g.g.e.ring pair of nose-pierced waitresses clearing the adjacent table.

'My usual malted milkshake. And you, Roo?'

'Sounds delicious.'

'Two, then.' She rolled up the sleeves of her chocolate-brown business s.h.i.+rt.

'What s.h.i.+ts me to tears,' she said when Joyce was out of earshot, 'is that the party virtually begged me to run in Donaldson. I gave it a lot of thought, of course. I'm a public prosecutor, for f.u.c.k's sake-why would I want to throw that in to run for one of the most marginal seats in the country? Frankly, I was holding out for something safe. But I can't very well go and say that on the record, can I?'

I shrugged.

'Add to that an unfortunate photograph from a c.o.c.ktail party in the early nineties-I had a fling with a prominent businessman when his divorce wasn't finalised-and Bob's your uncle: you've got a scandal.'

My phone rang. 'Do you mind if I take this?'

Melissa nodded and I stepped outside.

'Sorry I couldn't take your call earlier,' Luke said. 'Things have been frantic up here with this rail announcement. How's Donaldson?'

'A bit grim, to be honest. I've just had a chat with Melissa Hatton.' I checked she was still inside and whispered, 'She seems oblivious to the intimidating image she's built for herself.'

'Doesn't surprise me. Our polling is terrible in Donaldson and it's a key seat. She needs to pick up her game. Do you think it's salvageable?'

'I think you're better placed than I am to answer that.'

'Come off it, Roo. Tell me what you think.'

'Okay, in all my weeks in politics I've never met a woman so loathsome to other women. Even in this cafe, the waitresses can't stop whispering about her.'

'So what do you think she should do?'

Don't ask me.

My gut took over. 'She needs an image overhaul, she needs the local party to unite behind her and she needs to give newspapers here something good to say about her.'

'Sounds about right. Why don't you come up with a strategy and we can talk it through on the phone if you like. I reckon you should stay down there for a few days and work with her team. Take as long as you need.'

Her?

'Me?'

'Gotta go. Keep in touch.'

I went back inside just as Joyce arrived with two old-fas.h.i.+oned stainless-steel beakers with frothy heads and curly pink straws. It was grossly unjust that this woman could drink litres of blitzed ice-cream, confected chocolate syrup and full-fat milk and still wind up looking like Rita Hayworth as Gilda.

'Can I be brutally honest, Melissa?' I took an enormous swig of aerated sweetness to give me strength.

'Go ahead.'

'You're in danger of losing this election because you're perfect.'

'Come again?'

'I mean look at you. They think you have it all. You're drop dead gorgeous. You have an incredibly successful career. You drive the s.e.xiest car in Launceston. You're from a privileged background. People simply don't feel they can relate to you.' She took the first few as compliments and the last as a stiletto through the Achilles, but I stuck with it regardless. 'This isn't your fault, but it is your problem. The question is: how do we fix it in two weeks so that you can become the next member for Donaldson?'

The remaining droplets of her milkshake looped the loop of her straw. 'I know what the question is. What's the b.l.o.o.d.y answer?'

'Off the top of my head, I think it goes something like this. Firstly, we need to counter the perception that you didn't fight for preselection. The party dragged you into this mess; they need to be saying publicly that they approached you to run for Donaldson on your merits.

'Secondly, we need a national figure who will attest to your intelligence. Someone intellectually weighty and preferably ugly. Maybe a retired judge, an academic or some sort of colleague. You probably have scores of case examples where you have put notorious criminals behind bars.

'Thirdly, and this will be our Everest, we need to get women behind you. You need to be approachable, not formidable. Dial down the make-up, stick with suits and help at a school canteen somewhere. Host a function for female small-business owners. Go to a nursing home and play cards with old ladies. Let everyone else paint you as bright and successful while you're busy bringing yourself back down to earth.'