Part 32 (1/2)

My phone rang.

'h.e.l.lo, Aunty Wooby, I saw you on the television yesterday wearing a yellow Bob the Builder hat, an orange vest and white trousers with mud on them.'

Yesterday's mine visit had been a brutal lesson in allowing the day's schedule to inform wardrobe selection. 'Mummy said orange isn't easy to wear. Debs said you are very brave to wear white trousers to the ironing mine. I thought your hat was a bit big for you because I couldn't see your eyes. How did you get on the television?'

'Sorry, Clem, I can't talk right now,' I whispered.

'Why not?'

'Because I'm painting someone's face.'

'What colour?'

'Skin colour.'

'Boring. At my birthday party Mummy painted pink stars on our cheeks with itchy violent glitter.'

'Violet,' I corrected. I covered the phone. 'My five-year-old niece thinks I should paint you pink with glitter.'

'Can I talk to her?'

Splendid idea. Maybe Clem can tell Max how you tripped and fell on a journalist.

'Sure,' I said. 'Clem, I'm going to put you on to my boss, Mr Masters. He might be the prime minister soon. He wants to say h.e.l.lo.'

Max took the phone while I prayed.

'Hi, my name's Max...That's a very long name for a little girl. Do you mind if I call you Clementine?...You're right, it does get itchy up the nose...That's good advice. Thank you for that, but I'm not sure if they'll let you vote yet...Bye, Clementine.' He handed me the phone and I said goodbye to Clem.

'She's an incredible interviewer,' Max said. 'She makes Anastasia Ng look shy.'

I dusted Max down and plucked the tissues from around his collar. He went back to his brief while I washed my hands. 'I thought this was supposed to be a $3.7 billion announcement,' said Max, scanning his copy of the media release. 'This says $4.7 billion.'

f.u.c.k. 'Good point.'

'What time's this press conference?'

'In ten minutes,' I said. 'Let me check if the release has been distributed.' I called Luke.

'You've reached Luke Harley, Chief of Staff to the...'

'G.o.dspeed,' said Max, reading my next move.

I scampered down the steps out to the lawn where the press conference was to be held. It had been a civilised morning tea until my arrival. Under a shade cloth, the local candidate and press pack chatted with their hosts, a pride of sickeningly handsome uniformed officers, the kind you can't help but unb.u.t.ton with your eyes. I paused to fully appreciate the visual feast before me.

Focus, Ruby.

A hundred yards across the lawn stood Luke, shuffling a pile of paper. The press releases. I waved my arms to catch his attention. 'Yoo hoo!' If I'd had the fluorescent green tie he was wearing I could have used it as a signal. 'Luke!' Nothing. To stop him, I would have to make it across the gra.s.s in thirty seconds. This meant discarding my Up Yours, Oscars, a pair of red platform patent peeptoes christened by Maddy on the plane that morning. I bolted barefoot towards Luke, my floaty bias-cut skirt puffing up like a hot-air balloon.

Luke turned to Gary Spinnaker and licked his index finger, poised to release the release. My pace quickened from trot to canter.

There's Pretty Boy.

I attempted a nod, which would have conveyed the perfect c.o.c.ktail of professionalism and nonchalance if I hadn't felt a crippling spike in my right foot.

'Ugh!' The pain felled me. 'f.u.c.k,' I screamed when my patella pressed against the nest of p.r.i.c.kles. Onlookers gasped; teaspoons clinked against saucers. I put out my hand to steady myself, which, with hindsight, was unwise given the ferocious cl.u.s.ters surrounding me. 'Fugh.' Having spotted the causal relations.h.i.+p between movement and pain, I adopted a pose resembling a wounded crab, the kind one might strike in an epic Twister showdown. I couldn't see the expressions on the thirty-five or so faces, but I could imagine them.

A pair of knights in matt camouflage rushed to my aid. 'Gotta watch out for bindies, ma'am,' said one, lifting me off the ground.

'Watch out for what?' I retracted my landing gear for fear of further attack, electing to hang from his arm like a Christmas ornament.

'Bindies,' said the second knight, as if it might make more sense to me at greater volume. They deposited me on the platform beside the lectern.

'Roo,' Luke said, suppressing a grin when he reached me.

I looked around to see Gary Spinnaker underlining. I was too late. 'The press release is wrong.' I plucked at the thorns embedded in my knee cap. 'It's supposed to be 3.7, not 4.7.'

'No, it's not,' he said. 'The new costing came through this morning.'

The pain worsened. 'Do you think someone could have told me that?'

'It's in the brief.'

'Oh.' I collected myself, stepping back into the Up Yours, Oscars.

'I haven't stood in a bindi patch since I was about twelve.' He helped me up.

'Why give a vicious predator such an adorable name? How about Nature's Land Mines or Gra.s.stards?'

He pulled a blade of gra.s.s from my hair. 'I guess I should go and get the LOO.'

'You do that,' I said. 'I'm off to the airport.'

It was half three in the afternoon and I hadn't eaten all day. By the time I reached the lounge, the crockenbouche of tepid mini-pies could have been a Michelin-stamped smorgasbord. I settled into a corner couch with a magazine and chowed down on soggy pastry and processed meat. Heaven.

Over the top of Vogue Australia, I spotted a familiar woman. Spiral notepad under arm, thick black hair streaked with silver. Anastasia Ng slung a beaten leather satchel over her shoulder and approached the desk.

'Welcome back, Ms Ng,' said the receptionist.

'Thanks, I'm going to need the remote.' She made her way to the television area via a fruit bowl, switched the football to Two Cents and turned up the volume. 'Sorry,' she said to the startled gentleman on the couch beside her. She wasn't sorry at all. He picked up his beer and stormed off. She crunched into an apple and watched.

I moved to sit beside her. Oscar appeared with his regular late-afternoon segment, focusing on the PM's launch, which had been full of fanfare. The PM presented as a strong person of sterling intellect with marital integrity and a mother's warmth. Talkback radio hosts had been bombarded with calls crying shame on Max for trying to smear such a lovely lady.

There wasn't time for contemplation. I was on that couch for a reason. When Oscar signed off, I said, 'Anastasia, we haven't met; I'm Ruby Stanhope.' She didn't turn. 'New to Max Masters' office,' I persevered.

Her almond eyes widened in acknowledgement. 'Yes, of course.' She shook my hand. 'I thought you looked familiar.'