Part 34 (1/2)

'No, I don't think so,' I said. 'I don't know which electorate I'm in.'

'Well, where do you live? You can absentee vote from any booth in the country if you give me photo ID with proof of address.'

'London.' I realised the privilege wasn't mine. It was devastating. 'I'm not Australian.'

The lady exchanged puzzled glances with her colleagues. 'In that case, you don't have to vote.'

'But I really, really want to,' I said. 'I've been working on the campaign for weeks.'

'Sorry, love, this isn't an application process. You have to be a citizen on the electoral roll.'

'What if I wait until five to six? Maybe there will be people who don't show up and I could use their vote.'

'That's what we call a rort.' Her tone hardened.

'What's up?' asked Graeme when I rejoined him.

'I can't vote,' I said. 'I forgot I'm not Australian.'

'Oh, Roo, I'm so sorry.'

'That's okay, just try to make your vote count for me too.'

'I'll tell you what, you can have half of it, presuming we vote the same way.'

A lady walked up the footpath towards the booth. She was barefoot, in shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt, wearing aviator sungla.s.ses, car keys in hand. When she neared us, I said, 'Max Masters for PM' with a smile, handing her our pamphlet. 'Give Gabrielle a go,' pleaded Phoebe, whose handful of how-to-vote cards was diminis.h.i.+ng faster than mine.

'Hmmm,' said the lady, a finger poised. 'Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.' She landed on me, taking my card. 'They're all the same-vote for a politician and you'll get a politician.'

I had a hankering to slap her right across her vote-squandering face, so it was serendipitous that Daphne arrived to pick me up.

I thanked Graeme (who had come over in an enviable post-vote glow) and invited him to the after-party in the city. He got a bit emotional, but it was the least I could do for a stranger who had given me half of his precious democratic right.

We had done everything we could. Now for the result.

This is it.

'How did Aunty Wooby get b.u.t.terflies in her stomach?'

'It means she's nervous about something.'

'Why is she nervous?'

'Because tonight she'll find out if all of her hard work has paid off. Tonight, you might be one of the first people to meet the new prime minister of Australia.'

'Will there be face painting?'

The car was still moving when I jumped out, leaving Graeme and my family to find a park.

Max's venue of choice for the evening was his local RSL Club. 'That's where we spend every election night,' he'd said, 'so this one won't be any different.' The media team loved it and the advancers loathed it, as is usually the case with bad ideas.

It was a quarter to seven and the place was already overflowing. People were standing in the car park watching huge television screens broadcasting live from the tally room in Sydney. I pushed past the crowd to the front door and called Beryl, who came to collect me.

'Roo, you look hot. Where did you get those shoes?' She handed me a pa.s.s.

I twirled and curtsied. 'A man by the name of Louboutin made them for me. I know it's a bit hot for boots, but they have been good to me before, so I couldn't resist them.'

Debs and Fran had gone shopping to buy me an election-night gift to go with them: a Collette Dinnigan black silk sheath dress, tied at the middle with a loose bow. My hair was behaving as well as it could, my burnt shoulders had settled into a healthy-ish looking tan and red lips and s.h.i.+mmery cheeks distracted from the thirty grams or so of industrial-strength concealer encircling my eyes.

'Please tell me you have two of those s.h.i.+rts,' I said to Hawaiian Theo when I saw him.

'A man would have to be exceptionally lucky to have two lucky s.h.i.+rts,' he said, uncharacteristically kissing me on the cheek. 'You are exquisite tonight, Ruby Stanhope.'

'Has he been drinking?' I asked Beryl as she led me towards the RSL sub-branch president's office.

'Since last night. I hope we don't win this-transition to government might be awkward with an inebriated policy wonk.'

Luke was wearing his inaugural banana tree tie. His worst and my favourite. He and Di sat in opposite corners on the floor of the president's office-a man with two ba.s.set hounds, Verbena and Vanilla, and a moggy called Chuck, according to the homemade matchstick photo frames on his desk.

Maddy stood at a whiteboard, marker in hand. She had drawn up a table listing every seat in the country by state and territory in alphabetical order.

'I haven't had a shower,' said Di. 'Don't come near me.'

'Me neither,' said Luke.

'Does anybody have a spare whiteboard pen?' asked Maddy. 'This one's lost its pluck.'

I handed her the one from my Toolkit.

Luke scratched his head. 'The exit polls from WA are in, but they can't be right.'

'Why not?' I asked.

'Because they average out to us getting about fifty-four per cent, two-party-preferred.'

This probably wasn't the time to ask what an exit poll was. It sounded like a horrendous workplace injury.

'They're always wrong,' said Maddy. 'Just discard it.'

'Hang on a tick,' said Di. 'Those results are consistent with the swing we're seeing in South Australia, Queensland and New South Wales. Write it down somewhere.'

I looked at the president's circa-1991 television, which sat atop a crocheted doily. 'Looks like Eleven has changed its commentary team.' Oscar wasn't on it.

'Yep, they ditched Pretty Boy for Ng,' said Di. 'Apparently he's been sent to cover Donaldson, the seat Missy Hatton is running for in Tasmania.'

'A friend of mine who writes for the Herald told me Pretty Boy is going to be moving back to Melbourne to cover state politics after this,' said Maddy. 'Bureau chief or some similar trumped-up t.i.tle.'