Campaign Ruby Part 27

'Fine, thanks. An odd man at Immigration asked if we were related to Ruby. I guess it's a much smaller airport than Heathrow.'

Daphne spotted the fogging around the rims of Fran's sungla.s.ses. 'How about Clementine and I get the car and we'll come to pick you up with the luggage?'

'Sounds like a plan,' I said.

'I'm keeping it all in for Clementine,' Fran said when we were alone, clutching my hand, 'but I'm not sure how long I can do that.'

'I could take you somewhere quiet. Just the two of us. We can talk about it.' I pushed the trolley towards the footpath.

'I can't talk until I've had time to think. I need sleep first, food, possibly alcohol and room to think.'

In the car on the way to the Yarra Valley, Clem sang every line of 'Just You Wait' complete with hands on hips and finger wagging, Fran made small talk with Daphne about the weather and I tried to attend a conference call with Melissa Hatton.

'The worse I look, the more Donaldson loves me, Roo,' said Melissa. 'We've got the front page of the paper today as well as a vox pop and editorial on dirty campaigning.'

Reluctantly, I un-muted my BlackBerry. 'Sounds like a decent turnaround.'

'Oh ho ho, 'enry 'iggins, just you wait!'

'Where in G.o.d's name are you?'

'Down you'll go 'enry 'iggins! Just you wait!'

'Community event.'

'Sounds torturous,' said Melissa. 'Thanks for everything. I'll let you get back to it.'

'Feel free to call if I can help at all.'

She hung up.

'Did you like that song, Aunty Wooby?'

'Very much so,' I said. 'The ending was my favourite part.'

Finally, following a deafening rendition of 'The Rain in Spain' for which Clem adapted her accent to both parts of the duet, we made our way up the driveway. Debs stood cradling a tiny pup on the deck.

'Who is that lady, Daphne?' asked Clem.

'That's my friend Debs.'

'Does she live here too?'

'Yes, this is her house.'

'What's that puppy's name?'

'JFK.'

'Where are the other puppies?'

'Inside.'

'Where are the puppies' mummy and daddy?'

'Pansy, their mummy, is inside. I don't know where their daddy is.'

'He's probably with my daddy at the Jewish Poodles Conference in Bang the Desk.' Clem leaped out of her seatbelt and marched towards the deck.

'Bang the Desk, indeed,' muttered Fran.

'h.e.l.lo, Debs,' Clem said before anyone could introduce them. 'My name is Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope. Your friend Daphne is my great aunt because she has so many ears.'

'Nice to meet you, Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope.' Debs bent to shake her hand.

'You don't have to call me that, silly,' she said. 'Aunty Wooby calls me Clem.'

'Righto,' said Debs, 'Clem it is.'

'This is my mummy,' said Clem when the rest of us had caught up with them.

'Thank you for having us in your beautiful home,' said Fran.

'Pleasure. Shy kid you've got here.' Debs lowered herself to Clem's level. 'Want to pat him, Clem?'

'He's very soft,' Clem whispered.

Debs took Clem by the hand and led her inside. 'Let me introduce you to the others.'

While Fran and Clem showered, Daphne insisted on doing my was.h.i.+ng and Debs and I made a pot of tea.

'So, are you legal yet, kiddo?'

'Yes, thanks to you. Your fee is at the dry-cleaner's.'

'Good to hear. So, you and little Lukey Harley, eh?' She slapped me on the back as if we were blokes on barstools.

'What about me and Luke?'

'No need to be coy,' she said. 'He's a good guy.'

'I know he is. He's my boss.'

'He's the Chief of Staff. It's a week out from polling day and he left a meeting with his boss to rescue you. You seriously expect me to believe you're not doing him?'

'Excuse me?'

'It's fine. I won't judge you for it. I mean, he's not my type.'

'Clearly,' I said as Daphne joined us.

'Hot cross buns, anybody? The dough should have risen by now. I'm adjusting my recipe this year-using lime zest instead of lemon to mix it up a bit.'

'Sounds delish,' said Debs, kissing Daphne's forehead. 'In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out whose hot buns Ruby's been crossing.'

'Oh, very droll,' I said, not even thinking about it.

Much.

'Has Ruby got a boyfriend?' probed my aunt.

'No, I don't have a boyfriend. I did accidentally slip and fall on a journalist though, which in hindsight wasn't my wisest move.'

'Did you hurt yourself, Aunty Wooby?' My stealthy niece's ringlets were tucked up into a towel-turban almost twice the height of her.

Debs cackled. 'Good question, Clem.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. 'Not really,' I said, 'just a little bruised, that's all.'

'And the journalist?'

'The journalist is fine. He wasn't hurt at all.'

'Who wasn't hurt?' asked Fran. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks squared.

'The journalist who Aunty Wooby slipped and fell on.'

Debs was gleeful with the salaciousness of it all.

'I see,' said Fran with a disapproving big sister look. 'Why don't you go and find the puppies, darling?'

With Clem at a distance the interrogation intensified. 'You're sleeping with a journalist?' The three women gathered around, cornering me against the kitchen bench.

'It's more past tense and singular an episode than that,' I said. There hadn't really been time since leaving Canberra on the previous Monday to dissect the Oscar incident over a box of Kleenex and a s.e.x and the City marathon, as any right-minded female would have done.

'Which one?' asked Debs.

'Not a chance,' I said.

'They're mostly feral,' she said. 'Did you sleep with a feral one?'

'No.'

'Then you slept with a hot one. That narrows it substantially- pretty much rules out print and radio.'

'I didn't say that. It was a stupid mistake anyway. I don't want to relive it, if it's okay by all of you.'

Debs whipped out her BlackBerry.

'What are you doing, Debs?' asked Daphne.

'Googling TV journos from the national press gallery.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks cubed.

'Now, darling, leave poor Ruby alone,' said my aunt. 'I'm sure she'll tell us if she wants us to know.'

'Tell me,' said Fran. 'I'm your sister.'

'I suppose that makes you a bastion of confidentiality?' I could recall countless examples of merciless teasing over high school beaus, including one my family affectionately dubbed Lumpy Liam.

Cue the emotional blackmail. 'I'm going through an exceptionally difficult time in my life at the moment, Ruby, as you're well aware, so I think I have the right to know who my baby sister is bonking.'

Debs and Daphne exchanged concerned glances.

'Bonked. Single occurrence. Past tense.'

'Okay,' said Debs, scrolling s.a.d.i.s.tically. 'There are only four possible candidates-the rest are female, unless...?'

I shook my head.

'Okay, so that leaves us with Michael Joyce?'

'Is he still alive?' asked Daphne, checking the buns in the oven.

'Apparently so,' said Debs.

I stood still and silent.

'What about that Patrick man from Network Six?' asked my aunt, dismounting the moral high horse she'd only just saddled.

'No, he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the proprietor. Everyone knows that. What about that Oliver what's his name?'

'Oh, I know who you're talking about.' Daphne clicked her fingers and bit her bottom lip to make her brain work faster. 'Oscar Franklin!'

Debs stopped scrolling. All three of them stared at me. The oven timer buzzed.

'Bingo!' squealed Fran delightedly, high-fiving Debs. 'Show me a picture!'

Naturally I was pleased to see my discomfort bring such renewed vivacity to my sister. 'He's hot, Ruby!'

'I'll set the table,' I said.

It was both impressive and amusing to watch three grown women find a plethora of s.e.xual innuendoes in religious buns at teatime. Thankfully, halfway through, my phone rang.

'Roo speaking.'

'Roo, it's Oscar.'