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 shirt.

'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-fashioned 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.'

She sighed. 'You seem an intelligent woman and an attractive one at that, Roo. How can you ask me to change the way I look in order to appeal to other women? It's so b.l.o.o.d.y counterproductive to the cause.'

'Melissa, with respect, they haven't sent me down here to reform the Tasmanian sisterhood; otherwise, I'd agree with you one hundred per cent. They sent me here because you need to win the hearts and minds of Donaldson and you have two and a half weeks in which to do it. You're not going to get there by lecturing your own s.e.x on how they should respond to a woman like you. They already despise you, so playing the vampy victim isn't going to cut it. Take a look at those two in the corner.' I gestured over my right shoulder to the whispering waitresses. 'They b.i.t.c.h and they vote.'

She sighed. 'Where do we start?'

The following Sat.u.r.day, in a demure navy-blue pant suit and low ponytail, Melissa Hatton was asking people at the Donaldson Secondary College fete whether they wanted their burgers with beetroot or without. Since the start of the week she'd had her face painted as Spider-Man at Tazzie Devils Childcare, joined in at the bingo hall for Ladies' Day and lent her green fingers to the rose bushes at the RSL. Best of all, she was having a ball, which was evident in the colourful images published in the local press.

After a bit of string-pulling, I'd arranged for party director Mirabelle Halifax to do a television interview in Hobart. She took full responsibility for having to step over the usual processes in order to install candidates at short notice in a number of seats, but pointed out that the Prime Minister had intended to wrong-foot the Opposition by calling such an early election. Designed to coincide with the launch of our dirty games campaign against Brennan, Mirabelle's message seemed to ease animosity towards Melissa.

Launceston was turning out to be exactly what I needed in order to avoid being mired in self-loathing over the Oscar debacle, not least because I discovered the town was within staggering distance of the Tamar Valley, home to some of the nation's most delectable drops. With Fran and Clem on board a BA flight to Melbourne and a calm couple of days in the Yarra Valley ahead of me, my life didn't appear as disintegrated as it had at the beginning of the week.

Melissa and I were now on our way to a lunch interview with local newspaper editor Bob Roberts, or 'Blobby', as he was affectionately known. Our mission was clear: expose the other side's mud-slinging without making Melissa appear precious.

It hadn't seemed right to have such an important meeting at an ordinary inner-city eatery. So I'd arranged a table a trois at a cellar door restaurant overlooking lines of vines zigzagging their way down to a delightful bend in the Tamar River.

Sadly, Blobby was precisely as I'd imagined him. Rotund with beady eyes framed by the sort of spectacles my gran was partial to. 'Good to see you, Missy,' he said, licking fat fingers to force a few recalcitrant strands back into his over-slicked comb-over. 'Who's your friend?'

'This is Roo Stanhope.'

I felt blessed when the bread arrived and the licked hand that was poised to shake mine found itself irresistibly pulled towards the b.u.t.ter dish. He stuck his hand into the air, revealing a hydroponic armpit.

The hovering waiter cleared his throat. 'Ready to order, Mr Roberts?'

'Yes, and I'd like salted b.u.t.ter, please.'

Melissa tapped her foot under the table as Blobby ordered braised pork belly before s.n.a.t.c.hing the wine list from my hands and choosing something as uninteresting as it was expensive.

'Our readers seem to have enjoyed your bingo prowess, Missy. The oldies loved your dad, G.o.d rest him. How are you feeling about the campaign?'

'I think we've had a great week. People are unhappy with a whole range of things and this is the kind of seat your counterparts around the country will be watching closely, so of course your coverage matters.' She declined a gla.s.s of wine, which was a good decision-I could smell its acidic pomposity a mile off.

'Are you up the duff or something?' he roared.

'No,' she winked, 'no time for fun and games when you're working as hard as I've been.'

It was my turn. 'Tell me, Bob, I'm quite new to this business in Australia, but I'm interested to know from someone as experienced as you whether malicious rumours are part of the usual argy-bargy of Australian political campaigns.' I brandished a few of the s.h.i.t-sheets I'd photocopied earlier.

Blobby spat something into a napkin before examining a doc.u.ment ent.i.tled DON 'T PUT A RICH b.i.t.c.h IN DONALDSON .

'Well,' he spluttered, dabbing at a droplet of wine on his cuff, 'I guess these are a bit more personal than one might normally expect.'

'Melissa's remarkably thick-skinned about them,' I said, attempting to swirl some life into the overpriced shiraz, 'but I just don't see how this sort of slander has a place in contemporary politics, particularly when Melissa is such an upstanding member of the community. She's single-handedly responsible for throwing some of Tasmania's worst criminals behind bars, whereas her opponent...well, I've said enough.'

He smiled and used his tongue to dislodge a stray piece of stringy meat from his teeth.

'Bob knows me, Roo,' said Melissa, ordering a gla.s.s of milk. 'I'm flawed like the rest of 'em, but what sets me apart from the rest is that I don't bother with the gutter politics, something I had hoped wouldn't go unacknowledged by the town's biggest circulating daily.'

'Come on, Missy,' croaked Blobby, 'the fact that you're not s.h.i.t-sheeting the other mob isn't a story, and you've got no evidence to show that these come from the other side anyway-they could just as easily be from your own party.'

'That's where you're mistaken, Bob.' I pulled out an email from a man claiming to have volunteered on the sitting member's campaign. He'd quit when he was asked if he would use his photocopier to produce thousands of leaflets and tuck them under windscreen wipers in the local supermarket car park. 'Here's a source. Call him if you like, or of course I could give it to the National if you're not interested, but Melissa insisted that we show loyalty to local business.'

'Of course we'd be happy to give him a bell.' He wiped his hands on the tablecloth. 'I hate those windscreen wiper flyers.' He pulled out a credit card and declared, 'Lunch is on me.'

He wasn't wrong. It was all over him.

Too late To Do.

Before I lost my job, got pickled on peanut noise, switched hemispheres and joined this travelling circus, my life was a relatively straightforward one. Sure, I was a s.e.xless workaholic hermit, but I had a routine, and when my routine let me down I had coping mechanisms that worked.

One such coping mechanism was the To Do list. Its purpose was clear: to prioritise tasks numerically and execute them in that order. For me, the list usually had three benefits. First, to find clarity in the chaos of an overworked mind. Second, to avoid panic-duplication by committing every outstanding task to paper. Third, to self-reward with a super-satisfying tick for each completed item.

I found myself reflecting on the surprise failure of said coping mechanism as I sat on a lime-green plastic chair in the waiting room of the Immigration office at Melbourne Airport. When Beryl had handed me my employment contract and working visa application form on Day One of the campaign, signing and returning them had been at the top of my list.

Now, on Day Twenty-Two, those two items were lost somewhere in the middle of a paper-clipped, eight-page medley comprising three Post-it notes, the back of what I hoped was just a draft media release headed OPPOSITION ANNOUNCES MEDITATION CENTRE FOR SMEs, a crinkled chewing gum wrapper, two Qantas boarding pa.s.ses and a tax receipt for three large flat whites.

Certain coping mechanisms, I concluded after some deliberation, are limited in their reach. People who can depend on a To Do list have desk jobs, ergonomic chairs, stationery, fire drills and dress-down Fridays. To Do lists are unsuited to nomadic insomniacs who are so busy they can scarcely find the time to urinate. For them, a To Do list is less about coping and more about escaping.

'Ah, Miss Stanhope,' said a long-socked man with a familiar voice. It was Bruce, who had stamped my pa.s.sport all those weeks ago. Flipping flippantly through a clipboard like a hospital intern on his morning rounds, Bruce was more vertically challenged than I remembered, which is the great advantage of a job behind a counter with an adjustable stool.

Until then, the only man I'd seen in the flesh wearing long socks had also worn a sporran and said 'och'. Bruce led me into a little room, sat behind a grey laminex table and gestured for me to take a seat. 'How's your holiday been, Miss Stanhope?' He took a pen from the top of a sock.

'Well, to be frank, it hasn't been much of a holiday,' I yawned. I'd been up since half three that morning to catch the first flight out of Launceston to Melbourne. It was upon my arrival there that I had been greeted by Bruce's colleague who led me to the International terminal. 'My time in Australia has been much like that reality TV show, The Amazing Race. Have you seen it?'

'I don't own a television,' said Bruce.

'Essentially, contestants race around the world on a kind of obstacle course and overcome challenges along the way in order to win the grand prize. They get to see some extraordinary sights but spend less than a day in each location. Imagine pa.s.sing by the Taj Mahal on a public bus or approaching the gate of the Forbidden City but not going in.'

Stop talking, Ruby, hushed my head, but I needed Bruce to understand why I hadn't submitted my working visa application form.

'That's what my time in Australia has been like. I've been to Melbourne, the Yarra Valley, Brisbane, Canberra, Perth, Sydney, Adelaide, Cloncurry, Darwin and Launceston, to name a few, but I've been so busy with work that I haven't really had time to experience any of those places.'

'I'm glad you raise your employment status. I saw a photograph of you in the Herald. It listed you as an advisor to the Leader of the Opposition. I see about a thousand new faces a day, but I remembered yours.'

'Thank you, Bruce. You see, I don't like being a drain on society like most tourists, so I got a job. As you might appreciate, things have been a bit hectic so I haven't had time to complete and return this working visa thingy.' I produced the scrunched form from the bottom of my laptop bag. It was in reasonably good nick aside from the coffee mug stain encircling a 'sign here' sticker.

'Miss Stanhope,' said Bruce, with folded arms, 'I clearly recall warning you that your tourist visa did not permit you to seek employment here.'

'I wouldn't say I sought employment here; it sought me.' Pipe down, Ruby!

'Miss Stanhope, you have just admitted to violating the terms of your visa.'

'Actually, Bruce, come to think of it, I forgot to sign the employment contract they sent me.'