CHAPTER THREE

DAY FOUR – SUNDAY

‘Remind me why we’re here, again?’

‘You know why,’ sighed Miles Fisher, the prime minister’s steadfast adviser, a little frustrated with the impatient pacing of his boss.

‘Do we really need them?’ Gerrard walked to the other end of the overstated corporate lobby, with sweeping views over Sydney harbour, the enormous sails from the racing yachts cutting through the breeze. ‘Is that a Whiteley, do you reckon?’ Gerrard was now distracted by a painting by the floor to ceiling window.

‘It’s called Balcony 2 and I believe he did it around 1975.’

‘It’s crap,’ Gerrard turned away. ‘He’s so overrated.’

An elegant woman entered through a large silent door and sat at an open desk with only a telephone on the glass top. ‘They won’t be long, Prime Minister.’

‘What’s the hold up? I was advised this was supposed to be a 10 am meeting and now it’s ten past. I have things to do.’

The woman smiled, ‘They won’t be long. Would you like a drink? There is water in the boardroom, a tea perhaps?’

‘If they aren’t ready for me by ten fifteen, we are out of here.’

The woman gave a calm toothy smile in response, saying nothing and referring to a few pieces of paper in front of her.

‘Boss, they won’t be long, this is important, so let’s just stay calm,’ placated Miles.

‘I am calm. I just don’t like these people. Who the hell do these morons think they are?’

‘They run Australia, that’s who they are.’

‘I run Australia you dickhead, not some pampered, precious, privileged group of business owners,’ Gerrard spat the words.

‘Stay calm boss and choke them with cream.’

‘I am calm, Miles, for chrissakes,’ Gerrard quietly snarled.

The telephone softly hummed, and the woman immediately answered, softly responding before replacing the handpiece. She then stood and walked to Gerrard. ‘The board will see you now, Prime Minister.’ She turned to lead him through the access to the boardroom.

‘More like a cabal than a board,’ sneered Gerrard to Fisher. ‘I’ll see you soon, young man.’

‘Cream, boss, choke them with cream.’

Gerrard tailed the woman as she opened another nearby door and announced him to the room. No-one stood to greet him as Gerrard waited by the door surveying what was before him. Twelve chairs were occupied with a solitary one left empty and alone on one side of the enormous heavy timber table. Gerrard scoffed silently to himself as he took the seat, leaned back confidently in his chair and waited for someone to speak. He perused those opposite and the image of a bottle of cream came to mind as he smiled.

‘Prime Minister, thank you for coming to see us,’ Kerry Jameson softly said.

‘Pardon?’ Gerrard decided he should take control before shoving handfuls of cream down resisting throats. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Gerrard cupped his ear.

The frail owner of five casinos cleared his throat with a phlegmy cough and projected, ‘Prime Minister, thank you for coming to see us.’

‘No problem, how can I help?’

‘You know our group and our interests, so we don’t need your help, rather, we would like to help you get re-elected.’

‘That’s very kind of you, I appreciate it.’ Gerrard smiled like a toothy used car salesman welcoming a new client onto the lot.

Tony Hancock, a friend and confidante of the prime minister chipped in. ‘Andrew, we just want to get confirmation directly from you today that a number of our issues will be handled by your government during the next term of parliament.’

‘Oh, hello Tony,’ Gerrard squinted through an overstated grimace. ‘I didn’t see you there squirrelled away in the dark, it’s a long way down to the end and my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.’ Gerrard smiled and then turned away. ‘I must say, I’m not very happy with the editorials your mob have been running since Friday. I hope they’re not your words.’

Hancock sat back in his chair preferring not to engage his friend.

‘Prime Minister, we are concerned about a number of policies you have been promoting in the media over the last few years and we would like reassurances.’ Felicity Osman, the respected finance sector executive joined the conversation.

Gerrard begrudgingly turned to look at Osman, pursed his lips as if sucking on a lemon and ran his tongue over his front teeth. ‘What policies might they be?’

‘Well for one, the refusal of your government to recognise coal seam gas exploration as a legitimate resource investment.’

‘Fracking?’ Gerrard sat forward leaning on his elbows on the table. ‘You want a change in the government’s resources policy to allow fracking in Australia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Breaching every promise and policy we have developed over the years to reduce atmospheric carbon. Ignoring all our international obligations.’

‘Yes,’ repeated Osman, sternly.

‘Like a good fracking, do you?’ Gerrard stared at Osman, paused for a moment, fighting the need to add another comment, slightly nodding his head. ‘What else?’

‘We want you to loosen access to international workers.’ The familiar voice of property guru Frank Lowsonne brought a smile to Gerrard’s face.

‘Good morning, Frank,’ Gerrard nodded. ‘Expensive penalty rates worrying you, are they?’

‘It’s not me, Prime Minister, the labour market needs competition.’

‘Nothing to do with hospitality workers or casinos then?’ Gerrard sassed them, seeming to have misplaced his cream bottle. ‘Anything else?’

‘We want a repeal of the Native Title Act,’ Allan Connell, the mining magnate offered. ‘It’s too costly as it currently stands, and we have already paid way too much for rights to dig. The compliance requirements and the need to employ Aboriginals are extreme. This new Act is killing us internationally.’

‘So, you think it’s fair to rip off our Indigenous brothers and sisters?’

‘You suddenly get a heart, Andrew?’ snapped Connell.

Gerrard looked down the table with scorn. ‘Is that it?’ There was silence. ‘So, if I agree to do what you have asked then you will support the government?’

‘Pretty much,’ Osman responded.

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘What?’ Jameson asked, cupping his ear. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said … what’s in it for me?’ Gerrard barked turning to Jameson, then added quietly. ‘You deaf bastard.’

‘Good media, campaign funds, plus we can provide you people on the ground, and any additional resources you may need,’ Hancock smiled as he listed off the benefits.

‘I didn’t say what’s in it for us, Tony boy, that goes without saying. I said, what’s in it for me?’ Gerrard glanced at Jameson, the leader of the group. ‘I want to know what you are prepared to do for me if I do what you want?’

‘What do you need?’ Jameson hoarsely whispered, his voice beginning to strain.

‘No, that’s not what I asked.’ Gerrard had no cream left. ‘I want to know what you will do for me?’ Their silence was instructive to Gerrard. The collective tension from the wealthiest, most influential, independent business owners in the nation was palpable as some sat quietly while others fidgeted avoiding engagement.

Gerrard let his request linger for a moment then repeated his demand a little louder. ‘What’s in it for me, my friends?’ Each owner remained silent, preferring not to move nor respond to each other, apparently knowing Jameson would speak on their behalf.

Jameson coughed a wheeze like a smoker before saying, ‘We will consider your request and let you know later today.’

Gerrard said nothing as he gawked at the old man, a slight smirk moving his lips. Finally, he said, ‘You think I’m going to let a bunch of overstated nobodies who have abused their privileged position in Australia to grow obnoxious wealth, tell me, your prime minister for over seventeen years, what he can and can’t do?’ The leader stood and politely pushed his chair back into the table and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the high back. ‘You folks are crazy brave to think you can seduce me to your will like that. You want action on your policies? Well then, you’ll just have to do what everyone else in this country does, and that’s grovel at my office – not my house in Canberra anymore, but my office across the bridge. You can stick your sad little offer up your collective arse and get behind my re-election campaign if you know what’s good for you.’ Gerrard began to walk to the door. ‘Hancock knows how things work with me, so I’d suggest you listen to him. And I can tell you this …’ he stopped and turned, pointing back at the group. ‘Things don’t work with me when I have to wait ten fucking minutes for an audience with you pompous pricks.’ He walked through the double door and slammed it as hard as he could, rattling its partner.

‘So that went well?’ suggested Miles, smiling as he jumped up to meet the striding Gerrard.

‘The dairy is fucking closed today.’

‘Whenever self-interest is running in a political race, always back it, because you know it’s trying its hardest,’ Tony Hancock finally said to the quiet group after the door stopped rattling.

‘What’s his self-interest?’ Felicity Osman asked.

‘Winning another term, then retiring to Paris.’

‘So, if we get him elected and buy him an apartment in Paris, he will do what we want?’ Lowsonne asked.

‘No,’ Hancock sceptically replied. ‘We just offended him, and he has no reason to do us any favours. Quite the opposite, I’d reckon.’

‘So maybe we should back the other side. Surely, they will finally run a strong campaign,’ suggested Kerry Jameson, as he struggled to stand. ‘Let’s get rid of the prick once and for all and go to work on Stanley. It’s time for his mob to be back in government anyway.’

‘Agreed,’ said Lowsonne.

‘What’s the first step?’ Osman asked.

‘I’ll initiate media support and perhaps Kerry can contact Wolff?’ Hancock asked.

‘Sounds like a plan, let’s hook up in a few days after the Cup on Tuesday, I’ll be in Melbourne trying to win a few dollars.’ Jameson began shuffling off to his office. ‘Have a great day everyone, sorry it didn’t turn out as we expected – and speaking of the races, put some money on the English stayer, Gorgeous Girl, she’ll win by a length.’

Felicity Osman hung back to talk with Hancock as the others began strolling out chatting among themselves about tips and plans for their Melbourne Cup holiday.

‘I’m not sure that went very well at all. Gerrard seems to be way too cocky for my liking,’ Osman suggested. ‘I’d have thought he’d have been dead keen to listen to our policy plans.’

Hancock smiled and rubbed a hand against his face, ‘Welcome to the world of Andrew Gerrard, prime minister extraordinaire.’

‘Will he win?’

‘He should, but I don’t think he’ll stay for the entire term. He is sixty-seven and I reckon he’ll pull the pin early, so it may not matter who actually wins, we get what we want no matter the result.’

‘It’s way better for us to back the winner, I would have thought,’ Osman said as she slowly made her way from the room.

‘One of my journalists discovered his wife left for Switzerland the other day and is not due back until the new year.’ Hancock slowly walked out with her. ‘It may mean nothing, but knowing those two, as I do very well, then something is going down. So, if we back Stanley and he loses then it may not make any difference if Gerrard retires soon after the election.’

‘I didn’t realise politics was this hard.’

‘Trust me, Felicity, politics is easy. It’s only ever about numbers and simple arithmetic.’ Hancock stepped back and let Osman walk through the door. ‘Whoever has the numbers has the power. We just strip Gerrard’s numbers off him and we get what we want?’

Anita was at her desk in Canberra filing her first campaign story when her phone buzzed. ‘Hello, this is Anita.’

‘Anita, this is Tony Hancock, have I caught you at a bad time?’

‘Mr Hancock, hi. Sorry—’ Anita startled, dropped her phone as she sat upright and quickly picked it up again. ‘It’s fine, I was just filing a story.’

‘You work way too hard,’ Hancock said politely. ‘Say listen, I just wanted to say how much I thought your Gerrard piece the other day developed into a tremendous conspiracy. I must say though, I remain a little sceptical about the notion a prime minister was about to rip off the government with some secret deal with the president of Indonesia, but I liked it.

‘Are you ever going to run it?’

‘Nope. But this leads me to why I called. I had a chat to Pete Cleaver just a few minutes ago, and he told me you are a little annoyed by the campaign role I want you to do.’

‘Mr Hancock, I’ll do whatever I’m asked to do – I just thought it was a waste of resources.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Hancock waited for just a moment. ‘Look, the media group are going to support Stanley. We’re going to give him the full five-star treatment and promote him to win government. So, this becomes a vital strategy of the group for you to lead. I want you to begin running the editorial on his campaign.’

Anita couldn’t speak.

‘I want you flying with him and staying at his hotel, so I’ve arranged that with his team. They will bill me directly. Just make sure you also get good background and profile pieces from the campaign. He’s only been opposition leader for a few days and Australians are never going to elect a stranger. So, make sure you bring him into the homes of voters for me. Can you do that for me?’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You’ll be okay, Anita; just do the job I want you to do. Write strong editorials and get the human-interest pieces that will sell Stanley’s team. If he wins, we can then talk about you moving up from the Canberra bureau to Sydney, and maybe into television.’

Anita’s hand was shaking as she cupped her mouth. She was a little startled, mixed with the enthusiasm of the responsibility she was being handed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hancock.’

‘Don’t underestimate how much value you provide us, Anita, just do this job well for me, please. Will you do that?’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘I want more than your best, young lady. Call me directly if you need anything.’

Hancock clicked off and Anita dropped her phone on her desk, then knowing she was alone jumped up excitedly screaming as loud as she could. Her first instinct was to call Cleave, but she had someone more important to speak to.

‘Hi Barton, guess what?’ Anita could not control her excitement.

‘What gorgeous?’

‘I’m travelling with Stanley, and no doubt you, for the campaign. I’ve been assigned to promote the hell out of your lot and get you elected.’

‘I’d heard on the grapevine Hancock was going to support us,’ chortled Messenger. ‘That’s great, we can see more of each other.’

‘This is the start of something big, Barton Messenger, for you, and for me. This is crazy.’

‘I always thought you would be recognised for your hard work. I suppose we can catch up when I link up with the leader.’

‘Hancock told me if I get you elected then I could get promoted to television.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘You don’t sound terribly convincing.’

‘Melbourne or Sydney?’ asked Messenger, a little nervous about what such a promotion might mean.

‘Way too early to say. Hey, don’t worry, we’ll work our way through it. You’ll be a heartbeat away from being prime minister by the time I make the move.’

‘I had better be on my best behaviour then.’

Anita smiled as she curled a strand of hair. ‘It’s never personal the things I write about you, Bart, you know that don’t you? It’s just politics.’