Campaign Ruby by Jessica Rudd Read Free Book Online Page B

bits and pieces?’
    â€˜Well, when there’s an issue that is dear to the industry, I represent its viewpoint.’
    â€˜So you’re their lobbyist?’
    â€˜Not exactly,’ she said impatiently. ‘Tell me about you, Ruby. What do you do?’
    â€˜I’m an astronaut.’
    â€˜Aviation, then?’
    â€˜No, that was a joke.’
    She cocked her head to one side and scrambled for the abort button. ‘It was lovely meeting you, Ruby.’
    â€˜And you, Christine.’ One down, seventy to go. I went back to a fresh and zesty sauvignon blanc, hoping it might wake me up a bit, but the hum of dull conversation lulled me. My body slumped against the cushioned bar.
    â€˜Ruby?’ said Luke, rescuing me from an imminent bout of narcolepsy.
    I smiled, trying to wake myself up.
    â€˜What brings you here?’ He loosened his tie, which reminded me of a banana tree on account of its yellow, brown and green stripes. It was a poor match for his illfitting, three-button charcoal suit. Come to think of it, banana trees make a poor match for most things. I wanted to flip it over and note down the maker. Nut-brown socks didn’t inspire hope, especially when tucked into scuffed black shoes with plastic-tipped nylon laces: the kind I’d worn at school. Aside from that, he was pleasant to look at. Kind green eyes, a square jaw, albeit in need of a razor, like his overgrown buzz cut.
    â€˜My aunt’s dog went into labour this afternoon just as I arrived. She and her partner were down to go to this function, so they asked me to go on their behalf.’
    â€˜I meant, what are you doing in Australia?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m pinot-hunting through the Yarra Valley.’ It sounded so much better than the long version.
    â€˜So you’re in the wine business as well as an investment banker?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘three days ago I was an investment banker— in emerging markets, actually—and I was made redundant. Economically speaking, things are a bit grim. I got riotously drunk on an incredible Toolangi pinot noir—’
    â€˜Good choice,’ he interrupted.
    â€˜I know,’ I said, ‘and, in the midst of my inebriation, booked myself a ticket to Melbourne. My aunt and her partner have a place in Warburton. So here I am.’
    â€˜So all in all, a sizable couple of days.’ Luke sipped his wine, then gestured towards a man in the corner. ‘That’s my guy.’
    Luke hadn’t exactly struck me as gay, what with the banana tree. I took a closer look at his partner. He occupied visual space as if he was spotlit. It wasn’t that he was attractive: average height, thin grey hair, an ecru complexion. He wouldn’t have looked out of place at an auditors’ convention, and yet there was something magnetic about him. He was the guy you listened to at a dinner party or who caught your eye at a gallery.
    Benedict Jones took to a stage made of upturned wine crates and tapped his glass with the end of a fork. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘we’re here tonight to show our support for Max Masters.’
    People clapped politely.
    â€˜Max is a great friend of ours. A proud Melbournian. Max has been engaged in this community and others all over Australia for most of his working life. He has been a military man, a small-business owner and a mayor, and now he’s in Canberra working in some building with a flag on top.’ People laughed.
    â€˜What many of you probably don’t know is that he was once a grape-picker, but in the Barossa, which is probably where he went wrong.
    â€˜Unlike most pickers, Max isn’t just here for the harvest; he’s here when it’s tough too. After the bushfire season when we lost some of our vines, Max was the guy who’d call every week to offer his help. Come to think of it, he’s not just a friend of the wine industry; he’s a friend of all Australian