A gracious Act candidate struggles to keep it together: the first in an unusual election campaign series of five short stories which imagine party candidates
The dog was yapping at his feet and Paul looked harassed as he came into the kitchen carrying teacups and a rubber chicken. The party had started at 11am, and despite the forecast warning of an atmospheric river, a phrase the newsreaders seemed to relish, I could hear a lot of people gathered in Janeen and Paul's large entertaining space. It was a room that had been featured in at least two home design magazines in the past year.
"Don't look out the window behind you," said Paul.
I turned and looked. The window was mostly very clean until it became very greasy, and smudged, like a small child had pressed their hands and face up against the glass and screamed.
"Don't look! Janeen will hit the roof," he said.
"No one will notice, Paul. We've come for the baby reveal, not the view."
"Please tell Janeen that, and happy Election day. Let it not rain on either of our parades."
Put-upon Paul, that's what my mother had called my cousin's husband, but I always thought he'd be rather effective as a lieutenant. We both looked out the window for a moment. The garden beyond was immaculate like Janeen, but the clouds above were dark and gathering weight.
"Coo-coo has taken to licking the window. Janeen thinks it's for the salts. I don't know. Dogs. Have this. It's French."
Paul thrust a teacup of bubbly into my hand.
"Are we hiding our drinking now?"
"Christ, yes! But no, it's part of the party theme." He leaned too close as he pointed beyond the hedge of rhododendrons on their boundary. "You see that tree? Janeen wants it cut down. Can you help with that? Once you're in?"
A Norfolk pine rose up on the near horizon, sculptural, huge. Beside me, Paul smelt leatherish and expensive.
"So much red tape... you know." He lowered his voice, as if imparting some intimate information. "It's not even native."
Like most of us, Paul was attracted to power. It was why he was with my cousin and had always flirted with me. I didn't mind it. I didn't have time for anything else.
"Things are going to change." I smiled at him, a small bone.
He put his cup forward for a congratulatory clink and I sipped to stop myself from saying more. Know when to hold 'em. For a number of weeks there'd been the feeling that the barometer was shifting. People were ready for something more rational, realistic, cohesive. They were tired of what had been. What had been was tired. I offered a sensible alternative.
The doorbell rang and the dog began to yap again. Paul startled away from me. I could hear Janeen's heels click to the front door, her high-pitched, kissing welcome, then Aunty Marg's bright, clear vowels. The undisciplined dog ran around the kitchen, yapping and jumping. Paul made admonishing sounds then offered it the rubber chicken as reward. The dog mauled the chicken, which emitted a loud, annoying squeak.
What on earth governs a dog's mind? I learned how couriers must feel while I was on my rounds of the suburbs. People and their bloody dogs. Most of them were small or those re-homed greyhounds, taking a dump in a corner and slinking away before anyone caught them.
Paul gave the dog a light tap with his foot, then pushed it towards the door but the dog just stood there chewing and squeaking. There was no killer in Paul and the dog knew it.
Aunty Marg entered the room.
"Bri, darling! Paul, stop that dog squeaking, would you?"
Marg widened her eyes at me as Paul took the dog by the collar and pulled it toward the garden door. She did not approve of pets or passive men.
She kissed my cheek, then bent towards me, conspiratorial. "How are we?"
"Great. You know..." I waved my hand.
"It's natural to be nervous. But we're from a line of absolute fighters, us van der Volken women. Your mother would be so proud. I wish she were here to see you. I don't think this silly forecast will affect voter turn-out. The news is being overly dramatic." Aunty Marg had a brutal positivity.
"I'm not nervous," I said.
"Everyone I know has already voted for you anyway," said Marg. "Why wait until Election day? Organise yourself and get in early!"
"Margaret," Paul handed her a cup of the French. "No election talk today, that's the rules. Right Briony?"
"To be honest I'm quite pleased to have the focus off me for a few hours."
I wondered for a moment if what I said was true. A politician never clocks off, but sometimes she stops and surveys the field. I'd done what I could to show people a better way forward. Efficient governance, the preservation of freedom, opportunities for all individuals no matter their background—it was in the hands of the voters now. Today was judgment day.
My wine was finished already. And here was Paul, topping it up. I acquiesced.
"Why not flutes?" said Marg inspecting her cup.
"Just doing what I'm told, Marg," said Paul.
"Sometimes it's best not to follow orders," said Marg.
Paul shrugged. "The booze was part of a deal Janeen arranged, this is entirely free. You serve it in these cups and it's not Champagne because Champagne is what people in Epsom would serve. Isn't it darling?"
Janeen's kitten heels skittered over the parquet towards us.
"Taking words out of my mouth. Bri, sweetie. So pleased you could come." She kissed my cheek.
She was wearing a form hugging dress. Her stomach was enormous but her legs still looked amazing, faun-like. She did not inherit the van der Volken legs, which were strong and thick and allowed a person to canvass kilometres of suburban streets.
"Cute cups." I wobbled mine at Janeen even though I hated drinking bubbly out of anything other than a flute.
"Oh, do you like? It's part of the look. See, they've got yellow, blue and pink flowers." Janeen shrugged. "We can keep them after."
"Oh, you young people, so clever with your social marketing, I know nothing." Aunty Marg draped her arm around me. She knew everything, but pretended not to. "Five out of seven of the tennis ladies were voting for you, most of book club, and Jonathan's golfing buddies."
"Mummy! We said, no politics today. It's the one day in three years where we don't have to think about it." Janeen sighed.
"Mark my words, one day she'll be PM," said Marg.
"Bri, you look good, not as tired as last time I saw you," said Janeen. "Did you...?"
She gestured at my forehead, where the van der Volken line made its first appearance six months ago. I ignored her backhander.
She pushed on. "He's a miracle worker. I mean..." Janeen drew an invisible circle around her own smooth face with her index finger. "You have noooo idea how much sleep you lose when you're pregnant. You've got to retard the lines and we're the perfect age to—Paul, how much have you had already?" She batted Paul's hand as he refilled his cup.
Janeen only ever professed support for me, but the competitive pink ribbon woven through our lives since childhood had pulled tighter since I announced I was running in our electorate, more so since the polls had started rising. Last month a Herald columnist tipped her hat at me for a future party leader, "the only viable PM Act's had at the helm since Rodney Hide".
The dog was back, now running between the kitchen island and the door, tossing the rubber chicken back and forward in a death shake.
"By the way," she looked at me, oddly sheepish. "This whole thing was Regan's idea."
Regan was Janeen's childhood friend. A woman of means who'd never worked a day in her life.
"The reveal?" I said.
"She's very creative, if you ever felt you needed a different approach on your social. She's already voted for you of course."
"I'll talk to her."
I definitely would not use Regan for anything. I'd seen her in bathrooms at parties.
Fatigue flitted briefly across Janeen's face.
"How are you feeling?" I said.
She transformed her face into a bright smile. There really was no lining around her eyes. "Great!—Jesus, Paul! Coo-coo's been at the window again. You've got to take her to the vet on Monday. Can you quickly wipe it? It's disgusting." She turned back to me. "Something's wrong with the dog."
"I heard."
Paul frowned as if he'd just noticed the window. "Dear God. Just get started while I deal with this."
"Thank you darling." Janeen took my arm. "Right, let's go do this. Come on, Mummy."
Janeen walked her mother and me through the large house to the second of two large living rooms. This one was only ever used for parties. The last time I'd been in it was when Janeen and Paul hosted a very successful candidate's fundraiser for me. The room was a large light space with plants suspended from hanging pots and rising out of enormous earthernware planters in one corner. A baby grand stood in another, although neither Janeen nor Paul played.
Sitting on sofas and standing around was a party of about fifty men and women, all drinking from fine china with yellow, blue and pink flowers, eating and chatting. Two young woman were moving around the room with trays of food.
It took me a moment to see the naked man. He was lying on a coffee table in the middle of the room draped in a small—what? Apron? Whatever it was it only just covered the bulge beneath it. His body was a chiselled, sculpted form, denuded of hair apart from his head. I put him at 25 years old at most. And he was just lying there, very still.
I pointed towards the man and also tried not to look at him. "What's—"
A woman wearing very high heels rushed up to me and shrieked in my face. "Aaaahhh! Briony, I voted for you! You're going to rule!"
Regan's arm was loaded with tote bags and her pupils were dilated.
"Isn't this great! Do you like the activity?" She pointed at the naked man. "People like things to do!"
There could not be a picture of me next to a naked 25-year-old. Not today, not any other day.
I leaned over to Aunty Marg. "Why is there a—"
"Oh god, the pots," said Marg quietly.
A toddler, fed up with being held in his mother's arms had been put down and was now moving around the room like a merry skittle.
Janeen refused eye contact as she handed her cup to me. "Do you mind? I need to..." She shouted loudly over the clatter of the party. "Attention, everyone!"
The people in the room slowly stopped talking and turned to look at Janeen. Some of them looked at me beside her. A few smiled. I looked as far away from the naked man as I could. I felt the ribbon pull tighter around my neck.
Aunt Margaret whispered quietly. "He's for drawing."
"It's so wonderful to have you all gathered at our house for our gender reveal," said Janeen. "Especially to have my mother and my best friend Regan, who organised everything. And my cousin, the brilliant Briony van der Volken, who you all know is not only a leading politician with great ideas to make our country the best it can be, but who is also like a sister to me and my husband. Paul?—Paul!"
Paul arrived slightly breathless and squeezed in beside Janeen and I. He held the rubber chicken and a cleaning rag in one hand, china cup in the other. He kissed Janeen's cheek. The room cheered.
"Regan is handing out the tote bags in which you'll find some treats all sourced from local suppliers, including a gender popper."
Regan raised her voice as she moved between people, handing out bags.
"Take one, but don't touch the popper yet, or the model!"
The toddler had moved over to the coffee table and was banging the wood, focused on the drumming sound his hands were making, completely ignoring the nude model lying before him.
Janeen called out, to bring the room to attention again, and everyone apart from the toddler obeyed.
"We'll have time to draw our model after."
A whoop went up amongst the party.
"Yes, three cheers for James, isn't he amazing. So incredibly still and photogenic...and thanks to Reegs for that amazing idea, but first—Paul and I are going to reveal our baby's gender. The reason we've all gathered here today!"
What I'd tried to do throughout my campaign was stand up for rationality, for a clear path ahead. I believed in the inherent dignity of the individual.
"Sometimes it seems like there's so much doom and gloom in the world. But I know—" Janeen looked at me, "All that is about to change tonight."
Aunty Marg touched my elbow.
I tried to stand for competence, public private partnership, the end of the ethno-state, market forces, common sense.
"It's an act of hope to bring a baby into the world."
The toddler moved around the table using the edges to balance, its face concentrated with effort. Politics is chaotic. I wanted to be a cohesive line through it all.
"And I know it's not something to be taken for granted. Paul and I have worked so hard towards this moment."
There was one elderly man on my rounds who talked to me for a few minutes, mostly about the weather. He called me Elsie. He held my hand and thanked me for coming to visit him. He said, Elsie, have you seen the weather forecast? My assistant gave him a flyer and said, please vote for Briony if you want to restore your rights in New Zealand, and he said, that's a lovely pink jacket, Elsie.
"And we want to thank each and every one of you for your support." Janeen's eyes were glassy with emotion.
The toddler having now got hold of the corner of the nude model's apron, tugged with a surprising agility. The apron slid off the model, revealing his penis and a pink flower drawn just above it. The model didn't move, didn't attempt to get his apron back. He was now entirely naked and the toddler was sitting on the floor chewing on the corner of the apron. The party was laughing. Someone shouted, "It's a girl!"
Sometimes it just took that, a pink jacket, to gain a vote. I'd done the work. I'd campaigned so hard. I'd worked so hard and there was absolutely no denying that I wanted to win.
"Oh, Henry!" The mother was scooping up the toddler and the apron in her arms. "Sorry, everyone. He's teething."
I closed my eyes. If there was a photo with a penis and I happened to be in it, no one would be able to say that I was staring.
"Baby reveal!" shouted Regan.
The poppers started to go off, bang bang bang. The toddler started to scream. Janeen was shouting, "What? Not yet!"
Even with my eyes closed I had a perfect view of the room— tiny pink streamers drifting down through the air, falling on heads, into cups and expensive potplants, over the body of the naked life model. Janeen, pissed that her surprise reveal had been ripped from her, trying to look like she was having as much fun as Regan. The dog, excited by the noise, barking back at the crowd. I could feel a heat growing around me. Then Paul was in my ear, pulled along by the madness, whispering, "You're the right kind of sinner to relieve my inner fantasy."
Somewhere in all this, I looked for the hand, the corrective force. I stood there quietly with my eyes closed, waiting for it to reach down and pluck me up and put me in my rightful, self-determined place representing the people of this country. Upholding the inherent dignity of the people of this—
A squeak right beside me forced my eyes open.
Paul was holding the rubber chicken in the air, slowly squeezing it in triumph.
I tried so hard to see the road ahead. I planned and aimed for my goals. But some days I felt that effort, and although like Aunty Marg I kept a positive attitude at all times, today I had to admit, I was tired.
I took the rag out of Paul's hand but left him with the chicken. I turned and walked out of the room, back down the very long, wide hallway to the kitchen where I closed the door. The party became a din I could ignore.
Out the window I saw that the clouds would burst very soon. In a few minutes it would start to rain, and it would rain for the rest of the day and into tomorrow and the next day; and it would be yet another deluge of water that would run through some people's homes, ruining them for good, while other people's homes would be left untouched.
I ran the rag under the hot tap, hot enough so that it began to burn my hand, then I got down on my knees by the smudged window and started to clean.
