Chapter Three of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
CHAPTER THREE
MY office favours have shifted. Best-dressed bitch is no longer my BEF (best employee forever). There's a new best bitch in the building.
We should NOT have employed her.
She walked in with a Sex Pistols t-shirt under her blazer (too young to even remember the best bitch Westwood dying) and one of those pig type nose rings above lipstick that hadn't been reapplied for hours. Coffee underling is terrified of her. He looked like he was going to shit his pants when she asked him where the interview was taking place. Lucky Mr President wasn't in or he would have called security. By which I mean the police because we don't have security guards on buildings because we're New Zealand not the fucking USA.
She walked in with her sex pistols t-shirt and I didn't offer her a coffee because her eyes were already twitchy. We should NOT have employed her. But she was the only one on the list. The stupid job market. Fuck loads of beneficiaries everywhere but no top talent wanting to work for the winning Party. I told the president we should up the salary on offer and he moaned something socialist about not wanting to undervalue the permanent staff. You mean not wanting to finally give the permanent staff a raise after eight years, dick.
Sex pistols t-shirt sits down in the interview room. What’s your name?
-Alix. With a I.
What a fucking Gen Z name.
The first question is why do you want this job. I kid you not, she says she thought it would be a bit of a laugh. It's a campaign comms role. Can't be putting this is a bit of a fucking laugh in all the press releases.
Cut to the chase. I put pen and paper on the desk and tell her to give me a one plus three.
And holy shit, she does it right there and, I am in SHOCK because she has gone with a set of comms lines that, dare I say it, are sharper and slicker than even I could have written. But still, she is wearing a nose ring and there is no grown-up world in which that is acceptable.
I said I'd get back to her. Phoned round the contacts looking for any leads. NONE. Work shy pieces of shit.
At least it will be fun taking her into the Beehive. The Press Sec is going to hate her when she spots the chipped purple nail polish and the scuff marks on the back of her boots. Fuck it, I thought, the potential for winding up some of the Beehive was just enough to tip it in her favour.
So I offered her the job. And I said if you fuck this up I will use that nose ring to hang you from the flagpole outside the Beehive. And she laughed. She didn’t just laugh, she cackled. She thinks I’m the bee’s knees.
And by god she is fucking good.
I put her on black-hatting Minister Knight. Fuckwit still hasn’t made the bathroom story go away and yet he went and got himself on the breakfast show.
He requested we do the black hatting at his second Wellington home, the one on the coast, thinking the views out to the ocean and his wife pulling out the best china for afternoon tea would make it a safe space. Alix had her boots up on one of the fluffy pouffes. What’s the point of those things anyway?
When the black-hatting started I thought he was going to have a stroke. She fired out the questions.
- Minister, what was it that made you so forcibly grab Ms. --- outside the bathroom?
- Minister, why do you think that transwomen shouldn’t be allowed into parliament’s bathrooms?
- Minister, as the Minister for Sport and Recreation do you think trans women should be banned from all sports or just some sports?
He couldn’t catch a fucking breath. By the end of the first fifteen minutes he was almost on the floor. Sweat turning the crisp pressed shirt into a swamp around his neck.
But give her credit, she went back through each question, drilled them, pushed him again, and pushed him again until he was able to pivot and get out of her grasp. Even the wifey seemed impressed.
She’s also a top class slag which I love. Morning routine is drinking a coffee and putting a slab of butter in it because of the Keto or some such shit. Then she flicks through the app to show me which one she fucked the night before. Some would think that much shagging would make her a total fucking liability. But you can only fuck around this much if you know how to be discreet.
And she is fucking smart. If I could get that nose ring out of her face she could be my protege. Instead she looks like she should be at the Greens, but in the era when they were still cool.
FIRST road trip, by which I mean plane trip, is to sort out the by-election. We take a taxi from the airport into Napier.
Alix pulls one of those post-millennial faces that combines awe, bemusement, disgust and indifference all in one pucker.
- His face is everywhere. This is intense.
Every single print and electronic commercial billboard we could find. Got to flood the town before we hit the regulated period and the expense limit kicks in. In the last weeks before the election we will pull back to just the most strategic billboard sites – already booked up – some carefully crafted flyers and carefully chosen media ads. The goldilocks of not too overbearing, not too absent, and right within the permitted regulations.
- A safe pair of hands.
She’s reading the slogan. Different fonts and sizes depending on the scale of the advert. I got a fucking good designer.
- They better be safe hands and not handsy hands, the wandering type.
The look is now disgust. She can’t imagine any man over the age of forty is anything but sleazy. Not the sugar daddy type eh girl? Don’t worry, I tell her, we’ve vetted that real close. His wife is super tight. She’s got him on her google map and can see him at all times. Not a fucking beersie down the gullet without her cross referencing the joint account for the credit card spend and knowing which bar it was in.
WE go straight to the bowling club where the quaffed grey hair and pearls brigade are organising some bunting and banners for the ‘get to know our candidate’ night. Alix is too young to be doing what I’m doing which is searching through their souls with the fear of seeing my future self. Do any of those blazers, blouses or beads look like they could have come from my wardrobe?
They glare out their side eye at Alix so I give her a warm hand on the shoulder. It looks like it’s bring the aberrant niece to work day.
We need to move the chairs into a better gradient. Norbert's going to come in through that door and he's going to take that line to the stage and that is going to make him look like a boss. Except that nothing can really help Norbert look like a boss. But he will look less like a pile of damp hankies by the bed. And we're going to remove that plaque.
- The plaque?
It says Old Boys and you know someone is going to get a photograph of his head with the word boys and that is NOT how we are starting this campaign.
- You won't be able to get it down without a screwdriver.
Yes, that's right Mrs pearls. So go find one of your young men folk to do the job and stop whining in my ear.
- Should I start moving the chairs?
No, Alix, you will not lift a finger or they will never stop treating you like the hired help. Girl, you can handle that amount of double negatives. Do not look gormless. Stride with me.
God I hate these places. Teenage years spent waiting for the uncles and aunts to finish their long pints of stout and thimbles of port. They never played any actual fucking bowls, just droned through their parochial bullshit from dusk until the chairman said they really would have to close the bar or the local bobby would be round for a word. Which they would smirk at because the local bobby was already half way under the table with his penultimate vodka and coke.
But can't get somewhere nice like a golf club or a hotel because that would be too posh. Out of touch with the plebs. A community hall would be so Greens. A marae, ha ha ha, like they would let us in. So we're here amongst the stale smell of too many pale ales soaked into the carpet and the middle-class pretence of giving a shit about the old timers frozen in the portraits hanging on the walls.
- Can I have a drink?
No you can't Alix. We have serious people work to do. We need to find Nobby and see what nonsense he's up to.
Stride with me. Big boss strides.
What is Nobby doing having make-up applied? That must be his wife. Why the fuck is she taking an eyeliner to his face? He's not going on the bloody TV.
- Nice to meet you too, she says, thinking she's my match. - It's to fill in his brows. Making them darker gives a better sense of authority.
Do you want to draw a moustache on too?
The sweetness drops. She wants to throw me out but she knows I'm somebody.
Then she knows who I am.
- Rebecca Howard.
And Alix.
- I’m Caroline. I managed Norbert's campaign at the last general election. We managed a 5% increase in the party and the electorate vote. And that was with Norbert undertaking extensive care duties due to the sickness of...
I don't give a shit. You didn't get him into parliament then and I'm here now.
Nobby has managed to make himself so small he has almost disappeared down the cracks in his chair. This evening is going to be SO tiresome. Have you memorised the speech I sent?
-I have some…, pipes up the wifey.
No you don't. Fifteen minutes till showtime. They're doing pin rewards first then they'll call out your name. PAY ATTENTION. Stride with me Alix. Stride.
- Do we take a seat?
No Alix. We stand at the back looking important. This is the kind of gig of such relevance that there are people standing at the back looking important.
- What's a pin reward?
It is one of the few things the Party does right without my help. It’s a high tea pyramid scheme that the oldies fucking love. Local branch members bring their friends, colleagues, associates, what-evers, into their house, ply them with some mimosas, a bit of prosecco, some Victoria sponge and get them to sign up to support the candidate. They get five points for hosting the high tea but they get twenty points for each of the people at their high tea who go on to have their own high tea. And then they get extra points for how many donations they can persuade people to hand over at the high tea. It's campaign gamification for the grey haired. They're too middle class to be allowed on the pokies so this is how they get their dopamine hit.
- But what do they get with all the points?
Pins. Special, hand crafted in China, pins. The higher the points they’ve achieved the more unique the pin. The PM is well trained in this game so any time she spots one of the high-up pins when she’s at a meet and greet, she’ll give them a special few words of acknowledgement.
- They get pins?
They get pins. They fucking love it. Here’s the first one now. Mrs. Singh. I remember her from two elections ago. Terrible ideas but an absolute powerhouse of local organisation. She spotted a typo in one of the flyers and not only got the print run cancelled and restarted at two in the morning, but she also persuaded the shop manager the typo was his fault.
- Can we get a drink yet?
Absolutely not. You will memorise the names of these people and scrutinise the posture and ability to make eye contact of each and every one of them to work out who will be your loyal subject when it comes to general election time and who you will never answer the phone to.
- They're all women.
That's because men are fucking useless at this stuff. Have you ever seen a male fundraiser?
-I've been in politics for about two minutes.
Think back to your school bake sales. That was at least five minutes ago for you. Ever see the fathers organising that shit? Ever see the uncles getting together to figure out how to raise money for a good cause? The fuckers are quite happy to go after portfolio diversification, raising venture capitalism, anything that comes with a kick back, but a good cause, that's women's work. And you know what the purest good cause is? Politics. The only point of anything.
Oh look, here come Nobby now. Good friendly shoulder taps and hand slaps as he jostles confidently down the aisle. Oh but of course he fumbles and trips on the one step to get onto the fucking stage.
- He looks like a damp squid.
Damp squib.
- Damp squid. Why would a squib be damp? What's a squib?
Okay, it is time for a drink.
Stride with me Alix. We’re going to grab Nobby when this speech finishes and before he starts mingling.
He looks pleased as punch when he comes off the stage, successfully navigating the single step like a toddler drunk on Raro.
I’ll give you the notes for improvement tomorrow. Alix and I have another meeting to go to. Watch what you say during the mingling. Keep it safe, PM’s vision, here for the community. Try and keep your personality out of it. No alcohol and make sure you’re on the game for tomorrow.
Looking less like a drunk toddler and more like a five year old whose parents have forgotten to pick him up from school he says - What’s tomorrow?
We’re going to do a photo op of you white water rafting. You need to wear combat fatigues. Alix says you look…damp. This will let the electorate know you aren’t and remind them of your military background.
- Won’t I be getting into a wetsuit? And then I’ll definitely be damp once I hit the water?
You will wear the fatigues for the briefing. You will look very much not damp. Then you will be in the water and you will be very wet – not damp – for another photo and you will show some chest or whatever else we say works. Do not be TIRESOME. We will pick you up tomorrow. Alix and I have very important other things to do now.
Stride with me Alix. We are going to the pub.
Next morning, cracking hangover but I am PUMPED UP sitting in the driver's seat of the Land Rover. Not one of your suburban wannabe chrome buckets but the real hard metal framed, take me hunting across pheasant filled hills, uncomfortable seats, and bits of roadkill still trapped under the wheel rims.
I pull into Nobby's drive, clutch screeching and engine clunking to a slow halt as I turn it off. Tidy little suburban villa. Comfortable but not too obscene. Like a good boy he is waiting by the window but when he comes out he is only dressed kind of right. He's got the combat pants on but a beige sweater? Couldn't you look a bit more military.
-I'll just grab my AK47 shall I? And in such a fucking jovial tone that he's clearly incapable of sarcasm. A damp squid indeed.
What about a beret? One of those headgear things.
- Nah. His hair's the only good thing he's got going.
Ooh, good to be able to rely on Alix for a good burn. Fuck it. Get in.
- Caroline's coming. She's just got to...
No space. Lots of camera gear in the back. Won't be able to fit another one in.
He looks between me and the door to his house, trying to work out which of us he is more afraid of. Having made his decision he gives Alix a nod, expecting her to get out of the front seat to make way for him. Fuck that girl, you move for no one. Get in the back Nobby and hold on tight. I know there are no speed cameras on the roads I'm taking and it's way too early for highway patrol.
The valley's already warming up by the time we come thundering over the hill and down to the white water rafting outfit.
- Hey Rebecca?
You're making me turn down Morning Report. This better be good.
- Caroline was thinking that it might be best not to overegg the military service too much. With it being less than two year you know?
Caroline is not au fait with what we are trying to achieve for you Norbert Holt. And, Project Tui is relying on this.
- Nobody's told me what Project Tui actually is.
That's because they don't know. Project Tui is highest level classified.
The raft is already laid out next to the river. Neat, military straight paddles and life jackets. I love a bit of order.
- Who's getting in the raft with me? Nobby looks dubiously at Alix.
Not us. The centre's staff are making up the numbers. They'll help you look like you know what you're doing.
- Ah good, it's just that I've never been much of a swimmer. Not very good in the water.
What? I can see you wrestling crocodiles in the swamps during your Australian training.
- All the exercises were here in New Zealand.
Wading through rivers in the Southern Alps helping out Search and Rescue?
- Really more land-based drills.
Just a defunct squib then. Not even a damp one.
Well, look sharp. There's the photographer over there. The journo's meeting us after.
- Just the one? I thought there was going to be more press?
Oh, stop your pouting. It’s a puff piece for a local by-election. You’re not in the Beehive yet. Go look manly down by the raft. Alix, gather some of the rafting staff around Nobby. They look burly and healthy. Just make sure they look like ex-military buddies rather than some kind of secret ops militia. Take their shades off them.
Lighting's good now the sun's peaked over the ridge. I know my shit. Glare off the rapids is going to fuck with the shadows and contrasts but this is one of the few photographers at the Hawkes Bay News who's competent. He knows what he’s doing. Good call getting Nobby to remove his hands from his eyes as he looks noble in his assessment of the river. Alix is getting her boots muddy but she doesn't care because she looks like she's about to get the phone number or the insta dm or the TikTok whatever of the younger burly one.
Oh god and now here's Nobby failing to get into his wetsuit. It is not that HARD. Just shoogle a bit. Tuck it under for fucks sake. Do not make me get off my throne in the Land Rover. Thank god Alix has distracted the photographer and he's not getting any of this. It is not that HARD. Don't forget the life jacket you knob end.
Alix, come sit with me. Who knows how long this testosterone train is going to be in the river. I told them just enough to get some action shots but they look like...
- Is he meant to be up at that angle?
What the fuck? They've only just pushed out from the bank and Nobby's got the paddle half pivoting him out the raft.
- Surely he just needs to sit down.
It's alright. The big burly one looks like he'll be able reach him.
- Oh shit.
How the fuck did he flip out the raft?
- Where is he? Is he under the water?
Where the fuck is he?