The Art of Persuasion - Chapter 1

Anne Elliot saw the moment her boss decided to go off script. His eyes glazed over as he shifted his gaze away from the teleprompter; Anne could almost hear his internal monologue.

The people love me for being real. They want authenticity, not canned politician’s crap.

Her fingers curled into a fist. It was a far cry from the rallies of her uni days, when she had cheered for inclusive policy. Shaking herself back to the present, Anne heard Max start to freewheel in response to Pete Evans’ question. A hard-nosed journalist from the National Herald, Pete knew exactly what kind of answer he’d get. This was not going to end well.

“It’s a good question, Pete. Australians are being crushed under cost-of-living pressures, families struggling to make ends meet, just like mine once did.” Max paused for effect. “And let’s be honest, the government’s lax immigration policies are driving this crisis. People want an end to the open door.” He stared down the camera, smoothing his grey hair.

Anne’s stomach tightened. Here we go.

“Is that really the whole story?” a voice piped up from the back. “What about wage growth?” The room buzzed, and Max shot a glare towards the anonymous voice.

“Wage growth is just a distraction. Fewer people means less demand, simple.” He banged the lectern. “I’ve lost count of how many locals have been outbid on houses by foreign buyers.”

Next to her, Anne felt her colleague Emily stiffen. The carefully written speech Emily had laboured over was a distant memory. Anne held her breath praying that Max wouldn’t start talking about the Diggers. People might valourise Australia’s WW1 soldiers, but the constant harping on about them doesn’t work. 

No power on earth could stop Max on his favourite topic.

Anne pushed her brown hair out her eyes, huffing slightly. The next question from the journos could be a risky one. This is a total circus, and I have signed up to be the ringleader. There was a sense of mounting excitement in the press pool. Vague unease pushed its way up into her throat. She had seen whispers of ‘new faces in the races’ on Twitter (she refused to call it X) yesterday and the thought gnawed at her. The journalists leaned forward as one, anticipating a controversy.

Relief washed over her when a friendly journo from the Daily Tribune shot up a hand.

“So, you’ll defend Aussies even if the woke crowd shouts you down?”

Ugh. Tick ‘woke’ off your presser bingo card.

Max noticeably straightened, grinning at the assembled pool. That kind of question was like a gift to him. “That’s Max Parker.” Max winked at the cluster of journalists, his blue eyes sparkling. He was delighted by the chance to trot out the slogan. 

Every. Single. Time.

But Benjy wasn’t done yet. Licking his lips with anticipation, he launched his next question.

“Rumour is Carl Harrison’s planning a tilt for your seat. Could be a tough competitor, people say he’d be a hell of an MP.” 

Anne’s heart sank. Fuck. 

“If he was going to run, he would have already announced. Besides, the people are screaming for solutions, not for ex-officers with delusions of grandeur.” Max waved his hand dismissively, his confidence unwavering.

Anne felt her breath catch in her chest. Slating former Defence personnel hardly jived with Max’s obsessive focus on the ANZACs. God forbid I point that out. 

Benjy pressed on, “So you don’t think Carl would be a challenge if he entered?”

One disdainful sniff comprised Max’s entire response. Thankfully, the presser was running out of time, before Max could do any more damage. He had just enough time for a few extra one-liners about understanding real people and then the thing was blessedly over. Coming off the stage, Max was jubilant. He checked his appearance using his phone in selfie mode. Preening, he straightened his blue striped tie and tutted in approval. Then he turned to Anne anticipating her congratulations. 

“Did you see their responses? They know I’m right, even if they can’t say it. Everyone wants to see real Aussies protected. I’ve got no problem with new Aussies, but they need to wait their turn like the rest of us. Some people have said I am a defender of Australian culture. All nonsense of course, but I do what I can.”

Anne pasted on a smile. Most of the journalists have drifted away for another press conference but a handful remained, including bloody Pete Evans. Anne could feel his eyes boring a hole into her back. Nothing would do but total support.

“Brilliant as always Max. They lapped it up.” Internally she shuddered. Sometimes the residue of her days stuck to her like grease, no matter how much she tried to wash it away. Of course, he had warned her about this. Anne shook her head briskly, refusing to indulge in those memories.  

“Couse, they did. Honesty is what’s always been missing from politics. I tell you, whenever I go out on the trail, everyone is always so impressed how I speak truth to power.” Max smiled, his impossibly white teeth dazzling. His posture was ramrod straight and self-satisfaction radiated from him. 

Anne could just about muster an enthusiastic nod. Honesty? More like posturing from a stuffed shirt! How could he not see the damage he was doing? But her lukewarm response seemed to do for Max, who smiled approvingly.

“Well, I need to drain the lizard and then I will head back to HQ. See you there luv.” With this, Max strode towards the men’s room without a backwards glance.

Sensing that the excitement was over, the remaining journalists began to ebb away. Eventually only Pete Evans remained. A look crossed his face, and he started to move towards her. Anne took the opportunity to pull out her phone, making a show of seeing the time. Nodding briskly in Pete’s direction, she pushed open the walnut doors that encased the press room. 

She strode down the white tiled floors of the outer wing of Parliament House, heading straight for the door. By the time she got outside, her car was waiting, a welcome relief. In a campaign like this, it was a rare privilege to have one to herself. Opening the door, she slipped into the backseat and leaned heavily back into the stiff seat. Her driver, a veteran of the campaign trail, was silent without needing to be asked. Anne felt her heartrate slow as the car proceeded calmly down Constitution Avenue. How on earth did I get here? As the car rocked gently, Anne’s thoughts drifted back to the day she had interviewed to be Max’s campaign manager four years ago. 

Even then, his office was shabby, all beige walls and worn carpet, Australian flags covering every available surface. It was Australia Day at Bondi Beach, but indoors.

She had been escorted in to meet Max by his peppy social media manager Piper Shepherd. With her long blonde hair and bubbly demeanour, Piper had seemed like the ideal public face for Max. When they had reached Max’s office, Piper had lightly rapped and announced Anne with the dignity of Baroness being announced at court. Max had beckoned her in, his loud voice senatorial and assuring. 

“Come in, sweetheart.” Max had gestured to her with a crooked finger, not troubling himself to stand or shake hands.

Anne had walked over to the desk and smoothed her skirt, a nervous reflex she had yet to overcome. She had thrust her hand towards Max and noticed his immaculate black eyebrows raise a little in surprise. 

Despite this, Max had been quick to recover, taking Anne’s hand in his smooth, manicured one. “Love, thanks for agreeing to meet. This is our little headquarters.” He had made a sweeping gesture around the office, beaming with self-satisfaction. His walls were riotously decorated with newspaper clippings, family photos of Max’s illustrious ANZAC forebears, and God forbid, more Australian flags.

“Sit, sit.” He had gestured to a rickety black office chair with one metal arm dangling precariously. 

“Thank you for meeting with me Max. It’s a great opportunity, and I’m thrilled to be considered.”

Max had grinned, a large, overly white smile that had reminded Anne forcibly of the Cheshire cat. 

“Anne, I don’t like to beat around the bush. Why pretend? We want you. You are the only campaign manager I know who has managed to parachute a fruity Green into a safe Labor seat. Frankly, that’s exactly what I need.” He had paused, allowing his words to float through the air. “But I want you to know we aren’t a bleeding-heart liberal shop here. We are about real action for real Aussies.”

Anne had cringed internally. Bleeding heart. Delightful. But needs must. 

“Max, I focus on results, not personal politics. I’ve worked in Progressive circles, but I adapt for the right candidate.”

Max had seemed to like this answer, nodding so enthusiastically that his salt and pepper hair had almost come loose of its aggressive gel casing. “Pragmatism. That’s exactly it. Doing what needs to be done.” 

Anne had tucked a loose lock of her brown hair behind her ear, preparing to say more. But more it seemed, was not wanted. 

“Anne, I think I’ve heard what I need. If the money is good for you, I want you straight Monday.” Max had already started standing before Anne could respond. 

As Piper had shepherded her out of the office, Anne had felt a little dizzy. This was what she had wanted, right? A chance to represent a high-profile candidate? But when the contract had come whizzing into her inbox an hour later, she had e-signed, swatting away the nagging doubts like mosquitos buzzing in the summer heat.

Her best friend Liz had been jubilant about the news. 

“Thank God Anne. I always worried your idealism would get in your way. But this is absolutely the right move. No more dead-end environmental campaigns. This is a real chance.”

Anne had mumbled her agreement, unable to mount more enthusiasm. 

But not everyone had shared Liz’s views. He had been horrified to an extent that had taken Anne by surprise. She had stumbled over her words, trying to justify herself. 

“Felix, I need to take a chance. To work on a big campaign and make my name. I can’t stay working with small-time candidates forever.” Even as she had said the words, Anne had felt shame prickle up the back of her neck.

“You can make your name without selling your principles. You have to trust me. Give it time.” Felix’s tone had been pleading. 

This was a conversation they would return to a number of times over the next six months, with him continuing to encourage her to take the chance and wait for a more aligned candidate, and her demurring. Anne had never really believed that a love like theirs could be shaken by something as relatively trivial as their choice of boss. But she had underestimated the strength of Felix’s convictions, or at least, the level of disgust he felt for her compromises. When he had finally told her that he was taking a job in Western Australia with a promising new candidate, he had begged her to come and work on the campaign. But what future could she have had, riding the coattails of her fiancée, serving some junior role while he was the campaign manager? 

Anne had assumed that they would stay together and manage the distance. But Felix had been cold as he packed to leave. “We need the distance, Anne. You may have lost your love life, but at least you got the limelight huh?” 

Anne has been devastated by their breakup, but the loss of his respect had broken her completely. She had thrown herself into Max’s campaign with a level of commitment it would otherwise never have warranted. And it worked. From being the joke candidate that newspapers openly mocked, Max had been catapulted into prominence when he won office in a totally unpredicted landslide.

A gentle screech of braking brought Anne back to the present. Here they were at HQ in all its shabby glory. It had only become more run down in the four years since Anne had joined. Even though Max now attracted funding as an elected MP, he was hesitant to make his office too showy. He thought, perhaps correctly, that it wouldn’t align with his authenticity angle. As she left the car and pushed through the glass doors, smudged with months’ worth of greasy fingerprints, Anne could feel that the atmosphere was electric. Small teams were huddled around desks, devouring the latest articles like vultures feasting on carrion. The sound of feet scurrying across the worn polyester carpet created a constant, faint static hum which gave Anne a headache. 

Anne walked briskly to her office, keen to escape the jubilant mood. Her plants were wilting from lack of attention, making her office look even shabbier, but at least the sun streamed through her tiny windows. Anne sat down at her computer and brought up the major news websites. The articles were already flowing in. The national broadcaster, predictably critical, headlined with ‘Max Parker divides using ANZAC history to stoke racial tension,’ framing his speech as a dangerous provocation. Anne rubbed her hands over her face, smearing her make up. Light streaks of mascara spread into the corners of her eyes, radiating out to her cheeks. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to get through the next six hours. The Telegraph was more forgiving, praising Max for his candidness but advising him to ‘reign in his tendency for rambling’.  

On Twitter, the responses were as expected. Plenty from the faithful crowd praising Max for his bravery and willingness to speak the truth and plenty from the other side decrying his racism and divisiveness. Luckily Anne’s personal Twitter had been deleted long ago, so she couldn’t be tagged in comments by any of the discontented masses.

Anne tried to motivate herself to start making notes, but after a minute she pushed her chair back in frustration. It made a soft dragging noise across the frayed carpet of her office. What exactly is the point? Her briefing notes were often ignored by Max or read with pitying condescension. The articles would never persuade Max to change tack. In all likelihood, he would view them as an endorsement that his approach was working. Anne briefly toyed with taking the rest of the day off sick. I feel sick.

Instead she leaned back to her chair and gently banged her head on her desk. Her laptop whined quietly. It hadn’t been replaced in three years and the fan was starting to give out. A few sharp taps on the lid usually got rid of the noise, at least temporarily. Anne cradled her head on her desk until her news alert pinged sharply. The keyword ‘Max Parker’ was enough to get her a barrage of articles every day. Reluctantly, she sat up and clicked on the article that had set her computer singing. The headline blazoned out at her.

Carl Harrison to run against Max Elliot. 

The independent Carl Harrison has mounted a surprise challenge against incumbent Max Parker. Carl Harrison cut his teeth in state politics and has recently announced a pivot to Federal politics eyeing the seat of controversial MP Max Parker. Carl Harrison’s platform is based on progressive liberal policies and a staunchly pro-immigration status, which sets him apart from the fiercely nationalist Max Parker, whose campaign has recently focused on the importance of ‘Australia for Australians.’ Carl Harrison’s campaign launch party is set for September 17. Carl Harrison’s campaign head Felix Wentworth described him as a breath of fresh air and a unique voice on the Federal campaign trail.

Anne’s breath caught in her chest as she scanned the story. A real professional would have focused on the world ending announcement by Carl, but she was fixated on the final sentence: Felix was working the Harrison campaign. How the hell could she not know that? And why would he come back at all? Anne had achieved a sort of begrudging peace with her choices, at least when she didn’t think about them too much. But with Felix in the campaign, that would be impossible.