Page 3 of Hidden Gem
Chapter 2
Jason turned over onthe crispy white sheets and flipped his pillow. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 01:35a.m. Traffic noise from the street below competed with the whirring air-con. He should have chosen a place farther from the city centre, although it probably wouldn’t have helped. Since starting his second term as Associate Minister of Housing, he’d struggled to sleep. His government allowance paid for the serviced apartment across the road from the Beehive, but he’d tried various other hotels and Airbnbs in and around Wellington. He would have paid anything for a good night’s sleep, but it didn’t matter where he stayed– he could no longer sleep.
As soon as he returned to his cottage by Lake Rotoroa in Hamilton, he slept a little better. Still not great but putting distance between himself and the capital city seemed to calm his mind a notch. If only he could make it home every weekend, but with his new high-profile role, it was hard to get away for a proper break.
Life had been much easier in his junior MP days, working on members’ bills, writing articles and giving the occasional speech. He’d been excited about everything, sitting on committees, pushing through petitions. In his first term, Jason had been unknown, able to come and go as he pleased. But after the last election, things had changed. With a few well-timed interviews and events, he’d risen to semi-stardom that put him under the microscope. Now it was time to make good on his election promises: to address the chronic housing shortage, which had created inflated prices and massive inequality; and to fix the runaway market with unsustainable price growth.
Everyone was watching and waiting. But the housing market was out of control, making it look like everything the government did only exacerbated the problem. Maybe it did. Nobody seemed to have any answers. Still, Jason couldn’t shake the weight of responsibility. He was here to fix things, not to make them worse. The countless angry emails didn’t help, or the members of the public who now recognised him in the street and hurled abuse. His high profile was supposed to help him create real change but instead it made him a target.
He had to stop thinking about all that. Another wave of exhaustion flooded his head, making him sink into the pillow. The moment of bliss before drifting off. If only. Within a couple of minutes, he woke again, heart pounding in his chest, sweat forming on his brow.
Everything’s fine. There’s no reason to panic.
Gradually, his pulse settled, and his earlier fatigue crept back. But he knew better than to trust it. Jason pushed himself up on the bed and reached for his laptop. His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting his own name in Google. He browsed the latest search results – a list of articles, blog posts and online discussions. He sensed the anger and frustration about the housing market, but there was nothing untoward, nothing too personal. Nobody knew his secret. Jason blew out a breath, trying to settle his heartbeat. He was safe, for now.
Distraction. That’s what he needed. Jason opened a new tab and logged into his wallet in the crypto exchange, lowering the screen brightness to its absolute minimum, just enough to see the green and red candles climbing up and down, always in motion. Over the past six months, he’d learnt to read the patterns, figuring out what his favourite coins would do next. His strategy wasn’t fool proof, but he only invested what he could afford to lose, and since he couldn’t sleep... well, what else was there to do? It had become a bit of a game – a way to prove to himself that buying houses wasn’t the only way to set yourself up for the future.
Jason flicked through his wallet. Most of his coins were moving sideways. Some would bottom out soon before rising again. He was waiting for the right moment to buy more. Buy low, sell high. In the end, it was simple, even for a sleep-deprived wreck like him.
It would take until three a.m. before he could fall asleep again, he could feel it in his bones. Tomorrow night, as the head of an arts committee, he was expected to make an appearance at some pompous gala for emerging New Zealand artists. A local trust had invited the artists to listen to the Minister of Arts, Culture and Heritage boasting about how much the country valued their talent. All for show, of course. The government had already cut some of the arts funding and would likely do it again through some kind of obscure reshuffle where a couple of entities received bigger grants and others lost out.
Jason didn’t mind turning up for the event. He was vocal about trying to improve the housing for the next generation instead of protecting the interest of the wealthy, which made him popular with the younger voters. He only wished it wasn’t on a Saturday night, which meant he had to give up his trip back home. The compounding lack of sleep would kill him.
Jason closed the laptop, unable to focus on the charts. Worry churned his stomach and brought a rancid taste into his mouth. He’d made it to parliament as an underdog candidate, a young, small-town schoolteacher with little political experience. It was a dream come true; one he’d worked towards for years. He should have been charged, ready for anything, enjoying every minute of it, not staring at the ceiling questioning his life choices and, worst of all, popping pills. They never gave him a good sleep, only a momentary blackout, followed by a metallic-tasting, fuzzy-headed hangover he couldn’t afford. Not when he had to be ready with the perfect one-liner for any question, radiating self-confidence and smarts.
Oh, how he hated these sleepless nights, dominated by the baseless feeling of impending doom. He hated them as much as the loneliness that engulfed him whenever he looked out the window to the busy capital. Right now, behind the heavy mauve drapes, the streets no doubt buzzed with the Friday night crowd– young professionals leaving restaurants, entering bars and vaping on Lambton Quay. Between the tall buildings, the restless black ocean reflected the orange glow of the city lights. He should have been out there, building relationships, being seen, maybe even hooking up with someone. But he lived in the perpetual twilight of sleep deprivation, the mere thought of taking the lift down to the ground level filled him with dread.
Jason got up, made himself a cup of peppermint tea and took it to a small armchair. He preferred it to the bed– the chair didn’t make empty promises. Since he was up, he might as well read about the young artists and wow everyone with his knowledge and personal interest. First up was Tom Browne, a 20-year-old from Hamilton. The other artists had only one small photo each, but his Executive Assistant, Tracy, had added three photos of this guy, including one in a fitted suit with two buttons of his collar shirt open. His paintings were abstract and strong, but Jason wondered if he’d been chosen for his looks. A guy like that made for enticing media coverage.
After ten minutes of reading, Jason dropped the folder in his lap and rested his head on the back of the chair. The sweet sleepiness had turned into a wired buzz. Sleep wouldn’t find him tonight. He’d have to take another pill to get through the night, and he’d be woolly-headed in the morning. He always did this – got his hopes up at the first wave of tiredness, thinking things might be different and that maybe tonight, he’d fall asleep naturally. Without the wishful thinking, he could have drugged himself to sleep at a decent hour and avoided a lot of pain. But he couldn’t lose hope, could he?
He pulled a small bottle from his toiletry bag and washed the tiny white pill down with the rest of his tea, sighing with relief. In half an hour, his brain would turn off. Tomorrow, he would find a way to sleep without drugs, to stop the downward spiral. Somehow, he would turn things around.
Jason crawled back on the crumpled sheets, breathing in the smell of industrial strength laundry powder, breathing out a quiet prayer for help.
