Page 18 of Power Moves
CHAPTER 10
The first rays of sun are peeking out on the horizon where the Pacific Ocean meets the sky, as a few dark silhouettes tiptoe over the sand towards the water. The salt air tingles on my tongue as I check my waterproof watch.
In one hour and fifteen minutes, I will set up the lectern at Lilac Beach Public School. Fifteen minutes after that, the camera crews will arrive. Fifteen minutes after that, Boss will announce the recipients of the infrastructure grant scheme and I’ll blast the media release out as soon as the press conference concludes. For now though, I can relax.
The glassy waves before me transform into shuddering froth.Surge, crash, repeat. Surge, crash, repeat.
On the shore, people are running everywhere. They wear lycra and GPS trackers and they scurry over footpaths and sand. Some run up the stairs and down, on a loop, dragging their legs like they’re Christmas hams. They look sweaty and tired, like they’d rather be in bed, or on holidays (in atropicalbed). All I can see is a circus parade of exhaustion, and for a rare moment, I’m not part of it.
I duck-dive into the water, letting the tide draw me out. It’s a full-body experience that always makes me think of summer holidays. The ring of Jessie’s and Maxy’s laughter, the sweetness of Mum’s coconut sunscreen, Dad on the shoreline, looking like a pallid corpse after a beige-coloured zinc overdose.
Growing up, I would have given a kidney to be a nipper, but we lived too far away. Dad always used to say, ‘West is best’, but that was in reference to footy-tipping—not beach access. When I first moved out of home, I was determined to live closer to the coast. Not just to make up for a childhood spent in baking concrete summers, but so I could feel the squish of the icing-sugar sand under my toes and be instantly transported back in time to our family trips. I thought if I could come to the beach, I’d be able to close my eyes and pretend Mum was still here.
As it turns out, since I moved out, I’ve been way too busy with work to visit the beach much, but that’s probably for the best. I find sand in the car very overwhelming.
A sunrise of orange and lavender shadows me as I wander out of the water to find my towel. Crystal beads of water drip from my hair, sharpening the slight chill on my skin. I’m double-checking my watch again when a figure at the southern end of the beach catches my eye.
Shit.
I scramble for my towel, cursing to myself. I should have known Archie would have the same plan, given he grew up in a similarly beach-deprived suburb.
At the other end of the shore, he stretches his hands towards the sky and wades into the water like an icebreaker. He’s wearing bright yellow speedos—not an inch more clothing than is required by federal law—which is so totally predictable from him.
I hammer out a text as I awkwardly jog-walk back to my car.
Guys, I’m randomly at Lilac Beach with a spare half-hour if anyone is up for a coffee?! I’ll be at the place across the road from Jessie’s in five mins if you’re free??
I make it to the car, panting, before punching out an addendum:JESSICA YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO BE THERE.
?
‘Yayyyyy!’ I cry as my sister staggers groggily across the road from her art-deco flatshare. Her long, curly hair is piled atop her head like a woolly turban. ‘You got up!’
‘Calm yourself,’ says Jessie, as I embrace her in an aggressive hug. ‘It’s too early for this level of energy. I can’t believe you’re already in pinstripes.’
The cafe where we’re meeting sits on the corner of a suburban street, just up the road from Lilac Beach Public School. There is sans-serif gold lettering on the windows and the outdoor chairs are fashioned from milk crates. There are freshly baked muffins by the cash register, and New York–style cookies studded with chocolate drops sit alongside croissants and focaccias in the pastry case. Plates of eggs and haloumi and smashed avocado glide out from the kitchen, whiskedalong by tanned, tattooed staff. The shelves behind the counter are laden with fresh sourdough: a universal signifier of a solid menu. (Any place that serves Tip Top these days is kidding themselves.)
Remi arrives as we’re parking ourselves on our milk crates. ‘Hey, hey!’ she calls, climbing out of the VW Golf she’s parked wonkily against the kerb. ‘I saw your text, Millsy, and drove extra fast.’
On a selfish level, I feel glad. As an upstanding citizen, I feel slightly concerned. Remi is known to be a very ‘confident’ driver.
‘I can’t believe we’ve managed to pull off a brekkie date,’ I trill, clasping my hands at my chest. ‘This is so rare!’
‘That’s only because you never want to miss spin class,’ Jessie grumbles.
Remi laughs. ‘Well, I’ve got big news, girls.’ She flattens her palms against her thighs. ‘We’re going to do the wedding in a couple of months.’
‘That soon?!’ I exclaim.
‘Yep,’ Remi says. ‘I was listening to a podcast the other day about living boldly, and I thought,Bugger it. Tyler and I are pretty much married anyway. I already pee while he brushes his teeth, so I’m like, why do I have to wait the standard eight to twelve months to get married? I’ve decided my greatest regret in life is not living boldly enough up until now, so from now on, I’m doing what I want.’
‘Good onya, Sonya,’ says Jessie with a forceful nod. ‘But speaking of our greatest life regrets … I can’t make it to your engagement party.’
‘What? No!’ Remi cries. Despite having met via me, Remi and Jessie are now firm friends, which I attribute to them both being strong women who share many fervent opinions—particularly about my wardrobe choices.
‘That sucks,’ I whine. ‘But I’ll still be there,’ I say, turning to Remi. ‘Do you want me to make a speech about our love triangle?’
Remi chortles. ‘No way, dude. Can you imagine Dad?’
