Page 27 of Power Moves
Archie smirks. ‘Same.’
My phone starts ringing and I jump at the excuse to escape, which means I answer before I can consider the ramifications of my actions.
‘Hey Bryan!’ I wince and turn away from Archie.
‘Mill, it’s so good to hear your voice! I was beginning to think you were screening my calls.’
‘Not at all,’ I splutter. ‘I’ve been busy with work.’
‘Me too,’ enthuses Bryan, and I can perfectly imagine his eager head bop. Bryan is a civil engineer, which originally made me think he’d be as fun as Maxy, who also studied engineering. Unfortunately I discovered that wasn’t the case. Bryan’s just really into maths. And concrete. ‘Remember thatsewerage facility project I was telling you about?’ asks Bryan. ‘They’ve put me on the redesign.’
‘Oh,’ I laugh weakly. ‘Crap job.’
‘No, it’s so great,’ enthuses Bryan. ‘It’s been really interesting and it’ll be amazing for my CV.’
I close my eyes, grateful this conversation isn’t happening in person. Whenever I chat to Bryan, there’s always a moment where I have to remind myself that he doesn’t get my dumb jokes and that’s a reflection on me, not him.
‘I read about your boss and Nancy Miller. I hope everything’s okay.’
‘Uh, um, yeah.’ I glance at Archie, who’s looking at me with a shrewd expression. ‘Nothing I can’t sort out.’
‘And how’s Jessie?’ Bryan asks. ‘She well?’
‘Yep.’ I nod, confused. Why are we talking about Jessie?
‘So what day suits you for sushi?’ asks Bryan. ‘Maybe Tuesday?’
‘Ah, I’ll have to check my diary. Maybe after the election? And sorry, Bryan, I have to go. I’m at work and it’s really, uh, urgent, but um, I’ll call you later. Good to chat. Byyyeeee!’
Mybyyyeeee!sounds vaguely philharmonic, as though I’m trying to channel a pre-pubescent chorister. This always happens when I talk to Bryan. I become weirdly cartoonish.
I hang up ready to defend my overcooked vocals but Archie’s already gone, absorbed into the constellation of hardhats near the stadium entrance.
?
By the time the press conference has finished, the air is peachy-pink and a flock of galahs has settled on the chassis of a nearbycrane. I help pack up and wave to Kendra as she climbs onto the media bus, promising to send her the numeracy stats and my failsafe frittata recipe. Boss gets a lift back to the hotel with the mayor and I tell him I’ll meet him later. I feel like a walk.
As the media bus crunches over the gravel and drives off, the construction site is bathed in a twinkling silence. I loop my handbag over my shoulder and weave through the various barricades to the footpath that leads back to the centre of town.
A walk like this is my sweet spot. Purposeful and work-adjacent (so I can’t feel guilty about time-wasting) and—critically—quiet. There’s no one calling me, no one yelling in my ear, no one demanding things are done yesterday. There’s just the blush-pink horizon and the rustle of the redgums lining the road, whispering secrets that I don’t need to care about.
Every lungful of air cleanses me. My shoulders feel momentarily lightened. On autopilot, my fingers find my phone.
‘Millsy-moo!’ Jessie answers. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Twerkin’.’ (She knows I mean working.) ‘I’m in Wagga.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. I was gonna suggest you crash the launch party I’m putting on tonight. It’s going to befaaaarrrrncy.’
My brain relaxes as she talks me through her outfit and the canape choices. I ask annoying questions about topics I suddenly feel strangely invested in. ‘What’s your vegan option?’ ‘Chunky heel or nah?’
A golden glow settles over the horizon as the sun deepens in the sky. At one point, after Jessie has finished describing the colour of the floral installation as a cross between skin-on-your-bum colour and Karen-beige-but-make-it-hot, ourgiggles peter out and we both stop talking. I can tell she’s fussing with her makeup and I’m distracted by the galahs forming an arc across the sky. After about thirty seconds, the conversation restarts as though it never stopped. She tells me she’s decided to wear jeans and a nice top, and I laugh because I know it’s a joke.
‘I’m going now,’ Jessie announces suddenly.
‘Cool,’ I reply, unoffended.
We say our goodbyes, we profess our love, we quickly debate whether it’s inevitable that Dad’s woodwork training will involve the fabrication of creepy wooden dolls. We decide that if it does, we will send Maxy anonymous packages containing said dolls, and when we get sick of discussing the likely postage costs of these doll-themed pranks, the call ends. My cup is filled.
