Page 3 of Power Moves
‘To announce. Today. In the next few hours if possible. Archie Cohen just ran a terrible story on Boss. I need to create a distraction ASAP, but I also need to give the TV networks enough time to get interviews and footage before deadline. I want to send the release around eleven.’
‘So in three hours and, er, thirty-seven minutes?’ Gregory sounds bemused, as though he’s a plump nobleman trying to understand the concept of famine.
‘Correct.’
‘Camilla, can I ask what’s prompted the sudden urgency? When I last spoke with the minister, it was my understanding he wasn’t wholly on board with the policy.’
‘He’s changed his mind,’ I scrape out. I’m still breathing like a French bulldog.
A pause. ‘Really?’
There’s something in his tone I don’t appreciate. Gregory has the luxury of thousands of staff and an Order of Australia. He has the luxury ofweekends. He’s probably about to tee off for a leisurely eighteen holes followed by a $28 sandwich in a clubhouse where mobile phones and skirts above the knee are forbidden. The Gregorys of the world do not understand my world.
‘Actually, the minister has just texted. He reckons the media release should go out at ten.’
I hear Gregory cough. ‘Camilla, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll call you back.’
‘Thanks Gregory,’ I say curtly. ‘Appreciate it.’
I know that Gregory is smart enough to understand I’m lying, but I also know that he’s smart enough to play along, given Boss trusts me implicitly. It’s hilarious how our political system has evolved to be so media-driven that for the sake of a good headline, a 29-year-old media staffer can boss around a man who was once named the seventh-most-influential person in Australia’s public service. But it works in my favour, so I won’t be the one to complain.
I text Boss as I jump in the car:Going to announce the education infrastructure fund at 11 (10 if Gregory can swing it). Youcool to do a presser this arvo? Or do you want an exclusive with Channel 4?
Sometimes I ask him questions like this so he feels like he’s in control.
Boss responds instantly with a heart reaction, then the words appear:Channel 4 please?
I send him back the thumbs-up and dancing-man emojis.
By the time I pull up at a beachside cafe twenty minutes later, I’ve confirmed the details with Gregory and organised the weekend camera crew for the Channel 4 exclusive. I feel like I’ve conquered Mount Kilimanjaro in forty seconds with only a half-digested lemon for sustenance. The headrush is so intense I think I’d almost fail a drug test. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window as I swan into the cafe. I look like a slightly crazed Bratz doll.
‘Morning!’ I sing, squeezing between the green melamine tables to join my sister.
Jessie looks up from her menu. Her curly hair looks as wind-blown as the white-capped ocean across the road.
‘Woah,’ she remarks. ‘Are you okay?’
‘This is my resting joy face,’ I explain, dropping my phones onto the table and sliding into the seat opposite her. ‘And if I still look a bit beetroot coloured, it’s because I just went to spin class. It was epic. I went up to Level Eight.’
‘You are definitely adopted,’ Jessie says, flipping the menu over to check the specials. ‘But nice outfit.’
I glance down at my sweaty chest. I’m wearing a white tank top with black bike shorts and Jessie is wearing the same—only her neckline is trendier.
‘I’m not copying you,’ I say.
Jessie smirks. ‘It’s okay if you are. You always have.’
‘I never have.’
(I kind of have.)
‘Don’t worry, it’s cute,’ she says.
This feels patronising. It shouldn’t be a big deal that we’re wearing the same thing. We’re women of a certain age living in Sydney; we all wear the same thing.
‘Did you see my text?’ she asks, reaching for the water bottle to fill our tumblers.
This is a farcical question: sheknowsI always read my texts. This is a performative conversation designed to entrap me.
