Page 31 of Power Moves
‘I’m feeling sick,’ I announce. ‘I need to go back to the hotel.’
Boss checks his watch. ‘You want to leave now?’
‘Uh, um, yes.’ Easier to fib than admit to Boss that I think he’d be as useful in a fight as a Teletubby at a death metal convention. It would be like throwing a labrador’s stick into a woodchipper. The sad puppy dog eyes would kill me. Also, if we get back to the hotel within the hour I might be able to sneakily order a pizza.
Boss sighs and places the vinyl menu back between the salt and pepper shakers. ‘If you say so. Allegra has been saying I should be avoiding red meat anyway. Do you think they have Menulog here?’
My heart does a frantic double beat, which always happens when Boss says things like this (denouncing red meat in farming country; insinuating regional centres are yet to connect to the internet).
‘Let’s go,’ I say, standing before he can inform the bikies that their studded belts make their bums look big.
Boss sighs, smooths the sides of his slicked-back hair, then stands and compliantly follows me out.
?
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m convinced I imagined the whole imminent-mugging thing and am feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. I made an uninformed, knee-jerk judgement about those leather-clad men. Maybe ‘BAD BROS’ is the name of their polka troupe. Maybe they’re a travelling comedy duo. Maybe they’re two men who formed a friendship after a lifetime of being bullied for their size and hairiness and matchingYou wanna piece of me?expressions, and they just wanted a quiet night at the pub to talk about their feelings.
Goosebumps race up my arms as the chill of the lobby air-conditioning hits us. I need to be a better person. I work for a government minister. Who can we rely on to promote tolerance in our community if not the people who staff our ministerial offices?
‘You sure you don’t want to join me for dinner in my room?’ asks Boss, interrupting my self-remonstrations. ‘I’ve got the deluxe suite, so it has a dining table. It’d be my shout.’
I’m almost tempted—my stomach is grumbling like an angry nun—until I remember I’m supposed to be sick.
‘Er, no,’ I say, grimacing as we walk into the bleach-scented elevator. I place my hands over my stomach in a way I hope conveys nausea. Then again, I can’t have him thinking I’m pregnant (surely he knows I don’t have time to get impregnated?!). I course-correct and raise my hand to my temple. ‘Massive headache,’ I say, closing my eyes like they do in the movies. ‘But nothing a good sleep and some Nurofen can’t fix.’
His voice softens. ‘Okay, well, just make sure you take it easy. I can’t have you falling before the finish line.’
I smile gratefully. ‘Thanks Boss.’
As soon as we part ways at the Level 2 elevator, I order a pizza on Menulog and add a note instructing it to be dropped off at the back door near the common room, so there’s no chance of it being mixed up with Boss’s order, and therefore no chance of him uncovering my white lie. Then, I stealthily creep downstairs to make a tea while I wait.
The common room sits off a corridor from the main reception area, and has a flatscreen TV on the wall and a basic kitchenette in the corner. Tub-style armchairs are arranged around Laminex coffee tables, and everything is adorned in a depressingly bland shade of cigarette-ash grey. It covers the wall, the fridge, the upholstery, the trousers of that suit …
‘Archibald!’ I exclaim, striding towards the leg poking out from behind one of the armchairs. ‘What areyoudoing here?’
Archie glances up. His irises look slightly bronze in this lighting. ‘I’m enjoying the commonality of the room.’
I clench my teeth to stop from smiling. While I resent him as an individual, his wordsmithery is often entertaining. ‘Are you enjoying the grey?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Of the earl variety.’ He holds up his mug and I instantly recognise the scent. Tea leaves and bergamot. That’s what Archie’s bus seat smelled like. Earl Grey tea. It’s so incongruous it’s hilarious. Maybe he was a naughty vicar in a former life?
‘How come you’re not at the motor lodge with all the other journos?’
‘Got a hot tip Nancy Miller decided to book an Airbnb last-minute, so I managed to get her room.’
‘Cunning,’ I remark, filing that factoid away for later. I wonder if Boss knows about this. I wonder if the Premier’s office organised it? Theydoenjoy a reshuffle. ‘I just ordered a pizza,’ I say. ‘Where’d you find the tea?’
‘The teabags are in that drawer,’ says Archie, pointing. ‘But there’s only Lipton. I brought my own.’
A dry laugh erupts from my throat. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you forget where you came from. Since when are you a tea snob, Archibald? Are you an exclusive T2 drinker now?’
Archie’s gaze meets the floor.
‘Archie!’ I exclaim. ‘You spenttwenty dollarson a box of tea?!’
‘I bought it in bulk. It was a good deal!’
‘How much did it cost you?’
