Page 34 of Power Moves
‘Do you still play tennis?’ he asks.
‘Oh, um, no,’ I stutter, shaking my head. I hadn’t meant to bring up tennis. I used to play almost every day—we lived across the road from the local courts—but I don’t have time for stuff like that anymore.
‘Your mum taught you to play, didn’t she? She was a coach, right?’
I shake my head again. I’m not having that conversation.
I set down my pizza and pick up my mug. ‘How’s your cycling going?’ I ask.
Archie raises his eyebrows like he’s noticed what I’m doing, but thankfully he plays along. ‘It’s rolling along nicely, thank you. I’ve bought all the gear—now I just need to find a cycling buddy. It’s proving tricky because of my weird working hours.’
My mind drifts to Remi and the bridal party, who are all having drinks without me tonight. I sigh as I pick up my tea. ‘Our careers aren’t conducive to socialising.’
Archie shrugs. ‘I’ll work it out. It’s not my number-one priority at the moment. I’ve got some big stories in the works.’
‘Please tell me they don’t involve Boss.’
Archie takes a conspicuously large bite of pizza.
‘Jeez, Archibald, can’t you give it a rest? You’ve caused enough chaos in the last month.’
‘I didn’t become a journalist to play reserve grade,’ he replies. ‘I’m not going to shy away from the big hits.’
I groan into my mug. Ever since he waltzed into his first press conference four years ago, fresh from the NRL, a knee-brace still strapped over his sharply cut suit, this is all he’s ever done: chase big stories; use footy metaphors.
‘And what happens if these big hits lose Boss the election?’ I ask.
Archie chews his pizza thoughtfully, then swallows. ‘I’m one person. I have one voice, one vote. I can’t swing a whole election.’
I grit my teeth. Yes he bloody well can.
‘I will be jobless if Boss loses,’ I grind out. It’s a fact of life—one that I’ve lived with for six years—but saying it outloud, to Archie, hits me harder than I anticipated. I try to focus on sipping my tea but the flavour is too strong.
A barrage of familiar thoughts poke and prod me: I can’t lose my job because then I won’t be able to pay rent and then I’ll have to move home, and I can’t possibly do that—ever, ever, ever—because it will be unbearable for too many reasons, not even including the ridiculous three-train commute to the city.
Archie’s voice is gentle when he speaks. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you stopped working for Harcourt?’
A crackle of indignation rises in my chest. The aftertaste of the too-strong Earl Grey is suddenly sour in my throat. Why am I sharing pizza and tea and air space with this guy? He has no idea about anything. He has no idea there are whole rooms in my childhood home that I haven’t been into insix years. That losing my job won’t just mean I need to update my LinkedIn profile; it’ll set off a whole chain reaction that I’m not ready for, and possibly never will be. Work is my safety net. It has been for six years, and I’d like to keep it that way—for another four-year term of government, at the very least.
Mum’s voice—as always—is as pure as a flute in my ear.Play your own game. Don’t play theirs.
I get to my feet and lob my half-eaten slice of pizza into the grey bin in the corner of the common room. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce.
I can feel Archie watching me as I pour my undrunk tea down the sink, but I don’t know what to say.
He has his version of the world, I have mine.
CHAPTER 15
I’m writing the Schoolyard Safety media release when my phone starts jiggling across my desk. In the past month, I’ve written media releases in locations including: the train, my bed, Boss’s Audi, an uninsulated demountable classroom, Fatima’s Café and, on one particularly bleak occasion, the toilet block behind Manning Bar. The smell was atrocious but, to be fair, the wi-fi was top-notch. To be writing a media release at my desk feels so civilised, I’m tempted to buy a lottery ticket in case the good luck continues.
My phone buzzes again and I scoop it up. ‘Hey Jessica Rabbit,’ I answer, feeling sanguine enough not to automatically scold my sister. (I have explicitly told her several times not to call me on workdays between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., because I will probably be doing something very important for the future of our state. Meanwhile, she tends to call about her underwear, her skincare and/or the paltry contents of her fridge, none of which are time-critical discussions. Like, woman, please.Eat nothing but cheese for dinner. It’s not a big deal. I do it all the time.)
‘What’s happening, Millsy Moo-cow?’
‘Formatting and highlighting,’ I answer honestly. Boss is going to an important business conference tomorrow so I’m triple-checking the event brief for him, but apart from a few errant commas, everything looks okay. Today’s workload actually feelsmanageable. I’m trying to not say this out loud though, for fear I’ll jinx everything and find out Covid-19 was started in the lab of a New South Wales high school. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m maxing out my stress limit,’ groans Jessie. ‘Have you been to DJs lately? Every dress is like seven hundred bucks. What the hell am I going to wear to the ARIAs afterparty? And don’t you dare say the green dress, because it’s too slutty.’
