Page 4 of Power Moves
‘Yes, and I’m not coming.’
‘Milllll!’ Jessie wails. ‘You haven’t been to a festival in ages.’
Her tone makes it sound like I must be slowly dying from my own boringness; an implication I find offensive.
‘I don’t go to festivals anymore,’ I reply in a clipped voice.
‘Since when?’
‘Since I got a job.’
Jessie exhales theatrically. ‘Mill, this is ridiculous. You don’t prioritise fun anymore.’
‘Myjobis fun,’ I reply. ‘And in case I haven’t mentioned before, I am possibly the most effective early-career media director in the state of New South Wales. Look at the clips today.’
I pick up my work phone and start scrolling through today’s media monitoring bulletin.
‘Ooh!Here’s a riveting story I planted about the literacy framework.Ooh!And here’s the op-ed.Ooh!And here’s a great explainer on the policy advice—’
‘No sex noises for the policy advice,please!’ Jessie cries, sticking her fingers in her ears.
Unperturbed, I turn my phone screen to face her. ‘Look at this! Forty-seven media mentions of Minister Harcourt and it’s only eight a.m.’ I quickly scan the rest of the media clips.
‘This is what I was talking about,’ says Jessie, pushing my now-full tumbler towards me. ‘You’re always working. When was the last time you caught up with the girls?’
‘I have a phone,’ I retort, not bothering to make eye contact as I continue reading. ‘I catch up with them every day.’
‘By posting a few emojis in the group chat?’
‘It counts.’ I put my phone down and pick up my menu.
‘Your twenties is your time to be havingfun,’ declares Jessie. ‘Seriously, when was the last time you got laid?’
‘Um.’ I cough. ‘That is none of your business.’
‘Of course it’s my business, Mill. Who else is looking out for your mental health? You’re not even looking out for it.’
‘I don’t think conflating sexual activity with mental well-being is healthy.’
Jessie groans. ‘If you could just accept that I am older and wiser, it would make this negotiation so much easier. Youneedto come to the festival. We must carpe the diems!’
I sigh. For the past week, all our conversations have looped back here, despite my efforts to change the subject. Jessie has a spare ticket to SoulFest and has latched on to the idea that I should take it—an idea she won’t drop, no matter how many times I explain that I don’t have time and, frankly, don’t want to go. I mean, yes, we used to go to festivals together but that was ages ago—before I got my shit together.
‘Jessie, have you completely forgotten there’s an election coming up?’
My sister huffs. ‘I guess if it’s on the same weekend …’
‘Oh no,’ I say brightly. ‘The election isn’t for eight weeks. But I’ll be on call until then.’
Jessie raises her palms to the sky. ‘You’re going to work every day for the next eight weeks? That’s a human-rights violation!’
My sister is always like this. Melodramatic, effusive, handsy.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, looking back to my menu. ‘It’s not like I have anything else keeping me busy.’
‘That’s because you don’t make space for anything else, Mill. You’re addicted to work, and you’re stuck in a vicious cycle of martyrdom.’
My work phone dings and Jessie lunges for it, but I swipe it from her grasp just in time. I’m wondering if it will be Boss replying to my last text: a link to aBetoota Advocatearticle about the Strava habits of North Shore businessmen. Since it’s not about us—or, rather, him—it’s not urgent, but I knew he’d appreciate the article.
