Page 52 of Power Moves
No wonder I’m single. I could never pull off these moves! I don’t think I could ever lick Nutella off someone without getting distracted by the deliciousness of the choc-hazelnut spread. And the idea of telling Archie I’m going commando? I would die of laughter.
But hopefully the googling pays off. Today is our first and only election debate. Incumbent Education Minister versus Shadow Education Minister. It’s never been done before, but 24/7 news channels are going to extreme lengths for content these days. There’ll be one stage, two politicians, a potential audience of millions (once you account for TikTok), and the biggest variable of all: the host. Journalist by day, political assassin by night, excellent kisser in his spare time: the one, the only, Archibald Cohen.
He’s been prepping for this debate since the election was called. I don’t know how he manages it, but he’s consistently across the policy detail, he has the latest stats on the tip of his tongue and somehow he finds the time to ground-truth his facts. He speaks to the power players, the captains of industry, the single mums, and the old men who spend their days drinking cold tea on their verandah couches while they fix the world’s problems, one slow chat at a time.
I’ve being prepping since day one too. I’ve been reading, summarising, highlighting, filing, swotting for this debate like it’s a major exam, but I’m not the one who has to stand up there in front of the cameras and recite the facts and weave the narratives. I have to trust that Boss has retained what I’ve told him. Today, the stakes are higher than ever before, which is why I’m using every weapon in my armoury.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, today I am so desperate for victory that I will be deploying a heretofore non-existent weapon: my sexuality. Let it be known that I have never stopped anyone dead in their tracks with a smouldering gaze—and, let it also be known that I am so,sofine with this. I am not Jessie. I do not have a Jessica-Rabbit body and bouncy mermaid hair. I have a normal-sized waist and I’ve never mastered Airwrap curls. I also know that with beauty comes risk. Random guys grab your bum, complete strangers double-take when you walk past, some of them yell vulgar things, and so many people—too many people—reflexively assume you’re dumb. Me? In a workplace where people invariably read too much into my gender and outfit choices, I’m perfectly content being average and invisible. Well, usually I am.
It may be a giant failure, it may serve no purpose other than to induce abnormal levels of cringeworthiness, but today I am playing my wild card. What have I got to lose?
I thought this week would mess with Archie’s head, but if anything, his political analysis has been even sharper. After the Fatima’s storeroom session, he filed a front-page story for theAFR. Meanwhile, I almost sent out a media release lauding ourpubicschool funding.
The TV studio is bustling when I arrive. There are extension cords all over the ground, criss-crossed like macrame booby traps. Cameramen with pencils behind their ears are checking monitors. Black-shirted people holding clipboards hover around a plasma screen mounted on the wall. Carefully, I step over the power cords and head towards the stage, where there is a U-shaped arrangement of three lecterns. Archie stands behind the central lectern, where his T-zone is being dusted with powder.
His eyes light up when he sees me. So he likes the skirt. Perfect.
The makeup artist grabs his jaw and inclines it towards her. He closes his eyes as she dusts his eyelids then places her fingers at his temples, turning him from left to right to check the shine. His eyelashes look so soft, his throat so smooth. The makeup artist says something and Archie smiles and opens his eyes. Something drops in my stomach.
She packs up her brushes and bounces off, looking back over her shoulder at him as she leaves. I pull a clipboard from my handbag and stride over.
‘Flirting with the makeup girl, hey?’ It sounds more bitter, less wryly amused, than I intended.
Archie raises a playful eyebrow. ‘Jealous?’
‘Of course not.’
He unclips the mic hiding under his tie. ‘That wasn’t flirting,’ he says, rolling the mic between his fingertips. ‘I would never do that on the job. My flirting powers are way too potent for the workplace.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Sure, Fabio.’
Archie puffs his chest and bounces his eyebrows suggestively, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s so facetious.
‘This game of ours is ending as soon as this debate finishes,’ I remind him, before dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘But we’ve still got twenty minutes before it starts.’
Archie doesn’t move but I see his neck tighten.
‘Undo the mic pack,’ I whisper. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘Millsy.’ He sounds pained. ‘I can’t.’
I shrug, nonplussed. ‘Worth a try.’ I knew Archie would be too conscientious to abandon his post.
He scrunches his eyes shut, as though he’s trying to expel something from behind his eyelids. ‘Did you come over here just to sexually frustrate me?’
‘Pretty much.’
Archie groans. ‘You can go now.’
‘I’ll be standing right there the whole time,’ I say, pointing to a low-lit corner next to one of the stationary cameras.
With the audience facing the stage, and Boss and the Shadow Minister facing each other, Archie will be the onlyperson facing me. I feel the laughter rising through me like champagne bubbles.
Let Operation Eye-Sex commence.
CHAPTER 23
It’s blatantly not working. I thought if I could make Archie stutter over his words, it’d give Boss more time to talk about the Green Schools Grants and the Literacy Bonanza. I was hoping to distract him from his usual slew of incisive questions, but unfortunately Archie is too much of a professional to notice my attempts at direct eye contact.
