Page 8 of Power Moves
Boss starts rummaging in his laptop bag. ‘Should I go with the green tie?’
‘Grey.’ I pass him his comb.
‘How did you know I was looking for that?’
I shrug as he turns towards the gilt-edged mirror hanging on the wall. ‘Telepathy.’
Boss runs the comb through his hair. ‘You probablydoknow my mind better than I know it myself.’
An uncharacteristically accurate insight from him.
‘How do I look?’ he asks, studying his reflection in the mirror as he buttons his suit jacket.
I smile, telling him exactly what he needs to hear. ‘Boss, you look like a winner.’
?
We join the clusters of politicians and advisors in the corridor drifting towards the parliamentary chamber. The intensity in the air is palpable. Everyone here is both a fly on the wall and a spider. There are furtive looks and Botox smiles, breathless whispers and shameless glares.
Boss takes it all in his stride. He has the swagger of Bill Clinton and the haircut of Hillary. It’s as disconcerting as it sounds, but somehow he gets away with it. I think it’s because he’s a politician. The style expectations are low.
We make it to the end of the corridor and spot a gaggle of MPs strolling out of the lift. The elected representatives of our state are a motley crew. The members of the opposition look haggard and battle-weary. They’ve had to spend every day of the last few years arguing and complaining, which can’t begood for their mental health. I imagine it’s why they turn to factional in-fighting.
The governing party members are slightly more bullish, but that’s part of a politician’s DNA. Their egos have to be big or how else would they withstand the trolling?
The independents are the black sheep of the group. Some of them have spiky hair, others wear giant Akubras. They’re the ones who can get away with doing outlandish things like wearing black shirts with white ties and voting on principle. Boss often describes them as ‘very out there’. This is not a complimentary term.
As a woman with a cream pantsuit emerges from the stairwell, Boss angles his head towards mine. ‘Let’s pray for a major swing against Nancy Miller.’
My mouth twitches. Nancy is one of Boss’s fellow party members and she’s the Minister for Health, which means she’s always stealing money from our portfolio to fund hers. Boss hates her.
‘I could tell theHeraldshe has a room full of creepy dolls?’
Boss grins. ‘Could you tell them she’s an uptight prig?’
I stifle a giggle as the Honourable Nancy Miller, MP, makes her way over to us. She’s beloved by her constituents, but only because she does whatever they want. Nancy is a douche.
‘Nancy.’ Boss nods in greeting.
‘Daniel,’ she intones. ‘Do I spy freshly combed hair, or is that a hairspray job?’
Boss ignores her. ‘See the polls this morning?’ he asks.
‘Saw your numbers weren’t great.’
‘Newspoll stats aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on,’ scoffs Boss. ‘I meant the YouGov polls. They were predicting big swings on the Northern Beaches.’
Nancy looks vaguely unnerved. If the party suffers up there, everyone will blame her. They call her the Matriarch of Mona Vale. ‘Well,’ she says, raising her chin, ‘we’ll see in eight weeks.’
Boss smirks at her, and I do the same to her advisor. He’s clearly not briefed Nancy as well as I’ve briefed Boss, but what can you expect from a lanky ex–private-school boy? The only thing they’re good for is the provision of emergency inhalers in the event of asthma attacks. Those skinny, blond types are allergic to everything. (Case in point: Boss and his zucchini allergy.)
As we approach the glass-panelled double doors of the parliamentary chamber, the chatter in the corridor subsides. Inside there are leather-upholstered bench seats on plush green carpet. Mint-coloured drapes frame the windows and intricate plasterwork encircles the room. Jugs of iced water are laid out on ornate side tables, in anticipation of parched throats and nervous breakdowns.
A familiar flutter of anticipation rises in my chest as Boss turns to me with a smile.
‘We’ve got this, Mill,’ he whispers.
I grin from ear to ear. I know we do.
