Page 81 of Power Moves
‘I already have.’
‘What?’
‘You thought I’d be glued to the phone waiting for you to text? Jesus Archie, you can be so arrogant.’
‘Millsy, you are in need of some severe therapy.’
‘Like you can talk! You’re so messed up, you fill your life with people you don’t even like. Like what value are Chappo and all the Tinder girls adding to your life, Archie? I’ll tell you: nothing! They’re nothing but band-aids to cover the fact you’reterrified people only hang out with you because you played one season for the Roosters. You spent your whole life planning to be someone who you don’t want to be, and now you don’t know how to deal with it, because you have no idea if anyone will like the real you.That’swhy you work so hard: so you don’t have to think about the fact you’re scared shitless every day.’
Archie is deathly quiet. Finally he speaks. ‘As opposed to you?’
The last remaining air in my lungs—the precious little I was saving to get oxygen to my brain—is knocked out of me. I’m trying to swallow but I’m a fish in an empty bowl gulping at nothing. My lips are parched, bone dry. Heknowswhy I work so hard.
‘You thinkI’mscared?’ continues Archie. ‘Look in the mirror, Millsy. You don’t know how to feel your feelings, so you’re packing your life with work and it’s breaking you. It’s tearing you away from everyone you love. Have you even cried about your mum since she died? Or have you blocked it out by working until you fall asleep every night so you don’t have to deal with the pain?’
‘Don’t you dare talk about my mum!’ I shriek. ‘This is not a conversation about that.’
‘I don’t care, Millsy! Who else are you going to have this conversation with? You missed your own brother’s birthday to deal with a fucking TikTok campaign. Remi’s your best friend and you forgot when her engagement party was. The only person you make time for is me.’
‘And I hate you!’ I yell. I can’t help it. My voice cracks and a giant sob breaks free from my throat.I hate him!How darehe talk about my mum and my life like he knows what’s good for me? He doesn’t know me at all!
‘I don’t care what you say, Millsy. Someone needs to tell you the truth. You’ve spent so long rolling shit in glitter for your boss, you’ve done it for yourself too. You think your life is great, but it’s a fucking disaster.’
‘I’m allowed to work this hard. It’s my choice!’
‘You’re going to lose everyone you love, Millsy.’
‘Fuck you, Archie.’
His breathing is heavy on the other end of the line. ‘Next time you have a story, don’t call me,’ he says. His voice is eerily flat. The lilt I’m used to—the one that matches the twinkle in his eyes—is gone.
‘I won’t,’ I snap.
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
Archie beats me to hang up.
I have to stifle a violent impulse to throw my phone into oncoming traffic. This is not the suburb to be making a scene. The women have Paspaley pearl earrings and the men tie sweaters over their shoulders unironically. There’s not an ounce of polyester in sight. Everything the light touches is linen, cashmere, Egyptian cotton, gold. I take a deep breath and blink away the tears that are threatening to spill down my cheeks. I will not let him make me cry.I will not.
After Mum died, I resolved to do better, tobebetter. I didn’t want to be the girl with a messy car anymore, so I booked my old Hyundai in for a professional clean as often as I could. I worked late so I’d be organised for the days ahead. I madeplans and processes and boundaries, not just to protect myself, but to protect the people I love from my carelessness.
For six years my processes worked, until somehow I let myself get distracted by a journalist with knives in his eyes. I ignored my routines and checklists for a tiny moment, and now Boss and his family are going to pay. I hate myself so much I want to scream. I don’t want a coffee now. I’m walking straight back home to my laptop. In fact, I’m running. I need to channel this rage somewhere. I need cardio. I need punishment.
Everywhere I tread, tiny, bruised figs carpet the footpath, sticking to the rubber of my shoes like chewed-up gum. The harbour is dotted with sailboats and kayaks. On the grass, by the water’s edge, people lie on Turkish towels, their shoulders bare under the autumn sun. Everywhere around me, people are enjoying their Sundays. They probably don’t even realise they have to vote in two weeks.
CHAPTER 37
Nancy does60 Minutesthen the morning drive slot on Lush FM. Says she thought it was true love. Says Harcourt used her as a plaything just to prove that he could.
Before her segment ends, there’s a call from Gladys from Glenfield, who reckons you can never trust a man over forty with such slick hair.
My phone rings for fourteen hours straight.
CHAPTER 38
I amNOTspeaking to Archie. I am cutting him out of my life completely. Last night I spent forty-five minutes working out how to make sure his name never features on our media-monitoring newsletters. It required a call to our account manager in the Philippines and a $17 upgrade to our business plan, but it was totally worth the effort. I have no need to check what he’s saying because I already know: he’ll be saying everything I don’t want him to, like he always has.
