Page 83 of Power Moves
‘To make you laugh.’
‘Um, no he wasn’t.’ He definitely wasn’t. And that whole night was purely accidental. Two people who happened to be cold and horny at the same time. Could have happened to anyone. This is so like Jessie, to assume she knows what’s going on despite having such limited information. And to just casually drop the idea that I like him into the conversation as though it’s common knowledge? Ugh. ‘Can we please change the subject?’
‘Well,’ says Jessie slowly. ‘In news that’s hot off the press, I just gotpromoted!’
‘What?!’ I screech.
‘Yes, ma’am. You are talking to the newest Head of Events and Marketing at Colossal Music. Corner office on the way. Pay cheque trending upwards!’
‘Jessie! Way to bury the lead! I didn’t even know you applied for a promotion.’
‘I didn’t,’ she quips. ‘The position became available, they asked if I wanted it and next minute I’m signing the contract. I’ve never even done marketing before, but now I’m going to be the head honcho. They said all my skills were transferable so I shouldn’t worry; I’ll have a great team around me to support me, so yeah—I can just wing it.’
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘They just gave you the job? And they really didn’t care about your lack of marketing experience?’
‘Nope,’ replies Jessie cheerfully. ‘They told me to keep doing what I’m doing, and everything will fall into place.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘What?’
‘I just … Well …’ I don’t know how to explain it. I know my sister is great, but this isreal life. People need to work hard, do their ten thousand hours, answer phone calls on weekends, build relationships, network, hustle, grind, skip family dinners and friends’ birthdays.Thatis how you get ahead. Not by swanning around in spangly dresses and drinking Aperol spritzes on rooftop bars. Jessie hasn’t updated her CV in seven years! She doesn’t even have a proper LinkedIn profile picture—it’s a cropped photo from a hen’s night. The original, uncropped version features at least seven penis straws. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that this could be a joke.
‘I was just checking,’ I stammer. ‘Because it could be a joke, you know? You never work overtime, you swim laps in your lunch break …’
I hear myself saying the words and all I can think is: Digging. Hole. Deeper.
‘Mill,’ Jessie’s voice is quiet. ‘You need to apologise. Right. Now.’
‘But itcouldbe a joke!’ I insist. ‘It’s not like you’ve ever said you were chasing a promotion. I mean, you take time in lieu. Last year when your car broke down on the way to the ARIAs, you didn’t even get an Uber. You waited until the NRMA arrived and rocked up late!’
‘You have such a twisted view of what makes a good employee,’ snaps Jessie. ‘And I’ve just called you to share some of the best news I’ve had in ages and you’re being a condescending bitch.’
‘Maybe it’s because you always get everything you want without even trying!’
When Jessie speaks, she doesn’t even sound angry. She sounds exhausted. ‘You don’t even know what you want, Mill.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I reply lamely. I know exactly what I want. I want everything to go back to how it used to be. I want to sit on the deck in summer with my siblings, the tennis on in the background and a plate of Dad’s sausage rolls on the table before us. I want to laugh at how the sausage rolls look like miniature poos and for Mum to flick us with the tea towel and tell us not to use ‘toilet talk’, and for Dad to stick his head out the back door and say, ‘Don’t worry love, they probably do taste like shit.’ And I want us togiggleand know that we cando this every day because we’ll always have each other, and the sun, and the unfailing warmth that comes from existing in each other’s universe.
But I can’t have that. Instead, I have to drive five hours down the highway to go to a stupid event that’ll be a waste of time.
Oceans of green grass and eucalyptus blur outside my windscreen. Green, green and more green. I’m drowning in green.
I need to be a better sister. I need to say sorry but the words won’t form in my mouth because a wretched part of me is still confused.How did she get promoted?
‘Okay,’ Jessie says slowly. ‘I’m hanging up.’
Before I can protest—tell her she’s the cleverest, brightest, sparkliest person I know, tell her she reminds me of watermelon and summer and sequins and giant sheep testicles and everything funny and beautiful in this world—the line goes dead.
CHAPTER 39
The GPS blandly informs me that I’ve reached my destination in Wagga. Outside, the tarmac is fresh and the brand-new astroturf hockey fields are a blinding green. The lines on the tennis courts are so straight and white, they remind me of the Treasury Review Committee.
I pull into the parking bay closest to the canteen, gripping the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. Jessie and I haven’t had a proper fight since before Mum died. Before that, we were always at each other’s throats—her whingeing that I’d stolen her glitter ChapStick or broken the zipper of her skirt, me yelling that she was lying, when reallyIwas lying. But when Mum got sick and we suddenly had real stuff to complain about, the stolen ChapSticks didn’t seem to matter anymore.
The anxiety in my chest feels like it might drown me, but I need to wipe Jessie from my mind. In four seconds, I must get out of this car and steer Boss through his firstpress conference since the affair story broke. It will be one of the most challenging of his life. I will have to be razor-sharp, four steps ahead of everyone else, and crucially, I’ll need to do it all while emanating a warm approachability, as though I’m an extension of him. Boss and I are a package deal. If one of us falls, we both fall, but if one of us lifts, we can be a life-raft for the other.
I step out of the Nissan Micra and crane my neck, scanning for the giant red ribbon and novelty-sized pair of scissors to get this grand opening underway. A guy wearing a check shirt, chinos and RM Williams boots—the universal uniform of boarding-school-educated country males—is under the verandah of the canteen block. The media bus is pulling into the car park.
