Page 96 of Power Moves
I slide the image away into the ether.
The original photo from that day still hangs on our living-room wall, but no one’s been in that room in six years. The memories of what happened in there are too painful. That’s why I can’t move home. That’s why I work so hard.
I hate to look back. I hate scrolling through the what-ifs and the should-haves, because they can’t change a thing. I plan, I look forward, I work hard, I have goals. That’s what I do. Looking back is useless, and worse than that, it’s painful.It’s only in moments of extreme weakness that the chink of light from my past manages to stream through the padlocked door, and it’s happening now. My brain is going to places I usually close off, and it’s all because of this garment bag and the memory of what Boss did last night.
What have I been doing for six years? Has it always been like this? Have I always excused his behaviour, rationalised it, smiled and nodded even when it made me uncomfortable?
I suddenly feel seasick, as though my insides are suspended in gravity while I wait for everything to rebalance. A rumble in my stomach tells me to move.
I hurry outside to the car park where there’s a foul-smelling steel bin with ibises picking through it. The stench triggers the metallic bile. I run towards a railing that separates the car park from an embankment and heave last night’s anchovy toasts and malbec down onto the tussock-y grass below.
My eyes sting and my throat burns. I’m wiping my sweaty hair from my face when the realisation hits me, and I stand up dizzily. It feels as though by purging myself, the radio antenna in my brain has picked up a message from my subconscious and now it’s dominating the airwaves.
I don’t just miss teasing him, I don’t just miss his body. I missall of him. The whole kit and caboodle. Everything.
I miss Archie Cohen. I miss him so, so much.
CHAPTER 44
My heart feels like it’s rattling in my chest cavity, being flung from side to side like a hacky sack.I miss Archie.The thought is discombobulating. It’s the emotional equivalent of picking up theTitanicvia UFO suction beams, flipping it 180 degrees and plonking it back in the sea to sail back to bonny Britain.
My brain is such a mess, I don’t know how I’m driving the hire car. Am I indicating? Am I going too slow for the fast lane? Are tattooed guys in giant RAM utes glaring at me aggressively and I’m completely oblivious because my mind is a whirlpool of memories and suits and jokes and smiles and offensively sexy arms on windowsills?
The car barrels over a series of potholes and with every spasm of the steering wheel, another thought slams into me.I’m ruining the car! The government should fix these roads! I miss Archie! God, I miss him so much.
The next thought—I don’t think I hate him at all!—triggers a flood of other questions that blast through the transmitter cable in my brain at full speed and with perfect clarity.
Maybe every teasing remark, every joke, every time we vied for control of the next day’s headlines, I wasn’t motivated by hate? Maybe I acted the way I did because I never hated him at all. Maybe I fought to have the last word, not because I wanted to win, but because I never wanted the conversation to end? Maybe … I like him?
Oh, Camilla!
Now I’ve thought it, the knowledge fills every capillary in my body. Every heartbeat is another pump of understanding.I like him, I like him, I like him.And I’m having that realisationnow? After he’s hightailed it back to Sydney to probably have an acrobatic sex marathon with a Norwegian megababe—as explicitly instructedby me?
Everything the tattooed RAM drivers probably think about me is true. Iama fool.
I wanted so badly for Archie to be there this morning because I trust him. Not because he’s guileless and earnest like Bryan, but because I understand him and he understands me. Even when we clash at work, I know it’s because he’s so competitive and career-focused he can sometimes get swept away in the storm, just like me.
Even when the man tells me I look constipated, I’m not offended. I oftendolook constipated in times of stress! I could have told him about last night and he wouldn’t have judged me; he would have listened.
I like him. Oh far out, I actuallylike him.
A cacophony of competing feelings are jostling for the podium in my chest; I feel stupid and naive and helpless, and more than that, I can’t stand the ache of him not being here, of not knowing if he’ll ever speak to me again.
I try to breathe through it. I’ve known this kind of emptiness before—when you wish for someone so hard, and would give anything to undo what you’ve done.
Immediately, as soon as I’ve made the comparison, I know this is nothing like what happened with Mum. Mum will never come back; I’ll never get that chance with her. But Archie’s still here. There’s a possibility I can fix this, and instantly, I know that I have to try.
The plans form quickly in my head. I need to speak to Archie, I need to apologise to Jessie, I need to deal with Boss, I need to try to organise a press conference with the Prime Minister and,oh man, since I’m ticking off all these major life tasks, I should probably talk to Bryan too. Dear, sweet Bryan who someday will find a lovely girl with a virtuous heart who would never bitch about the crossbench or deign to use sarcasm as a form of affection.
Suddenly, the scenery around me appears less blurry. My focus has been sharpened. I can see every sneaky pothole and every bored sheep. I check my rear-vision mirror and I’m gratified to see thereisa giant RAM ute behind me. I wasn’t imagining it, there is hope for my sanity!
As the RAM speeds up to overtake me, I notice the driver’s sunglasses. They’re not the giant face-covering sunglasses of a tattooed beefcake or a BAD BRO bikie. They’re neat little ovals with gold wire frames. A dainty woman sits perched behindthe wheel as if she’s a sparrow driving a monster truck. Her lips move joyfully to a song I can’t hear. She roars past with a coquettish shoulder-flourish, and I notice the pink sticker on her tailgate:LADY TRADIE AND PROUD OF IT.
I smile to myself as I flick on my indicator. The road before me is clear.
I’m just another badass woman getting shit done.
CHAPTER 45
