Page 107 of Power Moves
Archie’s the guy I thought would never back down from anything but now he’s taking himself out of the race. I want to tell him that I’m not here for Boss anymore, that I’m here forme, but before I can speak, a booming voice rings out from behind the jacaranda tree. ‘Where’s the girl who saved the press conference?’
I close my eyes and move Archie’s hand away, feeling a fat tear roll down my cheek.
Roughly, I wipe my palm across my face and turn towards Boss. ‘Here I am,’ I say, emerging from the shadows and forcing a smile in his direction. ‘Everything’s ready to go.’
CHAPTER 51
Generally, politics is not as shiny as you’d think. Behind the scenes at Parliament House, the carpets are worn, there are scuff marks on the skirting, the offices are poky, and the MDF-veneer desks have tangles of cords behind the computers. It’s not shabby, it’s just normal. An ordinary-looking workplace where people have the ability to do extraordinary things.
Today though, at our last major photo opportunity before the election, everything has been scrubbed free of dirt and controversy. The camera lenses are polished, the giant door to the Great Hall has been varnished and buffed. Even Boss’s hair is glossier than usual.
There is an abundance of suits and self-conscious nodding. Bureaucratic babble abounds: ‘low hanging fruit’, ‘leveraging synergies’ and ‘blue sky thinking’. The Prime Minister is spontaneously challenged to name the current price for a dozen eggs and manages to do so. The sense of triumph iscontagious. Everyone beams. The media’s cameras flicker like the paparazzi at Cannes.
Afterwards, once the lectern has been dismantled, I find Boss mansplaining the traffic issues in the Eastern Distributor tunnel to Kendra. I tap him on the shoulder. ‘Can I borrow you for a second?’
He shoots Kendra a winning smile. ‘Excuse me. I’ve been summonsed.’
I lead him into a foyer that juts off the Great Hall. It’s wainscoted in a dark timber, like a giant coffin. Portraits of stern old men in rigid suits glare at us from the wall.
‘I’m resigning,’ I announce.
‘What? Why?’
‘You know why,’ I reply.
‘Mill, this is ridiculous,’ Boss says. ‘Why on earth would you quit?’
‘I’ll stay on for another three days, until the election,’ I continue, ‘but I will need you to write a reference today so I can start applying for jobs as soon as possible. I’ve got one drafted, which I have just emailed to you, so all you need to do is add your signature. Or I can add it digitally if you’d prefer?’
‘Mill, no,’ he says, shaking his head. A lock of hair has unsealed itself from the bouffant and is hanging over his forehead like a rat’s tail. ‘This is crazy talk. We’re a team. I don’t know what’s come over you.’
I open my phone and start reading from the document I prepared earlier.
‘I work unreasonable hours, I am never offered time in lieu, I have never been able to take a proper sick day because I’m always fielding calls—’
‘But you love all that,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re the one who made it that way.Youdid that.’
I continue reading. ‘My willingness to help is mercilessly exploited and on a recent work trip my boss inappropriately kissed me while I was drunk and pushed his groin against me as I was sandwiched between him and a wall. I acknowledge that I consented to drink more than one standard drink an hour, but I do not believe I was leading him on in any way.’
‘What the hell are you reading? I didn’t do that. You were drunk, Mill, you said it yourself. You were imagining it.’
‘I’m resigning,’ I repeat calmly. ‘But as I said, I’ll stay on until election day.’
‘Mill, this is outrageous. Just send me the runsheet for tomorrow and I’ll talk to you about this when you’ve had a chance to calm down.’
‘Minister Harcourt—’
‘Camilla.’ He silences me with a pointed look. ‘Calm. Down.’
When I don’t say anything, he starts patting the pockets of his jacket looking for his phone. He’s already checked out of the conversation, assuming I’ll go ahead with his plans.
I feel like a live-sports producer who’s pressed pause in the replay to assess the action from a new angle. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before when it’s so clear to me now: to Boss,I don’t matter.
My mouth keeps opening and closing, but I can’t work out whether I want to yell or hiss or throw my phone at his head.
Before I can decide, a news alert pops up in a grey oblong box on my screen, as innocuous as a reminder to go to the dentist but without the promise of anaesthesia.
As I read the text, my heart starts to race. Within a second, it’s a stampede. The panic splinters through me. I turn the screen towards Boss before I lose all bodily control.
