Page 38 of Power Moves
‘Spirit’s impressive.’
‘Yeah but the family catchphrase was “Millsy, you’re a battler”. Saying I had spirit was their way of saying I was a try-hard. I neverachievedhard.’
Archie glances at me, a thin crease between his eyebrows. ‘I must politely disagree, Ms Hatton. Having known you for thirty seconds now, I can confidently say you emanate a very impressive aura.’
‘Ha! Is that because you spy a laptop peeking out of my handbag? In that case, I confess: I work myself to the bone to achieve the illusion of competency. Deep down, I’m quite a useless individual.’
Archie’s eyes cut to mine. ‘Millsy, don’t say shit like that.’
‘I’m Ms Hatton, remember?’
He shakes his head, his eyes turning back to the road. ‘Okay then. You go.’ His fingers start drumming the steering wheel again.
‘Um …’ I scan the scene before us. The blue sky is whitening now as sunset nears; hints of orange and pink sliding across the cityscape. A smattering of red tail-lights has appeared in the line of traffic guiding us forward. Archie’s fingers move across the steering wheel to an invisible beat. I point at them. ‘I’ve noticed you never sit still. Do you have worms?’
Archie snorts. ‘No.’
‘A UTI?’ I suggest, sympathetically. ‘Or just a weak bladder?’
‘My muscles down there arefine,’ says Archie, barely suppressing a smirk.
I try not to gasp in horror. That wasnotwhere I was going with that line of questioning, and heknowsit!
Unintentionally, my eyes drift back to his muscled forearm on the windowsill, and I turn away with an exasperated huff. Now we’re back to where we started. Me: thinking about his arms. Him: completely oblivious but generally smug.
Archie flicks on an indicator to merge lanes. ‘My fidgeting drove Mum crazy,’ he admits. ‘But she could get through anything. She’s amazing. She raised me by herself.’
I didn’t mean to bring up Archie’s mother. I already knew she was a single mum. The whole country knows. It was national news: Archie’s dad, the three-time grand final winner, a living NRL legend, died tragically in a car accident, leaving behind a six-week-old baby. And that baby grew up to sign a contract with the Roosters when he was seventeen and buy his mum a house at eighteen. It’s the stuff of Australian folklore.
My palms suddenly feel sweaty in my lap. ‘Your mum sounds great,’ I say quietly. I’d really rather not talk about our mums, but it feels important to say something. Great mums deserve to be acknowledged.
Archie’s eyes catch mine and I have that familiar, unsettling sensation that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Archie is famous for looking after his mum, but I’ll never be able to do the same for mine.
CHAPTER 17
‘I vote we continue the New Friends Game,’ Archie announces as we pull into the car park. ‘If you find yourself thinking murderous thoughts related to my headlines about Nancy Miller, then you wipe your memory blank and remember that as of tonight, we’re friends.’
‘Unlikely,’ I scoff. ‘You’re not getting away with a decade of psychological warfare by using some random game.’
Archie finds a car space and angles his head over his shoulder. ‘We don’t have to be new friends forever,’ he says as he starts reversing. ‘We’ll just play tonight. For Remi and Tyler.’
I exhale a deep sigh. We’re already late for the party. I guess the least we can do is be civil to each other and not make a scene (though the thought of forcing his face into a croquembouche is supremely enticing).
‘Okay,’ I relent. ‘I agree under protest.’
‘Great,’ smiles Archie. ‘Let’s go then, Ms Hatton.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got to change first.’
‘Why?’ asks Archie. ‘You look great.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Archie, you and the Barack Obamas and Karl Stefanovics of the world can wear your navy suits for twenty-four hours of the day and no one will blink an eyelid, but I can assure you that for women, the dressing-for-day-tonight concept is a total myth.’
‘Okay,’ says Archie slowly. ‘Where are you going to change?’
I instruct him to close his eyes while I grab my bag from the boot of the car and crouch behind the SUV to unbutton my shirt. The sky is now inky black and the car park is silent as I stealthily slide on the green dress, pull off my bra underneath it, then kick off my heels and shimmy out of my skirt. The emerald lurex dress skims over my hips like water. The bitumen under my bare feet is rough but still warm from the sun. I pluck my most dancefloor-friendly heels from my bag and wedge them on, stuffing my work clothes back inside my bag. My day-old mascara will have to do, I figure, but on a whim I grab a red lipstick from my handbag and smear it on. Emerald green and red. How accidentally festive.
I knock on the passenger door to let Archie know I’m ready.
