Page 79 of Power Moves
The newspapers and online articles have been fairly neutral—just factual reporting at this stage, which is the best we can hope for. On Monday the shock jocks will have their say, which means everything hinges on the next twenty-four hours.
My phone pings with a text from Dad.Just reading the paper. Hope all is ok. Alex (woodwork Alex) did a stint in Iraq but reckons your job would be harder!
There’s a crack in the footpath and I skip over it like I’m doing an aerobics move.
Thanks Dad. It’ll be ok. Alex sounds like a legend! How’s the footstool?
A photo arrives in response. A selfie of a grinning Dad holding the stool. He’s wearing the shirt again, the one I got him for his birthday.Just finished! Going for beers with Alex tonight to celebrate.
You deserve it! Have fun!
Another text buzzes in from Bryan.Saw the headlines. If you need to vent, I’m here.
Thanks, I text back.But all good
I’m buoyed by the fact the producer at 2GB owes me a favour after I paid for her coat-check at the business conference. I’m pretty sure I’ve got every major journalist on side, other than Archie of course, but he can go to hell. In this moment, with the sun radiating off the harbour and my phone battery charged to one hundred per cent, I’m feeling confident.
Hopefully by Monday the radio brekkie presenters will be drinking thewe’ve all stuffed up beforeKool-Aid. We’ll give it a few days, get Boss on Lush FM and feed him some lines about being caught in the eye of the storm, and then we’ll do a beautiful, styled shoot with his wife and son in the gardens of their family home. It’ll be yesterday’s news in no time. Whenever I spy Boss’s face on fish-and-chips wrapping, I consider it tangible evidence of my skills.
I take a quick call from the ABC and wrap it up promising to send them the latest data on the literacy-improvement rankings, when my phone beeps with an incoming message. Seeing the name is like getting an injection of acid into my stomach.
Archie.
I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my bike shorts and tap the message.
Interviewing Nancy on60 Minutestonight. She’s claiming Harcourt initiated it and it was a three-month affair. Thought you should know.
My legs come to a halt. The traffic roars beside me. I stare at the screen.THIS DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!
I punch in Boss’s number and he answers instantly.
‘Mill, everything okay?’
‘No, disaster. Archie’s doing60 Minutestonight with Nancy. She’s going to say the affair went for three months and that you started it.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do we do?’
Argh!I have no idea. I normallyalwaysknow, but I’ve never had to deal with this level of bullshit before. Plus, I’ve been on the phone to60 Minutesthree times today! That slot was supposed to be mine!
‘Did you lie to me?’ I demand.
Boss groans. ‘I thought it would be easier for you. I know you hate lying. I didn’t want you to have to lie for me.’
‘Boss!’ I cry. ‘This is not the time foryouto be protectingme! You should have told me the whole truth.’
I’d thought Nancy had been eerily quiet since the story broke, but now it’s clear she’s been busy laying a trap. The media love a binary, and what could be more tantalising than pitting Nancy Miller as the damsel in distress against DanielHarcourt, the big bad wolf; the proxy for all that is wrong with politics and the patriarchy? If Nancy does this interview, Boss won’t stand a chance on election day.
‘What about Archie?’ asks Boss. ‘Speak to him. You’re supposed to be keeping him close.’
‘I am,’ I snap. That’s the problem. I let him get too close and it distracted me. I missed all the signals. I thought I was rolling with the tide but it turned out there was a tsunami coming.
I’m suddenly furious with myself for going for a walk. I need my laptop. I need a keyboard. I need to spreadsheet this shit out!
‘Incoming call,’ I lie. I tell Boss I’ll call him back later.
