Page 78 of Power Moves
‘I’m in an Uber right now. What address am I going to?’
Boss sighs. ‘Fine. I’ll meet you in the cafe by the flat.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I hadn’t noticed before but the Uber driver is agonisingly safety-conscious. He stops for every single red light, even some yellows. I have the insistent urge to yellFollow that car!like we’re in a chase, just to speed him up. The tartan spectacle case on the dash suggests he’s not the type to play along.
Instead, I channel my murderous rage at my forefinger, which is back to hovering over Archie’s name on my phone. Should I call him? Text him? Hire a hit man? I’m so bonecrunchingly angry, and I’m desperately trying to ignore the rage that’s rerouting from Archie to fire back at myself.
I’m a stupid, pathetic, lonely idiot! I can’t believe I slept with that man. Literally one guy pays me attention and I capitulate like a fool. I’m soembarrassed. And angry! My blood is a Molotov cocktail that could launch rockets to the moon.
Finally we pull up to the cafe. It’s on the corner of a leafy street, with striped umbrellas dotting the pavement outside. It’s the kind of place that’s normally filled with white-haired couples and mums in activewear nattering merrily in the dappled sun, but at this time of the afternoon and in this weather, it’s empty—save for a lone man in a suit.
‘Boss,’ I say, striding indoors, dumping my handbag on the table. ‘You need to tell me what’s going on.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Boss, we don’t do this,’ I say, pointing between us. ‘This relationship is based on trust. You need to tell me what’s going on so I can deal with it. Otherwise, you can kiss the whole election goodbye.’
Boss tugs at his collar and exhales. ‘Okay, Mill, but don’t judge me.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘Boss, I never do.’
We chat for hours and it’s not pretty. Boss cries, I cry, and eventually, when the sun dips behind the jacaranda trees and the umbrellas are folded down and lugged inside, we’re kicked out of the cafe. Boss leaves them a $50 note as a thank-you because, just like I’m always telling everyone, heisa good guy, and we walk onto the pavement where lines of commuters are trudging home, their faces lit up by the glow of their phones. No one notices Boss. He’s just another suit in their midst.
‘So we’ve got our strategy,’ I say, businesslike, as Boss folds his jacket over his arm. He looks like a man wrung out, and I get it. Sometimes this job leaches the life from you, and as a reward, if you’re on top of your game, you get more.
‘Thank you, Mill,’ he says weakly. ‘I thank my lucky stars every day I found you.’ He tips his head towards the bluestone pub across the road. ‘Want to get a proper drink? We could probably both do with a scotch after the week we’ve had.’
I have to physically stop myself from frowning.Thisis why my job is so exhausting. Sometimes, Boss has No. Fricking. Clue. I mean, yes, I could smash a vat of hard liquor right now, but this is a hugely risky time for him to be seen sharing alcoholic beverages with a younger female. It doesn’t matter that we’re only colleagues. Imagine if someone got a photo of us. The media can read into anything. He should know this!
I glance around the dusky streets. The last purple rain of the jacarandas has been squished to a pulp under our feet.None of the commuters seem to have registered that Boss is here, but we live in the age of iPhones and cancel culture. We can’t take that chance. ‘Next time,’ I say wearily.
Boss nods and rebuttons his jacket. ‘Bye then, Mill.’ He turns and starts walking back to his apartment block, and from behind, he could be anyone. Not the State Minister for Education, not the elected representative of one of the wealthiest electorates in Australia, just any other guy heading home from work in his impeccably cut suit with a Rolex on his wrist.
?
As soon as I’m in another Uber, I’m back to work. I call Kendra from the ABC and Marissa from Sky, I call the guys at Channel 4 and the commercial stations. I call theTele, theHerald, theGuardianand evenThe Daily Mail. We’ll give them everything, we’ll be honest, we’ll say she seduced him, he stuffed up and it was a one-time lapse of judgement; he’s distraught for his wife and son. We’ll tell them he’s been scared and lonely and confused, and that politics can break a man. We’ll say it all, and in return,wewill control the narrative. Nancy will wake up to see Boss’s face on the cover of every newspaper in the state. We’ll do a stand-up tomorrow—after his morning run so he looks red-faced and puffy—and I’ll be there at the back of the media scrum, mouthing the lines to him like I’m a ventriloquist and he’s my doll.
It’s fine. Or at least, it will be fine. I’m used to this. I normallythriveon this. It’s just—and this is what’s making me feel like I’m going to throw up—now his kid’s involved. And his wife. Rory and Allegra. They’re great people. Theydon’t deserve to be sucked into this messed-up vortex of malicious headlines. We might be used to this, but they’re not. They don’t know this thing will metastasise and take them over, leaving a trail of wanton destruction.
On my phone, an alert pops up.
@AceofBass24: Thanks @ArchieCJourno for exposing what we all knew. @MinHarcourtNSW is a total f*ckw*t. #VoteHarcourtOut #nswpol
I tap on the app formerly known as Twitter.#VoteHarcourtOutis already trending.
I clamp my molars together so hard it feels like the shock-waves could rattle nearby buildings. I hope to dear god that a giant faultline has erupted under Archie’s apartment block and he’s been sucked into the Earth’s fiery core—back from whence he came—because otherwise he’s heading towards a slow and painful demise by my hands, and frankly I don’t have time to spare.
When the Uber pulls up in front of my place, I run up the stairs two at a time, racing towards my laptop. I’m going to be working all weekend and I’m going to make that fucker pay.
CHAPTER 36
We’ve scored every major Sunday front page. It’s a huge win but the war isn’t over yet. I’m power walking down to Double Bay for a coffee with my EarPods in, backgrounding journos as I go.
Exercise + work = the ultimate in efficiency.
I’m wearing all-black lycra and my ice-white sneakers are freshly bleached. I’m a media ninja out here.
