Page 85 of Power Moves
‘Okay, let’s go,’ I say to the mayor.
‘No, don’t play me,’ he says. ‘I’m more useless than a hip pocket on a singlet. Play someone good.’ He looks around. ‘Anyone here know their way around a tennis court?’
The journos turn to each other expectantly.
‘I covered the Aus Open once?’ supplies Jimmy.
‘I met Boris Becker in the eighties,’ says Kendra.
Larry adds, ‘I once got told I look like Andre Agassi, but I think it was supposed to be an insult.’
Everyone else is quiet until Marissa pipes up. ‘Archie’s sporty.’
My head snaps to Archie, whose eyes have widened in an amalgam of distaste and alarm. He’s shaking his head.
‘Come on,’ Larry says, elbowing him. ‘You’ll be great. Pollies versus journos. The age-old battle, played out in a chicken-wire cage arena. Like MMA but deadlier.’
‘Do it for us, Archie!’ sings Kendra.
‘Yes!’ chorus a few more of the media crew.
‘For the downtrodden journalists!’
‘The impoverished keepers of the fourth estate!’
‘The kids picked last at school because words were for nerds!’
Boss is already walking over to Archie with his racquet. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
I can’t pull out because Ihaveto do what Boss says, but Archie still has agency. He can still decline. His eyes are locked on mine as Larry starts assessing the odds of a media victory.
No!I mouth to Archie, in my clearest, most enunciative form of silent communication.
‘Yes,’ Archie says.
My eyes bulge in disbelief.
He takes the racquet from Boss and flashes me a tiny sarcastic smile. ‘Let’s go.’
?
Aside from all forms of ball-carrying football, these are the sports at which I presume Archie would excel: hammer-throwing, weight-lifting, wrestling and boxing. Conversely, these are the sports in which I presume he would under-perform: ice-skating, synchronised swimming, high-jump and anything involving delicate motions of the body (i.e. rhythmic gymnastics). Tennis lands somewhere in between.
Out of nowhere, an old memory of him dislodges from somewhere in the archives of my brain and floats to the surface: I’d finished a session on the university courts and my hair was slicked with sweat. My face was shining beetroot red. Archie was waiting at the tennis court gate on the steps that led into the court, bouncing a racquet on his knee. Chappo was at his side.
I’d just beaten our uni coach for the first time. I was exhausted but almost levitating with elation.
‘Got a bit of action out there?’ smirked Chappo as I approached the gate. In my endorphin high, I hardly registered the double entendre.
I ignored Chappo and grinned at Archie, purely because I needed a human receptacle for my overflowing good mood. ‘I won in the tiebreaker.’
‘Atta girl,’ said Chappo, clapping his sweaty hand on my shoulder as I passed.
I shook him off but my eyes were still locked on Archie’s, and we smiled at each other as though we’d solved a secret riddle. In his eyes, I saw my joy reflected back at me, as though he knew exactly how I felt.
I haven’t thought about this moment in years—not since it happened, in fact. The memory was lost in the chaos of three solid years of alcohol consumption. But the human brain works in mysterious ways, and it has brought me this information at an opportune moment. It’s a warning: Archie has an advantage. He’s seen me play.
I take off my heels and roll up the sleeves of my blouse. My skirt is hitched as high as it can go. Thank goodness it’s three per cent elastane; I will be employing full use of its stretch capacity. My shirt, unfortunately, is silk. I decide I’ll invoice Archie for the drycleaning.
