Page 90 of Power Moves
‘Three,’ I continue, holding out another finger, ‘we work ridiculously long hours, to the detriment of our personal lives. Four, our political radars are so attuned to each other’s that we’re basically running from the same sonar station. And five, our favourite pastime is bitching about the crossbench.’ I’m now holding out all four fingers and a thumb.
Boss laughs. ‘One,’ he says as he puts his forefinger over mine to bend it down to my palm, ‘I have much better taste than you in wine. Two, I’ve never worn a pencil skirt in my life. Three, I’m still not clear what “pedagogy” means. Four, I’m an old schlob, and five, you’re a beautiful young woman with the world at your feet. We’re not alike at all.’
His hand is now covering mine. ‘You’re not a schlob,’ I say, suddenly aware that this is a very strange thing to be saying to my boss while we’re technically holding hands, despite the hand-holding having evolved from a very rational and grown-up debate.
I pull my hand back to my wineglass and take a sip. Boss has the ability to select delectable wines, and I am generally a willing drinker of these delectable wines, which is yet more proof of our potentially detrimental compatibility.
Boss smiles kindly. ‘Our similarities and differences are what make us a great team.’ He picks up my hand again and squeezes it. ‘And you’ll always be my better half.’
The malbec must be distorting my vision, because it appears that Boss is holding my hand—for the second time—in a dimly lit wine bar, and is looking at me with a weird expression. I pull my hand away (again) and take another gulp of wine, which I realise, mid-swallow, is unlikely to improve my vision. I scrunch my eyes, trying to work out what that was. His expression was … oh yes,fatherly, I decide. He was squeezing my hand like a doting dad.
‘Should we get another bottle?’ asks Boss.
I look up from my wineglass. We never get another bottle. I’ve got rules about these things. He knows that. But thenagain, I’m normally not drowning my sorrows after losing a tennis match to Archie. Boss raises his eyebrows gently as if to say,So?He’s so kind to be keeping me company on such a shitty day. He’s a good man. I hope his wife remembers that amid all the Nancy Miller media chaos. He’s a good guy and he loves his family.
I gulp the final dregs from my glass. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
CHAPTER 41
‘Did I have another glass or did I have … two other glasses?’ I ask as we wander back to our hotel. I think I’m staggering slightly but I’m not going to ask Boss if I am, because I don’t want to draw his attention to it.
‘You had one,’ smiles Boss. ‘After the first one.’
‘Is that two?’
‘I think so, yes, but I failed maths in Year Twelve.’
I giggle. ‘What fool made you the Education Minister?’
‘The Premier,’ laughs Boss, shoving me playfully.
Since my centre of gravity is already balancing precariously on a tightrope, I wobble sideways.
‘Woah,’ says Boss, grabbing my hand to steady me.
‘Thanks,’ I say sheepishly, pulling it away.Oh god, I am shitfaced in front ofmy boss. Thank the lord the HR structures in parliamentary offices are so weak. A formal warning isnotwhat I need right now. I grit my teeth and try to summon theenergy to walk faster. My heels and uncoordination are conspiring against me.
A familiar yellow bus is parked out the front of our hotel. ‘Oh no,’ I whine. ‘Are the media staying here?’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ replies Boss. ‘They were all at the hotel bar before I left, hence why I suggested the wine bar. Didn’t want them listening in.’
‘Good thinking,’ I congratulate him. My paranoia is finally rubbing off.
Boss procures a swipe card and we traipse into the foyer. If there wasn’t the threat of lurking media, I’d take off my shoes. The fluoro lighting stings my hazy eyes as I hear the rumble of laughter from the bar on our left. Through the sleek wooden slats of the dividing wall, I can see Larry’s silhouette. His head is tilted back in a kookaburra laugh.
‘What level are you on?’ asks Boss. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’
‘Itsssfine,’ I say, trying to wave him off. The slurring is really not adding to my poise.
‘Are you okay, Millsy?’ Archie has suddenly appeared from nowhere. He is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that is eerily reminiscent of the one that’s been crumpled at the base of my laundry hamper since the festival. There must have been a two-for-one deal, I guess, and I can see why he bought two: they really highlight his tan. He looks fucking hot. I hate him.
‘I’m going to bed!’ I announce, louder than I intended.
‘I’m walking her up,’ Boss explains.
Archie’s forehead creases. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Millsy?’
‘Ya-huh!’ I say, as I attempt a hair flip. The result is a cricked neck. I try to glare at Archie but my vision is pirouetting for some reason. I think at least one of my eyes is on him, though. Well, it’s on his bicep—the bicep that’s straining against his sleeve, and god, his arms look nice in that T-shirt, but oh yes, that reminds me: I hate Archie Cohen.
