CHAPTER 5
‘Thanks for the lift,’ I say to Boss, texting furiously as he steers his Audi into the tunnel. ‘My car’s at the cleaners.’
‘Easy,’ says Boss. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at the phones on my lap, which are bleating like a pair of hyperactive goats on heat. ‘Lots going on?’ he asks.
‘Yep,’ I reply, not looking up. ‘Larry from Channel Five keeps texting because he reckons there’s nowhere to park his van and the girls’ WhatsApp chat is going off too.
But! In the biggest news, the Premier’s office is loving me sick because I made our exclusive with Archie into an all-in press conference and now heaps of journos are bypassing the opposition’s rally to come to us. ’
I fire off a few heart emojis to the girls’ chat and send a thumbs-down to Larry. Bryan—the perennially communicative and therefore emotionally exhausting ex—has also texted. I force myself to send a thumbs-up in response to his We should catch up!
‘Who’s in the girls’ chat?’ asks Boss, not bothering to check his blind spot as he overtakes a van.
‘My uni mates,’ I reply, as I add a Legally Blonde gif to our thread. ‘My best friend, Remi, finally got engaged to her long-term boyfriend, Tyler. I lived on campus in a uni residence with both of them. They used to joke I was their third wheel.’
‘That sounds like a fun threesome,’ muses Boss, as he merges back into the middle lane.
I shoot him a horrified look.
Boss laughs. ‘Sorry, not what I meant.’
I shake my head, trying not to smile at his hopelessness.
Boss is almost twenty years older than me which is like a lifetime in millennial years.
It’s not his fault he says dumb stuff. He grew up without phones or selfie sticks or the constant threat of people posting your worst moments online for the voyeuristic pleasure of others.
That’s why no one in my generation wants to go into politics.
We’re all too shit-scared that someone will unearth a photo of us with drunk eyes at a uni party doing the Soulja Boy dance. Could you imagine the headlines?
Fortunately, Boss hasn’t been tarnished by this cynicism, which is why he’s so good at his job. And if he stuffs up, I simply tell him that he sounds like a tone-deaf twat and instead of firing me, he takes it on board and learns from it.
One time he accidentally told Kendra from the ABC that single motherhood was ‘a women’s problem’.
To be fair, most single mums are women, but try arguing that these days.
Then, rather than shying away from the backlash, Boss decided (aka, I decided) to pen a mea culpa and publish it on the most popular women’s media website in Australia.
Within twenty-four hours, his DMs—which I oversee—were overrun by women wanting his midweek meal reccos.
I’m still not sure if that was an over-forties code for something kinky but regardless, I recommended spag bol.
One must never miss a chance to remind the masses of one’s relatability.
‘So remind me what our key lines are,’ says Boss. ‘We’re in South Western Sydney to announce a twenty-million-dollar literacy program …’
‘Twenty-two-million.’
‘Really? Where did the extra two come from?’
‘I made a call to Gregory last night and managed to convince him to transfer some funding from the Radical Reading rollout. It had a bit of cash left over.’
Boss chuckles. ‘I love how much Gregory loves you.’
‘Gregory hates me,’ I correct him. ‘He’s just scared of me because I’m an extension of you.’
‘And because you’re such a gun on the policy detail,’ says Boss.
‘True,’ I accept.
Boss chuckles as he turns onto the exit road. ‘Any journos I need to pay attention to today?’ he asks.
‘I think we’re okay,’ I say, mentally ticking off the journalists who are coming.
My work life is a constant tug-of-war, trading secrets with one journo one week, another journo another week.
‘It’s Archie’s first freelance gig so he might be upset that it’s not an exclusive anymore, but he still has to file a story, so he’ll survive.
Today’s priority is nailing the photo. The assistant principal is going to dress up as a dragon—it’s the school’s mascot costume—so I’m hoping for at least two front pages.
If we can get some cute kids in the frame too, everyone is going to want to print that. ’
‘So there’s no need to worry about Archie?’
‘No, I’ll sort him out.’
Boss cocks his head as he slows for the lights. ‘Remind me how you know Archie.’
‘Oh.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t really. We just lived in the same uni residence. He was in the year above me.’
The truth is, I have no idea how I met Archie. He was just always there. In the background. A friend of a friend who I somehow always knew but was never properly introduced to. ‘He didn’t finish uni,’ I add. ‘He got a contract to play rugby in France so he left after second year.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Boss nods. ‘It’s a shame he got injured. He was such an impressive footballer, just like his dad. Would’ve worked out better for us if he was still playing.’
I make a non-committal grunt. It is a shame and it isn’t a shame. Of course I wish Archie hadn’t become a journalist whose apparent sole purpose in life is to terrorise me, but even I can admit he’s a genius at his craft. His talents would have been abhorrently wasted on the rugby field.
A few minutes later, Boss pulls into the parking lot of the primary school where we’re holding today’s press conference.
In the distance there’s a playground that appears to be made from a few lumps of wood and some cable ties.
It’s supposed to resemble the natural environment, which is why it took twenty-two months for the government to design and half a million dollars to build.
As Jessie has explained to me many times, the au naturel look is always the hardest to nail.
‘I’m going to do a recce to see where we should do this photo,’ I announce, as Boss turns off the ignition.
‘I’ll stay here and practise my lines,’ he says.
‘Good idea,’ I agree, jumping out.
I make a beeline for the playground, where, as planned, a swarm of yellow-polo-shirted kids and a supervising teacher are waiting nearby. The students seem to vibrate with a rambunctious kinetic energy. The teacher is dressed in a rainbow pleated skirt with a crisp white blouse.
‘Hi there,’ she calls as I approach. ‘I’m Miss Rose.’
‘HELLO MRS MINISTER!’ bellows a curly-haired boy jumping onto an aesthetically pleasing and safety-compliant tree log. ‘Thanks for letting us skip class for this photoshoot.’
‘Hi!’ I wave back. ‘But I’m not the minister, I’m his media director.’ When I see the children’s blank looks, I add: ‘I’m his friend. I left the minister in the car.’
‘With the windows up?’ cries a kid with a flat cap. ‘He could die!’
‘He has the air-con on,’ I assure them
‘But the environment!’ cries a pigtailed girl.
‘Oh, um.’ I try to catch Miss Rose’s eye but she’s distracted by a stick-insect-shaped kid who’s suddenly chasing a magpie towards the school gates.
‘It’s a … hybrid,’ I lie, praying the children of this generation are still innocent enough to trust their elders.
‘My mum has a hybrid!’ announces the curly-haired boy. ‘Dad calls it a “pussy-arse—”’
‘OKAY!’ I interrupt. ‘Who wants to show me around?’
‘I will!’ says the curly-haired boy, jumping off the log. ‘I’m Rahul.’ He sticks out a chubby hand but just as I go to shake it, he yanks it away. ‘You snooze, you lose, bruh,’ he says, to a chorus of giggles from the other kids.
‘Rahul!’ warns Miss Rose from across the playground. ‘Manners!’ She’s now using netball defence-type moves to shepherd the stick-insect kid back to the group.
On the playground, Rahul is already running up a series of log steps that lead to a George of the Jungle–style tree tower. ‘C’mon Mrs Minister!’
It seems pointless to remind him I’m not the minister, nor the missus of the minister. Regardless, I’m not even sure I can make it up the steps in these slingbacks.
‘Not scared, are you?’ calls Rahul over his shoulder.
It shouldn’t provoke me as much as it does, but my body surges with a Hell no, Rahul.
‘Coming!’ I call brightly. I tiptoe carefully up the log steps, my pencil skirt restricting my stride to an awkward, crab-like scuttle. By the time I make it to the top, Rahul is bouncing like the Energizer Bunny.
‘Let’s race to the bottom!’ he yells.
‘YESSSS!’ cheer the kids at ground level.
‘Oh, um.’
My options for descending include a slippery slide, a cargo net, a fireman’s pole and the fiddly log stairs.
‘Ready, set, GO!’ Rahul hollers. He darts to the slippery slide.
I’m not proud of the way I scramble for the fireman’s pole, but I blame my tennis-coach mum: the competitive streak is genetic.
It’s not until I’m airborne that I realise there’s no possible way to do this in a pencil skirt.
A vision of Bridget Jones’s bum floods my cerebral cortex.
The squeak, the slide, the undies! Desperately, I clamp my legs together, attempting a kind of arm-based descent down the pole, but I can’t stop gravity.
I tumble into thin air and land smack-bang on the bark chips. The sudden silence does nothing to cushion my fall.
‘SHIT!’ I gasp, scrambling upwards. ‘Shitshitshit!’
Around me, the kids are mute, their expressions stunned.
‘SHIP!!!’ I correct myself. ‘Ship! Ship! SHIP! This is how I play pirate ships. ARGH MATEY!’
Oh god. Even as I’m saying it, I’m thinking: This is it. My career ends now. I almost annihilated a horde of kindy kids with my bum. Imagine if a nose got stuck between my butt cheeks? I could have smothered a child to death!
Rahul cheers. ‘YEAAAA! PIRATE WAR!’
As if lit by a fuse, the kids squeal and race for the play equipment. Within seconds they’re taking turns on the fireman’s pole, trying to squash their classmates’ heads on the descent.
A panting Miss Rose comes to my side.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I gasp. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?’
Miss Rose laughs wearily. ‘It’d take more than a body falling from a height to scare these kids.’
‘Even so, would you mind not telling anyone about what just happened?’ I ask timidly. ‘It would be really bad for my boss if that story got out.’
Miss Rose chuckles. ‘Honey, it’ll be our little secret.’
‘Thank you,’ I gush. I hate secrets—I hate secrets so much—but needs must. ‘I just hope my boss didn’t see.’
‘Is that him?’ she asks, pointing over my shoulder to the car park.
I turn around expecting to see Boss emerging from his Audi, but instead I see something better.
Larry is parking the Channel 5 van. The ABC crew are wandering through the gates.
The Sky team have arrived too. Dribs and drabs of Sydney’s media are drifting towards me, and in their midst is a strong-jawed man in a fancy suit who is realising that his exclusive story with the Education Minister has been sucked down the plughole.
Archie Cohen is positively glowering.
A wave of calm—of happiness, even—washes over me. The sense of relief is instant. I may have just been bested by a five-year-old punk named Rahul, but at least I’m always one step ahead of Archie.