CHAPTER 8
‘I warned you I had to file something good.’
‘Archie, you’re one of the best journos in the country! You can’t write shit that’s untrue!’
‘Millsy, for a clever woman, you can be so short-sighted sometimes.’
I let out a strangled banshee screech and quickly switch my phone to speaker mode as I scroll down to read the article.
After a fraught press conference where Daniel Harcourt refused to answer questions about his parliamentary colleague Nancy Miller, several well-placed sources have confirmed that Miller and Harcourt are no longer on speaking terms, with some reports of them refusing to be seated in the same room.
This comes after the recent polls which showed …
‘This can’t be true,’ I mutter to myself.
Archie groans in response. ‘It is true, and there’s a bigger story here, Millsy. I just need to work out what’s going on.’
I slam my phone back against my ear. ‘The only story here is that Nancy is a tool! That’s why Boss hates her!’
‘I don’t know why you keep defending Harcourt. The guy’s a tosser. He makes you work every weekend and then can’t be bothered to give you a lift to the station. And you just cop it!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I snap.
I choose to work on weekends because I like to be prepared.
And I don’t mind that Boss couldn’t give me a lift to the station because we understand each other and we have a close working relationship predicated on trust. Not that Archie would know anything about that.
Boss is one of the best people I know. He hired me when no one would, and he’s always been super patient and kind. Without him, I wouldn’t have found the career that’s set my life on a whole new trajectory.
The thought of losing this job and the seismic ripple effect that would incite makes a sudden lump swell in my throat.
If I had no job, I’d have no income. I wouldn’t be able to pay rent; I’d have to move home.
It’d be just me and Dad and his stubbornly flavourless arrowroot biscuits, and that wouldn’t even be the worst of it.
Before I realise it, my breathing has become loud and stuffy.
‘Millsy?’ says Archie. ‘I … I’m sorry.’
‘Oh fuck off, Archie. No, you’re not.’
‘Well, not sorry about all of it,’ admits Archie. ‘Harcourt is a wanker.’
UGH! The condescension of this man!
‘Don’t stress, Millsy. The Premier’s office knew a version of this story would break eventually.
They’ve been planning for it for months.
You won’t lose your job. Harcourt will be fine.
They’re probably sending out the armoured guards and press releases as we speak. They’ll protect him. You’ll be okay.’
The thought of relying on the faceless chumps in the Premier’s office to decide whether Boss loses his job, and therefore whether I lose mine, makes me feel like throwing my phone against the glass window and watching it shatter into a thousand spiky pieces.
Boss and I should be in charge of this. This is our fight to fight!
The call-waiting signal beeps in my ear. It’s Boss. For the second time in a day I don’t bother saying goodbye to Archie. I tap the ‘end and accept’ button.
‘Hello?’
I hear the rage in his breath before he explodes.
‘WHAT THE FUCK, CAMILLA?’