CHAPTER 11
There’s a good turnout for the Lilac Beach press conference, which I predicted given the school’s proximity to the cafe up the road. If there’s one way to a journalist’s heart, it’s through food. And coffee. And scandal, obviously.
Boss is sailing through his talking points, just like I knew he would.
The bats are still cavorting overhead, which I’ve decided I’m now thrilled about.
This is definitely better for the optics.
It’s so hard to remember all the different privileges you have to watch out for: beachside privilege; inner-city privilege; North Shore privilege; cashed-up-bogan privilege. It’s a minefield out there.
The press and their cameramen are gathered in a semi-circle facing Boss, who stands behind a collapsible lectern. I stand off to the left, just out of view of the cameras.
After about fifteen minutes, Boss looks over to me and I nod almost imperceptibly—one of the codes we worked out years ago. ‘Okay, last question,’ he says to the crowd.
Archie speaks up before anyone can get a word in. ‘Any comments on Nancy Miller’s polling numbers?’
Classic Archie. I step towards Boss to play Bad Cop. ‘We’re here to talk about the education infrastructure project,’ I warn the crowd.
Archie determinedly avoids my gaze. ‘Minister, Nancy Miller’s polling numbers indicate the party could be on the way out, which could have severe implications for the future of education infrastructure in this state, wouldn’t you say?’
I move towards the collapsible lectern to pull it down. ‘I think we’ll wrap up here.’
Boss raises his hand to halt me. ‘It’s fine, Mill.
’ He turns back to the gathered media. ‘Archie, I’m always delighted to receive questions about the party.
I’m very passionate about team loyalty, which is something you’d know about if you’d managed to stick with the Roosters for more than one season. ’
There’s a ripple of laughter and I flush with pride. I couldn’t have scripted that better myself. I glance at Archie to check his reaction, but his expression is unflinching. He’s singularly focused on Boss. ‘So the polling numbers …’ he prompts.
‘Ah yes,’ says Boss. ‘I think we can safely say that the polling numbers for Miller’s electorate indicate there’s work to do, but as I’ve said before, we’re ready to roll up our sleeves and get the job done. And Nancy Miller is an impressive woman. She always cuts a fine figure, so I know—’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupts Archie. ‘Did you say she “cuts a fine figure”?’
My stomach plummets. I was hoping no one would notice that.
Boss looks perplexed. ‘Ah, I’m not sure. Did I? Maybe. Figure of speech, I guess. But as I was saying—’
‘I think you’ll find you did say that,’ Archie says.
I see Kendra from the ABC and Marissa from Sky share a glance. Oh god.
‘What did you mean by that?’ Archie asks.
‘I, er …’
‘Is that something you’d say about a man?’ interjects Kendra.
‘Well, no,’ stammers Boss, ‘but it was a compliment, wasn’t it? She’s a woman who wears a skirt well and—’
Oh fuck, shit, NO! That’s only okay when he says it to me!
‘Minister, do you agree that was blatantly sexist language?’ asks Marissa.
‘Minister, do you often think about Nancy Miller’s figure?’
‘Minister, would you ever wear a skirt?’
Arghhhh! The questions are barrelling towards him like tennis balls from a serving machine.
I don’t know how to rescue this. I can’t draw attention to myself or it’ll remind them that Boss raised his hand at me to tell me to pipe down, less than a minute ago.
It’s all on film and they could cut that so badly. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
‘Minister, what’s your comment on reports that Minister Miller refused to sit next to you at the last Cabinet meeting?’ asks Archie.
I step around the cameras to position myself behind the press pack and start jumping so Boss can see me over the tripods. ‘Wrap!’ I jump. ‘It! Up!’ I mouth the words like a crazed elocution coach on an episode of America’s Next Top Model. ‘Wrap! It! Up!’
Boss is squinting as he tries to lipread what I’m saying. Goddammit, for a guy who’s in charge of the state’s education portfolio, he is so clueless sometimes!
The jumping clearly isn’t working, so I raise my hands above my head and start waving in the universal code for Stop, retreat, this is an ambush!
Archie’s eyes flicker back to where I’m standing, and oh shit, he’s seen me in full arm-waving mode. Desperately, I clench my fingers and try to pass off the action as some kind of enthusiastic double fist-pump. ARGHHHH! What am I doing?! Fist-pumping for sexism?!
Suddenly one of the cameramen bends down and I have a clear line of sight to Boss. Urgently I mime a line across my neck. Kill it. Kill the whole thing. Kill me. Kill this campaign. My eyes are going to burst out of their sockets, I’m glaring at him so hard.
‘I think we should wrap up now,’ he says cheerfully, oblivious to the carnage he’s created.
FINALLY! That’s my cue.
‘Thanks for your time, everyone,’ I say, striding back around the melee for the lectern—that sweet, sweet lectern whose mere dismantling simultaneously dismantles media pile-ons. At least until everyone jumps online.
‘If you have any questions about the infrastructure project, please call me,’ I trill. ‘You have my number.’
They’re all ignoring me. Shit. Kendra and Marissa are bent over their phones, muttering urgently.
The cameramen from SBS and Ten are being uncharacteristically collegial, winding back their reels to check who got the best footage.
Echoes of ‘out of touch’ and ‘creepy’ are wafting around the crowd like anthrax powder on the breeze.
Boss straightens his blazer and leans towards me. ‘How do you think that went?’
I stand up, dropping the half-packed lectern.
‘Boss!’ I hiss. Does he not realise what a disaster this is?
These are the kinds of incidents that bring out the worst in Australian journalism: the woke brigade mobilises for cancellation and the shock jocks sharpen their conservative knives to swing back.
It’s yuck. It’s not debate, it’s not journalism: it’s schoolyard bullying, and both sides are equally vicious.
There’s no middle ground for a good guy who makes an innocent slip-up.
If this makes it onto TikTok we’re screwed.
‘What?’ he implores. ‘It’s nothing you can’t handle. Everyone knows I have the best media director.’
I frown, unimpressed.
‘And the prettiest media director,’ he adds, as if that will help.
‘Boss,’ I groan. It’s like he’s from the Stone Age sometimes, the way he thinks complimenting a woman about her appearance is the easiest way to resolve a conflict. Like, Oh your dog just died? Don’t worry, your hair looks top-notch!
‘Give me a call if you have any issues, but I assume you’ll sort it out?’ says Boss.
‘Maybe Petria could—’
‘No,’ Boss interrupts, shaking his head. ‘She’s too new. Don’t you think?’
His confidence in me is so depressing. He has no idea this blunder will keep me working all night.
When I don’t respond, Boss raises his hand in farewell and strolls back to his car. ‘I’ll see you in the office this arvo,’ he calls.
I watch him go with a familiar pressure building in my sinuses.
My throat muscles start tightening before I can stop them.
It’s stupid. I don’t need to cry. I’m used to this.
I’m used to averting crisis after crisis; this is not a big deal at all.
It’s just—it’s Maxy’s birthday. I was supposed to hang out with my family tonight.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Bryan: We should lock in a date to catch up! What about that sushi place you like?
At that moment, Archie appears from behind the reception building with his phone clamped to his ear. He pulls it away when he sees me.
‘Can’t wait to see how you spin that one, Millsy!’ He grins and waves, and I watch him stride off in the wake of Boss’s $200,000 Audi.
Grumbling, I crouch down to grab the lectern and feel something warm and sticky on the handle.
‘Argh!’ I jolt back, horror-struck.
My fingers are covered in a gloopy brown mess, and without any further inspection I know, on a cellular level, that it is most definitely bat poo.
Once again, I have been left to deal with all the shit.