CHAPTER 12
‘Dad, I can’t make it tonight.’
In the eight hours since the Nancy Miller gaffe, I’ve gone on the offensive.
Boss has made his government-security-approved TikTok debut.
Of course, Boss doesn’t even know his own account password, but I convinced him to film himself doing a live-action version of the facepalm emoji, and I’ve posted it as his first video.
There are already a few comments along the lines of lol, feels.
That’s what I need more of. I’ll need to stay on TikTok all night, liking and responding to comments to boost engagement and replying to DMs as I triage media enquiries in the background, but I’m hoping I can send this viral.
By Monday, I want tradies calling up Lush FM with their own embarrassing stories of ‘hilarious’ accidental sexism.
My FaceTime screen momentarily freezes, which only emphasises my guilt. Dad’s face is frozen in abject disappointment.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asks, as the pixels slowly recalibrate. ‘Could you work from home and we’ll all help you? Many hands make light work.’
Dad always makes offers like this, despite knowing nothing about what I actually do. It’s sweet, but it’s as helpful as a meerkat offering to file your taxes. ‘Thanks Dad, but it’ll be more efficient for me to deal with it from here.’
‘What about that new girl you hired? Petria? Can she do it?’
‘No,’ I sigh. Not only has Boss already shut down that idea, I know that if I want to keep Petria, I can’t force her to give up an entire Friday night, especially after I had her spend the whole week updating our mailing lists.
I’ve already told her to go home. ‘I’m so sorry Dad, I was really looking forward to seeing you all. ’
‘I was looking forward to seeing you too, Mill. Have you told Maxy?’
‘No,’ I reply gloomily. Despite cancelling the majority of our plans these days, the guilt never gets any easier to shake. History has taught me to always call Dad first. He’s the most understanding. ‘I’ll call Maxy next.’
Dad nods.
‘Nice shirt,’ I add, wishing I had more value to contribute to this conversation. I bought the shirt for him two birthdays ago.
Dad smiles, slightly sheepish. ‘Thought it was time to finally break it in.’
‘It suits you,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’ He’s surrounded by walls of pale blond timber.
‘Just at the men’s shed. I’ve been building a—’
‘Birdhouse, I know. Jessie told me.’
‘No, that’s already finished,’ says Dad proudly. ‘Now, I’m on to a footstool.’
He swings his camera around to show me but the screen is eighty per cent thumb. I coo in appreciation anyway.
‘Our facilitator, Alex, reckons I’m a natural,’ he adds. ‘Says I should try a chair next, and apparently that’s really advanced.’
‘Oh, Dad that’s great,’ I say earnestly. Us three kids grew up playing tennis alongside Mum, with Dad umpiring on the sidelines. I’ve always thought Dad needed a hobby of his own, especially now that he doesn’t have Mum keeping him busy anymore.
As soon as I think it, more guilt spikes me in the chest.
‘Should we try for another family barbeque next Friday?’ Dad asks.
‘I can’t, I’m in Wagga.’
‘The Friday after that?’
‘I can’t, I’m at a business conference, and then the next Friday is the election debate.’
‘The Friday after?’
We go on like this until we finally land a date that’s free in my calendar. It’ll be so close to the election by then that I’ll probably have to cancel that too, but right now I can’t bear to crush the hope in Dad’s eyes.
‘Lock it in,’ says Dad, brightening. ‘I’ll make it super special for you.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I say miserably.
As Dad hangs up, his face is replaced by my lock-screen photo—the five of us at Wet’n’Wild on my tenth birthday. Big toothy grins, neon swimmers, blue skies in the background and Mum’s and Dad’s arms around three dripping-wet kids. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I swipe the photo away to find I’ve received three texts during my phone call with Dad.
Kendra (ABC): Can we get Minister on live at 8.10 tomorrow AM? Let me know
Bryan: Crazy idea. Sushi tonight? I have something to ask you x
Petria: You’re sure you don’t need any help?
I fire off my responses.
Sure!
Sure!
Sure!
I’m a yes person. It’s an innate response—until I realise what I’ve said to Bryan and have to quickly backtrack: Sorry, Bryan.
Sent wrong message to wrong person. Was doing too many things at once (story of my life!
LOL). (I still do not understand why, when texting Bryan, I seem to become a one-hundred-year-old person who writes LOL.)
I hammer out part two of the text: Sushi sounds good but unfort can’t do tonight. Too much on at work. Will be in touch soon. Hope you’re well!
I listen to the message swoosh into the wide blue yonder and put my phone face-down on the desk.
With a weary sigh, I bury my head in my hands.
Through the windows I can see people filing like ants from their grey office buildings, marching to train stations and pubs, ready for their weekends.
The anticipatory hum of Friday night is in the air.
The light outside is golden and warm but it’ll be espresso-dark by the time I get out of here.
I still have so much to do.