CHAPTER 13
Remi: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I was pretty glowy though. Maybz I should reconsider for pre-wedding skincare routine?
Me: Vomit! Glad I don’t have to stand next to you at the altar!
Remi: Too bad! I’m making you bridesmaid. YES SORRY HARD LAUNCH VIA TEXT BUT I GOT OVEREXCITED. You walked right into that.
Me: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG—screw you Remulus, now I’m crying at work
I hastily press the call button next to her name but it hardly rings before I hear the disembodied phone-lady saying, ‘This call cannot be connected’. Remi must already be at work too.
Another text buzzes in. Sorry, can’t chat right now. But drinks with the bridal gang after work?
I send a crying-face emoji. I’m in Wagga. Wet pussies when I’m back!
I send another text: THE SHOTS OBVIOUSLY!
And another: And obvs, only suggesting that for old time’s sake. Fully realise we are both very old and responsible now and drink grown-up adult drinks i.e. tea, and Yakult for gut health.
Remi: Haha, go back to work, loser
Me: Love you
Remi: Love you too x
I tuck my phone into my pocket as Boss wanders over. I wish there was a probiotic cure for FOMO. We shouldn’t even be in Wagga today but the Premier’s office instructed us to fly in early because they need some pics of Boss and Nancy Miller being civil with each other.
The town is crawling with politicians and advisors who all want their fingerprints on the good-news story of the week: the near-completion of Wagga’s new sports precinct.
Unfortunately, in proof of the scarily symbiotic relationship between politics and the media, the town has also been overrun with journalists.
I don’t know which nefarious offshore political donor has funded this, but there is now a media bus.
It’s ferrying all the big-name journalists around the state to ensure that there’s hard-hitting coverage of regional issues in the lead-up to the election (renewable energy, baby lambs, the Elvis festival, et cetera).
Predictably, Boss is overjoyed to be in Wagga. He loves any chance to get his high-vis on.
‘Mill, remember what we talked about,’ he says in a low voice, sidling up to me. ‘You need to get Archie on side. He’s everywhere at the moment. I even saw him on ABC News Breakfast.’
This comment irritates me for several reasons.
Firstly, it was me who told Boss that Archie was on ABC News Breakfast. Secondly, Boss doesn’t know media.
He knows politics. He needs to leave me to deal with the media strategy, which is ostensibly going swimmingly.
In the wake of the Fine Figure gaffe, his facepalm TikTok has clocked six hundred thousand views and counting.
The only journo who’s yet to be persuaded by my charm offensive is Archie Cohen, but I’ve neutralised him through a series of devious tactics.
First, I offered to share my pie with him last Tuesday (he declined), then I offered him an exclusive look at our literacy framework data (he accepted).
Possibly more significantly, I made only two (very witty) snide comments when he sat with me in the cafe yesterday.
It meant I had to endure thirty minutes of conversation about his foray into cycling, listening to him explaining the intricacies of riding in cleats as though I’ve never been to a spin class before, but I think our performative friendship is back on track.
‘I’ll go and find Archie now,’ I offer.
‘Good,’ says Boss. ‘But I don’t want you wasting more time with him unless there’s a payoff.’
‘Trust me,’ I assure him. ‘I know exactly how to play Archie.’
I find Archie kicking a concrete footing as if to check whether the stadium is structurally sound. He’s always so physical with everything. If he stubs his toe, he’ll probably report that the site is full of defects.
‘Hey Archibald.’
‘Millsy,’ he says with a nod, straightening up and wiping his now-dusty shoe on the back of his trouser leg. It annoys me how easily the dust slides off. ‘Please tell me you’re not pulling out of another exclusive.’
‘Why would I do anything like that?’ I reply in my saccharine voice. ‘I told you, I’m really sorry for ruining that last one for you.’
The corners of Archie’s mouth quirk up. ‘No, you’re not. You’re just sorry it didn’t turn out well for you.’
I throw my hands up. ‘Well, of course I’m pissed off, Archie. I already work ninety-hour weeks, and this stupid Nancy Miller stuff has sapped at least another three hundred hours from my life that I’ll never get back. I missed my brother’s birthday because of you.’
‘You mean because of your boss.’
I scowl. ‘If I ever start suffering from panic attacks, I will directly attribute the blame to you.’
Archie smirks. ‘Same.’
My phone starts ringing and I jump at the excuse to escape, which means I answer before I can consider the ramifications of my actions.
‘Hey Bryan!’ I wince and turn away from Archie.
‘Mill, it’s so good to hear your voice! I was beginning to think you were screening my calls.’
‘Not at all,’ I splutter. ‘I’ve been busy with work.’
‘Me too,’ enthuses Bryan, and I can perfectly imagine his eager head bop.
Bryan is a civil engineer, which originally made me think he’d be as fun as Maxy, who also studied engineering.
Unfortunately I discovered that wasn’t the case.
Bryan’s just really into maths. And concrete.
‘Remember that sewerage facility project I was telling you about?’ asks Bryan. ‘They’ve put me on the redesign.’
‘Oh,’ I laugh weakly. ‘Crap job.’
‘No, it’s so great,’ enthuses Bryan. ‘It’s been really interesting and it’ll be amazing for my CV.’
I close my eyes, grateful this conversation isn’t happening in person. Whenever I chat to Bryan, there’s always a moment where I have to remind myself that he doesn’t get my dumb jokes and that’s a reflection on me, not him.
‘I read about your boss and Nancy Miller. I hope everything’s okay.’
‘Uh, um, yeah.’ I glance at Archie, who’s looking at me with a shrewd expression. ‘Nothing I can’t sort out.’
‘And how’s Jessie?’ Bryan asks. ‘She well?’
‘Yep.’ I nod, confused. Why are we talking about Jessie?
‘So what day suits you for sushi?’ asks Bryan. ‘Maybe Tuesday?’
‘Ah, I’ll have to check my diary. Maybe after the election? And sorry, Bryan, I have to go. I’m at work and it’s really, uh, urgent, but um, I’ll call you later. Good to chat. Byyyeeee!’
My byyyeeee! sounds vaguely philharmonic, as though I’m trying to channel a pre-pubescent chorister. This always happens when I talk to Bryan. I become weirdly cartoonish.
I hang up ready to defend my overcooked vocals but Archie’s already gone, absorbed into the constellation of hardhats near the stadium entrance.
★
By the time the press conference has finished, the air is peachy-pink and a flock of galahs has settled on the chassis of a nearby crane.
I help pack up and wave to Kendra as she climbs onto the media bus, promising to send her the numeracy stats and my failsafe frittata recipe.
Boss gets a lift back to the hotel with the mayor and I tell him I’ll meet him later. I feel like a walk.
As the media bus crunches over the gravel and drives off, the construction site is bathed in a twinkling silence. I loop my handbag over my shoulder and weave through the various barricades to the footpath that leads back to the centre of town.
A walk like this is my sweet spot. Purposeful and work-adjacent (so I can’t feel guilty about time-wasting) and—critically—quiet.
There’s no one calling me, no one yelling in my ear, no one demanding things are done yesterday.
There’s just the blush-pink horizon and the rustle of the redgums lining the road, whispering secrets that I don’t need to care about.
Every lungful of air cleanses me. My shoulders feel momentarily lightened. On autopilot, my fingers find my phone.
‘Millsy-moo!’ Jessie answers. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Twerkin’.’ (She knows I mean working.) ‘I’m in Wagga.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. I was gonna suggest you crash the launch party I’m putting on tonight. It’s going to be faaaarrrrncy.’
My brain relaxes as she talks me through her outfit and the canape choices. I ask annoying questions about topics I suddenly feel strangely invested in. ‘What’s your vegan option?’ ‘Chunky heel or nah?’
A golden glow settles over the horizon as the sun deepens in the sky.
At one point, after Jessie has finished describing the colour of the floral installation as a cross between skin-on-your-bum colour and Karen-beige-but-make-it-hot, our giggles peter out and we both stop talking.
I can tell she’s fussing with her makeup and I’m distracted by the galahs forming an arc across the sky.
After about thirty seconds, the conversation restarts as though it never stopped.
She tells me she’s decided to wear jeans and a nice top, and I laugh because I know it’s a joke.
‘I’m going now,’ Jessie announces suddenly.
‘Cool,’ I reply, unoffended.
We say our goodbyes, we profess our love, we quickly debate whether it’s inevitable that Dad’s woodwork training will involve the fabrication of creepy wooden dolls.
We decide that if it does, we will send Maxy anonymous packages containing said dolls, and when we get sick of discussing the likely postage costs of these doll-themed pranks, the call ends. My cup is filled.
The temperature has dropped a few degrees by the time I reach the street we’re staying on.
I hug my arms to my chest as I cross the road.
Our hotel is a brutalist box of grey and orange squares—the kind that generally features fake lilies and an overpowering scent of all-purpose cleaner in the lobby.
As I reach the driveway, Archie emerges from behind a box hedge. ‘Finally,’ he says. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’