CHAPTER 13 #2
I squint at his silhouette, which is stark against the setting sun. His tie is loosened but he’s still in his suit. ‘If you’ve been waiting for a chance to kill me, I’d advise against it,’ I say. ‘I’m very well connected.’
Archie smiles. ‘I don’t think it’s possible to kill a vampire.’
‘If that’s an allusion to my late-night work habits, I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘As you should. It’s definitely not an allusion to your bloodthirst.’
Up ahead, I can see a swarm of figures in shapeless jackets beelining for the pub. ‘Are the journos all staying there?’ I tilt my head towards the sun-bleached motor lodge on the next block. The bright yellow media bus is parked out the front.
Archie nods. ‘The embroidery net curtains are proving handy for the catching of moths. Less handy for the maintaining of privacy.’
‘I’m sure you’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘And I’ll take that as a compliment.’
My capillaries suddenly feel red-hot. ‘That was a reference to your laptop, Archibald. Because we’re not going to screw each other over during this election campaign, are we now? We’ve had a teensy hiccup and now we’re both committed to honesty and transparency.’ I nod and smile for emphasis.
Archie grins. ‘In the interests of maintaining the détente, I was wondering if you’d be interested in a tour of the media bus.’
The inconvenient thing about my having known Archie since uni is that he knows how much I wanted to be a political journalist. I’m not bitter about where I’ve ended up—there are only about six political journo roles in Sydney that pay enough for rent, and I’ve actually ended up in a pretty good position considering the lack of practical skills I gained during my overpriced degree, but I still have a soft spot for the glamour of journalism.
(The National Press Club, media buses, hidden cameras in pens.)
‘Archibald,’ I say, with exaggerated surprise. ‘Sometimes you can be so thoughtful.’
‘And sometimes you can be so sarcastic.’ He offers me his arm, as if we’re going to promenade there together. ‘Shall we?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Tempting, but if I wasn’t a vampire, I’d rather die.’
Archie chuckles and pretends to elbow me.
‘Hey now, Archie!’ calls a man across the road. ‘That’s no way to be treating Mill. She’s not bad for a spin doctor.’ I look up to see Larry, the Channel 5 news cameraman, making his way over.
I laugh as Larry crosses the median strip. ‘Thanks for looking out for me, Lazza.’
Larry shoots me a pair of finger guns as he joins us. ‘At your service, Mill.’
‘Lazza?’ echoes Archie, looking between us. ‘Is that legit, Larry? Can I call you Lazza?’
‘No,’ says Larry seriously. ‘That would be weird. It’s a special pet name that only Mill can bestow.’
I nod.
‘Like Archibald?’ Archie asks.
I shake my head quickly. ‘No. That’s not a pet name. Well, maybe if one of those mutant raptors in Jurassic Park was a pet …’
‘See you guys at the pub?’ Larry asks.
‘Can’t. I’ve got some deadlines,’ Archie says.
‘And I’ll be out with the boss,’ I add.
‘Boring,’ drones Larry. ‘But I’ll get you out for a beer with us one day, Mill.’
‘You will,’ I agree, and we wave him off down the road.
‘Lazza, hey?’ says Archie.
I grin. ‘He’s a good man.’ Larry is in his mid-sixties and gives off an Aussie Rod Stewart vibe, which I find endlessly hilarious.
He tells the craziest stories and has the loudest laugh.
One time he offered to hook me up with his pot dealer and shamefully I had to turn him down, explaining that despite growing up in a badass suburb and generally presenting as a work-hard-play-hard boss lady, I am super straighty-one-eighty.
I know deep in my soul that as long as I’m alive, I will never be as cool as Larry.
‘It’s good to see you like this,’ Archie says, smiling.
‘Like what?’
‘Kind of … jolly.’
I crack up laughing. ‘I do feel quite jolly,’ I admit. ‘Whereas, normally I’m quite tense around you, Archibald. A clever person might be able to find the common denominator there.’
I smile and point my finger at his chest, and he snatches it out of the air.
His fingers tighten around mine. We’re both grinning and our eyes are locked and I’m thinking there’s probably a joke to be made about his giant hands, but suddenly everything feels very warm and I’m overwhelmed by some kind of strange premonition that we’re about to hug.
‘Let’s get on this bus,’ I say, hastily disentangling myself.
Archie shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘Bus. Definitely.’
★
Inside, the bus is stuffy and smells like stale hot chips.
The seats are velour with papery yellow covers on the headrests, which I assume are intended to prevent headlice outbreaks.
It looks like a regular coach that schools would book for excursions to Canberra.
It’s so much lamer than what I’d imagined.
I sigh as I take in the scene. ‘Archibald, did you bring me here to disappoint me? I thought it would be more like a tour bus, the kind rockstars have.’
Archie’s standing in the aisle behind me. ‘Once I thought I saw cocaine on the floor, but I’m pretty sure it was Ken’s dandruff. The closest thing we have to a rockstar is Jimmy from Channel Four. He plays Led Zeppelin pretty loudly.’
I scoff. ‘You’re more of a rockstar than him. You were on three networks last week.’
‘Only because I’m a workaholic, not because I’m cool.’
I laugh despite myself. I know the feeling. And also—it’s true: Archie is not cool. It’s just that everyone thinks he is.
‘I sit there,’ he says, pointing over my shoulder to a seat halfway down the bus.
‘Interesting,’ I muse. ‘I thought you’d be a backseat bandit. That’s generally where the rugby league types hang out.’
‘Millsy, you know my rugby league career was a disaster. Now, I’m a word nerd like you.’
At this, I smile and turn to face him. ‘Archie, we are not similar at all.’
Archie’s mouth hooks up. ‘Apart from you being a girl and me being a guy, I would say we’re actually very similar.’
‘Archie, everything you say confirms that you are very dumb and I am supremely intelligent, and hence, we are complete opposites.’
Archie shakes his head, smiling. ‘Millsy, you talk so much crap.’
I grin. ‘I’m in the business of it.’
‘Do you want to sit in my seat?’ he asks, nudging me in the back so I have to walk down the aisle to regain my personal space.
‘Not really. Do you have headlice?’ His brown hair is so thick, headlice would have a wonderful time in there.
‘You can sit there,’ he says, pointing to the seat next to the window. ‘I always take the aisle so I can stretch my legs.’
‘That figures,’ I say, glancing at his thighs.
I slide into the window seat and Archie drops down next to me.
He’s too big for his seat, of course, because he’s too big for everything: suits, doorframes, human-sized chairs.
His shoulder is jutting into mine. He smells faintly of cologne and there’s also a hint of something else that I can’t put my finger on.
It’s earthy and citrussy. Not hot-chippy at all.
‘What do you do on the bus?’ I ask, lifting my chin to scan the headrests in front of me. I have to look ahead because otherwise all I can see is Archie. ‘Do you all strategise together?’
Archie shakes his head. ‘It’s pretty boring. Normally we’re on our laptops, not talking. Even though we’re packed in like sardines, it gets pretty lonely.’
‘As opposed to when you’re at home and have a different girl over every night?’
Archie’s eyes skate to mine. ‘You know that’s not how I roll.’
I laugh. ‘Sorry, two girls every night. I didn’t mean to understate your playerness.’
Archie’s knee starts jiggling to an invisible beat. ‘You know I don’t have time for a love life.’
‘You do file stories at weird hours,’ I admit, thinking of the one that popped up at 3.03 a.m. on .au the other day.
He shrugs. ‘The only women I have time for are my mum, fascinating political characters such as Nancy Miller, and you.’
I roll my eyes. Archie has always had the gift of making people feel like they’re special. It’s how he wrangles so many exclusives.
‘I bet you have literally forty girls on your call list. Maybe forty-five.’
Archie laughs quietly to himself, not meeting my eye. ‘I promise, if there were women in my life, you’d know about them.’
‘How are Whitney and Britney?’ They’re the only women he’s really told me about—apart from one called Charlotte and another called Sarah—but I prefer discussing Whitney and Britney, for obvious reasons.
‘I told you,’ says Archie. ‘I only went on a few dates with both of them.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I muse. ‘They sounded fun. Maybe next time you should date a Mariah or a Carly Rae.’
Archie presses his shoulder against mine in a gentle shove. ‘You’re annoying.’
I chuckle, delighted to have achieved my daily target; the same dopamine hit you get from an Apple Watch buzzing when you reach your ten thousand steps. ‘So are you,’ I reply.
We’re silent for a few contented moments as the sky outside transforms from pink to purply-blue and the amber streetlights slowly blink to life.
My gaze floats to Archie’s knee, resting next to mine, and a memory resurfaces: a night when my skirt was much shorter and a frangipani tree sweetened the air that was as warm as my skin.
‘I need to go,’ I say, abruptly. A sudden claustrophobia is clawing at my chest. I try to stand up but I’m still wedged into the window seat. If I wasn’t wearing one of my standard-issue pencil skirts I’d try to leap over him.
‘Okay,’ Archie says, standing up to give me space. ‘But are we even now? Does this excursion make up for your brother’s birthday?’
My mind drifts to that phone call with Dad, to the Coles mud cake I never got to eat, to the hours I wasted studying the intricacies of the TikTok algorithm, and it lands on a memory of a corner bench in a courtyard, a frangipani petal, two sets of long legs and a whole lot of feelings I’d rather not be reminded of.
‘Archibald,’ I croon sweetly, ‘we will never be even.’