CHAPTER 14
When we’re on tour, there’s a tradition that Boss will shout dinner so long as he gets to choose the wine.
When I first started working for him I was still in my goon- and-UDLs era, so this was quite the novelty.
Nowadays it can be tiring. Every night involves a champagne to start, a crisp white with entrees, a shiraz or a merlot with mains, then, if anyone’s up for it, an espresso martini to finish.
The amount of sleep I’ve lost after drinking crappy espresso martinis made by spotty teenagers googling the ingredients in brick-walled country pubs is frankly depressing, but when Boss gets an idea in his head, he’s like a labrador with a stick (ebullient and annoying) and I can’t bear to hurt his feelings.
Tonight, as the waitress delivers an entree of what looks like breadcrumbed carpet scraps (a horrifying appropriation of salt and pepper squid), the light is flickering above us. There’s a bogong moth caught in the fixture.
Press tours to regional towns always involve an intriguing game of country-hospitality turf wars.
The politicians and their staffers are often clued up enough to book the best accommodation in advance, whereas the journos usually end up in the unrenovated motor lodges.
As payback, the journos stake out the best pubs and cafes, which means we have to avoid them, lest we be overheard and/or photographed saying or doing anything incriminating.
That’s why tonight we’ve found ourselves eating at a pub with a sign out the front that says THE DROVER’S ASS.
(Apparently the ‘P’ fell off in the eighties.)
My chair has a wobbly leg, so I’m trying to coax it into stability with a strange hip-shifting motion, as though I’m surfing with my butt cheeks.
Two men at the bar wear bumbags and leather vests emblazoned with the words BAD brOS.
Tufts of underarm hair protrude from their armpits, as if a few defenceless animals are trapped under there.
Given both men have similar levels of muscle mass and body hair, I’m inclined to think the brOS label might be factual.
And if that part is correct, I’m doubly inclined to believe the BAD part.
One of them is openly staring at Boss’s Rolex.
‘Boss,’ I whisper, leaning over the table, ‘I think we should skip the wine tonight.’
‘Why?’ he asks, setting down the vinyl-covered wine list next to the plate of ‘food’. ‘There’s a 2017 merlot here that could be magnificent.’
This is the naivety of Boss. He thinks this random lowlife pub has been cellaring a merlot since 2017. He doesn’t realise they haven’t reprinted the menus since then.
I surreptitiously angle my head towards the bikies and jerk my eyelids, hoping he’ll pick up what I’m putting down.
The bikies are ginormous. Even with my well-practised self-defence skills, if they became aggressive I couldn’t take both of them, and I would never assume Boss would be of any help in a fight—he’s too floppy-haired.
Boss’s face torques in confusion, which I should have expected.
Why would he feel threatened by two hairy men, one of whom appears to be missing his front teeth?
If they do anything untoward, he can always make a quick call to the state police minister.
Or the Feds. In Boss’s world, you don’t need a strong left hook so long as you know the right people.
His blissful ignorance would almost be endearing if it wasn’t my job to keep him alive and well for the next few weeks.
I sneak a peep at Rolex Eyes and accidentally catch his eye. He unfurls a smirk and winks at me from under a bristly eyebrow. A bolt of fear zips down my vertebrae.
‘I’m feeling sick,’ I announce. ‘I need to go back to the hotel.’
Boss checks his watch. ‘You want to leave now?’
‘Uh, um, yes.’ Easier to fib than admit to Boss that I think he’d be as useful in a fight as a Teletubby at a death metal convention.
It would be like throwing a labrador’s stick into a woodchipper.
The sad puppy dog eyes would kill me. Also, if we get back to the hotel within the hour I might be able to sneakily order a pizza.
Boss sighs and places the vinyl menu back between the salt and pepper shakers. ‘If you say so. Allegra has been saying I should be avoiding red meat anyway. Do you think they have Menulog here?’
My heart does a frantic double beat, which always happens when Boss says things like this (denouncing red meat in farming country; insinuating regional centres are yet to connect to the internet).
‘Let’s go,’ I say, standing before he can inform the bikies that their studded belts make their bums look big.
Boss sighs, smooths the sides of his slicked-back hair, then stands and compliantly follows me out.
★
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m convinced I imagined the whole imminent-mugging thing and am feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself.
I made an uninformed, knee-jerk judgement about those leather-clad men.
Maybe ‘BAD brOS’ is the name of their polka troupe.
Maybe they’re a travelling comedy duo. Maybe they’re two men who formed a friendship after a lifetime of being bullied for their size and hairiness and matching You wanna piece of me?
expressions, and they just wanted a quiet night at the pub to talk about their feelings.
Goosebumps race up my arms as the chill of the lobby air-conditioning hits us. I need to be a better person. I work for a government minister. Who can we rely on to promote tolerance in our community if not the people who staff our ministerial offices?
‘You sure you don’t want to join me for dinner in my room?’ asks Boss, interrupting my self-remonstrations. ‘I’ve got the deluxe suite, so it has a dining table. It’d be my shout.’
I’m almost tempted—my stomach is grumbling like an angry nun—until I remember I’m supposed to be sick.
‘Er, no,’ I say, grimacing as we walk into the bleach-scented elevator.
I place my hands over my stomach in a way I hope conveys nausea.
Then again, I can’t have him thinking I’m pregnant (surely he knows I don’t have time to get impregnated?
!). I course-correct and raise my hand to my temple.
‘Massive headache,’ I say, closing my eyes like they do in the movies.
‘But nothing a good sleep and some Nurofen can’t fix. ’
His voice softens. ‘Okay, well, just make sure you take it easy. I can’t have you falling before the finish line.’
I smile gratefully. ‘Thanks Boss.’
As soon as we part ways at the Level 2 elevator, I order a pizza on Menulog and add a note instructing it to be dropped off at the back door near the common room, so there’s no chance of it being mixed up with Boss’s order, and therefore no chance of him uncovering my white lie.
Then, I stealthily creep downstairs to make a tea while I wait.
The common room sits off a corridor from the main reception area, and has a flatscreen TV on the wall and a basic kitchenette in the corner.
Tub-style armchairs are arranged around Laminex coffee tables, and everything is adorned in a depressingly bland shade of cigarette-ash grey.
It covers the wall, the fridge, the upholstery, the trousers of that suit …
‘Archibald!’ I exclaim, striding towards the leg poking out from behind one of the armchairs. ‘What are you doing here?’
Archie glances up. His irises look slightly bronze in this lighting. ‘I’m enjoying the commonality of the room.’
I clench my teeth to stop from smiling. While I resent him as an individual, his wordsmithery is often entertaining. ‘Are you enjoying the grey?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Of the earl variety.’ He holds up his mug and I instantly recognise the scent. Tea leaves and bergamot. That’s what Archie’s bus seat smelled like. Earl Grey tea. It’s so incongruous it’s hilarious. Maybe he was a naughty vicar in a former life?
‘How come you’re not at the motor lodge with all the other journos?’
‘Got a hot tip Nancy Miller decided to book an Airbnb last-minute, so I managed to get her room.’
‘Cunning,’ I remark, filing that factoid away for later. I wonder if Boss knows about this. I wonder if the Premier’s office organised it? They do enjoy a reshuffle. ‘I just ordered a pizza,’ I say. ‘Where’d you find the tea?’
‘The teabags are in that drawer,’ says Archie, pointing. ‘But there’s only Lipton. I brought my own.’
A dry laugh erupts from my throat. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you forget where you came from. Since when are you a tea snob, Archibald? Are you an exclusive T2 drinker now?’
Archie’s gaze meets the floor.
‘Archie!’ I exclaim. ‘You spent twenty dollars on a box of tea?!’
‘I bought it in bulk. It was a good deal!’
‘How much did it cost you?’
His voice is small. ‘Forty dollars.’
I burst into peals of laughter.
‘It was a big box!’ he insists.
I’m giggling so hard that the room is spinning, but I can’t stop. Big scary Archie Cohen drinks fancy tea and packs it in his suitcase for road trips to the country. I start imagining his long pinky finger extended off a dainty teacup and it sends me into more convulsions.
Archie stands up and storms over to the kitchenette, pulling a tiny foil packet from his pocket.
‘Sorry,’ I gasp, trying to steady myself. ‘I actually love this for you. It brings a whole new dimension to the Tinder bro vibe you’ve got going on. You think he’s pulling out a condom, but no: ladies, it’s a packet of tea!’
‘Here,’ he grunts, turning to me with a steaming mug. ‘Try it for yourself.’
I accept the mug with a Cheshire Cat grin.
‘Sit down,’ he commands. ‘You have to let it steep.’
I settle down on the armchair opposite his. The steam drifts up in loopy tendrils.
Archie smirks as he sinks back into his seat. ‘See?’
‘Fine. I’ll admit it smells okay.’ The apples of my cheeks still feel like they’re about to burst out of my face, I’m smiling so hard.
‘Better than okay.’