CHAPTER 14 #2
I inhale again. There are notes of bergamot, a trace of vanilla …
it’s slightly earthy. It smells like a warm hug or a cosy blanket on a squashy couch.
My mind flickers back to the bus—the jutting of Archie’s shoulders, his suit pants stretched taut across his thighs.
I breathe in deeply again, before I realise: Oh!
I’m basically inhaling Archie. I start coughing.
Archie narrows his eyes. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ I hack, waving away his concern.
My phone beeps.
‘Is that the pizza?’ asks Archie.
‘Bryan,’ I answer, turning the screen face-down. I’ll respond to him later.
‘Oh!’ Archie’s eyes light up. ‘Is that who you were talking to before at the presser, when you were making that face?’
‘It wasn’t a face.’
‘It was a constipated face.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘Then show me your real constipated face.’
I almost start clenching before I realise this is a trap.
‘Bryan is lovely,’ I huff.
‘So why’d you break up?’
Because he didn’t get my jokes. He used the word ‘slacks’ and thought it was strange that I found that funny.
‘We never saw each other,’ I say. ‘I was always working.’
Archie smirks. ‘I work a lot too.’
I smirk back. ‘That’s probably why he hasn’t asked you out.’
Archie chuckles. ‘So why’s he texting?’
I shrug. ‘No reason, probably. He just texts a lot. He’s a texter.’
‘Does he want to get back together?’
‘Ha. No. He’s just a friendly guy. He’s always trying to catch up. He might even have a thing for Jessie, actually … He was randomly asking about her.’
‘Ohhh.’ Archie grins so broadly a laugh slips through. It’s what always happens when he knows a secret I don’t. ‘He definitely wants to get back together. Showing interest in someone’s family is the first move in the green-flag playbook. Did he ask about work too? That’s move two.’
My blush is instant. Fortunately, my beeping phone interrupts us and this time it is the pizza. I race for the back door, my mind swimming.
Bryan can’t want to get back together, can he?
I’m way too chaotic for him. I know I try to give off the aura of a cool, calm and collected individual, but deep down I’m a hot mess.
For Bryan, spreadsheeting is a way of life.
For me, it’s a coping mechanism. Yes, on the surface, we seemed like a perfect match, but it was all a facade.
I use organised busyness as a cover for high-functioning anxiety. Bryan knows that, right?
I open the back door to find a teenage delivery guy standing on the doorstep with a steaming cardboard box. He’s clad in a leather jacket and this unbalances me even further. Could he be a BAD brO too? Is anyone who they say they are these days? Does anyone ever say what they actually mean?!
I take the pizza and offer the teenager a warm, law-abiding smile, just in case he has outlaw connections.
Within a moment, I’m chastising myself again. I cannot be judging people by their gangster-esque clothing choices! I cannot be referring to Bryan as ‘The Joke Misser’ in my head. I need to be better! I must purge myself of such ungenerous thoughts.
‘Want some pizza?’ I ask Archie, stalking back into the room and taking my first step towards redemption.
‘You know me too well,’ replies Archie.
‘In some ways,’ I admit, setting the box on the coffee table between us. Though to be fair, anyone in viewing distance of Archie would assume this guy needs a constant supply of calories.
Archie waits for me to pull out a slice, then tugs out his own. ‘This feels like old times,’ he says. ‘Like we’re in the common room at uni.’
I try to roll my eyes but chewing makes it kind of difficult, which is probably good because eye-rolling strikes me as an ungenerous facial cue and I am trying to be better.
However, I’m still puzzled by his version of history.
‘Why do you’—I swallow—‘always pretend like we’re friends from way back?
In a whole year of living together, you said about two words to me.
You were friends with, like … Chappo and them. ’
Archie swallows a mouthful of pizza.
‘And Chappo is a dick,’ I add, in case that wasn’t clear from my tone.
Archie takes another bite and his throat flexes as he swallows. ‘Chappo says dumb things, but so does everyone.’
‘He once told me I was too tall for a girl.’
‘I’ve known him since we played under-twelves together. He’s not all bad.’
My eyebrow arches. ‘And that assessment is based on what? Have you ever actually had a proper conversation with Chappo? Or was it all surface-level chat, thinking you’re mad legends talking about all your “Ws” and “good D”, when you could have been saying “wins” and “good defence” like normal people? ’
Archie reaches for a paper napkin. ‘Maybe talking about sport is how guys talk about other things. And I know Chappo can be an idiot, but he was like a brother to me growing up. Why would I throw that friendship away?’
I pluck an olive off my pizza and pop it into my mouth.
Talking to Archie sometimes makes me feel like I’m trying to finish a jigsaw but I’ve lost some critical pieces.
I can understand that football-club loyalties can be weirdly formative, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sebastian ‘Chappo’ Chapman the Third used to slap the arses of random girls and call it ‘playing whack-a-mole’.
If a politician nowadays did anything half as bad, Archie would turn it into a three-part special.
I clear my throat. ‘Saying you “got the W” is actually two syllables longer than saying you “got the win”. I just want that on record in case you’ve never realised. It’s a dumb expression.’
‘But saying “good D” is acceptable?’ asks Archie.
I lift my chin. ‘It lacks clarity. It could refer to good dodge, good drive, good duck-and-cover, good dagwood dog. Imagine if I was a tennis coach and I ran around saying “good F, good F!” for every forehand. That could really be misinterpreted given what the F word normally refers to.’
Archie smiles. ‘Not everyone’s mind is in the gutter.’
I flush. ‘I’m just saying—if guys like you talked properly to guys like Chappo, the world might be a better place.’
Archie cocks his head, a strange expression crossing his face. I quickly take another bite of pizza. I hope he doesn’t realise there was an indirect compliment buried in there.
‘Do you still play tennis?’ he asks.
‘Oh, um, no,’ I stutter, shaking my head. I hadn’t meant to bring up tennis. I used to play almost every day—we lived across the road from the local courts—but I don’t have time for stuff like that anymore.
‘Your mum taught you to play, didn’t she? She was a coach, right?’
I shake my head again. I’m not having that conversation.
I set down my pizza and pick up my mug. ‘How’s your cycling going?’ I ask.
Archie raises his eyebrows like he’s noticed what I’m doing, but thankfully he plays along. ‘It’s rolling along nicely, thank you. I’ve bought all the gear—now I just need to find a cycling buddy. It’s proving tricky because of my weird working hours.’
My mind drifts to Remi and the bridal party, who are all having drinks without me tonight. I sigh as I pick up my tea. ‘Our careers aren’t conducive to socialising.’
Archie shrugs. ‘I’ll work it out. It’s not my number-one priority at the moment. I’ve got some big stories in the works.’
‘Please tell me they don’t involve Boss.’
Archie takes a conspicuously large bite of pizza.
‘Jeez, Archibald, can’t you give it a rest? You’ve caused enough chaos in the last month.’
‘I didn’t become a journalist to play reserve grade,’ he replies. ‘I’m not going to shy away from the big hits.’
I groan into my mug. Ever since he waltzed into his first press conference four years ago, fresh from the NRL, a knee-brace still strapped over his sharply cut suit, this is all he’s ever done: chase big stories; use footy metaphors.
‘And what happens if these big hits lose Boss the election?’ I ask.
Archie chews his pizza thoughtfully, then swallows. ‘I’m one person. I have one voice, one vote. I can’t swing a whole election.’
I grit my teeth. Yes he bloody well can.
‘I will be jobless if Boss loses,’ I grind out. It’s a fact of life—one that I’ve lived with for six years—but saying it out loud, to Archie, hits me harder than I anticipated. I try to focus on sipping my tea but the flavour is too strong.
A barrage of familiar thoughts poke and prod me: I can’t lose my job because then I won’t be able to pay rent and then I’ll have to move home, and I can’t possibly do that—ever, ever, ever—because it will be unbearable for too many reasons, not even including the ridiculous three-train commute to the city.
Archie’s voice is gentle when he speaks. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you stopped working for Harcourt?’
A crackle of indignation rises in my chest. The aftertaste of the too-strong Earl Grey is suddenly sour in my throat.
Why am I sharing pizza and tea and air space with this guy?
He has no idea about anything. He has no idea there are whole rooms in my childhood home that I haven’t been into in six years.
That losing my job won’t just mean I need to update my LinkedIn profile; it’ll set off a whole chain reaction that I’m not ready for, and possibly never will be.
Work is my safety net. It has been for six years, and I’d like to keep it that way—for another four-year term of government, at the very least.
Mum’s voice—as always—is as pure as a flute in my ear. Play your own game. Don’t play theirs.
I get to my feet and lob my half-eaten slice of pizza into the grey bin in the corner of the common room. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce.
I can feel Archie watching me as I pour my undrunk tea down the sink, but I don’t know what to say.
He has his version of the world, I have mine.