CHAPTER 15
I’m writing the Schoolyard Safety media release when my phone starts jiggling across my desk.
In the past month, I’ve written media releases in locations including: the train, my bed, Boss’s Audi, an uninsulated demountable classroom, Fatima’s Café and, on one particularly bleak occasion, the toilet block behind Manning Bar.
The smell was atrocious but, to be fair, the wi-fi was top-notch.
To be writing a media release at my desk feels so civilised, I’m tempted to buy a lottery ticket in case the good luck continues.
‘What’s happening, Millsy Moo-cow?’
‘I’m maxing out my stress limit,’ groans Jessie. ‘Have you been to DJs lately? Every dress is like seven hundred bucks. What the hell am I going to wear to the ARIAs afterparty? And don’t you dare say the green dress, because it’s too slutty.’
I roll back my desk chair and close my eyes. ‘Jessie, don’t stress. You’ll look incredible in anything.’
‘You’re genetically programmed to say that, so I’m not listening. But I’ve been meaning to ask, do you want to borrow the green dress for Remi and Tyler’s engagement party?’
‘You just said it was too slutty.’
‘For me, not for you.’
As per usual, her logic has me flummoxed. ‘I’ll find something else,’ I reply. ‘The party’s not until May. That’s still two months away.’
‘Um, no, Mill. It’s tomorrow.’
‘Um … no.’ I’m scrolling through my calendar. There it is. Remi and Tyler’s engagement party. ‘My calendar says it’s on the seventh of May.’
‘I definitely thought it was tomorrow—that’s why I can’t make it. It clashes with the ARIAs. Do you have the invitation?’
I’m already scrolling my inbox for the Paperless Post email. There it is, and ohhhh, SHIT!
Remi and Tyler’s Engagement. Seventh of March. Palm Beach Members Club.
Cue the dying-cow noises from my throat. ‘But I have a massive event on tomorrow!’
‘You can’t miss the engagement party.’
‘I know!’ I wail. Missing this would be akin to Solange not beating up Jay Z in the elevator. It would be a betrayal of the sisterhood.
‘What time’s your work event?’
‘It finishes at six p.m.’
‘So sneak out early. No one will notice if you arrive at the party a little late.’
‘It’ll take forever on the bus!’
‘Then drive, you idiot.’
‘I can’t. The car’s booked in to be professionally cleaned and I don’t pick it up until Monday.’
‘Oh my god, you and that stupid car. Can’t it miss its appointment with the cleaners for once?’
‘No!’ I cry. Jessie with her bombshell hair and revolving door of party invites will never understand that this life admin stuff is non-negotiable for me.
My car gets a professional clean every fortnight—no exceptions.
This is how I keep on top of everything.
I am organised, and therefore I am in control.
As soon as I deviate from the routine, all hell breaks loose.
‘Can you get a lift with someone?’ asks Jessie. ‘What about that guy on the news?’
My heart stills. ‘Which guy on the news?’
‘The one with the eyelashes. He’s going, isn’t he?’
Oh no. I have done such a good job of compartmentalising Remi and Tyler’s engagement into the box of things to think about post-election that I’ve completely overlooked the fact that Tyler and Archie have been friends since university.
He will definitely be invited. But I’m definitely not asking him for a lift.
‘I’ll sort it out,’ I mutter, opening the Trip Planner app, which unhelpfully advises that at 6 p.m. on a Friday night, the trip from the city to Palm Beach will take two hours and twenty-three minutes via two buses and a train.
‘I’ll drop the green dress off tonight,’ says Jessie. ‘Just make sure you’re there for the speeches. Remi will be devo if you’re not.’
As my sister hangs up, I’m left staring at the three little icons taunting me on my phone: two buses, one train—tiny symbols of time-sucking inefficiency.
I can’t bear to imagine Remi’s dejected expression if I don’t make it there in time, and I already know Uber’s surge pricing will be way too expensive.
Glumly, I start googling water taxis, but it’s just as I suspected: this job doesn’t pay me enough to afford private boat charter.