CHAPTER 16
But today, I have been forced to make the most brain-vexing decision of all.
I suspect my atomic mass is ninety per cent regret right now, and not just because I’ve spent the day looking at PowerPoint presentations about negative gearing and other subjects equally uninspiring to cash-poor, anxiety-rich millennials.
Today, I have made a deal with the devil.
I’m contemplating the likely ramifications of this deal when a big bear hand grabs me from behind.
‘Argh!’ I gasp. ‘Archie, you scared me!’
‘I was trying to be sneaky,’ he whispers.
‘Just act normal!’ I shove his hand away.
We’re standing in the dark coffers of the Intercontinental ballroom, which is filled with round tables of suited businesspeople.
(I would say businessmen but I’ve counted at least four women.) The lights have been dimmed for the presentations, which have dragged on all afternoon.
The media, sitting on the opposite side of the room to the businesspeople, look comatose with boredom.
I would be bored too, but it’s hard to relax when you’ve asked the devil incarnate for a lift to a party.
‘Should we get out of here?’ asks Archie. His eyes are full of mischief, as though this is the funniest thing he’s ever said to me.
‘Don’t say it like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like we’re …’ I can tell from the glint in his eyes that he knows exactly what I mean. I check my watch. ‘Okay, let us depart to your car and commence the trip to the engagement party.’ (I’m trying to use non-suggestive language.)
Archie chuckles. He grabs my bags, which are next to the door, and starts heading towards the elevator.
‘You don’t have to do that.’ I lurch into an awkward jog on my heels to catch up to him. ‘You can give me my handbag at least.’
Archie often feigns chivalry by carrying things for me (lecterns, coffees, et cetera). I retaliate by buying him lunch at least once a quarter, just to keep him on his toes.
The elevator doors glide open and Archie nods for me to go inside.
Despite the best efforts of the space-enhancing mirrors, I clock that it’s an extremely confined space.
I should have thought this through. My laptop is in my handbag, which Archie has not yet handed back to me, and he’s weirdly strong.
He could torture me to get my password and then hack my emails and find mountains of damning headlines in there.
Eek. I cannot let him find out how much the Digital Revolution budget has blown out.
‘Give me my bags. I’m going to take the stairs,’ I announce.
Archie raises an eyebrow. ‘We’re six floors up.’
‘Exercise,’ I shrug.
‘In those shoes?’
Ah.
Begrudgingly, I slide into the elevator. If Archie tries anything I’ll stab him with my stilettos. I punch the ground-floor button and glare at him. His body is being reflected off every mirrored surface. Everywhere I look, there’s a shoulder, a chest, a bicep.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’ I hope he didn’t think I was checking him out. I was just scanning for weak spots. Unfortunately, underneath that suit, he seems to be covered in a thick layer of muscle.
‘I promise I won’t steal your laptop,’ he says, passing me my handbag.
I go to take it, but just as I’m about to wrap my fingers around the handle, he yanks it back to his chest. His smile indicates he is completely thrilled with himself.
‘Archie,’ I warn, my hand still extended.
He holds the bag out, and I reach for it once more, but again, he snatches it back before I can grasp it.
‘Archibald!’ I screech. ‘Quit being so annoying!’
Archie hands it back to me, laughing. ‘You’re too easy to wind up, Millsy.’
The door opens and he stands back while I walk out, seething. Of course I’m highly strung around him. He’s already confessed that he’s chasing a big story on Boss, which is tantamount to trying to kick me out of a job. I have every right to feel nervy in his presence.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask over my shoulder.
‘Palm Beach,’ replies Archie.
‘Can you not be such a pest? I meant, where is your car?’
‘Valet,’ says Archie, pointing to the porte-cochere, where a guy in a purple dress coat is waiting. ‘I thought it would be more efficient—and I know how you value efficiency.’
‘You guys together?’ asks Valet Guy, scrolling his iPad as we approach his stand.
‘Yes,’ says Archie, as I say, ‘No!’
Valet Guy looks up, amused. ‘The car will be up in five minutes. You can wait over there.’ He gestures to a purple chaise longue. ‘Together or not together,’ he adds.
Ignoring both of them, I perch on the edge of the seat and pull out my phone to check my emails. The car arrives a mere two minutes later. In this rare instance, the efficiency is unwelcome.
‘I can’t believe I’m getting in your car,’ I grumble as I climb into the passenger seat of Archie’s SUV. The interior is smooth black leather, and there’s that same citrus-bergamot smell I remember from the media bus.
Archie grins and starts the ignition.
‘Promise you won’t drive me to a dungeon filled with tech bros who’ll hack my laptop,’ I say.
Archie drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Deal. But now I know you’re hiding something, and I’ve got a whole car trip to convince you to give me the exclusive.’
‘Archibald, you’re a fool if you think that’s happening. I’m still angry you made me miss my brother’s birthday.’
‘The media bus was supposed to be a peace offering.’
‘Yeah well …’ I am still angry. I just can’t be bothered to waste my breath explaining why.
The sun is still visible above the skyscrapers and the sky is a periwinkle blue. The Harbour Bridge looms over us, arches of steel slicing across the horizon. As we reach the on-ramp for the highway, the traffic slows. Archie rolls down his window and leans his forearm on the sill.
Involuntarily, my jaw clenches. It’s not that I have an aversion to the fresh air; it’s more that I’ve always found it irrationally sexy when guys rest their elbows on car windowsills.
It’s like when shirtless men on Instagram build wooden cabins in back-to-front caps.
The brain goes: What about sun protection? while the body goes: HOT.
It doesn’t help that Archie has good arms. I would estimate that since I’ve known him, Archie’s arms—by mere virtue of being attached to his body—have made up for at least one hundred and thirty of his sins.
Even when he bumps my shoulder after someone says That’s what she said in a press conference, I find my irritation fizzles out faster than it should.
I turn away before he can catch me staring.
‘Can I make it up to you properly?’ Archie asks suddenly.
I look over. ‘What?’
‘For ruining your brother’s birthday. Can I make it up to you properly?’
I turn back to the road. ‘Unless you have something that allows me to do my job and simultaneously maintain healthy relationships, then you can’t.
The only way you could salvage this situation is to wipe my memory of our every interaction in the last six years.
’ My mind flickers back to that Facebook message he sent me before he left for France.
‘Actually, make that our every interaction, ever.’
‘So let’s start fresh,’ he says. ‘Pretend we never met at uni, or at work. We’re meeting now. What would you say?’
I frown. ‘Are you kidnapping me? Seems weird that I’d be in your car if I didn’t know you. Unless you’re an Uber driver. Are you an Uber driver?’
Archie laughs. ‘No, my name is Archie. Nice to meet you …?’
‘Camilla. Camilla Hatton. You can call me Ms Hatton. Archie is an interesting name. Is it short for Archibald?’
‘No,’ he says, merging onto the freeway. His thumbs are tapping the steering wheel.
‘Oh well,’ I say brusquely. ‘I will call you Archibald anyway. I don’t care much for you at this point, given we’ve only just met, so your feelings are irrelevant. I must say though, you seem remarkably big. Is it difficult to buy shoes?’
Archie’s smile deepens and a familiar satisfaction spikes in my chest. The man is so easily amused.
‘It is,’ he says. ‘Tell me about yourself, Ms Hatton.’
‘There’s not much to tell. I have minimal talents. I have never played professional football, nor have I commandeered a lucrative and successful career as a political journalist. According to family lore, my sister got the serve and my brother got the speed—I was born with nothing but spirit.’
‘Spirit’s impressive.’
‘Yeah but the family catchphrase was “Millsy, you’re a battler”. Saying I had spirit was their way of saying I was a try-hard. I never achieved hard.’
Archie glances at me, a thin crease between his eyebrows. ‘I must politely disagree, Ms Hatton. Having known you for thirty seconds now, I can confidently say you emanate a very impressive aura.’
‘Ha! Is that because you spy a laptop peeking out of my handbag? In that case, I confess: I work myself to the bone to achieve the illusion of competency. Deep down, I’m quite a useless individual.’
Archie’s eyes cut to mine. ‘Millsy, don’t say shit like that.’
‘I’m Ms Hatton, remember?’
He shakes his head, his eyes turning back to the road. ‘Okay then. You go.’ His fingers start drumming the steering wheel again.
‘Um …’ I scan the scene before us. The blue sky is whitening now as sunset nears; hints of orange and pink sliding across the cityscape.
A smattering of red tail-lights has appeared in the line of traffic guiding us forward.
Archie’s fingers move across the steering wheel to an invisible beat.
I point at them. ‘I’ve noticed you never sit still. Do you have worms?’
Archie snorts. ‘No.’
‘A UTI?’ I suggest, sympathetically. ‘Or just a weak bladder?’
‘My muscles down there are fine,’ says Archie, barely suppressing a smirk.
I try not to gasp in horror. That was not where I was going with that line of questioning, and he knows it!
Unintentionally, my eyes drift back to his muscled forearm on the windowsill, and I turn away with an exasperated huff. Now we’re back to where we started. Me: thinking about his arms. Him: completely oblivious but generally smug.
Archie flicks on an indicator to merge lanes. ‘My fidgeting drove Mum crazy,’ he admits. ‘But she could get through anything. She’s amazing. She raised me by herself.’
I didn’t mean to bring up Archie’s mother.
I already knew she was a single mum. The whole country knows.
It was national news: Archie’s dad, the three-time grand final winner, a living NRL legend, died tragically in a car accident, leaving behind a six-week-old baby.
And that baby grew up to sign a contract with the Roosters when he was seventeen and buy his mum a house at eighteen. It’s the stuff of Australian folklore.
My palms suddenly feel sweaty in my lap. ‘Your mum sounds great,’ I say quietly. I’d really rather not talk about our mums, but it feels important to say something. Great mums deserve to be acknowledged.
Archie’s eyes catch mine and I have that familiar, unsettling sensation that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Archie is famous for looking after his mum, but I’ll never be able to do the same for mine.