CHAPTER 21
On Saturday Archie texts me a gif of Ryan Gosling in his Mickey Mouse Club era performing some impressive aerobics-style dance moves. He adds the caption: The New Friends Game.
On Sunday afternoon I text back, Ha.
Two minutes later he texts back, Playing hard to get?
Immediately I respond, I AM hard to get.
He texts back, You say potato.
I send him the potato emoji and gun emoji, in memory of our Lilac Beach bat dilemma.
Immediately, Archie texts back the bat, poo and crazy-face emojis.
I can’t help but laugh. I knew he’d get it.
On Monday I realise how many opportunities there are for imperceptible skin-on-skin contact during a media call.
Handing him the printouts of the media release: his thumb grazes my wrist. Waiting in line for coffee: his knee presses my leg.
Standing at the back of the press pack: he slides his pinky finger along my forearm, winks, then walks off as if it never happened. Each time, I’m dead.
On Tuesday, I resolve to Do Better. I make the executive decision to forgo my usual pencil skirt and instead wear my red dress with the thigh-high split.
It would possibly be inappropriate in some workplaces, but I know for a fact that Boss is okay with it because he once told me it made me look like the dancing woman emoji.
Boss and I both use that emoji a lot now.
The air is crisp today and the wind tickles my legs. As Boss and I walk down the colonnaded steps of Parliament House, like we’re the prom king and queen greeting our lowly, microphone-wielding subjects, I notice the muscle in Archie’s jaw flex. My overwhelming emotion is: Ha!
After the press conference, I head to Fatima’s for lunch. Before I’ve even twisted the lid off my green juice, Archie drops into the chair opposite me.
‘Millsy.’
‘Archibald.’
I am so ready for part two of this New Friends Game. My red dress has given me the upper hand. We stare at each other, a smile playing on both of our lips.
‘I like your outfit,’ Archie says finally.
‘I like your face,’ I retort.
Archie smiles. ‘I like your body.’
‘I like yours more.’
Archie grins. ‘Which part?’
I mime zipping my lips shut.
Archie moves his hand to my mouth and pretends to unzip it. For a tiny moment, he rests his thumb on my lower lip and I can’t move. I feel my nipples pinch, my breath hitches and I’m pretty sure I’m drooling. Damn Archie and his sneaky seductor moves.
‘Archie,’ I hiss, finally regaining consciousness and whipping my head back. ‘Not in public.’
‘Fine,’ says Archie. Under the table though, his knee bumps between mine. A blush creeps up my neck and I’m embarrassed but unable to stop my legs parting for him. The heat, the heat! It’s firing all over my body.
‘No sex!’ I blurt.
Archie barks out a laugh, then raises his eyebrows. He sits back and languidly slings his arm across the back of the neighbouring seat. It’s the pose of a lazy cat with a mouse. ‘You’re not game?’ he asks. The challenge in his voice sends another bolt of heat through my body.
‘We have rules,’ I remind him, feeling my pulse skitter like popcorn in the microwave.
‘We can do all this,’ I wave my hand across the table as if to indicate what this is, ‘but no sex. Ever. It would be too unprofessional and weird, and …’ My mind flashes back to that moment under the frangipani tree.
It would be too traitorous to my younger self.
The only reason this current arrangement is acceptable is because it’s for work. This is purpose-driven fondling.
Archie’s lips close in a half-smile. ‘Chicken,’ he says.
A very impure sensation vaults below my belly button.
I press my leg further into his, just to show him how un-chicken I am.
A muscle tightens in his neck and I fight a smile.
We’re not playing chicken—we’re playing sharks.
Who will snap first? Bite first? Bite too much?
As he straightens in his chair and his leg slides closer, I feel a heady rush of adrenaline.
‘Tell me something boring,’ I say, just to show him how completely unflustered I am by this leg-on-leg situation. ‘Talk to me about cycling.’
Archie cocks his head, amused. ‘Cycling isn’t boring.’
At this, I cackle. ‘Oh my god, Archie. It’s the most boring thing in the universe. Padded lycra, carbon fibre? Even saying those words I’m putting myself to sleep.’ I mime a yawn.
‘What about bonking?’ asks Archie.
‘Archie,’ I warn, my eyes darting across the cafe to check for eavesdroppers. ‘No sex means no talking about sex.’
‘“Bonking” is a cycling term,’ he says smoothly.
‘Is that so?’ I reply, trying to ignore the flaming heat pooling in my left knee.
‘It means running out of energy,’ he says matter-of-factly, as if reading from an autocue. ‘Bonking often occurs on endurance rides.’
I take a dainty sip of my green juice. ‘So do you bonk a lot?’
His knee slides more firmly up my inner thigh.
‘All the time,’ he replies.
His voice is so gravelly you could scatter it around a topiary and smooth it with a rake. His left leg is almost touching parts of my body that are one hundred per cent off limits to him, but I am almost certainly being hypnotised by the electricity in his eyes, because I don’t care.
‘Any advice on bonking?’ he asks.
I jerk backwards. Larry has just walked into the cafe, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I recommend Hydralyte,’ I say crisply, stowing my uneaten sandwich inside my handbag.
Archie grins, unashamedly sliding his eyes down my body as I get to my feet. As I beeline towards the door, he calls out, ‘For the record, I was kidding. I’ve never had a problem with endurance.’
★
On Wednesday, we don’t see each other. He’s doing something with the Premier up north, and I’m with Boss at a high school out west. I almost miss him until I remember we’re not actually friends.
It’s just—playing this game really does make the days go faster.
I decide to use the time when we’re apart to strategise for the debate.
I only have two more days to extract maximum value from the New Friends Game, so I need to make it worth it. Professionally, of course.
On Thursday morning Archie texts: Miss me?
On Thursday afternoon, while I’m on a Zoom hookup with the unions, I text: Stop playing hard to get.
Three minutes later he calls me.
I double-check I’m on mute and turn off camera-mode before I answer.
‘Meet me at Fatima’s in ten minutes,’ he pants.
‘I’m in the middle of the unions Zoom thing.’
‘Ten minutes,’ he insists, and hangs up.
I look around the empty office. Boss is having an afternoon at the country house with his family before the debate tomorrow. Petria is working from home. I don’t know where the policy guys are (I never do), but the upshot is that no one will know if I sneak out.
I make sure my camera is turned off but stay dialled in so it looks like I’m still there, then I head for the door.
There are so many people on the meeting, they won’t notice I’ve gone, and if anything blows up it’ll be all over social media, so I can catch up that way.
To cover all bases, I quickly text Boss: Union summit is going ok. Grabbing quick lunch.
Boss responds instantly. Can you grab lunch later? Will need full rundown of everything they’re saying.
I sigh. Boss knows the union thing doesn’t end until 4 p.m. But then again, I knew he’d want me listening the whole time. That’s why I brought in a sandwich from home. I’ll have to skip Archie.
I turn back to my computer, pulling my phones out of my pocket, when inspiration hits.
I open my personal phone, pull up the voice-recorder app, and leave it on the desk next to my computer.
I can listen to everything I missed on the train home and still have my summary notes ready for Boss tonight. He’ll never know I nipped out.
Four minutes later I’m at the cafe and Archie is nowhere to be seen. I check my phone, but there’s only a message from Bryan: a link to a video titled Spin class in the eighties!
For a man who once admitted Soul Cycle is his idea of hell (Bryan maintains his fitness through vigorous vacuuming) he finds a lot of time to text me CyclingTok content. This is the fifth text I’ve received from him today. I should have never given him my work phone number.
I’m trying to draft a charitable but conversation-ending reply when Archie bursts through the door.
‘You beat me!’ he exclaims.
I smile. He makes it too easy for me. ‘I always beat you.’
‘I had to run up from a presser in the city. Come with me,’ he says, tipping his head towards the corridor that leads to the kitchen. ‘Need to show you something.’
My phone buzzes with two more texts from Bryan. Saw that and thought of you. P.S. Found a new sushi place you’ll love. The edamame is yum to the max!
I slip my phone back in my pocket, refusing to empathy-cringe at Bryan’s ‘yum to the max’. I’ll reply to him later.
Right now, there are more pressing issues at hand, i.e.
what could Archie possible need to show me down the corridor?
The giant vacuum-sealed spice mixes in the storerooms?
The doomsday-prepper-worthy towers of chickpea tins?
A hundred kilos of chilli powder for my gastronomic pleasure?
I mean, yes, these are all impressive, but also, I see them every time I walk to the bathroom.
‘Come on,’ he says with a nudge. I start walking and he loops around me to take the lead. He’s so big he blocks the light at the end of the corridor. It’s like following a solar eclipse.
‘Where are we going?’
‘In here,’ he says. He looks both ways before easing open a door at the end of the corridor to reveal an unused storeroom. My mind races. Maybe he’s letting me in on a scoop? Is someone stockpiling drugs in here? Or cash? Black market saffron? That stuff’s so expensive, it’d be worth a fortune!