CHAPTER 24
After the debate, I’m strolling into the train on my way home when who should I see at the opposite end of the carriage? None other than Laughing Man himself.
‘Archibald!’ My voice is gleeful as I saunter over. I hold out my fist to him. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
Archie bumps his fist against mine and shakes his head, smiling. ‘They were dirty tactics, Millsy.’
‘I like to play dirty,’ I purr, before bursting into peals of laughter. ‘Sorry!’ I gasp, grabbing his forearm to steady myself as the train lurches forward. ‘It’s just—I’ve never done anything so ridiculous in my life.’
Archie rolls his eyes. ‘Was it worth the effort?’
‘Oh totally! Have you seen Twitter-not-Twitter?’ I hold out my phone and he grabs it.
There are at least four variations of his gif now doing the rounds, showing him laughing with relief that the most boring forty minutes of live TV in history has finally ended.
This is Archie’s Karl-Stefanovic-after-the-Logies moment.
By tomorrow morning he’ll be Australia’s favourite son and I’m not even mad about it.
I’m just happy no one’s calling Boss a boring, pretentious tosser.
Archie hands my phone back and I ignore the buzz in my solar plexus as his fingertips brush mine. I hope that muscle memory fades quickly. I can’t keep getting hot flushes around him now that our game has ended.
‘Are you sad?’ I ask, sitting down on a bench seat.
Archie sits next to me. ‘What about?’
‘That I won the New Friends Game. Don’t pretend like you’ve forgotten about it just because you’re bummed about losing.’
Archie looks out the window. Beyond the glass, the lights of Sydney are flashing past, streaks of neon in an inky sky. He knocks his knee against mine. ‘I was never worried about the debate.’
‘Spoken like a true loser.’ I flash him my most brilliant smile and he retaliates by bumping me with his shoulder. The heat that radiates off this man is nonsensical. I need to get out of his orbit.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks as I get to my feet.
‘I’m going to stand,’ I say, grabbing the metal bar above my head to anchor myself. ‘The end of the game means the end of inappropriate physical contact, and it’s too hard to avoid your body if I’m sitting next to you.’
Archie shakes his head. ‘So we’re going back to how things were before?’
‘Yep. Platonic hostility.’
‘With an undercurrent of sexual tension.’
‘Ha,’ I laugh. ‘No way. I have already deleted those memories from my brain. If you think you’ll be able to get me all hot and bothered after all that funny business, then you are mistaken. I have already forgotten the past week ever happened.’
‘It went too fast,’ mutters Archie.
‘It did,’ I agree. We could have really messed with each other if we’d put more effort into it, but we were both too busy with work, which is ironic now that I think about it.
The train jolts to a stop and I accidentally stumble into Archie. He places his hand on my waist to steady me. Memories suddenly flood back like a tsunami. His fingers on my thigh, his breath on my neck, his lips on my shoulder.
Archie removes his hand and I try to exhale as surreptitiously as I can.
When the train pulls up to our station, Archie stands and waits at the door as I walk out. He pauses at the escalator too, to let me traipse on first. Through the giant glass windows the stars are twinkling like specks of glitter in a snow globe.
I wonder where Archie lives. I know it’s somewhere in the Eastern Suburbs, but now I find myself wondering if he needs to catch a bus, like me, or whether he can walk home from here.
In all our years of working together, we’ve never ended up on the train together.
Or maybe we have? Maybe I didn’t notice him. Maybe he didn’t notice me.
We walk to the train station exit and I smile sunnily, still on a high from my win.
I bet he lives in a new-build apartment; a sleek two-bedder with a bench press in the spare room and a Weber barbeque on the balcony.
He cooks a scotch fillet for dinner with baby chat potatoes and broccolini, a drizzle of olive oil, Maldon pink sea salt and cracked black pepper.
Sometimes—but not all the time—he treats himself to a beer. His laptop is always open.
I wonder how much of this is true. Archie is one of those guys who, at a surface level, is so easy to read.
He’s a jock, he’s competitive, he makes dumb jokes—he could be any guy on your screen during the nightly sports report giving full credit to the boys.
But dig a bit deeper and you realise that he’s a labyrinth of surprises.
I still can’t get over the fact that during our time living together on campus, he never showed any visible interest in politics, the media, or even the use of a human vocabulary.
He was just a silent giant, who nodded when he could have said yes and grunted when he could have told his mates to shut up.
There’s a breeze that bites my skin as we walk outside and I cross my arms to stave off the goosebumps.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ asks Archie, abruptly coming to a halt.
‘Nothing,’ I lie. I’m actually going to the festival with Jessie this weekend but I can’t let him know that or he’ll drop all the dodgy headlines he’s probably been saving for a moment of weakness and I won’t be able to do a thing. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘Nothing.’
There’s something strange in his expression. He better not know about the Digital Revolution budget blow-out.
Eventually—possibly minutes later—Archie speaks. ‘Need a drink?’
My brow creases. ‘Of what?’
‘Whisky, moonshine, tea, water?’
‘I’ve got a water bottle,’ I say, pulling it out of my handbag.
Actually, I am kind of thirsty. My throat is suddenly very dry and scratchy.
Archie watches as I fumble with the lid but eventually I get it off.
The cold water slides down my throat and the relief is instant.
‘Imagine if you were trying to ask me out,’ I laugh.
‘Imagine,’ agrees Archie. He shifts on the balls of his feet and I wonder whether he’s trying to get away from me but doesn’t want to reveal his route home.
‘Do you live in a new-build?’ I blurt.
Archie raises his eyebrow.
‘Like a new-build apartment,’ I say in a rush.
I didn’t mean to ask that but now I really need to know.
‘It’s just—you look like a new-build kinda guy.
I bet you have a leather couch and a giant flatscreen TV and a massive stainless-steel fridge full of steak and raw eggs and other forms of calorie-efficient protein.
Hence the …’ I wave my hands at his muscles, which effectively means I wave my hands at all of him.
‘How many bedrooms?’ I ask, unable to help myself. ‘One? Two? Don’t you dare say three.’
Archie smiles. ‘Two,’ he says. ‘Tyler is always saying I should rent out the spare.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘Two? That is luxe, Archibald. Meanwhile, I have zero bedrooms. My bed is next to the fridge which is next to the TV, and I bought a coffee table but it blatantly doesn’t fit because I live in a shoebox.
’ I cackle at my own hopelessness. ‘It’s like I still live in a dorm room. ’
Archie glances at the ground, and then back to me. ‘How are you getting home from here?’
‘Bus,’ I reply, pointing to the road that leads to the bus depot.
Archie shakes his head. ‘I’ll drive you. My place isn’t too far away. I just need to grab my car keys.’
‘So we’d have to go to your apartment first?’
‘Is that okay?’
Is he joking? Of course it’s okay. That would be better than going backstage at the ABC. It would be like seeing the inner sanctum of the devil himself. Imagine the power it would give me. To know the lair is to know the beast. Imagine what I could do with that knowledge!
I’m about to say Hell to the yes when I realise Archie isn’t smiling. There’s something in his eyes that unsteadies me.
‘Uh, oh, er, no thank you,’ I stutter. ‘I don’t need a lift.
’ My cheeks are suddenly prickling with heat and I’m desperately thankful for the cover of darkness because I do not need Archie to see me blushing.
Why did I have to be so polite?! I made it sound like there’s something awkward between us, when there clearly isn’t.
The past week was an exercise in military gamesmanship, nothing more.
I swig more water from my bottle and swallow slowly.
Archie is watching me intently, his eyes like charcoal sieves.
He’s taking in everything, sifting through it, cataloguing it somewhere in that frustratingly retentive brain.
As we look at each other, it strikes me that we are very good at this.
If someone ever asked me to list the skills at which I excel, I would be able to say: political analysis, political communication, early nineties–style hip-hop dancing, and staring for extended periods of time at Archie Cohen.
‘I’d better get to the bus stop,’ I say.
‘I’ll walk you.’
‘No, honestly—’
‘It’s late,’ he insists. ‘I want to walk you to the bus stop.’
He looks so sincere that I submit to the urge to pat his arm. ‘Archie, thank you,’ I say, smiling, ‘but I get myself home every night and I’m always fine. And I really need to be going. I have lots of work to do.’
‘It’s nine-thirty on a Friday night.’
I shrug. ‘I’m a star employee.’
Something like concern flickers across his expression and thank goodness.
He probably thinks I’m planning a big announcement, which is perfect.
While I’m dancing around a field, he’ll be scanning his emails all Saturday and Sunday, waiting for the media release to drop, and then he’ll be grumpy he wasted his whole weekend.
With Archie angry at me, the world will be back in balance.
I hold out my fist. ‘Have a good weekend, Archibald.’
Archie clenches his jaw but gently fist-bumps me back. And with that, we pivot away from each other and stride off in opposite directions.