CHAPTER 39
The GPS blandly informs me that I’ve reached my destination in Wagga. Outside, the tarmac is fresh and the brand-new astroturf hockey fields are a blinding green. The lines on the tennis courts are so straight and white, they remind me of the Treasury Review Committee.
I pull into the parking bay closest to the canteen, gripping the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking.
Jessie and I haven’t had a proper fight since before Mum died.
Before that, we were always at each other’s throats—her whingeing that I’d stolen her glitter ChapStick or broken the zipper of her skirt, me yelling that she was lying, when really I was lying.
But when Mum got sick and we suddenly had real stuff to complain about, the stolen ChapSticks didn’t seem to matter anymore.
The anxiety in my chest feels like it might drown me, but I need to wipe Jessie from my mind.
In four seconds, I must get out of this car and steer Boss through his first press conference since the affair story broke.
It will be one of the most challenging of his life.
I will have to be razor-sharp, four steps ahead of everyone else, and crucially, I’ll need to do it all while emanating a warm approachability, as though I’m an extension of him.
Boss and I are a package deal. If one of us falls, we both fall, but if one of us lifts, we can be a life-raft for the other.
I step out of the Nissan Micra and crane my neck, scanning for the giant red ribbon and novelty-sized pair of scissors to get this grand opening underway.
A guy wearing a check shirt, chinos and RM Williams boots—the universal uniform of boarding-school-educated country males—is under the verandah of the canteen block.
The media bus is pulling into the car park.
‘Where’s the grand opening?’ I call to Council Guy as I walk over, remembering too late that I’ve forgotten to use pleasantries, which often happens when I’m stressed.
Council Guy looks up from his clipboard. ‘I thought the Premier’s office would have told you. We opened the precinct last week. It was on the front page of The Daily Advertiser. I’m George by the way. I’m on the council’s media team.’
I hardly hear the last bit because something akin to an atomic bomb explodes in my head.
‘Then what are we talking about today?’ I ask in a low voice, keeping a smile plastered to my face in case there are cameras already rolling.
These journalists have been promised a grand opening and they’re already filing off the bus.
The metropolitan media can’t have been dragged all the way here for nothing—especially when Boss’s reputation has already been pulverised through the meat-grinder.
‘What’s the photo op?’ My voice is now scarily snake-like.
George looks vaguely startled but I don’t care. In my periphery, I see Archie step off the bus and every single one of my hairs stands on end.
‘These people are vultures,’ I hiss to country-chic George in his shiny boots. ‘They want hooks and exclusive footage and new angles and great visuals. We need colour, we need action. Can you make that happen for me?’
I should have double-checked and triple-checked like I normally do, but I was too distracted by Archie, and then Jessie. Even now my sister’s voice is coming back to me: You’re being a condescending bitch.
I miss my sister so much already. I need to call her back and send her a Lindt-ball bouquet and a bottle of the most expensive champagne I can afford, but I can’t do that now, because I have to focus. Boss is relying on me. The journalists are relying on me. I need to fix this!
I swing my head wildly from the tennis courts to the canteen. ‘Do you have a town mascot?’ I ask George.
George looks thoroughly bamboozled, as though he’s not sure whether I need a mental asylum or a stiff drink.
‘And please don’t tell me it’s a dragon.’ I’m muttering to myself now—I’ve reached peak desperation. My voice is pathetic as I continue bleating to no one but myself. ‘I don’t want to be the dragon again, but fine, okay, if I have to wear the damn costume …’
My gaze settles miserably on the tennis nets. The courts are so pristine they would have brought a tear of joy to Mum’s eye. That’s when the idea hits me like a cross-court forehand.
I take a step towards George. ‘Are there racquets here?’
★
Boss and the mayor are covertly stretching as the press pack reorients itself to face the courts.
New plan: we’re doing a ‘soft launch’ of the facilities, headlined by a friendly game between Boss and the mayor. I wish I could have organised some sports gear for Boss—the female voters always love seeing him in shorts—but he’ll look fit enough once his jacket is off.
I can see the headline now: GOOD SPORTS. It’s giving Obama-playing-NBA. It’s giving Princess-Kate-playing-hockey. It’s giving likeability. Once again, I am thoroughly impressed with my ability to pull a media rabbit from a hat under a pile of crap.
‘Everyone ready to be disappointed?’ calls Boss, commanding the attention of the crowd. There’s a murmur of laughter and I click my tongue appreciatively. Excellent use of self-deprecation.
‘Sledging already?’ quips the mayor, to another round of chuckles.
I smile happily, momentarily forgetting the shitshow that is my life. I have created a visual platform for wholesome bantering. I let out a deep sigh of relief but then Archie glances over. I scowl and turn away.
I’ve seen him eight times already this week and we’ve spoken precisely twice.
On Tuesday, he asked me what time that day’s press conference started.
Yesterday he requested a PDF of a report.
Both times his voice sounded even lower than normal, his words like bass notes that I felt like thuds in my chest. The nondescript tone, the blank eyes, the neutral lines of his mouth—each time it was like seeing a diluted, 2D version of Archie.
He’s always been able to mess with me, but this time he’s worked out how to properly destabilise me: by ignoring me.
And now, every time I breathe, something scratches my throat like a jagged fingernail. It’s the memory of Jessie’s voice: Because he was trying to make you laugh … The one you like.
Boss is still joking with the crowd. ‘I shouldn’t be taking the court, I should be getting my media director up here. She’s the real pro. She was junior national champion.’
The crowd swivels to me as I transform into a cherry tomato. I wave away their attention. ‘Not true. It was state, and I was twelve. Not a big deal. I was tall for my age.’ It’s embarrassing that he’s bragging about me. But also—I’m kind of touched.
Boss and the mayor play one game, which is over in two merciful minutes.
They are equally bad. The footwork and serving are horrendous, and the returns are laughable.
Thankfully, no one seems as aghast as me.
When Boss wins, there are a few cheers followed by a stage-managed handshake with giant smiles for maximum newsworthiness.
As I head over to take their racquets, the mayor asks me, ‘Do you want to have a hit? We’d love to have a former state champion grace our brand-new courts.’
He’s spoken loudly enough that a few people are listening. ‘No thanks,’ I say, shaking my head. Not only do I not want to play, I don’t want to embarrass him.
‘Come on,’ urges the mayor. ‘Do it for Wagga. Do it for New South Wales.’
Boss laughs. ‘When the name of our great state is invoked, how can you say no, Mill?’
I sigh. If it’ll strengthen Boss’s relationship with an important regional mayor, then I guess I can play. It’ll be quick at least.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ I say to the mayor.
‘No, don’t play me,’ he says. ‘I’m more useless than a hip pocket on a singlet. Play someone good.’ He looks around. ‘Anyone here know their way around a tennis court?’
The journos turn to each other expectantly.
‘I covered the Aus Open once?’ supplies Jimmy.
‘I met Boris Becker in the eighties,’ says Kendra.
Larry adds, ‘I once got told I look like Andre Agassi, but I think it was supposed to be an insult.’
Everyone else is quiet until Marissa pipes up. ‘Archie’s sporty.’
My head snaps to Archie, whose eyes have widened in an amalgam of distaste and alarm. He’s shaking his head.
‘Come on,’ Larry says, elbowing him. ‘You’ll be great. Pollies versus journos. The age-old battle, played out in a chicken-wire cage arena. Like MMA but deadlier.’
‘Do it for us, Archie!’ sings Kendra.
‘Yes!’ chorus a few more of the media crew.
‘For the downtrodden journalists!’
‘The impoverished keepers of the fourth estate!’
‘The kids picked last at school because words were for nerds!’
Boss is already walking over to Archie with his racquet. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
I can’t pull out because I have to do what Boss says, but Archie still has agency. He can still decline. His eyes are locked on mine as Larry starts assessing the odds of a media victory.
No! I mouth to Archie, in my clearest, most enunciative form of silent communication.
‘Yes,’ Archie says.
My eyes bulge in disbelief.
He takes the racquet from Boss and flashes me a tiny sarcastic smile. ‘Let’s go.’
★
Aside from all forms of ball-carrying football, these are the sports at which I presume Archie would excel: hammer-throwing, weight-lifting, wrestling and boxing.
Conversely, these are the sports in which I presume he would under-perform: ice-skating, synchronised swimming, high-jump and anything involving delicate motions of the body (i.e.
rhythmic gymnastics). Tennis lands somewhere in between.
Out of nowhere, an old memory of him dislodges from somewhere in the archives of my brain and floats to the surface: I’d finished a session on the university courts and my hair was slicked with sweat.
My face was shining beetroot red. Archie was waiting at the tennis court gate on the steps that led into the court, bouncing a racquet on his knee. Chappo was at his side.