CHAPTER 41
‘Did I have another glass or did I have … two other glasses?’ I ask as we wander back to our hotel. I think I’m staggering slightly but I’m not going to ask Boss if I am, because I don’t want to draw his attention to it.
‘You had one,’ smiles Boss. ‘After the first one.’
‘Is that two?’
‘I think so, yes, but I failed maths in Year Twelve.’
I giggle. ‘What fool made you the Education Minister?’
‘The Premier,’ laughs Boss, shoving me playfully.
Since my centre of gravity is already balancing precariously on a tightrope, I wobble sideways.
‘Woah,’ says Boss, grabbing my hand to steady me.
‘Thanks,’ I say sheepishly, pulling it away.
Oh god, I am shitfaced in front of my boss.
Thank the lord the HR structures in parliamentary offices are so weak.
A formal warning is not what I need right now.
I grit my teeth and try to summon the energy to walk faster.
My heels and uncoordination are conspiring against me.
A familiar yellow bus is parked out the front of our hotel. ‘Oh no,’ I whine. ‘Are the media staying here?’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ replies Boss. ‘They were all at the hotel bar before I left, hence why I suggested the wine bar. Didn’t want them listening in.’
‘Good thinking,’ I congratulate him. My paranoia is finally rubbing off.
Boss procures a swipe card and we traipse into the foyer.
If there wasn’t the threat of lurking media, I’d take off my shoes.
The fluoro lighting stings my hazy eyes as I hear the rumble of laughter from the bar on our left.
Through the sleek wooden slats of the dividing wall, I can see Larry’s silhouette.
His head is tilted back in a kookaburra laugh.
‘What level are you on?’ asks Boss. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’
‘Itsssfine,’ I say, trying to wave him off. The slurring is really not adding to my poise.
‘Are you okay, Millsy?’ Archie has suddenly appeared from nowhere.
He is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that is eerily reminiscent of the one that’s been crumpled at the base of my laundry hamper since the festival.
There must have been a two-for-one deal, I guess, and I can see why he bought two: they really highlight his tan. He looks fucking hot. I hate him.
‘I’m going to bed!’ I announce, louder than I intended.
‘I’m walking her up,’ Boss explains.
Archie’s forehead creases. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Millsy?’
‘Ya-huh!’ I say, as I attempt a hair flip.
The result is a cricked neck. I try to glare at Archie but my vision is pirouetting for some reason.
I think at least one of my eyes is on him, though.
Well, it’s on his bicep—the bicep that’s straining against his sleeve, and god, his arms look nice in that T-shirt, but oh yes, that reminds me: I hate Archie Cohen.
I stalk off to the elevator and Boss follows.
When we make it to my door, I turn around to face him. ‘Thank you for walking me back,’ I say, attempting a sober voice. It sounds strangely British.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely not!’ I squeak. A lock of hair has fallen over my face but moving it will require a degree of coordination I currently lack.
‘I had fun tonight,’ says Boss with a smile. My spatial awareness must be faulty; he appears oddly close.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ I say, my accent now going full Surrey. I sound as though I’m ready to don tweeds and hunt foxes on horseback. I try to smile back at him in a grateful, earnest way, but I suspect I look more like a toothy shark than a demure employee.
‘Always a pleasure.’ Boss’s fingers reach up to move my hair back into place.
This seems like a strangely intimate thing to do, and I’m about to laugh and point out the absurdity when I realise Boss is not smiling anymore.
I blink, confused. Somehow he’s now cradling my face and his eyes are on mine and there’s something really weird about him being so close that I can see the stubble on his jaw.
‘Mill,’ he breathes, shifting closer.
My eyes widen. A solid and concrete realisation cuts through my drunken haze like a wrecking ball. WHAT THE EFFING—
His body presses me flush against the door. I try to gasp but his lips are on mine; one hand is on my waist and the other is on my neck, and holy fuck, he’s hard.
Archie’s voice rings in my ear: You’re going to date your boss? I think I’m going to vomit.
‘Ha!’ I yelp. I wrench myself out of the space between his body and the door. I’ll pretend I thought he was going for a misdirected goodnight kiss on the cheek—though even that would be outrageously inappropriate.
‘Need bed,’ I say, avoiding unnecessary verbs and pronouns for maximum efficiency. I can’t look at him as I lever the heavy door open. My eyes are already clouded with tears. The door slams behind me and Boss is locked outside.
‘Mill?’ Boss calls through the door. He sounds confused, possibly annoyed.
‘I need to go to bed!’ I yell, as I chuck my handbag at my feet and race to the bathroom. My voice is as hard and spiky as broken glass.
I hang my head above the sink, my hair falling over my face.
There is bile roiling in my stomach but I know I’m not going to spew.
That would be too clean. That would be absolution.
These churned-up feelings are going to fester in my gut like an ulcer.
I splash water on my face and mascara runs down my cheeks and onto my blouse, staining it black.
I don’t care. I’m crying. Tears and mascara drips are mingling like food dye in water.
My throat is like razor blades. What am I supposed to do?
I pick up my phone and my thumb brings up my favourites list: my VIP contacts.
The first name on the list makes me cry harder.
Mum. It’s been six years and I still haven’t deleted her number.
I wish I could call her now. I want to cry and for someone to tell me to let it out, tell me that I’m strong enough to get through this.
My finger hovers sadistically over her number and I press down hard.
A tinny voice responds instantly: ‘This number has been disconnected.’ I cry even harder.
Why the hell did I do that to myself? I know she’s gone.
I know she’s not coming back. I’ve known that for six years. And it’s all my fault!
I look at the other numbers on the list. Jessie is mad at me, I love Dad but this is beyond his parental capabilities, and obviously I can’t call Boss, so I punch the only other number on the screen. Maxy picks up almost instantly.
‘Hey, sis.’
‘Hey, Maxy.’ Just hearing his voice calms me. Stiffly, I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, um … nothing.’ My boss just kissed me against a hotel door. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Just in the crib room waiting for the sparkies to fix up the crusher. I’ve been trying to change my Instagram algorithm by doing a really deep dive on that cow that lives in a house. Did you see the reels I sent you? It’s a two-tonne cow, and it lives in an actual house.’
Despite myself, I giggle, wiping new tears from my eyes. ‘Oh Maxy, I miss you so much.’
‘I’m coming home tomorrow. You’re coming to Dad’s barbeque too, right?’
‘You’re flying home for it?’
‘Yeah, Dad said it was important.’
Another wave of guilt engulfs me. Maxy is flying across state borders for this barbeque while I’ve truthfully never even entertained the thought of attending.
‘You’re coming, right?’
‘Yep, yep,’ I say, knowing that it’s still impossible for me to come, but I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him.
‘What are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Oh …’ I don’t feel as hysterical now. I feel devoid of energy, like I’m waiting on a hospital bed for a lung transplant. ‘I’m in Wagga for a work thing. Funny story actually, my boss just kissed me.’
‘WHAT?’ Maxy explodes.
‘Yeah, he just, uh … kissed me … in the corridor.’
‘Mill, that’s not funny!’
‘No, I know.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I just kind of ran away. I think I laughed.’
‘You laughed?’
‘Yes,’ I squeak feebly. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really.’ My voice is teetering now. The bravado of seconds before has vanished.
‘I’m coming,’ he says. I can hear something rustling on the other end of the line and the sound of a door slamming.
‘Don’t be stupid, Maxy. You can’t just drive to Wagga. You’re in Queensland!’
‘I can’t sit here and leave you alone with that creep!’
‘He’s not a creep,’ I whimper. ‘He’s … I just … I don’t know what happened.’
‘Millsy,’ Maxy’s voice is firm. ‘Call Jessie. She’ll drive down.’
‘I can’t.’ My voice cracks. ‘We had a fight.’ The sobs are heaving from my chest now, lurching up like hot, painful balls of tar.
‘Whatever it was about, she won’t care.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I sob. ‘I really upset her. Oh god, I’ve messed everything up.’
‘Listen to me,’ says Maxy sternly. For a knockabout kind of bloke, he can go full Winston Churchill when he wants to. ‘You need to write down what happened so you don’t forget, and then you need to tell someone. You can call the police now if you don’t feel safe.’
‘No, I just …’
‘Millsy, what he did was not okay.’
‘No Maxy, it’s fine, honestly. He’s my boss and we had all this wine and …’
A horrible thought occurs to me. It feels like I’m in a room of funhouse mirrors and everywhere I look there are memories of the last six years with Boss, warping and stretching before my eyes. The in-jokes, the late-night texts, the high-fives, the three-course dinners and—
‘Oh god, Maxy …’
I think of what Jessie said to me about Bryan. You’re pretty much leading him on.
‘I … It’s my fault.’ My voice cracks again. ‘I led him on. It’s the … the … the skirts.’
‘Millsy, it’s not your fault. Your skirts have nothing to do with this.’