CHAPTER 49
I’ve gifted myself a day off from spin class and the results are dazzling.
The whole apartment is sprinkled with the peachy-pink light of pre-dawn, dappled through the leaves of the Moreton Bay fig trees that line the street.
The kettle beside the sink bubbles cheerfully, mimicking the morning warble of the birds outside.
I’ve already drafted today’s talking points and ironed my new trousers.
As I pull on my outfit, I half-expect a trio of bluebirds to flit through the windows and offer to dress me.
Today’s press conference will be held in the quadrangle of one of Sydney’s oldest universities.
There will be footage of sandstone, jacaranda trees and students picnicking on neatly groomed lawns.
If the footage is good, it will be shared on every online news site and mashed up for millions of TikTok viewers.
The nation’s TVs will be turkey-basted with us every hour, on the bulletin.
A press conference with the Prime Minister is the kind of high-visibility media event that could change the game.
This could swing the election, and I know I shouldn’t want him to win, but I’m not an idiot.
Boss’s results will reflect on me, and that’s why I’m changing tactics: I’m not going to work for Boss anymore, I’m going to make him work for me.
I’ve spent my whole career hiding secrets, telling people to look left when they should be looking right, gifting them clues and angles that play into preconceived narratives so they see what I want them to see, rather than the full story. And today, I’m going to use every trick in the book.
★
I call Bryan from the Bluetooth in my car. It feels disrespectful somehow, like I should be in a quiet room with a dulcet Enya soundtrack in the background, but this is my life—it’s constant chaos and movement—so a car conversation it is.
‘Hey Mill!’ Bryan greets me as I merge onto the Eastern Distributor. ‘Only a few days until the election is over and we can hang out again. I really want to have a chat with you.’
Behind me, I hear the distant screech of tyre wheels.
‘Ah,’ I falter, ‘that’s why I called.’ I say the words in a rush, as if the speed will deaden the cringe factor.
‘Bryan, I’m not sure if you want to catch up because you think something might happen between us, but I want to make it clear that it won’t.
I think you’re a great guy, you’re so …’ I’m trying to find a word that’s not ‘nice’ or ‘lovely’, but that’s all the vocabulary I can seem to access.
My understanding of Bryan was always so superficial.
I dated him in a misguided attempt at self-improvement, but he deserves better.
‘You’re such a decent guy,’ I continue, ‘and you will meet someone who’s as great as you, but it’s not me, and … ’
At this point I realise Bryan is completely silent and that even if I could speak at the speed of light, I could never outpace my own cringeworthiness. I quickly reroute.
‘… of course, if this is all in my head, please ignore what I just said. Wipe it from your mind. I’d love a platonic sushi-date. Bring on the gyoza! Huzzah!’
Huzzah?!
‘Oh, Mill, I don’t know what to say. This is so …’
‘Awkward?’
‘Yes,’ agrees Bryan. ‘Because I was actually hoping I could get Jessie’s number from you.’
‘What?!’
I hear him laugh nervously. ‘I know it’s kind of strange, and possibly inappropriate to ask but I ran into her a few months ago, and …’ He pauses. ‘Do you think that would be okay?’
‘Jessie?’ I double-check. ‘My sister?’
‘Yes?’
My jaw drops. I am equal parts scandalised and giddy with relief.
‘You know my sister is crazy, right?’
‘Worse than you?’ asks Bryan, and for a jarring moment, I’m stunned, before I recognise the smile in his voice. Bryan is teasing me!
The Joke Misser—the man who could never understand why I found it so fun to send Archie photos of random state government web pages just to confuse him—has roasted me. A delighted, incredulous laugh bursts from my lips. Bryan and I have both evolved, and I have possibly never felt so chuffed.
I can’t quite visualise how his beige slacks will look next to Jessie’s peacock wardrobe and what they’ll discuss over dinner, but then I remember how my kind-to-a-fault dad met my racquet-smashing mum and how, after a whirlwind romance, they built a magical life.
And I think to myself: You know what, it’s so bizarre that it just might work.
I grin. ‘I’ll text you her number as soon as I’m out of the car.’ On the opposite side of the road, a police car zooms past, siren blaring.
‘You’re a star, Mill,’ says Bryan, and I’m about to say, ‘No, I’m just your regular neighbourhood battler,’ as I normally would, but I stop myself. I might not be the world’s best person, or the cleverest kid on the block, but I’m not that bad either.
‘Thanks Bryan.’
‘Pleasure, Mill. And by the way, I’m so glad you called. I was about to text.’
★
As I get out of the car in front of the university’s Great Hall, I slide my phone into my pocket, smiling.
I’ve just texted Bryan Jessie’s number and he’s responded with a link to an article about the bungle on the Eastern Distributor involving a Mr Whippy van and a school bus.
I must have just missed it on my commute over. A flurry of messages follows.
Traffic blocked both ways!
Ice cream all over the road!
Thanks for the number
Promise won’t make it weird
Good luck today!!!
(Will stop texting now but was honestly great to chat!)
(Thanks again!)
My smile broadens. To be connecting him with Jessie feels both like a magnanimously kind-hearted gesture, and a deliciously wicked prank.
I stop at the university’s library cafe and buy a takeaway coffee, which spouts ribbons of steam.
There is dew on the manicured front lawn and the faint white shape of the moon hangs idly above the western wall of the quadrangle, despite the glare of the morning sun from the east. As I walk up the steps towards the Great Hall, a flock of pigeons squawks past in the grey light, heading in the direction of my early adulthood: the uni residences, the pubs, the convenience stores and $11 Thai restaurants.
The birds glide through the sky like paper aeroplanes, and I watch them until they’re vanishing specks.
I wonder if the footy players still play uni res bingo.
I wonder if Archie will wonder that too.
I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
I had a spew in a car park and realised I missed your presence because it has become overly familiar to me.
Or: I missed your presence because you’re clever and funny and know me better than anyone, to the point where it can be infuriating, but also the best thing in the world. Or do I simply go with I like you?
All of these options sound weird, but I need to say something.
That much is obvious. I need to tell Archie that he’s important to me and I need to apologise for treating him so callously, and it also feels overwhelmingly important to say Please don’t date Kristina because I don’t want you to like hanging out with her more than you like hanging out with me.
‘You’re early,’ remarks an unfamiliar voice.
I startle from my thoughts, spilling my coffee down my trouser leg. Shit! These palazzo pants are so voluminous—this would have never happened in a pencil skirt!
‘Whoops, sorry,’ says a woman emerging from the sandstone cloisters by the hall. She’s wearing a hot-pink skirt suit and has a magnificent blowdry. ‘I forget that not everyone is an early bird like me.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say with a grimace, feeling the coffee soak into my thigh. ‘I’ve got a spare pair of trousers in my bag. I always bring spare clothes for events like these. Pays to be prepared.’
The woman tilts her head and smiles. ‘Good thinking,’ she says approvingly as she stretches out her hand.
‘I’m Arabella Flint. PMO media director.
’ I shake her hand slowly, as my brain works through the implications of the acronym.
PMO = Prime Minister’s Office. I stifle a gasp as our hands break apart.
This woman is literally the most important communications professional in the country. And I look like I shat myself.
‘Pleasure to meet you,’ I stammer, grateful the sun isn’t fully up so she can’t see the flush across my cheeks. ‘I’m Minister Harcourt’s media director. Camilla Hatton.’
‘Oooh,’ she says, wincing. ‘You’ve had a rough trot recently.’
I nod without enthusiasm because how can I lie? This woman would analyse the headlines more than me.
‘You’ve managed it well though,’ she continues. ‘That slot on Lush FM was genius. And the TikTok debut? Could not have spun it better myself. The News & Views talking points were spot on, too. Just a pity Nancy beat you to 60 Minutes.’
‘You’re telling me,’ I mutter. ‘I thought that slot was mine. I’d spoken to the producer three times that day.’
‘We can’t win them all,’ she says solicitously. ‘And your strategy was flawless.’
‘Thank you,’ I gush, embarrassingly gratified by this woman who, moments before, had been a complete stranger. ‘It’s really good to hear you say that. I don’t get much feedback. Or, at least, not from people who understand it. I’ve kind of had to teach myself and work on instinct.’
‘Really?’ Arabella raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, your instincts are spot on. I’ve got guys who’ve been working for me for twenty years who wouldn’t have been able to cope with the storm you’ve handled in the last few weeks.’
‘How many staff do you have?’
‘Twelve. More if you count graphic design and digital.’
‘That is incredible,’ I sigh. ‘I’ve only got a media assistant. She’s great but she’s very new, so I still do most things. She mainly updates the mailing list.’
Arabella clicks her tongue. ‘Wow. Big job for you.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I reply. I don’t want her to think I’m fishing for compliments, though, to be honest, I’ll probably replay her words in my mind for the rest of my life.
‘What’s the plan for today?’ I ask, glancing around the quadrangle where we’re going to announce a multimillion-dollar Commonwealth–state initiative to deliver more teacher training in universities.
Arabella scoffs. ‘Since the New South Wales funding has fallen through last-minute, it’ll just have to be a meet-and-greet instead of a full presser, but it’ll be good colour, I guess.’
‘What do you mean the funding has fallen through? I saw the brief yesterday when I was writing the media release. It was all signed off.’
‘Apparently your Expenditure Review Committee needs more time to consider the policy proposal.’
‘No, no, no, no, no.’ I shake my head. We are not wasting this photo op with the PM. Not now. Not today. ‘Give me five,’ I say, pulling out my phone and walking to the far end of the quadrangle so I can grovel to Gregory in private.
Seven minutes later, I hang up.
‘Okay we’re back on,’ I announce, striding back to Arabella.
‘How on earth?’
I shrug, slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m a policy nerd. I had a gut feeling they hadn’t checked the carry-forward from the literacy framework underspend, and lo and behold …’
Arabella shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Well, with that news, I feel like it’s going to be a great day.’
I’m about to agree when, abruptly, the air pressure shifts. A cloud floats over the low-lying sun and the shadows darken. I turn, knowing what I’m about to see.
Archie walks up the decades-old university steps and, as always, he’s perfectly calibrated, his boyish charm tempered by his dignified suit and confident stride.
He’s a chameleon, I realise. His whole life, he’s let people project their judgements onto him, and rather than calling them out and making them uncomfortable, he’s endured it in silence.
He’s let people—including me—reduce him to nothing more than a football player, a Tinder bro, a talking head, his dad’s son, his mum’s son.
Since I’ve known him, I’ve tried to pigeonhole him and label him.
I thought if I could define him neatly, he would finally make sense to me, but that’s impossible.
He’s complex, he’s flawed, he’s hilarious, he’s irrational, he’s immature, he’s caring, he’s the smartest guy I know, and he’s my friend.
Or at least, he was. Every minute I spent with Archie challenged me, lifted me and, often, inspired me.
He made me work harder, race faster, laugh louder, bounce back higher.
His strength made me stronger, and, though I never realised it, his caring cushioned me.
He pauses under the sandstone arch and looks back over his shoulder as if he’s waiting for someone. I hear the chime of her laugh before I see the swish of her ponytail, and I almost faint from panic.
It feels like my chest is splitting in half and a cold wind is blowing through the gap.
Archie Cohen is here to interview the Prime Minister. And he’s brought Norwegian Kristina.