Marry Me Mischa McPhee

  Marry Me Mischa McPhee

  A Holiday Novella

  Kate Gordon

  First published by Twelfth Planet Press

  www.twelfthplanetpress.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Gordon

  Edited by Alisa Krasnostein

  Copy edited by Elizabeth Disney

  Cover by Cathy Larsen

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Title: Marry Me Mischa McPhee

  ISBN(s): 978-1-922101-60-0 : ebook - epub, mobi

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also from the Publisher

  Enjoy this Excerpt from Merry Happy Valkyrie

  1

  In a different universe, in another story, it wouldn't have gone like this.

  In a different universe, things start somewhere fancy or mysterious or strange. They start with magic wardrobes or windswept beaches or on the streets of Paris. I know all about marvellous adventures. I’ve read all the books. They almost never begin in the third cubicle on the right in a unisex toilet at an Arts Centre at the end of the world.

  Other stories, I guess, don’t feature women who hide in toilets, in the middle of the Christmas rush, when they just need to breathe.

  In a different universe, in another story, a different woman would hide herself away in some secret cave or a fairy cabin in the forest but in my story it makes sense that I read the message here:

  “Marry me, Mischa McPhee”

  Those four scribbled words might not mean anything to you. They might not mean anything to anybody who doesn't live in Tasmania, or anyone who isn’t obsessed with the nineties, like I am, but those words mean a lot to me.

  Mischa McPhee is my favourite singer-songwriter. It's a bizarre coincidence that I look just like her.

  We have the same big, brown eyes. The same body shape. My hair is longer now than it was when people used to ask me every day. But we could still be sisters.

  And now somebody, somewhere out there (but probably very close to the Salamanca Arts Centre) has written a graffiti ode to someone who looks just like me.

  And I’m trembling. Just a little bit.

  Of course, I shouldn’t be.

  I was raised by my dad after my mum disappeared to an ashram when I was three. He brought me up to be a feminist and to believe I can be anything I want to be. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that what I wanted to do was work in a bookshop. It might not be everyone’s Holy Grail, but it’s mine. I work at the Arts Centre Bookshop. I beat hundreds of other hopefuls to the job.

  And I’m happy.

  One day, of course, I’m going to do more. I’m going to start my own publishing house, producing feminist works of romantic fiction. That’s my life plan. Getting married is way down on my list of priorities.

  I’ve not even considered a relationship for a really long time. I’ve had flings, but nothing serious. I’m ashamed to admit I’m a bit scared. Joe says it’s perfectly natural after what happened, but that was a long time ago now. I should be over it. And I mostly am.

  The whole country feels like it’s in love, right now. And I kind of want to be part of it.

  I kind of want love. I definitely want to let go. I want to let go and give in to the possibility of love.

  Or, at least, the possibility of possibility. Of feeling curious and hopeful and excited again.

  And the graffiti has made me feel curious. Intrigued. This boy-or-girl loves Mischa McPhee. They must be awesome.

  Maybe they’re even as obsessed with the nineties as I am.

  Marry Me, Mischa McPhee, I whisper. I press my fingertips to the words and smile. I think I'm off on an adventure.

  2

  The Arts Centre Café has its Christmas on — all tinsel and bells and nutmeg-scented desserts.

  My best friend, Joe, is in his element in an “ugly” Christmas jumper singing along with all the carols as they waft through the tinny PA.

  “Ssh!” I say, looking around at the well-heeled clientele shooting him irritated looks through their Anne et Valentin glasses.

  “Ah, you love me,” he says, waving a hand. “Anyway, I need more caffeine if I’m going to maintain my festive disposition. Coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “As long as you promise not to sing Mariah Carey. Even once.”

  Joe begins to hum the first few bars. “I have something to tell you!” I blurt out, to shut him up more than anything.

  “If this is about how the Arts Centre needs to install a chocolate vending machine, again, you know we got an answer on that and I don’t think the ‘tone-lowering’ police are going to change their—”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s about … love. And a quest.”

  “I’m listening,” Joe says.

  And, so, I tell him all about the toilet cubicle graffiti and my possibly bonkers hunch that it might be my destiny to find the person who wrote it.

  When I finish, he’s silent for a moment. I wait, clasping my hands together. Finally, he says, “Maddy, I truly believe that the reason I met you, back in grade seven, was to carry out this quest with you.”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “I think you’re entirely correct. And here was I thinking, this whole time, that it was so you could show me all the words to Chains, by Tina Arena.”

  He smiles. “Those were the days. But, oh, heavens to Betsy, Maddy. Remember us back then? My hair.”

  “I remember,” I laugh. His Nick Carter bowl cut was so cutting edge at the time. “Over twenty whole long years ago. How on Earth have I put up with you for so long?”

  “You loved me from the moment you set eyes on me,” Joe argues, winking as he gets up to go to the counter.

  He's right, as it happens.

  I was twelve years old, standing in front of the administration building of Huonville High, reading a book I’d lifted from Dad’s bookshelf.

  Joe sidled up to me. Even then, it should have been obvious to me he was as into girls as I'm into death metal. But I was captivated by his blue eyes and — yes — his floppy haircut (I didn’t know he was aiming for The Backstreet Boys — I thought he looked like Jonathan Taylor Thomas); the way he walked with a confident swagger; the way he'
d customised his school jumper with swatches of velvet at the elbows and cuffs.

  The moment I saw Joe, I was smitten.

  I fell even deeper when he threw his hands dramatically to his hips, shook his head and sneered, “Despicable! Those women! Demanding equal pay and the right to vote and all that. Someone should tell them to get back in the kitchen, where they belong.”

  Twelve-year-old Maddy was less shy than the current model, but even she was nervous about talking to this gorgeous boy. “Um, you’re kidding … right? Because women totally belong wherever they want to be.”

  Joe smacked his head theatrically. “Heavens to Betsy. I never knew that. Thank you for enlightening me, oh wise one. So. May I join your brilliant feminist movement, gorgeous?”

  “You may,” I deigned, already feeling less shy. “But be warned. Once you commit to being friends with me, there’s no going back.”

  “Who said anything about friends?” Joe pulled a disgusted face. “As if I'd be friends with a feminist like you.”

  “Fine. Be my boyfriend.” I was only half joking.

  Joe raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Only if we can have sleepovers together and watch Boy Meets World and eat marshmallows and do each other's hair.”

  I should have twigged then. But I'd never met a real live gay person before. I was only dimly aware of my own, complicated feelings (mostly triggered by the girls in the Dolly Model Search). I thought it was cool that some boys were born liking boys and some girls were born liking girls. I thought maybe they all lived in the city, though, which is where all the cool people lived. I didn’t know they existed in Huonville.

  So, Joe became my boyfriend and we “went out” for a month before I tried to hold his hand as we walked along the beach and he said to me, “You do know I'm a friend of Dorothy, don't you?”

  “Is she that girl in Grade Ten who looks like Kylie Minogue?” I asked, stuffing half a doughnut in my mouth and wiping the grease on my school skirt.

  Joe stopped and turned to face me. “No, honey,” he said, gently. “It's an expression. It means … I'm gay, baby. Gay as Gandalf. Gay as Dumbledore. Gay as KD Lang...”

  “The one who sings ‘Constant Craving’? She's gay?” I asked, pausing for a moment to grapple with the strange twang in my belly, as I thought about the singer, in her tuxedos, with those smouldering eyes. Then, as an afterthought, I added, “You're gay?”

  “As the day I was born,” he said, nodding. He lifted a hand to his mouth and gave a tiny gasp. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry. I thought you knew.”

  I sank on to the sand. “I suppose this means we're breaking up, then?”

  “Are you okay?” Joe asked.

  I thought about it, and realised I was, as long as… “Will you be my best friend instead?”

  Joe folded me into his long, skinny arms. “Forever,” he promised into my ear. “You're my Batman.”

  “Who are you? My Robin?”

  “As if,” Joe cried, horrified. “I’m totally your Catwoman, Darling.”

  There's no denying Joe makes a brilliant sidekick. And I couldn't ask for a better best friend. We’ve been through a lot together — my breakup; his accident. We’re still here, and stronger than ever.

  Joe returns to the table, parks his chair, and slides our pumpkin spice lattes onto the table. I pick up mine and take a sip. “The thing is…” Joe says, “I want you to be sure about this quest, before you begin. Remember what happened with…”

  I sigh. “I know. I know, but … I just feel like I’m ready. I don’t know. Something clicked into place, when I saw that graffiti — it’s finally time I moved on.”

  “You move on when you’re ready to move on.”

  I lift my chin in the air. “I’m ready.”

  And I don’t know if I am. Not really. But I know I can’t waste any more of my life waiting to be.

  And besides, kismet.

  I take his hand. “Joe, this doesn’t have to be a love thing. Maybe it won’t be. Maybe it’ll be nothing. Maybe I’ll find the person who wrote this and see who they are and my curiosity will be sated and that’ll be it. But even if that’s all it is … I’m just excited to find out, Joe. I’m excited to find out who wrote the graffiti. And maybe we’ll date and fall in love. Maybe we’ll be friends, based on a shared love of awesome music. Maybe they’ll be an obnoxious dick and I’ll hate them. Whatever the case … I want to do it. Even if it’s just for the fun of it.”

  “Sorry, Maddy Moo,” he says, softly. “Of course I’ll help you. It was never in doubt. I just need to know you’ll be okay.”

  I nod. “I really want to do this. I really do. Even if it turns out to be nothing. I feel like I just need this in my life, right now. Something magical. And I need you to help me.”

  “Well, I do love to be needed.” He drums his fingernails on the beer-keg table. “And I’m not exactly working in a high-powered exec job. I have free time and I could do with a hobby. Well, okay then, Maddy Moo. I shall be your wingman. And the only payment I will require is your sublime happiness. And maybe that book on gay icons in the fashion world? It’s only $39.95.”

  “You've been waiting for me to ask a favour, haven’t you? You’ve already got the reward planned out.”

  “When it comes to fashion, one must always be prepared. Otherwise one might end up dressed in … stone-wash jeans and a lumberjack coat.” Joe wrinkles his nose at a broad-shouldered, coal-haired man who’s just entered the café. But then the man grins and winks at him and Joe's scowl turns into a coquettish smile. “But we might need to begin our planning tomorrow, Babycakes. He may have no fashion sense but that man is divine.”

  “I'll see myself out, shall I?” I drawl.

  Joe shakes his head. “Nope. A gentleman always walks a lady home. But I'm just going to pop over and tell Mr Muscles to keep the seat beside him free. Because in half an hour the man of his dreams is going to appear (back) in the room.”

  3

  I wake the next morning exhilarated. For a moment, I'm confused. I'm still half in a dream that Haigh’s decides to launch a Christmas chocolate cookbook in the bookshop, and they give everyone free goodie bags. It’s a very lovely dream. But that's no what’s making me giddy.

  “Think!” I murmur to myself, wiping at my sleepy eyes

  And then, in a flash, it hits me: the graffiti!

  My quest to find the person who scrawled those four words on that toilet wall.

  Marry me, Mischa McPhee!

  I sit up, throwing back my doona. Ellen, my elderly tabby cat, jolts from a peaceful slumber. She narrows her orange eyes, hisses at me and jumps to the floor.

  “Wait, Ellie!” I cry, bouncing out of bed. I scoop her up into my arms and nuzzle her tawny head. “You can't be mad at me! I’m excited about something, finally. Don’t bring me down. And it might not be love. It probably won’t be, but it’s time for me to believe in something. Be happy for me, okay?”

  I kiss Ellen's ears until she relents, purring and kneading at my chest with her paws. “You will love them,” I promise her. “I know you will. Any human who wants to marry Mischa McPhee must be wonderful.”

  I'm running late, as always, so after I feed Ellen her breakfast, I have a quick shower, twist my mad hair into a messy bun, throw on my favourite vintage rockabilly floral dress (made in the times when they really knew how to dress a woman of my size), and race out the door, waving to Dad through the window of his office/bedroom on my way up the garden path. He pauses momentarily in his Very Important University Work to blow me a kiss.

  “Yoohoo! Madeleine!”

  My jaw tenses. I force a smile on to my lips and turn around.

  Mrs Hurley lives next door, in an obnoxiously shiny white convict cottage with a lawn so immaculate it looks as though it was trimmed with nail scissors. Mrs Hurley thinks Dad and I “bring down the tone” of the neighbourhood. And, well, our garden is a tiny bit chaotic (although I prefer to think of it as “spirited”), and it's true neither of
us can be bothered scrubbing the bricks on the front of our cottage with a tiny scrubbing brush, like she does every weekend, or get in a gardener, like the one I’ve seen from a distance, back-on, pruning her shrubberies.

  We’re more free-range in our gardening style. It suits us, but it seems to mortally offend Mrs Hurley, and today I don’t really have time for her righteous indignation.

  “You know, Madeleine, dear, my Jack has kindly offered to mow—”

  “Thanks, Mrs Hurley. Can't talk. Gotta run. The books won't sell themselves, you know!”

  I trot past her up the street, ignoring her when she calls out after me, “Jack is a wonderful gardener. Jack would be quite happy...”

  I shake my head as I turn the corner, biting aggressively into my strudel. Mrs Hurley is always rabbiting on about her wonderful son, Jack, who apparently — in addition to being some sort of lawyer genius — can also fix broken front steps, hang un-stained curtains, mend cracked weatherboards and, now, garden. I’m not at all interested in anything about the son of interfering Mrs Hurley. And the last thing I want is some snooty non-artsy clever-clogs-type person coming around, snootily clipping our shrubberies.

  I like our shrubberies just the way they are. They are being their own eccentric selves. They will not allow some up-himself offspring-of-a-Mrs-Hurley to tame them.