Marry Me Mischa McPhee Page 7

Joe disables the brake on his chair. “And I will be at your side. Not because you need it but because I want to be.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him and he sighs. “And yes, I was wrong about that horrible man. He's a dick. But go anyway. Free food, Mads. You can't say no to free food.”

  “Well, there’s that,” I say. “But I’m so not going to Melbourne.”

  There’s a loud thud outside. I raise my eyebrows at Joe, and we make our move. “Once more into the breach,” he mutters.

  We open the door just in time to narrowly miss a very heavy book, hurtling through the air.

  25

  I am standing in the toilets of the Arts Centre with Jennifer, one of Damian's PAs. She brought with her a selection of designer black, shapeless dresses, black blazers, black stockings, black kitten heel shoes…

  And a black neckerchief.

  Just the one of those. One size fits all.

  I climb, reluctantly, into the lifeless clothes, and emerge from the cubicle with a half-hearted twirl. “You look lovely,” Jennifer says, with a polished smile. “Now, makeup.” She produces a huge patent black makeup case. “Now, I've got here concealer, foundation, mascara, eye-liner, lip-liner, lipstick, lip gloss, colour corrector, sheer illuminating base—”

  She catches the expression on my face. “Don’t be intimidated by all of this.” The polished tone in her voice fades. “Some of the girls are but, really, it's all just a bit of make-believe, isn't it? It doesn't mean it's actually you.” She leans in. “You think I look like this every day? On Sundays, you wouldn't recognise me. On Sundays, with my family in Ranelagh, I'm regular old ‘Jenny’, in trackies and thongs. On Monday I put on all of this silliness and I'm 'Jennifer' again. You just have to play the game, don't you?”

  She leans out again, smiling. “You do look great, you know. But you'd look great in anything. And, hey, you get free food.”

  “I’m really not going to Melbourne,” I remind her, for what feels like the hundredth time.

  “Got it,” she says. “Don’t blame you. I’ll text him.”

  As she pulls out her phone, a thought strikes me. Something she said earlier. “You said there were other girls? Are there … lots of them?” This is feeling more and more like a ridiculous farce. Jenny puts down her phone. “Not at the one time.” She shakes her head. She looks, comically, from side to side, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I usually don't tell Damian's dates this stuff, but I like you. And I can't see you putting up with him for long, anyway. It goes like this: there's only ever one girl — one obsession — at a time. Sometimes the obsession lasts for a week, sometimes a year. Usually, it lasts just as long as it takes for the girl to fall in love with him. He treats her like a princess, until she falls for him, then he gets tired of her and it's all over pretty swiftly. But you really don't strike me as the sort of girl who's going to fall in love with Damian.”

  “No. I think we can safely say I won't do that.”

  “Yes,” she says. “You seem like you know who you are. You won't let Damian change you.”

  I look in the mirror. My hair is slicked back and someone else's hair is woven into the back of it. I’m dressed like a gothic air hostess, and my face feels like it will crack if I smile.

  And I think… “I could do this. I could pretend. I could be one of Damian’s girls, just for a night. It might be fun, to live some other life.”

  It probably won’t be.

  I let Jen leave. I let her believe I’m going through with the date. I don’t have the heart to tell her all her hard work was for nothing.

  I realise, as the door shuts behind her, that I didn’t remind her to text Damian about Melbourne. It’ll be okay. She’s the PA. It’s her job to remember.

  When she’s gone a minute or two, I scrub off the makeup.

  I should call him.

  But the thought fills me with dread. I hold the phone with sweaty, slippery hands. I feel really hot, all of a sudden. I have to get outside.

  26

  I race down the Arts Centre steps and burst through the front doors, into the freezing Salamanca night. I gulp in the air, letting it fill me; letting it heal me. Tears roll down my face and I let them, even as I question them. Why am I crying? I was okay. I was okay. Everything was fine. Why am I suddenly so freaked out?

  “Oh, God,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed. “It’s coming back.”

  “Are you okay?”

  My eyes fly open.

  She looks casual. Black jeans. A puffer jacket. Her breath dragon smoke.

  Her eyes are soft. She looks almost concerned.

  “Are you following me?” My heart is thudding. What is she doing here?

  “No.” She reaches out and I flinch away. Her arm retracts. “Are you okay? I saw you run out. You look upset.”

  I look deep into Jacqueline Grant’s dark eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they really do look worried. But she hates, me, doesn’t she?

  “Are you okay?” she repeats. Her voice is gentle.

  I find myself melting a bit. Untangling. I nod. “I’m okay.”

  Jacqueline’s smile is kind. “Good.” She gestures towards the restaurants. “Business dinner.”

  And I harden again. Because I remember. I remember her business. “Working on a deal to destroy another historic building?”

  Her face darkens. “You've really got the wrong end of the—”

  “I really don’t want to hear it,” I say, brusquely. I back away, my hands up. I need to go. “I’m fine. I’m sorry you saw me … like that. But I need to go now, if you don’t mind.”

  Jacqueline looks away from me, her jaw tense. “I don't mind at all. Go for it.”

  “Thank you.”

  I begin to walk away. As I do, she calls out, “Why are you wearing those strange clothes? They’re not you.”

  The clothes. I’d forgotten.

  I step back. She smells a bit like coffee; a bit like blueberry pie. It’s nice. I ignore it. “Oh yeah? And why is that, Ms Hotshot? Am I not good enough for these clothes?”

  “It's not that,” she says, quietly. “It's just… It doesn't look like you.”

  “Well, you don't know me, do you?” I hiss. “And I'm glad of it. Because ever since I met you, you’ve been nothing but rude and mean. And you’re making me act mean and I don’t like it and I don’t like you.”

  And then I really do walk away. I press “call” on my phone, as I stalk over the sandstone.

  “Joe,” I blurt breathlessly, when he answers. “Can you meet me? Now? Please?”

  I call Shelley and Britta too. They both agree to come out.

  Then finally, because I really have to do it, but I really can’t face the idea of making an actual call, I type out a hasty text to Damian.

  “Sorry. Something came up. Enjoy Habanero's.”

  I throw my phone into my handbag. Halfway to the cafe, I take off the uncomfortable shoes and stuff them in my bag, too.

  Three quarters of the way there, I rip off the itchy fake hair and ruffle my own so it's tousled and wild — just how I like it.

  As I walk in the café door, I smear some dark burgundy lipstick on to my lips.

  I sit down at the bar, and the man next to me says, “Hey, aren't you Mischa McPhee?”

  27

  The meeting about Sassafras House begins in an hour. We have time to kill, and we’re using it on the project. We paste our flyers to telegraph poles, electrical boxes and empty shops. We work our way through the CBD and North Hobart, and move down to the art precinct at Hunter Street.

  If GA had a territory, I’m sure this would be it.

  Joe wheels up to me, as I’m taping a flyer to a wall outside the art school. “You know, I sent in an online application for fine arts this morning.”

  I pull up to an abrupt stop, crouch down, and grab him by the shoulders. “Holy shit!” I cry, kissing my best friend on the cheek. “That is the best ever and most exciting news, and you wait 'til now to drop i
t?”

  “We're focussing on your project,” he mumbles, shrugging. His cheeks are turning a very sweet shade of pink. “Besides, I probably won't get in. The cut-off date is really soon and I have to produce this big piece of artwork for the assessors to decide if I'm worthy of a place and I just don't have time, between shifts at work, and Project You, and even if I do get in, I’ll have to do a tonne of bridging units, and work out some sort of fucking ‘disability access plan’ shit, so I don’t even think—”

  “We'll make it work,” I say, firmly. “Even if this—” I gesture to the flyers, “has to go on the back-burner for a bit.”

  “No!” Joe holds up a finger. “No, I'm not back-burning this. No way! This thing is happening, Maddy!”

  “Well, we'll just have to work out a way they can both happen,” I say, firmly. I wrap my arm around Joe’s shoulder and look up at the school. It’s all pastel pink paintwork, peach-coloured columns; little swirly mouldings and flourishes. It looks as if it was made for Joe. He belongs here.

  “This is the real heart of me,” Joe murmurs. “This is what I wake up in the middle of the night itching to do. This is my reason, Maddy.”

  I kiss him on the cheek again, just as Britta and Shelley catch up to us. Shelley is holding out her phone, an apologetic look on her face. “I'm going to have to go, I'm afraid,” she says. “Flower called. The cat, he's got the lurgy it seems and Flower needs me home to help take him to the holistic veterinarian. Apparently, he's been vomiting all afternoon — in all of my shoes too, wouldn't you believe it — and Flower thinks he might have the bird flu. Or the horse flu. I think it's much more likely it's all those kale crisps she's been feeding him, but there's no telling her. So, I'll have to miss the meeting I'm afraid.”

  “We'll fill you in.” I kiss her cheek. “You go home and save the day.”

  She waves goodbye. The rest of us walk in companionable silence across the docks. We nearly make it past Mures, but the irresistible smell of frying fish and chips is too much for us and we have to make a quick detour. We emerge a few minutes later with our fingers already greasy, and brownies in my satchel for dessert. Finally, we make our way up Murray Street to the library.

  “Do you think they'll arrest us?” Joe says, as the night security guard lets us in the door. “There's no way they'll let me into art school if—”

  “Relax, Joe,” I reassure him. “It's just a meeting. Nothing dramatic is going to happen tonight.”

  28

  “We will not be broken down.” The man at the lectern has dreadlocks and a suit that’s much too big for him. His face is full of fire. “We will not be beaten into submission by fat cats who don't care about this city and its history; who only want to make a quick buck out of the things we hold sacred. We will stand firm together and we will fight!”

  “How very intense,” Joe says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “And he's not half bad, either.”

  “Gay?” I ask. My gaydar is pinging but I need confirmation from someone more experienced.

  “As the day he was born,” Joe confirms.

  The man continues, highlighting the important indigenous history of the building; stressing how important it is that we don’t erase the stories of those who lived and suffered there.

  After his speech finishes, he passes out cards to the audience, with his phone and email details. His name is Will Pullman and he can be contacted via the art school.

  I look at Joe with a raised eyebrow. “Kismet,” he whispers, smiling back.

  Behind Joe, I catch a glimpse of Yas from The Mercury. She gives me a sunny smile and a wave and mouths, “Call me.”

  I nod, even though I'm not sure I will.

  Next, the “opposition” takes the stand, in the form of a PA from the company who want to pull down Sassafras House. Typical of the “fat cats” to send some underling to do their dirty work.

  I wonder who he is; the real man behind this bid. I realise I know nothing about him; only the name of his company: “Olympus”.

  “We meet again.”

  I jump a foot in the air, my heart thumping. At my side, once again, is Jacqueline Grant. She's all snazzy now, in a navy suit and shiny shoes. She's tried to slick her hair down but there's one piece standing defiantly upright, like Tin Tin’s.

  It would be almost sweet, if it wasn't Jacqueline Grant.

  “Shouldn't you be up there?” I say, glaring and indicating at the podium at the front of the room.

  The terrified girl on stage stammers something about “economic downturn” and “Tasmania's waning fortunes”.

  “So, you think we should just dig everything up?” a man yells from the audience. My mouth drops open when I see it's Mr Blake. He's dressed in a suit, and his hair is brushed. I almost don't recognise him, out of his usual uniform of high-waisted corduroy slacks, check shirt and woolly vest. And there's a glint in his eyes I've never seen before. “You think we should just turn this beautiful state into a wasteland, so in a hundred years there is no takanya, no South West Wilderness, no kunanyi, no Port Arthur, no … Salamanca!” He says the last one with reverence. Salamanca is his sacred place. His eyes are shining. And I find myself — almost — liking the odious Mr Blake.

  “Because that's where we'll end up, if we continue down this path!” Mr Blake shakes his head. “This can't be allowed to happen. You despicable people can't be allowed to win on this so-called 'little' issue. Because, as the great man Paul Kelly said, 'From little things, big things grow'.”

  The crowd is applauding Mr Blake. I join in enthusiastically.

  “Now do you wish you were on our side?” I ask Jacqueline Grant, as the girl at the lectern fumbles and ums, trying to regain her composure. “Do you wish now that you were trying to save Sassafras House? Do you wish you weren't allied with that—” I gesture at the PA, “poor thing up there?”

  Jacqueline shakes her head. “I may not be strictly on your side—”

  “There's no 'strictly' about it. Either you're on the side of preserving history and beauty or you're for this so-called wonderful ‘progress’.”

  “What if I'm actually not allowed to express a personal opinion, either way?” she says, regarding me coldly.

  “What's that supposed to—”

  “Ah!” A familiar voice sends a shiver up my spine. “I see you've finally met.” I turn to see Mrs Hurley at my side, dressed in a lavender suit, pearls and a bizarre pillbox hat.

  When Jacqueline and I respond with bemused silence, Mrs Hurley goes on. “Madeleine, this is my daughter; the one I have been telling you about. The one who is going to come and fix up your garden for you.”

  I'm sure I actually feel my jaw hit the floor. “But, you said her name was...” I begin, just as Jacqueline says, “You didn't tell me the neighbour was her.”

  “Madeleine Matthews, meet my daughter, Jacqueline Grant. Known to her family as ‘Jack’. And before you ask why she doesn't share my surname, I never took her father’s name. Does that shock you?”

  It does, but I don’t admit it.

  “I know I might seem like a fuddy-duddy now, but I was quite progressive in my time.”

  I nod, mutely, still stunned.

  “Right, then,” says Mrs Hurley, rubbing her gloved hands together. “Now, Jack, it’s Christmas very soon, and the garden next door to mine is a disgrace. So. When are you going to come and prune Madeleine's bushes?”

  29

  We put a mobile number on the bottom of the guerrilla artwork. It's the only text on the poster, apart from, “Marry me, Mischa McPhee”.

  We assumed that the real GA wouldn't need any more information.

  We bought a cheap handset from Woolworths — one of those dinosaur models with actual buttons and no camera or internet. It cost us nineteen dollars, because nobody wants a phone that only makes calls any more.

  It's in my pocket as we walk up to North Hobart. We’re on our way to get Indian for tea. Britta and Shelley are chatting happily at the front of o
ur little procession. The meeting has fired them up and, usually, it would me too. But tonight, my mind is on other things.

  Much as I hate to admit it, one of them is Jacqueline Grant.

  She's coming, on Saturday, to tackle my roses. I can’t think about anything else. My mind is full of her.

  I won’t know what to say. I won’t know how to act. It’s okay when we’re out in public and I can brazen my way through an argument, but she’s coming to do me a favour and I'll probably have to offer her a cup of tea and make small-talk and that thought makes me want to vomit.

  “You okay, darling?” Joe asks. His face is trying for concern but he's having a hard time covering up his glee. He talked to Will Pullman after the meeting. He's going for coffee with him tomorrow, ostensibly to talk about the art school.

  But I saw the way they looked at each other. They won't only be talking about art.

  They won't only be talking, full stop.

  “I'm fine,” I lie. “Just tired. Looking forward to curling up under the doona with Ellen and a book. My idea of a perfect night.”

  “Won't be, soon,” Joe says, squeezing my shoulder. He gestures, expansively. “As the sun rises over Hobart, it will shine beams of light on those little posters I designed, and one of those beams shall catch the eye of your fair prince-or-princess, dragging them towards that one simple sheet of A4 paper that will change the course of their life forever.”

  “And mine,” I add. “Thank you so much for doing this, Joe. Even if it comes to nothing...”

  “It won't,” Joe insists, his eyes flashing. “Maddy, I was there after Tim. I saw how you picked yourself up — all the little pieces of Maddy that spilled on to the ground when he broke your heart — and became a better, stronger, more powerful version of yourself. I've watched you grow, in awe and wonder. And I have felt so privileged to be by your side. But since I can’t marry you, I have to help you find someone who will treat you like a princess, the way I would have. And so, I will. We will. Don't lose faith, Maddy.”