by Kate Gordon
“You could come,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes. “In the chair? No thanks.”
“But—“
“No buts,” Joe says, his face darkening. “I know I could go, and nobody would mind, and everyone would be lovely to the poor gay man in the wheelchair, but I can’t be arsed, to be honest. Protests are a magnet for bleeding-heart lefties, and I can’t deal with their hearts bleeding all over me, en masse. And besides, I’d much rather hang out with the kids. If that’s all right with you, Britta?”
Britta sighs. “All right. I'll come. But once you've finished scaring all our customers away, you might want to come and look at this.”
She points at the computer.
I race around to the other side of the counter. “Another liker?” I ask, breathlessly.
“Better than that,” Britta says. “A personal message. And an invitation.”
8
“Dear ‘Mischa’,
I received an invitation to this page through a friend and was immediately fascinated. I'm a big fan of Mischa McPhee. I love live music and see her whenever she is in Hobart. She’s always fantastic. I’d love to meet you! Machine Laundry Café? Day and time? I’ll be wearing a purple beret.
All best, Y, Kelly”
I'm sure my eyes are the size of dinner plates. The newspaper with the ad about the protest is lying at my feet, forgotten.
“What’s the ‘Y’ mean?” Britta asks. “Is this some new internet thing I don’t know about? Like LOL or SMH?”
“Still doesn’t mean Sydney Morning Herald,” I say, winking at her. She rolls her eyes. I shrug. “I don’t know what the Y is, though. Yours? I guess? Anyway…” I look at the message again. “Kelly,” I breathe. “Do you think it's her?”
“Well, she doesn't say it's her,” Britta points out. “She doesn't own up to the graffiti.”
“She doesn't say she didn't write it.”
“Either way, your lady's an admirer,” Shelley walks behind the counter. She sells a photography book to a gentleman with an extravagant handlebar moustache and a fez.
Then she turns to me. “She likes Mischa. She sounds grand. I think you should meet her. And, after all, even if she is a raving psychopath, you're only meeting in one of the busiest cafes in Salamanca. I think you'll be safe.”
“All right,” I say, ignoring the rock in the back of my throat. “I'll go.”
And I breathe, and I breathe, and I breathe and it will be okay because I am okay now. I am.
“Just send a message back for me, please,” I tell Shelley. “Before I change my mind.”
Shelley hits “Reply”.
9
In the early morning light, I stand in the bathroom, and consider my face.
I like it. It’s been attached to me for thirty-three years, and — after the requisite teenage phase of self-loathing — we have made our peace. I like my wide, brown eyes. I like my full, rosy cheeks, and the laugh-lines around my mouth and eyes. I look like a kind person; a happy person.
But there’s nothing that can’t be improved with some red lipstick and glitter eyeshadow.
I’ve learned the hard way, though, that it’s best to save makeup for after one is dressed.
Which leads me to a calamity.
What to wear.
Despite the slim pickings for plus size clothes, in Hobart, my wardrobe is full-to-bursting. Online shopping is one of my top-five favourite pastimes. I am not in want of a retro rockabilly dress.
But which one?
There's nothing else for it. It may only be five past seven, and I know he's not working 'til this afternoon, but I also know he'll forgive me when he knows the nature of my catastrophe.
When he knows it involves fashion.
I grab my mobile, and I punch in Joe's number.
10
Joe is a genius.
I feel like Mischa. I feel bohemian, funky, edgy and cool. My Sapphire Butterfly pink and black strapless dress, all chiffon, lace and satin, is paired with an op shop velvet blazer and high-heeled ankle boots. It is the perfect outfit, down to the black lace gloves Joe reluctantly let me borrow, and the black velvet ribbon in my hair.
I feel wonderful.
I feel in control.
This is going to be so fine.
I arrive at the café ten minutes early. I take a quick peek inside, from a distance. I can see a few of the regulars in there, and there's a lady in a suit, glaring down at an electronic tablet.
I hope it’s not her. She looks so unfriendly.
I sigh with relief, as I note that there’s not a purple beret in sight.
I realise I’m standing in the middle of the square. And in my eye-catching outfit, I’m like a flamingo in a flock of seagulls. I don’t want my date to see me out here so early. I don’t want to seem too eager.
And I know that’s silly. It’s like something from a terrible old dating advice book (“Make Him Work for You!”), but it’s how I feel. I want to control when he sees me, and how.
I look around for a hiding place, and spot the stairs to my left, leading to the Arts Centre. I could perch up there and wait.
I may be taking the flamingo theme a bit too far.
I skip up the stairs and crouch at the very top, looking down at the square. After a couple of minutes, two of the girls from the wool shop race in and then out again with steaming Keep Cups.
A gaggle of laughing exchange students mill around, pointing and taking photos. My attention is caught by them, for a little while. They look so delighted. My heart swells as I realise that this place I call home is giving them so much joy.
And then my eye is caught; dragged from the teenagers by a tall girl in pin-striped pants and a navy shirt, buttoned up to her neck.
My heart does a little twirl.
She looks older than I am — late thirties, perhaps? She walks through the square with confidence, her head held high. Her skin is dark — not quite as dark as Britta’s, but nearly. She has one of those super-fashionable haircuts — shaved on one side and longer on the other, and I spy the telltale glint of a septum piercing.
She's gorgeous.
I peer more closely at her face. There's definitely an edge of tension about it; of determination. She's on a mission.
I hope that mission is me.
The woman passes and I watch her back as — sure enough — she makes a beeline for the Machine Laundry Café.
It’s her. The graffiti artist. Kelly.
I crouch for a minute or two longer, while I watch her through the window at the front of the café. She goes straight to the counter and places her order, pointing at the menu board. Then she takes a seat by the window and opens a big manila folder.
My heart is racing. I place a hand on my stomach. Settle. I look great. I feel great. I’m in control.
I stand up and smooth down my dress, click together my heels, and walk in what I hope is a cool-as-heck manner, down the stairs and past the metallic Christmas tree to the Machine Laundry Café.
11
As I walk, I hum my theme song.
Joe and I used to love the old nineties show, Ally McBeal, about a lawyer in search of love. As well as providing me with one of my first crushes, in the form of Lucy Liu, the show also taught teenage me, and Joe, about “theme songs” — a song you play in your head, whenever you need a mental boost.
Ally’s theme song was “Tell Him”. Joe’s is “Vogue”.
Mine is, of course, a Mischa McPhee song. It’s called, “A Girl of Your Own Making”. It came out when I was fourteen, and it got me then and it still gets me, and it makes me feel magnificent.
I hum it. And I strut on my black heeled boots.
And I am just about to enter the Machine Laundry Café, on a cloud of fierceness, when a lady in a black suit steps in my way.
“Hi,” she says. Her tablet is now under one armpit, the other hand extended to shake mine. “Yasmin,” she says.
“Maddy,” I reply, quickly, my sho
ulders tensing. “I’m really sorry, but I'm running late to meet someone—”
“Wait!” Yasmin Hope calls after me, but I can't wait. I throw her an apologetic look as I race into the café. I am late, now. Kelly is waiting for me.
I run through the door, navigate the tightly-packed tables, and slide into the empty seat beside her.
“Hi!” I say, my voice trembling a little, both from the racing, and the nervous adrenaline. Kelly is still looking at her papers. She mustn't have heard me. I lean a little bit closer. “Maddy?” I say, pointing at my chest. “Madeleine. Mischa?”
There is another long pause. Finally, Kelly looks up from her reading, clears her throat and says, “Which?”
“Sorry?”
“Which one are you? Maddy, Madeleine or Mischa?”
“Oh.” I gaze at her. Up close, she’s even lovelier than she seemed from a distance. Her hair is beautifully butch; her skin is so smooth; her eyes are the colour of Lindt 90%. My stomach is fluttering, just looking at her. But it’s not an uncomfortable feeling, I realise. It’s not a wrenching feeling, or nausea. And my heart isn’t thudding; my chest isn’t tight. I should be falling apart, inside, and I am nervous, because this is her, but I’m also, strangely, at peace. Even though she’s looking at me like I’m deeply peculiar. Which I probably am being, right now, with all the staring and none of the talking.
Talking.
I need to do the talking.
“Um, both. I mean, both of the first two. I'm Madeleine, but most people call me Maddy. And I look like Mischa. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she echoes, gruffly. She shakes her head. Her expression now clearly says, “Go away, you strange young lady.” Then she gestures with her head at the papers. “Do you mind?” she asks. “I am trying to read.”
“I'm Mischa,” I say, more slowly. Why is she playing dumb?
She sighs, heavily, and rubs at her temples. “I thought you weren't. I thought you were Maddy and only looked like Mischa.”
A slow, creeping, unsettling niggle is poking at my brain. She really, genuinely does seem confused. Is it possible … could she actually be…
Not Kelly?
I panic; look around the café. Every other face is familiar, except for the lady I talked to before, who is standing by the counter, staring at me. What is wrong with her? She seemed nice, outside the café, but now she is just being weird.
“Facebook?” I ask, in a last-ditch attempt. Maybe she has amnesia. “Team Mischa? Toilet graffiti?”
The woman drops her papers to the table and turns to face me. She really does have a lovely face. Sort of rugged and dangerous and Female James Bond-ish, but is that a flicker of a dimple? And…
Oh. She's talking at me again.
“Sorry?” I croak, dragging my eyes away from the maybe-dimple.
“I asked...” Her tone is measured and patient, as if she's talking to a small child, “if you are playing some sort of prank on me. Is there a hidden camera somewhere in this café? Like Big Brother? Is everyone else in on it? Because, if they are, I'm definitely not coming back here. I don't come to Salamanca for coffee all that often anyway.”
“Wait.” My heart is sagging. “You don't come here often? You don't go to the toilet here?”
“No,” she says, slowly. “I just have a meeting, up Kirksway Place. I’m trying to read up, first. I wasn't counting on being part of some reality TV show. If that is what this is.”
“You're not Kelly,” I ask, even though in my heart of hearts I know that, sadly, this is the truth.
“No. I'm Jacqueline Grant.”
“You don't like Mischa?”
“I don't know Mischa. Is this some sort of prank because, if it is, I have to warn you I'm a lawyer and I will not be signing any release forms to broadcast my image. I would not be too happy to discover that this had occurred. And I am already quite pissed off at having my peaceful breakfast interrupted.”
“Breakfast?” I can't help blurting. “That's not breakfast. It's coffee.”
“I had … something else. At home,” she says, and I catch a hint of defensiveness in her tone.
I smile at her sunnily ignoring the scowl on her face. “It is a bit weird to eat breakfast before you come to a café this good. It is weird to only have coffee when the other choices are endless and wonderful — pancakes, muffins, croissants, pain au chocolat, raisin toast, with maple butter...”
If I'm not mistaken, I see a look of longing pass over her face.
My own stomach gurgles. I'm making myself hungry. I wonder if I have time to order something before…
Before what?
My heart leaps - before the real Kelly arrives, of course! I have completely overlooked the most important point in all of this — if this Jacqueline person is not Kelly, then Kelly is still out there. And yes, she might be running very late, but I'm sure she'll have an excuse. Maybe she's stuck in a lift. Or a minor bushfire.
But I can't have her see me sitting with another person when she gets here. Who is still glaring at me.
“Are you just going to stand there?” she asks. “Because I’m really incredibly busy.”
“You should have a muffin!” I say.
She stares at me, blinking. “Are you serious? I just…” She shakes her head, her jaw clenching. “I have a very important meeting with some developers in—” She looks at her watch. “Twenty minutes. And I have to read this first.”
She points down at the folder. I crane my head to read the words scrawled on the front.
When I do, my breath catches in my throat.
Sassafras House.
I straighten, very slowly. “Sassafras House,” I say. “You’re meeting with developers about Sassafras House.”
Suddenly, my mood is black. This woman, who has been so rude — to whom I was giving the benefit of the doubt because she wasn’t having a muffin — is in league with the people trying to destroy the building I am trying to save?
I bite my tongue to stop myself launching into a diatribe about how evil the proposal is, and how wrong it is that she is involved in it.
I don’t want to cause a scene, in the middle of one of my favourite cafes.
Instead, I say, “If you don't mind, I'd best be off. My actual date is no doubt just around the corner, and I intend to order breakfast before she arrives. A delicious café breakfast. Because I am not weird. So, as I said, if you don't mind—”
“Not at all,” she growls. “I'd be delighted. But please, keep the seat. The café is very full and I have to leave anyway. As I said, I have a very important meeting to attend, with people who are not bizarre. Enjoy your date, Mandy or Milly or Matilda.” She shakes her head. “Poor woman.”
I am now seething.
Jacqueline Grant is a dick.
She swipes her evil papers off the table, chugs down the last of her insipid coffee, and marches out of the shop in her — frankly ridiculous and no doubt unethically-produced — shiny leather shoes.
I hope I never see her again.
12
I leave my bag on my seat to save it and march up to the counter. I wave at a few people I know on the way.
They all smile. I breathe again.
I look at the menu behind the counter and feel gleeful with the choice. I’ll pick the perfect breakfast. That will make me feel better. I’m back in charge.
“I'll have the French toast, please,” I say, rubbing my hands together. I'm happy with my decision. I know it will impress Kelly. It’s sophisticated, but it’s not pretentious. It is, in fact, just the sort of breakfast I can imagine Mischa McPhee ordering.
It's all free-range and vegan, too. Which makes me feel like I’m doing something good for the world. I like that feeling. I start humming my theme song again.
When I return to my seat, something unsettling has happened.
It's not empty.
“Yasmin,” the suit lady says again.
“Um … that’s my bag,” I point out. “I was usi
ng it to save my place.”
“It's a very nice bag,” she says, nodding towards it. “Alannah Hill? Vintage? It matches your dress perfectly.”
“Okay…” I say, slowly, feeling my brow furrow. Why is today proving so completely odd? “Well, may I have my chair back? And the one next to it, too. I'm meeting someone.”
“Me.”
My heart stops.
“What did you say?”
Yasmin stands and extends her hand again. “Yasmin Kelly? From The Mercury.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a slightly-squashed beret.
The room begins to spin.
Kelly.
Y, Kelly.
Oh, no.
“And … I saw your Facebook page? I got in touch? I love your story and I wanted to know more about it.”
I sink into the spare seat. “You're Kelly?” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “I'm Yasmin Kelly. Yas. I'm a journalist. I'm sorry to disappoint you.”
“I thought you were...” I'm irritated hot tears are prickling in my eyes.
I don’t cry. Not any more.
I blink back the ridiculous tears and smile brightly at Yas. “I'm not disappointed,” I say. “In fact, I knew you wouldn't be GA. GA would use Facebook.”
“GA is...”
“The graffiti artist. Wait, is this … ‘on the record’?”
“It is if you want it to be,” she says, gently.
I take a moment to think about it. I really don’t want this whole thing to “go viral”. I don’t want to be that girl who fell in love with the writing on a toilet wall.
And, of course, I couldn't handle the thought of him ever reading it.
But if I could talk to Yas and stay anonymous…
“I’ll go on the record,” I say, slowly, “but only if you don't use my real name. Or my photo.”
For a moment, Yasmin looks miserable. Then, a thoughtful look passes over her face. “No, that could work,” she says, nodding. “Anonymity. Mystery. That will intrigue people. We could follow your journey — make a serial of it — but keep your identity a secret. People will be dying to know who you are.”