by Kate Gordon
I had no idea who we were really fighting against.
Or who we were fighting with.
Jack Grant.
I wince as I think of all the times I called her horrible names because I assumed she was working for the other side.
I wince again when I think of the furious expression on her face, when she found out I nearly dated Damian Dreyfuss. It all makes sense now. She must really hate Damian, because Damian is the one trying to destroy Sassafras House…
“Yes, Jacqui Grant,” Mr Blake says, as I collect my thoughts and try not to vomit. “She's a fine young lass, that one. If it wasn't for her, this whole fight would never have started. And she's managed to set up a last-ditch meeting tomorrow night. It might be a long shot, and this close to Christmas, I doubt we’ll get anything much achieved, but it's our final chance and it's because of her. Yes, great young lady, that Jacqueline Grant.”
Just then, Britta walks through the door of the bookshop. She does a double take when she sees me and Mr Blake, drinking tea amongst the stuffed toys and board books.
“Right,” she says, shaking her head, as if she's trying to shake the world the right way up again. “Right, then. Hello, Mr Blake. Hello, Maddy. Shall I open the shop?”
“Sorry, Britta.” I stand up, my knees trembling. “And I know it’s not my call, but I really think you should give Mr Blake a refund on his book. He’s right. He’s not right about the book, but he’s right about … things. And I just need to … go now.”
I push my way out of the shop, ignoring the bemused looks on the faces of Britta and Mr Blake. I break into a run, out in the corridor. I race — past Kiefer, past Andie, past a throng of tourists — all the way to cubicle three.
I shut the door and sit down. And then I look at the door and I see it.
“Meet me at the heart. 6pm. Before the meeting. I'll wear red and white stripes. You just come looking like Mischa McPhee.”
My heart is shuddering as I leave my reply.
“Okay,” I write. “I'll be there.”
42
I spend the rest of the afternoon on Pinterest, staring at Mischa McPhee. I find pictures of her with long hair as well as short. In some she's in button-up shirts and jeans, looking tomboyish and bold. Others show her dancing in a floaty dress. In another shoot, she's holding a guitar and singing, in a tailored three-piece suit. And of course, there is the iconic cover of Pandani. In that photo she's all in black, her hair wild, her makeup nineties dark.
And that's how I decide I should look, when I finally meet GA.
I need GA to recognise me. I want them to see me and smile, because I am exactly who they want.
I might feel, weirdly, more comfortable with Jack Grant than with most other people, but that’s only because I don’t like her enough to be afraid.
And, besides, I've chosen GA.
I haven’t told Joe yet about this final message. I’ve told nobody. This feels too important, and it feels too fragile. I don't want to risk it floating away.
I take one final look at myself in the mirror. I look like Mischa, on the cover of her iconic album, Pandani. But I’m still very much my own person. I like myself this way. Every part of me — every bump and curve; every disobedient curl and dimple and freckle — is me. GA will recognise me.
But, when I finally see the real GA, how will I know it's them?
I know GA said “red and white stripes”, but red and white stripes seem to be the thing right now. In fact, Kiefer and Andie were both wearing red and white, at the Arts Centre today. What if there are multiple possible-GAs in Franklin Square? What if I don't pick the right one?
I shake my head. That's not going to happen. I will definitely know GA. I close my eyes and try to picture what they will look like.
What I see is funky, half-shaved hair, piercing blue-green eyes, a slender body, tanned skin …
My eyes open with a jolt. That isn't GA I'm picturing. It's Jacqueline Grant.
Thinking of Jack Grant makes me get a funny feeling in my belly. It might have been nice to go and have a vanilla slice with her…
But it's for the best that that didn't happen. I'm not meant to be with Jack Grant.
Even if she’s not horrible at all.
GA is waiting for me, at Joe's incredible heart in the middle of Franklin Square.
I’m scared. But it's time.
43
Franklin Square is thrumming with pre-Christmas cheer.
A man, a few years younger than me, in candy-striped jeans, passes me by, waving at his hipster mates.
An older lady, in a red and white tee shirt and a blue floaty scarf, puts her arm around another lady. They whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears.
A gang of teenagers run past. One of them wears a Sydney Swans scarf.
And I realise how silly it was, for GA to suggest these colours. It’s Christmas. Everyone is in red and white!
Finally, at five minutes past six, I hear a voice say my name.
It's a voice I recognise.
“Andrea?” I turn around. “What are you—”
And then I see it. I see it. Andie's shirt. My words stick in my throat.
She gives me the tiniest of nods.
“Don't worry,” she says, looking at her Birkenstocks. “I know it’s not me you’re waiting for. I’ve known it all along. It’s why I didn’t tell you, in person, before.”
“Wait… You knew it was me?” I gasp.
Andie laughs. “Well, you are the only girl at the Arts Centre who looks uncannily like Mischa McPhee. Of course I knew it was you, Doofus. You’re the one I wrote the message for.”
“Oh,” I say. I smile. “Oh, yeah. I just … I still can’t quite believe someone would do that. For me.”
“Are you kidding? You’re the shit, Maddy Matthews.” My cheeks burn. I look down at my feet. Andie clears her throat. “Are you really disappointed?”
I take a moment to consider it and I find … I'm not. I’m a bit sad, because I really like Andie. A lot. But not like that. And I don’t want to hurt her, but…
I hits me, right in the heart, as I gaze up at the one Joe made me out of wire and lights.
I love someone else. Someone who might not be GA. Someone who I might have hated, up until very recently; someone who might not want to marry Mischa McPhee and therefore is not guaranteed to love me, but someone who does have a sweet tooth like I do.
Someone who makes me feel angry. Someone who makes me feel safe. Someone who makes me laugh, and makes my heart feel as big as that winter sky.
Andie is watching me, biting her lip. I shake my head, quickly. “No! I’m really not disappointed at all. I think you’re magic. I just … I was just thinking of this girl...”
Andie puffs out her cheeks. She tries for a smile but doesn’t quite achieve it. “Another girl? You little cad!” she says. And it’s meant to be a joke, I know, but I can hear the hurt behind it.
“I didn't know I liked her, until just now,” I say, gently. “I thought I hated her. But she doesn’t scare me, Andie. And she only wears a suit, sometimes.” Now it’s me biting my lip. “I’m so sorry, Andie. Maybe… Maybe if I’d never met Jack. Maybe if the timing was better… Maybe it would have been… I think you’re the shit, too, is what I’m saying.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
I crack up. It’s a quote from a silly old movie from the nineties and she delivers it in a perfect Jim Carrey voice.
“I’m okay,” she says, in her own voice. “I mean, it sucks, but … you know. If it wasn’t meant to be, then it just means my perfect person is out there. You know, I always had a major crush on Tracy Chapman, too, and I’m sure she has a doppelganger somewhere…” Andie sighs. “At least we shared that one dance.”
“There will be more dances.” I pause. “If you want them?”
Andie nods. She exhales. “So. This girl. Does she like you?”
“She's mad at me because I almost went on a date with the
Anti-Christ.”
“Well, that'll do it.” Andie finally laughs, and I think it might be okay. She might be okay. She shakes her head.
“I am sorry,” I say, again. She shrugs.
“It is what it is.”
“Anyway,” I barrel on. “I think Jack completely hates me.”
“Jack?”
“Jack Grant,” I explain. “She's—”
“I know Jack Grant!” Andie says. “She’s amazing!”
“Why did everybody know this but me?” I moan.
Finally, slowly, Andie says, “You know she'll be at the meeting for Sassafras House tonight?”
I nod. “Rodney told me.” When Andie looks confused, I explain. “Mr Blake. That's his name. He's really not so bad, when you get to know him, even if he's a bit of a nincompoop.”
Andie laughs. “He is a nincompoop. But I have always had a bit of a soft spot for him. Rodney, you say? It suits him.”
We both laugh. “I want to see Jack,” I say, quietly, when we finish.
“Well then, let's go!” Andie says, smiling.
“Are you sure?” I ask her, gently.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m a romantic. I love to see love happening, even if it’s not my own. And it’s Christmas. What could be better than love on Christmas?”
And it’s madness — me and GA, off to see Jack Grant.
Who I might love, just a little bit.
Sometimes life just makes absolute sense.
I just hope Jack Grant sees it that way. Because us getting together would be madness … but it might just be a bit magic as well.
44
When we arrive, the meeting has already started.
Damian is on the podium.
He's dressed in a fancy pin-striped suit and his hair is slicked back and he looks a bit like someone from The Godfather. Yasmin is with some other journalists at his feet, holding out a digital voice recorder. She catches my eye as I walk in, and she gives the slightest of eye rolls in Damian's direction. I resolve to give her a call, soon, to tell her the whole story of what really happened. Hopefully, by the time I ring her, the tale will have a happy ending.
Andie and I wend our way through the crowd, until we find my friends. They wave at Andie and smile. Joe gives me a quizzical look. “GA,” I mouth, nodding towards Andie. Andie looks embarrassed. Joe looks stunned.
I turn away from Joe, towards Damian. My skin crawls just looking at him.
“The deal is done,” he says. “We've followed the letter of the law. The Habanero's Group were the successful bidders for the Sassafras House site, and they won the tender through strictly legal channels. Fair and square. If anyone can prove otherwise...”
Habanero's. For some reason the name rings a bell. And then I remember. Habanero's is the name of the restaurant Damian was going to take me to in Melbourne. The one whose owner Damian said “owed him a favour”.
Something isn't quite right here.
Damian and his team are meant to be impartial middle-men. They’re not supposed to take any favours.
I find myself searching the crowd. I tell myself I'm not looking for her, but I know I am. And then, finally, I see her, standing at the back, with a group of other people in black suits. She looks up and catches my eye. At first, she looks a bit surprised. Then, she looks grumpy. Then, she sighs and smiles, tiredly.
My heart flies.
A smile.
Maybe there's hope.
“Who's that lady looking at you?” There's a whisper in my ear. I turn to see my dad sitting behind me. He has an eyebrow raised.
I hold up a finger. We’re meant to be listening, not talking.
“The man's a pillock,” Dad says, a bit more loudly, gesturing at Damian. “I don't want to listen to him. I want to know who that woman is, who's in love with my daughter.”
“That's Jack Grant,” I whisper back. “And she doesn't love me. Because I nearly dated the pillock.”
Dad’s eyebrows raise as he makes the connections. Finally, he shrugs. “She's obviously forgiven you.”
I turn back to Jack. She's still looking at me. Still smiling. So maybe Dad's right and she has forgiven me for nearly dating Damian.
And then I see her. One of the other people in black suits, surrounding Jack, is Jennifer. Jenny. Damian's PA.
I’m officially confused.
“What is she doing here?” I whisper.
“Shush,” Dad says. “We're meant to be listening.”
“So,” Damian's snaky voice echoes around the hall, “unless anybody has some actual, practical, legal reasons why this deal should not go ahead, then I see no reason why we should not progress.” He swipes the screen of the iPad in front of him. “Thank you and good night.”
“Wait!” A voice from the crowd stops Damian in his tracks, as he attempts to slither from the room. He turns, slowly, around.
The audience gives a collective gasp.
“Wait.” The crowd parts, to give the speaker space. I gasp. “Mrs Hurley?”
“What if you received another tender?” Mrs Hurley says. “What if someone — a Hobart businesswoman, were to offer you a really good price for Sassafras House? I'm not sure what Habanero's offered, because I can't seem to find that information anywhere in the public domain, but I imagine it must be a sizeable amount. The figure I have to offer may not be as much as the Habanero's bid but, according to my research, it's more than what the site is worth.
“What if I were to offer you that and tell you that I have contacts who can help us to keep Sassafras House going as it is? What if I were to tell you that I would then accept proposals, from local businesspeople, to develop the site into a historical tourist destination — do up the interiors, landscape the gardens. What if I did that, Mr Dreyfuss?
“I know you are not Tasmanian. I've done my research on you. I know you were born in the Eastern suburbs of Sydney. But, despite the fact you have only been living here a short while, you must have observed the stunning beauty of this place. You must, somewhere in your heart, acknowledge the grandeur of that wonderful old building. Surely, you would see how our community values this property. Surely, you would prefer that this historically important building — where I got married!”
“Where I got married too!” I look at Mr Blake. He is shaking his fist in the air. His eyes are shining. He gazes at Mrs Hurley in some kind of rapt awe.
“See?” Mrs Hurley says. “This place is important in the Hobart community, Mr Dreyfuss. It’s important to me. And people I care about. Even if my bid happened to be less than the other bunch, surely you would value keeping this beautiful building intact and in the hands of Tasmanians, over fiscal concerns.”
There is a beat. The audience waits, holding its collective breath, staring at Damian. Waiting for an answer. Finally, he clears his throat. “The deal,” he says slowly, “is done.”
And then he does leave; his minions — minus Jennifer — scrambling after him. Mrs Hurley runs after him. I see her putting her hand on Damian's elbow, whispering something in his ear. Everyone is watching. Everyone knows that this thing that Mrs Hurley is whispering might be our last chance.
I see Damian shake his head. And then he is gone.
Mrs Hurley sags.
The audience lets out its breath. We slump, too, defeated.
“You tried, Mrs Hurley,” I say, as she approaches. “Thanks. Heaps.”
“I really thought it would work,” says Mrs Hurley, sadly. “But it seems those Habanero's fellows must have made a very large bid. I suppose they can afford to offer big money. Apparently, they own a whole chain of these Fancy Fajitas abominations. As well as some fancy gourmet restaurant in Melbourne.”
“They do,” I say, nodding. “They do own a restaurant in Melbourne. Damian was going to take me there…” I catch her quizzical expression. “It's a long story. But the point is, we were meant to be going on a date, and he said he'd take me there and that usually you had to wait for months to get a table, but he c
ould pull some strings with the owner, because Damian had ‘done him a favour’. That sounds a bit dodgy, doesn't it?”
“It does.”
I turn. And my heart trembles. Jack Grant is there, standing over me, looking down at me. And she may not have mud on her face now but she still looks so incredibly cute.
I’m still not scared. I’m smitten.
“Hi, Mum” she says, pecking Mrs Hurley on the cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I tried.”
“I know you did. But that cretin, Dreyfuss—”
“I don't think I ever would have actually gone with him,” I blurt. “He's really not my type.”
Jack smiles, wearily. “Very glad to hear it,” she says. “Now, you reckon Dreyfuss said that the Habanero's owner owed him a favour?”
I nod. “That's what he said. That's how he was able to get us a table, apparently.”
“I knew it!” Jennifer is by Jack's side. She shakes her head. “I knew it was weird. He never said anything like that to me, but I just got this feeling, when he took me to eat there, that something wasn't quite on the level. Damian kept disappearing with the owner and they had all these long, meaningful talks and matey handshakes, and it all just seemed a bit off.”
“Jennifer, you're working for Jacqueline now?” I ask.
Jennifer nods. “I had to get away from Damian. That night, when you were meant to go to Melbourne, he took me instead, and … let’s just say I finally realised what a horrendous creep he is. I decided that I didn't want anything more to do with him. And I like Sassafras House. I wanted to do what I could to save it. Oh, and Maddy, I hope you don't mind, but I told Jack all about that talk we had, before you went out with Damian. I told her that you weren't all that into him, really. I told her you had more brains than to fall for someone like Damian Dreyfuss.” Her eyes widen. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I raise an eyebrow at Jack. Her cheeks are red. She clears her throat. “Just professional curiosity,” she mumbles. I can't help smiling. So that's why she forgave me. Thank you, Jennifer.