by Kate Gordon
“So,” she goes on. “Just out of curiosity, Mrs Hurley, what did you whisper to Damian, just then?”
Mrs Hurley shrugs. “Only the number. The amount I can offer him. Which is not much and is, evidently, nowhere near enough to challenge the Habanero's bid. Legally, Dreyfuss' company is obliged to take the highest offer. Mine must have been less.” She shrugs, sadly. “End of story.”
“What was the offer? What was your number?” Jennifer asks.
Mrs Hurley tells us the dollar figure and my mouth drops open. It's more money than I could possibly imagine. I look over at her, gob-smacked.
“Oh well,” she says, attempting a sad smile. “Since he said no, I suppose I can afford those books I’ve been eyeing off, in Madeleine’s shop. I would really have rather saved the House, though.”
“Don't go book-mad yet,” Jennifer says, slowly. Her cheeks have gone bright pink. “I'll need to do some checking but … Mrs Hurley, I'm fairly sure, from what I saw of the documentation of the Habanero's deal, their offer was less than that.”
“What?” Jack gasps. “How much less than that?”
“Significantly,” Jennifer says. “I didn't want to tell you how much they offered. Firstly, because I didn't know the precise amount and, secondly, I still felt some loyalty to Damian. And I didn't want to do anything illegal, like divulge information about the deal, if it was all above board. But it sounds like it's all very much under board, doesn't it? If you combine him turning down Mrs Hurley’s generous offer with the way he acted at the restaurant. The chummy handshakes. The secret meetings … and what he said to Maddy. Maybe he's actually not acting legally and, if that's the case—”
“We need to get back to the office,” Jack says. I notice a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes are wide. “We need to tell the lawyers. We need to get on top of this. If we can prove that Dreyfuss is acting outside the law in his dealings, we can save Sassafras House.”
Jenny nods. “And if you need a cherry on the cake, I might have a story to share with you. About what happened in Melbourne. I’ve been planning to go to the cops, but if it will help, I can tell you first.”
Jack looks grave. “Tell me,” she says. “Then I’ll help you go to the police. Let’s go.” She moves towards the other lawyers, who are just about to leave the room. Jennifer gives us a small wave and follows her.
My heart is racing. Of course I want her to find a way to save Sassafras House, but I have to say something to Jack Grant tonight before she leaves.
I need to know if there might be a chance for us.
For me.
For love.
Because this…
It's not the same sort of feeling I had with Tim — as if I was frightened of him not loving me. It's not even the same feeling I had when I saw those words on the cubicle wall:
“Marry me, Mischa McPhee.”
It's not a feeling of falling, or a feeling of control. It's just, essentially, only…
“I'd like to have a vanilla slice with you!”
I yell it out, and I feel the room around me go still. Everyone in the crowd is staring at me, and then at Jack Grant, and then back at me.
“Is that Mischa McPhee?” I hear somebody whisper.
“No,” I reply, still staring at Jack Grant. “I'm Maddy Matthews and I would like to take Jacqueline — or Jack — Grant out for a vanilla slice. Once she's finished saving the world.”
Jack Grant's lip twitches. She gives the slightest of nods. “Okay,” she says, nodding. “But I really have to tell you something first.”
“What's that?” I ask.
“I can't stand Mischa McPhee,” she says. “She’s a bit twee, isn’t she? I love nineties music, but I’m more into Tori Amos and Four Non Blondes.”
“How can you hate Mischa McPhee?” I gasp. “She's fabulous!”
And inside I'm thinking, “If you hate Mischa McPhee, there's no way you're going to like me, because I'm just like her. If you hate Mischa McPhee, there's no way you'll want to love me.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe. But I prefer you. And I really didn't notice the resemblance 'til tonight. It's the black clothes. And the hair. Like on the Pandani cover, right? But really, you just look like Maddy. And if Maddy wants to come and have cake with me tomorrow, I'd be honoured.” She grins at Jennifer. “Call my PA,” she says. “She'll arrange it.”
“Oh, thank heavens for that,” Dad says, smiling. “If you’re all sorted, I can finally tell you about me and Rosa.”
“Wait … what?” I gasp. “You and Rosa?”
Dad ignores me. “You'll look after her?” He narrows his eyes at Jack.
And I expect Jack to say something about how she's only just met me, or that she'll do her best, but instead she says, firmly, “I will.”
45
Damian Dreyfuss will go to court. Because of the work done by Jack and Jenny.
Because what he did, in accepting the low bid from his friend at Habanero’s, was illegal. Because what he did to Jenny was illegal, too.
I hope his wife leaves him.
I hope they're able to spare their children the worst of it.
I hope all the other girls he’s abused read about the trial in the paper, and finally realise what a complete cretin he is.
And that nothing is their fault. Men like Damian Dreyfuss — and Tim — are extremely skilled at making you think it’s all your fault. They’re good at making you feel scared, and worthless.
But we’re not worthless. And it’s not our fault.
Jack Grant has been working around the clock putting together her dossier on Dreyfuss, so we haven't had a chance to go for that vanilla slice, yet. That's okay. Because today she took the afternoon off and came to our house to finish the gardening. And she has mud on her face again.
And, this time, I wipe it away, gently, with my fingers.
And then, she steps closer, so the space between us is small, and charged with electricity.
And then…
“Jack! I asked you to come over to do Madeleine's gardening, so it looks presentable in time for Christmas!” Mrs Hurley yells, over the fence. We leap apart. “Not do … whatever it is you’re doing!”
Another voice joins the lecture. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect when I came to visit, to discuss my latest disappointment from your so-called high-quality literary establishment, that I’d be greeted by a display such as this!”
Jack and I look at Mrs Hurley. We look at Mr Blake. They stop looking at either of us and stare, instead, at each other. Four formerly sullen cheeks turn glowingly pink. “Oh, hello there, Rodney,” Mrs Hurley says. “I didn't see you.”
“Oh, Victoria. I … I didn’t see you there, either.”
I turn to Jack. She looks bemused. But only until I take her hand and lead her away from her mum and my secretly-now-favourite customer, up the garden path and into the kitchen, where I find a tub of chocolate fudge ice cream in the fridge. I grab a spoon. “Eat,” I command, handing it over to him. “It makes everything better.”
Jack takes the spoon and the ice cream and places them, gently, on the kitchen bench. She shakes her head. “No, Maddy. You make everything better.”
And then she wraps me in her arms again and…
The kitchen door bursts open.
Jack and I spring apart. Sitting in my doorway is Joe, holding up a piece of paper, his face split into the widest, most gleeful grin I've ever seen. “I got in!” he gasps, breathlessly. “The heart, and my portfolio! They've accepted me! Happy Christmas to me!”
I race towards my best friend and wrap him in a crushing hug. I kiss him five times on each cheek. “Joe, I am so proud!” I cry.
“Then come with me,” he says, grabbing my arms. “Come with me to celebrate. Tonight. The Theatre Royal. Mischa's playing a special pre-Christmas show, and I've got us all tickets! We’re all going! Come on, Mads. You have to come. It’s a sign from Santa!”
“Mischa McPhee?” I ask, as if I need to co
nfirm.
“Mischa McPhee,” Joe says, nodding.
“Well, then I'd better make an appearance.” I look over at Jack. “And will you...”
Jack rolls her eyes. “All right. I'll come too. I could do with a night off before this Sassafras House stuff gets crazy. I doubt I’ll get much of a holiday break.”
“You’ll be having Christmas with us, won’t you?” I ask. I look over at Joe. “And you?”
Joe nods. “Of course. Like every year. I’m thinking it might be a shared Matthews-Grant-Hurley Christmas this year, am I right?” He sneaks a look over his shoulder. His face turns slightly green. “And … Blake?”
Jack shakes her head. “No. Please. Don’t even suggest it.”
Joe turns back around, grinning. “You two are super cute together, and it's all because of me.”
“How?” I exclaim. “I didn't find Jack because of the project. Jack isn't GA!”
Joe regards me, sagely. “Yes,” he says. “But it was the project that made you believe you deserved love. It made you take a risk.”
“True.” I wink at Jack. “And golly, are you a risk!”
And that's why, when Mr Blake and Mrs Hurley finally come into the kitchen — their cheeks now bright fire engine red, I have buttered pecan ice cream all over my face.
Epilogue
And now we are standing at The Theatre Royal, on Christmas Eve, listening to Mischa McPhee sing her songs of heartache and loss.
We're all here: Andie, Britta and Dean, Shelley and a lovely holistic veterinarian called Pedro, who keeps kissing her on the cheek and telling her she's a miracle. My dad is here, too, and his girlfriend, Rosa. And Joe is here, and a little band of his new, arty friends (including Phil Pullman, who looks at Joe as if he's made from chocolate)…
And then there's me and Jack Grant.
And Dad is so giddy with love that he’s inviting everyone to Christmas lunch. And everyone is saying an emphatic “yes”.
But that’s tomorrow.
And this is tonight.
And Mischa is in front of us, and Jack is whispering that she's nothing like me and I'm nothing like her. “You're just Maddy,” she says. Her breath is warm on my neck. She has her arms wrapped around my waist and her tired head leaning on mine.
She’s going to be even tireder, soon. Once the case is over — once we’ve won — she’s going to be in charge of renovating the gardens at Sassafras House. And then, she's thinking of taking a year off from law and doing some horticulture courses.
Jack is going to be a gardener.
My dad is in love.
Joe is going to go to art school.
Mr Blake and Mrs Hurley have been seen all around town, at art galleries and restaurants. Once, Mr Blake was even observed smiling. And he nominated all of us in the bookshop for customer services awards. Shelley seems happy with her new hippy vet bloke.
Britta and Dean are slowly swaying to the music, and sometimes he kisses the top of her head.
And I am with Jack Grant. A woman who did not write on a cubicle wall that she wanted to marry Mischa McPhee. A woman who infuriates me as much as she makes me laugh. A woman who might not love Mischa McPhee, but loves me just for me.
And, in front of us, Mischa sings about heartache and loss and I think that Jack might be right. I am nothing like her.
As my eyes sweep over the audience, I spot a familiar face. Tim O'Reilly is standing near the stage, nodding along to the music, in a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up. Bryony isn't with him. Neither is Pete. He's alone and there's a melancholy to his face. But I find I don't feel sad, watching him, or anxious either.
As my eyes follow him, Tim wanders away from the stage and into the shadows, and the space he leaves is filled with singing, smiling people. People from my town. People whose faces I know. People who don't know how much I love them, just because they're part of this place.
I’m breathing. My heart is fine. It’s all just perfectly fine.
And, when the music ends, I turn to my friends and my dad and say, “Cake?” and they all nod and say, “Yes, please.”
We walk out into the cool Salamanca night and everything seems just right.
And as we pass the stage, Mischa McPhee winks at me and we share a special, secret smile, and I leave her talking to Andie, about music and art.
We walk past the sandstone buildings, down to the docks, humming and singing and jubilant. I link one arm through Jack's, and another through Joe's, and I smile at Dad and I walk through the night, through my small territory, and I am happy.
And tomorrow is Christmas.
In a different universe, in another story, it wouldn't have gone like this. I’m glad it went just exactly this way.
About the Author
Kate Gordon grew up in a small town by the sea in Tasmania.
Her latest book, Girl Running, Boy Falling has just been released with Rhiza Edge. It is a story about grief, family, mental health and friendship, set in a small town in Tasmania. You can find links to buy it here.
Her first book, Three Things About Daisy Blue was published in the Girlfriend series by Allen and Unwin in 2010. Her second book, Thyla, was published by Random House Australia in April 2011 and her third book, Vulpi, the sequel to Thyla, was published in April 2012. Kate was the recipient of 2011 and 2012 Arts Tasmania Assistance to Individuals grants.
Writing Clementine was published in June 2014 by Allen and Unwin. It received the 2016 IBBY Ena Noel Award and was published in the German language by Random House, Germany. In 2018, Kate was shortlisted in the Dorothy Hewett Awards for an Unpublished Manuscript, and was commended in the 2018 Vogel’s Awards.
Kate has two picture books, two series and two novels forthcoming, in 2018 and 2019.
Also from the Publisher
Love novellas? Twelfth Planet Press is bringing out some more for the festive season.
Merry Happy Valkyrie by Tansy Rayner Roberts
Norse myth and magic collides with a small town Tasmanian Christmas in this festive romantic fantasy!
Lief Fraser has mixed feelings about returning home to Matilda, the only Australian town where it always snows at Christmas. As a TV weather presenter, it’s her job to report on the strange holiday phenomenon… but as a local, it’s her duty to preserve Matilda’s many magical secrets.
Then pretty Audrey Astor rolls into town to shoot the ultimate romantic Australian Christmas movie with her film crew. Sparks fly, secrets unravel… and soon everyone will know exactly how Mt Valkyrie got its name.
"A sparkling holiday fantasy story full of deliciously fun characters and fabulous magic." - Stephanie Burgis
Enjoy this Excerpt from Merry Happy Valkyrie
Enjoy this Excerpt from Merry Happy Valkyrie
Snow in December Is Basically Some Kind Of Freaking Miracle
They stopped for coffee at Campbell Town. The fancy Italian café was packed as always, but there were at least three other decent places to get coffee and a sandwich, which was the new standard for Tasmanian towns on the tourist trail.
Lief Fraser leaned against her tangerine hatchback and soaked up the last of the bright, sharp December sunshine while Piper collected their cappuccinos. Willingness to fetch coffee was one of Piper’s many good qualities. It was important Lief kept those good qualities to the forefront of her mind, or she might strangle the girl.
Piper was the reason Lief was going home for Christmas.
Lief’s phone buzzed. It had been buzzing the whole drive up, every dropped call and urgent text message glitching out the music stream for up to half a minute. She glanced at it now, and saw Rook’s name connected to a stream of texts alongside a few from her mother, and one from Mags which read simply ‘!’
Fair comment.
On the next incoming call, Lief swiped to accept it. “Rook. Calm down. Breathe.”
Her best friend’s deep voice made her smile despite his panicky tone. “You’re bringing a camera crew? What the hell? First
you’re not coming at all, and now you’re consorting with the enemy? The big city has turned you into — how can you even —”
Lief cleared her throat. “Nice to hear from you too, Hrokr.”
“Lief,” said Rook after a few shaky breaths. “What even.”
“It’s not the end of the world,” she said with that same ironic twist everyone from her hometown put on that phrase when they used it. This time, it’s not the end of the world. “And ‘consorting with the enemy’, are you kidding me with that? It’s not like I’m rolling out the welcome carpet for Audrey Astor’s Merry Happy Holiday Movies.”
“You might as well be,” growled Rook.
“You know I work for a TV station. This isn’t new information.”
“The weather,” he scoffed.
“Weather is kind of important in a country that regularly sets fire to itself,” she said sharply. “I’m a trained meteorologist, Rook, and there aren’t a lot of jobs in my field that let me stay this close to home. Unless you want me to head off to the mainland—”
“But a camera crew?” he said in a plaintive voice.
“One camera operator, and me. You know I’ll protect our secrets. This is your fault, anyway.”
Across the road, she could see Piper balancing cups and pastries, waiting to cross the busy road that ran through the small town. It was two days before Christmas Eve, so the Midlands Highway was buzzing with commuters, tourists and families heading home for the holidays.
“How is this my fault?” asked Rook.
“The station I work for has been trying to get a ‘Christmas in Matilda’ novelty puff piece on Hobart Mornings for years, but for some reason every journalist, camera crew and weather expert they send up this way gets turned around, lost on the road, has their GPS fritz out. Sound familiar?”