by Kate Gordon
I eat another piece of chocolate and, slightly shell-shocked, I reread the email.
“There is a table with your name on it at a restaurant of your choice. Any restaurant. Anywhere in the country. Just let me know where you'd like to go, and I'll arrange the rest...”
Good golly.
Any restaurant? Anywhere? Even on the mainland? Who is this guy? A stockbroker? A CEO? A minor deity?
But he isn't GA…
“Well, GA hasn't emailed me,” I point out to the nagging voice in my head.
They wrote to you. On the toilet door.
I pause. They did write to me, didn't they? They want to know if I'm looking for them, and I answered that I was. I am.
I answered in black ink, on a wall. Not on Facebook. Not via email, or through a newspaper advert.
I answered with my own hand, in my own writing.
It felt almost magic, communicating that way. It felt so fragile; as if GA were a notion; a smoke-like willow-the-wisp of an idea. Any moment, a cleaner could come and wipe all of this away.
It felt enormous; bigger by far than an email or a text.
Bigger.
I pick up my phone and punch in Joe's number. He answers, groggily. “Maddy, it's one am. I have to be at work at six. This better be crucial.”
“We need to think bigger, Joe! We need to think of some magical, miraculous, enormous way to contact GA.”
“Okay... Okay, agreed. But can it wait 'til the morning?”
“Yes. But only 'til then. GA is a willow-the-wisp.”
“Of course he is, dear,” Joe says, sleepily but kindly. “Oh, so, I'm assuming ‘P’ wasn't him.”
“’P’ didn't turn up,” I snap. ”Jacqueline Grant did, but she’s a dick. Oh, and Damian the Silver Fox emailed me and asked me out to dinner at a restaurant of my choice, even if it's on the mainland. He might be a prince.”
“Gah. Really? I hope you said 'yes'. That's the sort of offer I dream about, Maddy.”
“I haven't replied yet,” I admit. “He's a rich non-reader. He's not GA.”
“Who says he has to be?” Joe sounds a lot more awake now. “Who says he has to be your soul-mate? He could just be your bit of fluff. Your rich bit of fluff. While you're looking for GA. Say 'yes', Maddy. Let him spoil you. We'll continue the project in the background. Let yourself be happy, Maddy.”
“Perhaps.” I yawn, suddenly sleepy. “I'm going to bed now. I'm tired.”
“You little minx,” Joe growls. “I'm wide awake. And thinking about magic and willow-the-wisps.”
22
“So, he wrote to you again on the wall, you say?” Shelley's eyes are sparkling.
I nod. “Asking if I was looking for him and I replied I was. I will, of course, check the graffiti again as soon as I arrive at the SAC.”
“It's so ... mysterious and all that,” Shelley breathes. “So romantic.”
“Far too romantic to be conducted on Facebook,” Joe says. He sighs, theatrically. “I don't know what I was thinking there. We need to go big. True love deserves it.”
“Speaking of not true love,” I say, biting my lip. “Is it wrong that I am still considering taking Damian Dreyfuss up on his offer?”
“Of course not,” Shelley says. “It all sounds rather exciting, if you ask me. The Dreaded Ex used to take me on fancy dinners all the time. He treated me like I was the centre of his universe… He used to buy me jewellery, do you know? And fancy clothes, expensive cheese... I felt like the queen of the whole wide world when he—”
Shelley is prevented from saying any more by the large chunk of muffin wedged into her mouth. “I thought you resolved not to talk about the Dreaded Ex?” Joe says. “And, if you ask me, he doesn’t sound all that fantastic. What kind of man buys a girl cheese?”
“I like cheese,” Shelley says, through her muffin.
Joe shakes his head. “Back to the project: it's clear now that we need to think bigger than social media; bigger than mainstream media; definitely bigger than just a few words scrawled in Sharpie on a toilet door. We need a campaign. An orchestrated festival of love. A beacon, calling out through time and space: ‘Come to me, Graffiti Artist!’”
Joe’s enthusiasm is infectious, but I can feel my anxiety getting ready to bite. “Isn't that a bit of overkill, maybe?”
Joe shakes his head furiously. “When it comes to love, there is no such thing.”
“Same as breakfast then.” I grin, as I swipe one of Joe’s mini Christmas puddings.
“Hey!” Joe protests. “That’s not fair, Maddy. After all I’ve done for you, and all I plan to do — this grand artistic gesture, to win the attention and heart of your one true—”
It is at this moment that Joe is forced to stop talking. Because there is a chunk of muffin in his mouth.
And Shelley is sitting there, hands clasped in her lap, looking as innocent as a baby bird.
23
GA wrote back.
I wasn’t expecting it. Not so soon; not the very next day. I thought I would have to wait a few days at least. Nothing good in life ever comes so quickly.
But the words are there on the wall of cubicle three, and my heart is the size of the sun.
Joe is at work and Mr Blake is in the bookshop and I don't want to see him, because he’ll burst my bubble. And besides, I'm on my lunch break. I don't have to go back to work for another hour. But I have to tell someone.
There's nothing else for it. I pull out my mobile and call number one in my favourites.
“So, GA wrote back again?” Dad gasps.
We're sitting in the square, on the edge of the fountain. He came right away and brought cupcakes.
People sometimes ask me if I miss having a mother. Then they meet my father, and they understand why I barely give her a second thought.
The story goes that just after I was born, my mother handed me to Dad and said, “There's your baby. That's what you wanted. Happy now?”
I miss the idea of a mother, sometimes. When things get hard. But then I just hug my dad.
And he really is the first person I want to tell everything. “GA wrote back,” I confirm, grinning.
Dad gestures for me to continue.
I look down, to hide my blushing. “It said they want to meet me too. It said...”
I close my eyes and picture the words on the toilet wall.
“Well, you'll just have to find me, then! Where am I? I could be far away. I could be right under your nose. Find me. I'd like to talk with you.”
“I presume you did a happy dance?” Dad asks, gravely.
“Well, first I called you,” I remind him. “Then I may or may not have done a small happy dance in the corridor to the Long Gallery… But just as I was doing it, Andie from the Long Gallery walked around the corner.”
Dad winces. “Mortifying.”
“It’s okay.” I smile, remembering. “She just laughed at me and said, 'Don't stop. You look very happy today, Maddy.' And then she danced with me, for a little while ... Oh, and did I mention there's someone else after me, too?
Dad’s eyes widen. “Tell me about this other person who's — naturally — fallen in love with my gorgeous girl.”
And so, I tell Dad all about Damian Dreyfuss, and his wild dinner invitation.
I’m so invested in my story that it takes me a while to realise Dad’s put down his cupcake and is looking at me with concern. “What?” I ask. “I didn't really mean it. As if I'd jump on a plane with a complete stranger! Don't worry, Dad, I'm not going to say 'yes' to him, even though Joe and Shelley think I should. He's not my type at all.”
“Good,” says Dad, firmly. When he notices my surprise, he adds, “It's just … I don't know. I'm getting a strange vibe about this man.”
A strange vibe? Dad doesn't talk like that. He doesn't believe in “vibes”. “You haven't even met him,” I say. “And since when do you take any notice of 'vibes', Dad?”
“Oh, Rosa says it,” he says, waving a hand.
/>
I raise an eyebrow. “Rosa?”
“Yes. Rosa,” he says, brusquely. He clears his throat. “But we're talking about you. And… It all sounds a bit strange to me, Poppet.”
Oh dear. Once Dad starts calling me by my childhood nickname, I know he must really be worried.
“Okay, Dad,” I say, carefully. “I understand your … concern but … I don't know. He seems safe. My gut says he'd be okay. And, like I said, he's absolutely not my type — too ‘Mr Big’. Nothing's going to happen there, but… It might be fun to be spoiled a bit.”
Dad nods. “Of course. If I were a rich man...”
“You're all I could ever want in a father, and more,” I say, firmly. “You're perfect just as you are, Mr Matthews.”
“As are you,” Dad says. He pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. And I can breathe. With my dad, I can breathe, deeply. When I’m with him, everything feels okay. “I just want to keep your heart safe,” he tells me, softly. “Your heart is precious.”
And I know why he’s saying it. He knows that my heart has been smashed to nothing once before. He knows how hard I had to work to put it back together. He knows everything.
And I am just as scared as he is. But I also know I don’t plan to give my heart to Damian Dreyfuss. I’m just sick of being scared. I want to live, just a little bit.
24
Joe is waiting for me in the bookshop in the children's section. He’s surrounded by little people. They're crouched around his wheelchair, totally rapt, listening to him read The Gruffalo.
He has a bucket on his head and a moustache drawn on his upper lip in felt-tip pen. And he is reading the book in a Russian accent. Or at least his attempt at one.
Random, wonderful Joe.
“How has this happened?” I whisper to Shelley.
Shelley clicks “save” on her Word document. “He came in looking for you and you weren't here, and he got bored watching me compiling the best-seller lists. And a kid asked if they could have a ride in his chair, and he said they couldn’t, because then he couldn’t be a superhero — his chair gives him secret superpowers — but he would read them an awesome book. And then a crowd just … gathered...”
“The bucket?”
“A fez, I think.”
“So, he's not meant to be Russian?”
Shelley shakes her head. “Turkish. And no, I do not know why.”
“Okay, then.”
I busy myself shelving the new Christmas baking books until Joe is done entertaining.
Finally, he comes up behind me. “Boo!” he says, softly. “I'm a Gruffalo.”
I turn around. “Silly old Joe,” I say. “Don't you know? There's no such thing as a Gruffalo!”
“Ah! See! I knew you hid in the children's section when Mr Blake came in!”
“Sometimes,” I admit. Curling up on one of the beanbags with a stack of picture books beside me is one of my favourite ways to spend a quiet afternoon.
Joe reaches into his red leather satchel and pulls out a stack of papers. “I've done some preliminary designs for our graffiti-bomb GA beacon artwork. You can take them away with you; pick whichever one takes your fancy.”
“Wow,” I breathe, looking through the images Joe has designed. They're really fabulous — quirky and eye-catching. “These are so good, Joe. This must have taken you ages.”
He lifts a shoulder and looks at the floor, bashfully. It's not an expression Joe wears often. “I don't get much of a chance to be creative these days, so any excuse...”
“Joe,” I say, softly. “When are you going to think about uni and stuff? You still have time to finish your course.”
Joe’s face hardens. “Enough, Maddy,” he says. “I’ll go back one day.”
“It’s been ten years, since the accident—”
“Enough, Maddy,” he says, again. But then he looks up and flashes me a Judy Garland smile. “Eh. The university’s loss is your gain. I’m glad you like the designs. I hope they’ll help. Unless you’ve decided to chuck it all in and go out with Damian Dreyfuss?”
“I’m not going out with Damian. Dad thinks I shouldn't.”
“Maddy, you're a grown woman...”
I grimace. “I'm aware of that, Joe-joe, but I do think he’s right, in this instance.”
“He was right about Tim,” Joe says, flatly. “That doesn't mean he'll be right about every potential relationship.”
“It won’t be a relationship. I mean, it wouldn’t have been.” I narrow my eyes, accusingly. “Anyway, aren’t you meant to be helping me with the project? Not trying to talk me into dating someone else.”
“He might be fun. You might have fun.”
“I have fun!” I protest. “I go out all the time, with—”
“Me,” Joe finishes for me. “And I love you, I do, Maddy, but I fully intend on finding the love of my life at some stage, despite this fucking chair, and then — yes, this truth will hurt you but I say it because I care — I might sometimes need to spend time with him.”
I wince. Joe's right. It does hurt. Of course, I've always known that when Joe or I “settle down”, things will change. But I guess I didn't want him to be so keen on that happening. I suppose some little part of me has always hoped I was the love of Joe's life, even though I have the wrong body parts. But I know what he's saying is right. I can't rely on him to be my main social interaction forever.
“I do need a bit of fun,” I concede. “Okay, I’ll give Damian a chance. But I won’t let him fly me anywhere. Hobart has enough good restaurants. He can take me out here.”
Joe tries and fails to hide his glee. “You’re going to let me plan your outfit, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe I should go in my protest clothes? Freak the old suit out by coming to dinner dressed as a weirdo radical leftie.”
“Speaking of being a weirdo radical lefty...” Britta walks in to the shop waving a paper. “There's a meeting tomorrow night. About Sassafras house. Will we all go?”
“Absolutely. Gosh, between Sassafras House and the project, we are getting busy—”
“Too busy to take me up on my offer, it seems.”
My head whips around and I find myself looking at a pair of pressed chinos. My eyes drift up to a navy jumper and tan blazer, a crisp white shirt and … oh golly, is that a neckerchief?
“Damian!” I say, scrabbling to my feet. “Hi. Sorry I haven't got in touch. I just—”
“No need to explain,” Damian says, taking my hand. His is almost uncannily soft. My skin prickles a little bit, and I don’t think it’s in a good way. “I know you are a very busy and exceedingly important ‘bookshop worker’…” Is that a note of condescension I hear in his voice? My fingers curl. He smiles, indulgently. “Anyway, I thought I'd pop in and help you out. Not with the retail work, naturally,” he says, laughing. My hackles rise. Next to me, I feel Britta bristling, too.
“What exactly were you planning on helping me with, then?” I ask, as much politely as I can manage.
Damian smirks. “Well, I thought perhaps the decision of where to go for dinner might be just too much for you to contend with, above all the other very critical...” He gestures around the shop, “book-sales-type decisions you make every day.”
“Actually, Maddy is very good at making decis—” Joe begins, but Damian cuts him off.
“I'm sure she is.” I hear the tone in his voice that makes Joe furious — he speaks to Joe the way you would a very small child. As if being in a wheelchair makes him somehow dim and ingenuous. Joe’s eyes narrow and I feel mine do the same. “But I'm also sure she won't mind me making this little one for her. After all, the usual wait for a table at Habanero's is in excess of two months, especially this time of year. But I know the owner, very well, so...”
“Habanero's?” Joe says, snidely. “Haven't heard of it.”
“Well, it is rather exclusive. Only a very particular clientele eat at Habanero's of Melbourne.” There's that smirk again. It’s re
ally starting to annoy me. “I'm taking your hesitation as a 'yes',” he says, before I can tell him where exactly he can stuff his “particular clientele”. “I'll pick you up here at six pm. Don't worry if you don't have anything appropriate to wear. One of my PAs can organise that for you. Just let me know your size.”
My eyes are barely more than slits now. The fuck I’m telling him my size.
It’s none of his business.
“Ah.” He winks. “I see I’ve been indelicate. Never ask a lady her age, or her clothing size. Never mind. I’ll ask one of my PAs to bring a selection.”
Swear words are balancing on my tongue. I glance over at Joe to see he’s turned beetroot. I can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. Luckily, for Damian, I’m distracted by a commotion outside the shop door.
I look through the glass and see Shelley and Mr Blake. Mr Blake is waving around a copy of a very large book in the air by Shelley's head. Even through the double-glazing I can hear the words “ridiculous” and “refund”.
Damian's eyes flick past me and his face turns to stone. I’m guessing this is the sort of “retail work” incident that Damian considers himself well above. I flinch as Shelley is forced to duck as the book comes perilously close to her head.
Britta is already heading for the door, but she’ll need reinforcements.
I turn back to Damian. “Thank you for your invitation, but—”
Damian is already waving me goodbye. He opens the door to the Long Gallery-side entrance, far from the fracas on the opposite side of the shop. “I'll leave you to it,” he calls out. “See you tonight.”
“Well, he certainly excused himself quick smart once there was a whiff of trouble,” Joe says, snakily.
I groan. “I'll go help the others,” I say. I really don’t want to talk any more about Damian Dreyfuss.
