by Kate Gordon
“So, what happened?” I ask, hating myself for asking.
She shrugs. “My dad died while fighting against a company that screwed over his business. The nursery. This company wanted the land it was sitting on and used all sorts of loopholes to make sure they got it. Dad had a heart attack, in the middle of it all.” She catches my eye. “And I'm not dumb, Maddy. I don't for a moment believe that he wouldn't have had that heart attack if he hadn’t been fighting the case — the doctors said it was a ticking time bomb, anyway. But he mightn't have been so stressed and unhappy when he died. And, in the end, his company lost. The big guys won. I was thirteen at the time, and I just remember thinking to myself that if he'd only had better lawyers, maybe his business would have been saved. Maybe there would still be a Grant Nursery in Taroona. Maybe I'd have taken it over when I left school. But after he died, I decided I was going to go into law, so I could fight for the little guy, like my dad. So I could, in some way, I don’t know, make amends for what happened…”
I scrunch up my forehead, peering at Jacqueline, trying to reconcile what she’s saying — about fighting for the underdogs — with her work to destroy Sassafras House. It doesn’t make sense. But before I can challenge her, she’s smiling at me and it’s … disarming.
And then my belly grumbles.
“Hungry work, this gardening.” Jacqueline raises an eyebrow. She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a trail of mud.
It looks stupidly cute.
“Do you want to go and get something to eat?” I ask, giving myself a mental kick as I do. I should not be offering food to Jacqueline Grant. Even if she does look cute, and even if she does make me laugh and even if she seems … nice.
Almost.
When you forget about the Evil Lawyer stuff.
“I’m starving. Honestly. I’d give up a date with Tom Cruise for some food right now. Doesn’t even have to be a lamb roast.” She smiles, a lopsided, infuriatingly adorable smile.
And…
“Did you just reference a nineties TV ad?” I ask, my heart racing.
Jacqueline grins. “I might have. For the record, though, even if I was into men, I would not be into scientologists.”
I gulp.
She’s not into men?
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care.
“Okay.” I avoid meeting her eyes. Because she did look at me, when she said she didn’t like men, in a … way. In that sort of way?
I shouldn’t care.
“But — should we go and get cleaned up first?” I gesture at my dirty jeans.
Jacqueline shakes her head. “You look fine. You always look fine. Great, even. And I'm starving. Let's just go.”
And even though I'm starting to — despite myself and to my annoyance — like Jacqueline Grant a tiny bit more, I still decide it would be amusing to not tell her about the mud on her face. Because hasn't everyone wanted to not tell a lawyer that they have mud on their face, when they're about to go out in public?
37
We share a mixed box of macarons. It seems we both have incurable sweet tooths.
“The first time I met you,” I say, grimacing at the memory, “you just had coffee.”
Jacqueline flushes. “Yes. I was trying to be on a diet.” She runs her hand through her funky hair. “Or … not a diet. Diets are bullshit. More like a health kick? Because of this big case. I thought I should try and eat well, so I’d be well enough to tackle it.”
“You thought you’d be healthy … by drinking coffee?”
“I had it half strength,” she says, feebly. “Hence the bad mood. And I did eat some cereal, at home.”
“Not a proper breakfast.”
“Trust me, I know. Under normal circumstances, I’m a ‘dessert-for-dinner’ kind of girl. In fact, the longer this case goes on, the more I am that kind of girl, again. It’s genetics. Dad loved dessert, too. He bought me two helpings, whenever I asked. He indulged me.”
“My dad indulges me too,” I confide. I feel myself blushing. “You can see it on me more than you can on you,” I mumble.
Jacqueline shrugs. “You can’t tell anything about health from what someone looks like.”
“Do you like Sweet Envy?” Jacqueline blurts. “We should go there together some time.” My breath catches in my throat.
She didn't just…
Jacqueline Grant didn't just ask me out. Did she?
She peers at me. Her face is earnest and sweetly shy. She did ask me out, and she's waiting for my answer and she's nervous.
But Sassafras House…
“I'll tell you more about the case,” she says, leaning in, as if she can read my mind. “Over a sundae? And I can apologise again for being so tetchy with you, that day. And … all the other days. Honestly, when I’ve had enough sugar and caffeine, I’m almost a regular person. Not as…”
“Surly.”
“Quite.”
“Churlish.”
“Yes…”
“Curmudgeonly?”
“Okay, okay!” Jack holds up her hands. “Guilty of all of the above. Can you forgive me if I pay for the macarons?”
“Deal,” I agree, quickly. “So, when should we—”
And that's when I become aware of a shadow falling over our table. I hear someone behind me clear their throat.
I turn around and look up.
“Interrupting something, am I?” he asks.
38
Standing beside our table, a copy of the Financial Times in one hand and a black coffee in the other, is Damian Dreyfuss. He's wearing a new tweed jacket, and a furious scowl. And a neckerchief.
“Hi, um, Damian,” I say. My chest feels like it’s full of bricks. I make myself talk. “Um, Jacqueline, this is…”
“I know who he is.”
“Um, Damian,” I stammer. I try and breathe. It’s hard. “I am sorry I had to cancel our plans the other night—”
“Well, it would have been nice of you to inform me,” he snaps. “Standing there outside your bookshop, with a plane waiting at the airport and reservations in Melbourne. I looked a right fool.”
My mouth opens. It closes again.
“Wait.” Jacqueline's face is red, beneath the mud. There is a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Wait, you two had a … a date?”
I nod.
I can’t talk.
Jacqueline slams her serviette down on the table. “Well, that's just great,” she mutters, through gritted teeth. “I have to go.” She stands up, her chair scraping loudly on the café floor.
“J-Jack!” I call out after her as she marches away.
She doesn’t look back.
My heart is beating furiously. What is happening? “Damian, what is—”
As I'm speaking I realise my words are being echoed. Someone is behind Damian, and they are asking the exact same thing, except in an Irish accent.
“What is going on here?”
Shelley is standing in the middle of the café, holding a loaf of sourdough bread, tears running down her face. “Damian?” she whispers. And then she turns to me. She's trembling. “Maddy? Did I hear that right? Did you and Damian have a date?”
“Sinead, dear.” Damian's voice is suddenly all sugary charm. He places a hand on her shoulder. “Long time, no see.”
39
Shelley and I sit on the docks, our legs dangling off the pier.
Our ice creams are melting. I think we’re in shock.
I clear my throat and start the conversation tentatively. “So. Damian. Dreaded Ex.”
Shelley nods, staring silently into the Derwent.
“So, he's married?” I press.
She nods again. “Married. Father. Rich bastard in charge of the largest land acquisition company in Tasmania. And the devil himself.”
“Right. Um. What’s a land acquisition company?”
“I have no fecking idea,” Shelley says, finally cracking a smile. “But you can be sure it's Satan's business.”
>
“Are you mad at me?” I blurt. “For almost having a date with the devil?”
Shelley shakes her head. “Not at all, Maddy. You were taken in, same as me. Only you were cleverer. I'm so glad you didn't fly to Melbourne with him, Maddy. I'm glad you weren't a gobshite like I was.”
“I might have been,” I say. “To be honest, I just got scared.”
“Fear is good, sometimes,” Shelley says. “It’s evolutionary.”
“Yeah, but I think I’ve evolved too far,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m afraid pretty much all the time.”
Shelley shrugs. “I have endometriosis. Hurts like hell itself. Nothing to be ashamed of and neither is your anxiety.” Shelley finally takes a bite of her ice cream. “Ooh. That’s nice,” she says, and giggles.
“Ice cream fixes all,” I say. Just then my phone rings. Joe's face flashes on the screen. I press the green button. “Joe, oh my stars, you would not believe the day we've had. We’ve got so much to tell—”
“Not now, Maddy,” Joe says. “You can tell me after you've seen it.”
“Seen it?” I shoot Shelley a bemused look. “Seen what?”
“My art project,” Joe says. “My piece de la resistance. My masterpiece.”
“Still not making sense, Joseph.” I raise a bemused eyebrow at Shelley.
“My piece for art school.” Joe drops the melodrama. “Which also happens to be my final contribution to your project. Well, I hope it's my final contribution. Because if this doesn't work, I'm not sure anything will.”
“Where do we go?” I ask, standing up.
“Franklin Square,” he says. “Are you near there?”
“Are you kidding?” I ask, laughing. “I'm always near there. It's my territory.”
“What's happening?” Shelley asks as I hang up.
“We're going to Franklin Square,” I say, shrugging. “Joe's done … something. But, Shelley… If you need to stay here and talk some more.”
“Don't you mean Sinead?” Shelley rolls her eyes. “No, Maddy. I think… Actually, I think that little meeting there might have been just the closure I was after. He didn't even know my name, for feck's sake. An adventure is just what I need.”
I kiss her on the top of her curly blonde head. “I love you.”
As we walk, I try to feel excited. I try to stop my brain returning to Jacqueline. Why did she get so angry, when she saw Damian?
I shake my head. Questions for another time.
It’s about now.
I take Shelley's hand. “Let's go,” I say, and we run as fast as we can towards Franklin Square.
40
“It's just incredible, Joe.”
My hand clamps my mouth. Hot tears prickle in my eyes.
What he's done is amazing.
In the centre of Franklin Square, amongst the trees, behind the statue of Sir John, there is a massive heart. It's made from twisted metal and is threaded with pink fairy lights in the shape of more tiny hearts. In the middle of the heart there's a guitar. And on the guitar two words are scrawled:
“Find me”.
“You like it?” he asks, bashfully. “It’s my take on the Christmas tree in Salamanca. But this one isn’t about edgy, industrial art. It’s about the true meaning of Christmas. It’s about love.”
“I … Joe!” I throw my arms around him and sob into his neck.
Behind me, I hear more sobbing. Britta has her hand pressed to her eyes and her shoulders are heaving up and down. Shelley puts an arm around her waist. “Britta? What's wrong?” she asks. The rest of us echo her question, crowding around our friend.
“Nothing… Everything,” she moans. “Just … love. Love is incredible, Maddy. But it’s hard. It gets harder the longer it goes.” She smiles, through the tears. “But it is all worth it, I promise.” She looks up at me with shining eyes. “You have to keep going with this, Maddy. You have to keep fighting for love. Promise me you will. Don’t be scared. Please.”
“How could I not?” I ask. “I have a big freaking fabulous heart in the middle of Hobart.”
“Good,” Britta says, sniffing. She turns to Joe. “I'm sorry I ruined your moment. Let's just stand for a minute and appreciate Joe's brilliant heart. Physically and metaphorically. And then I think we should all go and have cake.”
“You go, girlfriend,” says Shelley, and we all laugh at how strange it sounds in her Donegal farm girl voice, and we hold hands and walk in a chain up Elizabeth Street. The Hobart air is freezing, and the sky above us is immense and I don't know about the others but I forget.
I forget Damian. I forget Jack. I even forget GA.
I forget Tim.
I forget Mr Blake and Mrs Hurley.
I forget work and my course and all the pressure.
I don't want to have to be anywhere. I don't want to have to be anyone. I just want to walk under this sweet suburban sky and breathe in the world and laugh and maybe dance a bit…
And eat some fucking cake.
41
“I saw the heart.”
I'm in cubicle three. And GA is talking to me.
“I saw the heart,” they say, in that same dark, looping scrawl. “I want to meet you. But I have to warn you, you might not like who I am.”
“I will like you,” I write. “I will love you.”
I wave to Andie in the Long Gallery as I pass. She doesn't seem to notice me. She’s staring into space, like Dad does, thinking infinite thoughts.
Kiefer sees me. He points at the lemon slices he's putting in the display cabinet and mimes fainting with pleasure.
“Save one for me for lunch time,” I call out, smiling.
I'm walking on air.
I'm going to meet GA.
And I’m not thinking about Jacqueline Grant. Or her angry, hurt face, in the café.
I’m not.
Everything is wonderful.
Even seeing Mr Blake, standing outside the shop as always can't shake me.
“Morning, Mr B,” I say, brightly.
He doesn't reply. He looks lost in thought, too, but these thoughts look angrier than Andie’s.
I bite the bullet. “What's up, Mr Blake?” I ask. “Didn't you like your Louise Bourgeois book? Joe assured me it is a really highly regarded–”
Mr Blake waves a hand in my face. I'm too happy to be affronted. I just raise an eyebrow and wait for him to talk.
“It's Sassafras House,” he says. “It looks as though that damned company are going to get their way. They're going to acquire it and they are going to knock it down and turn it into a Fancy Fajitas.”
“Fancy … what now?”
“You know!” Mr Blake looks impatient. “That new faux-Mexican chain. That's what Sassafras House — the place where I got married — is going to become. A bad franchise taco joint.”
“Oh, no,” I say. And then I peer at Mr Blake. “You're married?”
“Was,” he says, gruffly. “She left me. Because I'm a nincompoop.”
I can feel my lip twitching. I will it to stop. “You're a nincompoop?”
Mr Blake nods, solemnly. “Yes. I am a nincompoop. Always have been. And so, Freda left me, in 1979, to move to San Francisco.”
I'm shocked to see Mr Blake's eyes are red and puffy. There are tears welling in them.
“Mr Blake,” I say, softly.
“Rodney,” he says, quietly. “It's Rodney. Please.”
“Rodney,” I say, and smile.
“I'm sorry for being so cantankerous.” He peers at his feet. “You’re a very good worker, Madeleine. I like you almost as much as that Andrea lass in the gallery. I don't know why I behave the way I do. Ah, listen to me. Stupid old fool.”
I shake my head. “Not stupid, Mr Blake. Listen, would you like to come in and have coffee? And a biscuit? I have a secret stash.”
“I think that would be most enjoyable, thank you, Maddy.” He smiles. “And while we eat, I can tell you everything I think is lacking in the Louise Bourgeois book. I hav
e made notes.”
I can't help smiling back. There's comfort in knowing that some things are constant.
Mr Blake and I sit in the children's section — he looks quite sweet perched on a mini bean bag — and drink tea and he does tell me what's wrong with the Louise Bourgeois book.
“I’m sorry, Mr Blake. We can't offer a refund based on a subjective opinion,” I say.
Mr Blake shakes his head. “And this is all that's wrong with the world. Booksellers who can't offer refunds and…” he sneers, “…greedy 'land acquisition companies'.”
My heart stops. “What did you just say?”
“I said 'This is all that's wrong with the world–” Mr Blake begins, again.
I shake my head. “No. After that. ‘Land acquisition companies’. Why are they what's wrong with the world?”
“Because it's one of those who wants to bulldoze Sassafras House. Damian Dreyfuss and his bunch of cronies. They are the epitome of all that is evil on this planet, and — Maddy, what's wrong? Your face has gone very pale, indeed.”
I suddenly feel unsteady. It’s too bizarre to be true. Not only is Damian Dreyfuss Shelley's heart-breaker, he's the man behind the Sassafras House demolition? I shake my head. “Never mind,” I murmur.
“Yes, if it wasn't for people like that young Jacqui Grant, I'd be despairing of this world we live in,” Mr Blake continues.
Now, I really do feel as if I'll faint. “What do you mean?” I ask, in a shaky voice.
“Well, young Jacqueline is the one who started the action to stop the acquisition from going through. She’s the one who engaged the law firm to try and put a stop to it all. Didn't you know that?” Mr Blake says. “A top representative of your generation, that girl. But you really didn’t know?”
I don’t know how it’s possible — I researched Sassafras House. I know all about its history; its story.
But I didn’t know anything about the reality of the case. I didn’t take the time to learn that because, like finance, the ins-and-outs of legal proceedings don’t interest me.
