Magenta McPhee (4 page)

I was woken in the morning by my mobile phone. It was Polly sending me a text. She had a mobile she used only in the strictest of emergencies, as she didn't approve of them. It was a short message.

Bring photo of yr dad.

A photo! That was going to be difficult. I could hardly ask Mum, particularly not after last night. I told Mum I'd walk to school, rather than get a lift, and she told me that Trib might not be home tonight, either, and that after she picked me up from Polly's we could look through the wedding plans if I wanted. Great, I thought, more wedding plans. But I tried to look enthusiastic instead and waved her off.

Then I went photo hunting.

Mum didn't have any, of course. There were none in my room, either. I kept photos of Mum and me at her place and of Dad and me at Dad's place. I checked the storeroom. Buried underneath some old magazines was a big wedding album. I flipped through it. It's funny, but at weddings they only take photos of the bride by herself, never the groom. Also, you'd have been able to tell it was a wedding because Dad was in a suit with a funny bow tie. Plus, he was years and years younger. They wouldn't do at all.

Then I found a falling-apart photo album from a holiday we took – the last holiday together. Okay, Dad was still a fair bit younger than he looked now and Mum was in it, but they were separated by me and I thought I might just manage to cut Dad out of the photo. Maybe.

I peeled the photo off and put it carefully between pages in my planner and then had to almost-run the
whole way to school to make it before the bell went.

In the end we cut just Mum out and left me in because Polly said the photo with me looked as though Dad was a good family man. Also it was harder to cut me out because he had his arm on my shoulders (but not around Mum's, I couldn't help noticing). We scanned the photo and then loaded it onto Dad's profile.

‘I added a bit,' Polly said sheepishly. ‘I thought he didn't sound romantic enough.'

She'd added,
Well, that was my daughter speaking and I second her thoughts but decided I should add that I'm looking for that special someone. Someone I can walk on beaches with, cuddle up in front of fires with, look for falling stars with and tell my secrets to. I love camping out – being at one with nature. I love reading a good book, watching a good movie and listening to good music – but all that is empty without a special someone to talk things over with.

‘You should be a writer,' I said sarcastically.

‘Do you think so?' Polly asked. ‘I thought it was pretty good but I really want to do environmental science.'

‘I was joking. I think it sounds stupid and just like every other desperate person here.'

‘You're just jealous, Magenta McPhee!'

‘I'm not,' I said. ‘You're just a third-rate romance writer, Polly Davies.'

‘I am not!'

But we posted it up anyway, with the photo. Then Polly did a kind of spell thing. She called it a finding spell but she'd just made it up, I could tell. The incense she waved at the computer wasn't particularly convincing either.

‘That's so lame, Polly,' I said and would have said more but at that moment Jane came in.

‘What on earth's that smell? Not that gruesome incense again, Polly? It will taint my kitchen, darling. Hello, Magenta, lovely to see you! How are things?' Jane swept in, waving her arms at the wisps of incense smoke. ‘Do open a window, Polly. Staying for tea, Magenta? Had a cancellation, so we've got Moroccan packs – spicy lamb, tabouleh with preserved lemon, a wedge of Turkish bread served with an eggplant relish. Fifty serves beautifully packaged in the Green Box signature recycled-cardboard box, each with “Happy Ever After” written on them. I wrote fifty Happy Ever Afters in the early hours of this morning. It was an engagement party.'

‘What happened?' I had wondered why Jane looked a little bedraggled around her designer edges.

‘She had a text message from an old boyfriend. A text message! All my work. And I can't freeze it. Eggplant deteriorates. We just have to eat Moroccan packs until they're gone. Do stay for dinner, Magenta. Would your mother be free, do you think? And what about that boyfriend of hers, Tib?'

‘Trib,' I said. ‘No, he's in Sydney fixing a network, but Mum might be able to come? Do you want me to call her?'

‘Yes, please do. That would be, let's see, three packs for Marcus, two for the rest of us ... They're very small servings, just a light, slightly-more-than-finger-food, less than dinner, not-quite-lunch sort of thing to serve with drinks. That would be eleven gone already. Maybe four for Marcus, three for the rest of us. Gosh, that would only leave me with thirty-four. Then you could take home – say ten? I could give ten to dear Amanda and we'd only have to eat fourteen more! Just think, Polly, only three days of Moroccan nights.'

I love Jane. She always managed to turn a potential disaster into a good thing. Plus, she's the most cool-looking Mum. She has dead black hair with these bright red wings at the sides. They go with her spectacle rims and her lipstick. Her hair's as short as a boy's so she doesn't have to put it up in the kitchen, she says, but Polly says it's because she likes to show off her neck. Marcus has made her neck into a sculpture. It's one of
his not-quite-famous sculptures bought by a regional gallery. A very prominent regional gallery, Jane says. But Marcus just sniffs.

So we all ate Moroccan packs for dinner from little cardboard boxes. I saved one of my boxes. I liked the idea of having a Happy Ever After box. I wasn't sure what I could do with it, but I knew it would come in handy for something. And even if it didn't it was good to have something that believed in Happy Ever Afters.

Trib came home in the middle of the week and that put an end to chick-flick DVDs and takeaways. Mum went back to trying to be a domestic goddess and I decided to try to get Lady Rosa to the wedding. My readers wouldn't be all that interested in how Ricardo shaved, but they'd probably enjoy hearing about Lady Tamsin and Rosa's wedding clothes. Lady Tamsin would have to look spectacular so I dressed her in a golden gown covered in seed pearls. In contrast, Rosa wore a pale-green gown, the colour of new leaves. I was a bit stumped when it came to what they'd eat. I decided that roast sucking-pig sounded just the thing. I put an apple in its mouth for good measure. How you could eat anything that still had a face was beyond me. It was enough to turn me vegetarian. Polly agreed.

‘It's disgusting,' she said on the phone. ‘Pigs squeal when they're about to be slaughtered.'

‘How do you know?' My pig would have to have been killed in the castle grounds. Mind you, it would be kind of interesting if Rosa heard it and refused to eat it. But
then what would she get to eat? I wasn't sure that there were a lot of vegetables around in those days.

‘Cabbage, turnips, carrots,' Polly suggested ‘and she could always fill up with bread.'

In the end I let her have a lady-like shudder at the pig's head but Ricardo, always a gentleman, carves her a succulent slice.

‘You must eat, my Lady Rosa, your skin is as pale as starlight. Becoming, of course, but perhaps this piece of succulent pork will bring a slight blush of dawn to your face.'

Ricardo was the bee's knees as far as I was concerned!

‘Thank you, my Lord. Your compliments are as gratefully received as the food you heap on my plate.'

‘My compliments fade in comparison to their subject, Madame!' Lord Ricardo bowed low over the plate he proffered.

Really, it was hard to imagine how they were actually ever going to kiss, given that they had to talk in this extremely fancy way. I'd have to introduce Holly quickly. This wedding feast just ended up making me hungry.

Mum was preparing roast lamb and vegies in the kitchen. Her face was all sweaty because the oven
was on and she had streaks of flour over her black top despite the apron she wore.

‘Don't eat too much,' she warned, ‘dinner will be in an hour or so.'

‘An hour is ages away, Mum. I'm starving.' I wolfed down two more biscuits while her back was turned. ‘What kind of food do you think you'll have at the wedding?'

‘Well,' Mum said, giving me complete attention, ‘I wondered if Jane wouldn't cater for it, given that it will be very small. I did love the Moroccan Nights idea – though I'm not sure about making that a wedding theme, to be quite honest. I can't see myself wearing harem pants. They're so seventies. Then I wondered about a kind of picnic thing. Jane could put together little picnic baskets. But then why ask Jane to do that? I could put BYO picnic hamper on the invitation. We want to keep the cost down.'

‘You could have sucking pig,' I suggested, ‘with an apple in its mouth. A kind of medieval theme. We could wear costumes. Trib would look dashing in breeches.'

‘Tights,' Mum said, ‘the men wore tights.'

‘Oh no, I'll have to rewrite everything. I thought they wore breeches.'

‘Well no, darling, kirtles and hose. Don't you love the word kirtle?'

‘Oh dear,' I said, ‘I really do have to do some research, don't I?'

‘I expect you do. Anyway, I don't think a medieval theme is the way to go for us. We want something simple. Simple but elegant. Or simple but chic, even if it's slightly shabby chic.'

I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just nodded and scoffed another biscuit while she arranged things in the oven.

‘I need some action,' I told her when I had her attention again, ‘for the Chronicles. Things aren't happening fast enough. I'm going to introduce an apprentice witch but I'm not sure that will be enough.'

‘She could kill someone,' she suggested, ‘or try to. That's even better.'

‘I need some action,' I told Trib over dinner, ‘for the Chronicles?'

‘A car chase,' Trib suggested. He was catching up on reading the papers, even though I couldn't read at the table.

‘It's set in the Middle Ages,' I said, ‘so I don't think a car chase is exactly what I need.'

Mum spluttered, ‘It'd be action, though,' she said. ‘You could add some time travel – a Dr Who kind of thing. They could arrive in a blue Chevrolet, bang smack in the middle of the wedding. That would be action for you!'

‘Not the sort I'm looking for, thank you all the same.' I hated the way she sometimes took the Chronicles seriously and sometimes, especially when Trib was around, treated them as if they were a big joke. She must have caught my expression.

‘Lots of writers do that kind of time travel these days. Honestly, it can be interesting, Magenta.'

‘I'm writing a purer kind of fantasy,' I said in my best posh voice, ‘more traditional.'

‘Horse chase,' Trib said. ‘You know, knights on horseback chasing each other all over the countryside. Or a joust and the bad guy wins and there's revolution in the air.'

‘I think I should ask people more familiar with the genre,' I said and left the table as haughtily as I possibly could, given that I'd spilled a splotch of gravy on my white t-shirt.

‘I need some action,' I said to Polly. ‘It's not going well when you're bored writing it. How could a reader be interested?'

‘A rival for Rosa's affections,' Polly said, ‘that's what you need. Or crank up the unresolved sexual tension.'

‘The what?'

‘Unresolved sexual tension. It's what Marcus says fuels contemporary television drama.'

‘Yeah, but what is it?'

‘I think it's where two people want to kiss – and more – but never quite end up doing it. It's everywhere.'

‘I'm trying to do that,' I told her, ‘but it's hard when they have to talk in such big sentences. They never really get around to saying anything. It's frustrating.'

‘Well, can't you just have them cut to the chase? I mean they must have at some stage in the Middle Ages or the human race would have died out.'

‘There's reality, Polly, and then there's fictional reality,' I said, copying what our English teacher had told us. ‘I'm dealing with fiction and it's frustrating.'

‘Hey! Oh Magenta, turn on your computer. Check it out! Your dad's got mail!'

‘What?'

‘Someone's emailed him!'

‘Who? Who?' I was busy turning on the computer as I spoke.

‘She's forty-two, one son, interested in outdoor things and the environment blah blah – they all say that – is home-centred. What does that mean? But likes to eat out, listen to live music and see movies. Though she's equally at peace –
at peace,
that's a bit lame – eating takeaway and watching a DVD.'

I'd got up the site by this stage and found Dad's profile and sure enough, there was the email.

‘Her name's Spookyliana,' I said. ‘That's just weird, Polly. Why would anyone call themselves that?'

‘Search me. She looks pretty ordinary in the photo.'

It was true. She looked like an ordinary, middle-aged kind of woman. She was smiling so hard that her eyes were all crinkly at the corners. But at least she was smiling.

‘What should we do now?'

‘We'll have to email her back,' Polly said, ‘and chat. That's what people do. Look – she's even given him her email address. I don't think you're supposed to do that. That's great, Magenta. It means she must be keen.'

‘What will we talk about?'

‘Well, what do people talk about?' Polly said.

‘I don't know.' I was suddenly frozen. What did people talk about? Lady Rosa and Ricardo paid each other compliments. Mum and Trib talked about the wedding. Dad and I talked about school and he talked about current events. None of that seemed appropriate.

‘Jane and Marcus talk about finances, the weather, the garden and how clever Jeremy is. They don't talk about me at all. Or not when I can hear them.'

‘I don't think that's helpful,' I told her.

‘Yes it is,' Polly said. ‘Your dad could talk about you, the weather and the vegie garden. I think I've been extremely helpful. I don't think you're being very positive, Magenta.'

‘Sorry. Okay – I'll try. So ... Dear Spookyliana, it was
lovely to hear from you. You sound like a very interesting person and I think we may have some common interests. How old is your son? What is he interested in? My daughter's interested in fantasy, writing and shopping. She's bad at Maths but gets top marks at English. She's started high school. Every other week she spends at her mum's place.'

‘I don't think it should be quite so much about you,' Polly said.

‘But you said to. Talk about me.'

‘I didn't mean take up the whole email with you!'

‘Okay – what say I add something about the vegies?'

In the end we got something that sounded as though an adult had written it, pretty boring if you asked me, but Polly reckoned it was the kind of email Spooky would expect. Before we could change anything again, I pushed the Send button.

‘Hey, Magenta!' Mum called. ‘Richard's here – don't you want to say hello?'

‘Oh my God, Polly,' I whispered, ‘Ricardo's – I mean, Richard's here. I've got to go. I have to change. I've got gravy on my t-shirt.'

‘Break a leg,' Polly said ambiguously and hung up straightaway.

‘I'll be out in a sec,' I called out, noticing how my voice went all high and quavery. How girly. I was appalled. I quickly pulled on a clean black t-shirt to
counteract the voice effect. I pulled my hair out of its pigtail and swiped some gloss over my mouth. ‘Hi Richard,' I said into the mirror, lowering my voice and trying to look mysteriously at my own reflection through my eyelashes. It cricked my neck slightly and made me look oddly cross-eyed, but the voice was okay.

‘Magenta!' Mum came to the doorway, ‘hurry up. What are you doing?'

‘Nothing, just hanging up the phone.'

‘Well come on, he's just dropping some stuff off.'

I followed Mum into the lounge room. Richard was slouched down on one of the chairs, drinking a beer with Trib.

‘Hey, it's Magwheels. How are you, gorgeous?'

‘Hi, Richard.' My voice didn't sound husky and deep, but it didn't quite squeak. Gorgeous, he called me
gorgeous.
Thank God for the little black t-shirt!

‘Yeah, pretty good. And you?'

‘Same old. Still writing?'

‘Yeah.' I shrugged. ‘It's slow, you know. My latest theory is that fantasy is about a hundred times slower than other writing because people have to walk everywhere.'

‘Good thinking,' he said, ‘so why don't you introduce an air machine or something. Like an airship – you know, anime-style. That'd be groovy.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm a traditionalist. I don't want to muck with form.'

‘I said she should do a car chase,' Trib offered and the two
boys
guffawed for a while.

‘Sorry,' Richard said, finally noticing my exaggerated sighs and finger-tapping, ‘shouldn't tease the workers. Hey, I didn't forget you, Magenta, close your eyes, hold out your hand.'

I did as I was told. He dropped something smooth, cold and egg-shaped into my hand. It was heavy.

‘Open them.'

He'd given me a rock: an egg-shaped, egg-sized, smooth, orangey rock. It was like a dragon's egg. It grew warmer as I held it.

‘From the desert,' he said. ‘I saw it when the bus stopped and everyone thought I was crazy, but I knew you had to have it, Magenta.'

‘Thanks, Richard.'

‘I got you something else, too, just in case you thought a rock was a kind of cheap present. Here, hold out your wrist.' He fastened a little bracelet made of shells round my wrist.

‘Wow! Richard!' I gave him a clumsy one-arm hug. He smelt great. I closed my eyes for a millisecond, just breathing the smell of him in. Some kind of cologne, a bit of honest sweat and the smell of new sheets that have dried in the sun. Oh, Ricardo!

‘Hey, little cuz, it's okay. Glad you like them.'

‘I love them,' I said and my voice squeaked again. Damn! Should practise husky more often.

Then some current affairs program came on TV and he and Trib turned to it while Mum went into the kitchen to make herbal tea.

I sat on the couch as close to Richard as I could get without being obvious. I pretended to watch TV but I was really admiring my new bracelet while I held my rock egg. The egg he'd brought for me, back from the desert. The one he'd seen and thought of me, all those kilometres – nearly two states – away. He'd risked ridicule picking it up and keeping it. For me.

‘Well,' he said, when the program finished, ‘better go. Good to see you all again, bye Tammy, bye Trib, bye Magwheels.'

‘Come for dinner next time,' Mum said. ‘Come for a gourmet pizza takeaway or even a home-cooked roast lamb.'

We waved him off.

‘He's so thoughtful,' Mum said to Trib, ‘honestly he needn't have bought me anything.' Richard had given her some shell-shaped soaps in a little bag dyed sea-colours. I had my eye on the bag. I could use it for my mobile phone.

‘He's a big kid who likes to shop,' Trib said. ‘Plus he likes you. He's a good kid. My sis did one thing right.'

I slept that night with the egg-rock under my pillow. It was a bit lumpy, but I moved it until it was under the bit of the pillow I squash up. I wanted to keep it warm all night.

The next morning, before I'd even had breakfast, I emailed Polly about the egg and the bracelet and then I thought I'd better check Dad's Hotmail account in case Spooky had emailed him. I didn't think she would have. After all, you're supposed to move slowly into these things, but she was obviously the storming type. There wasn't just one email from her, there were two.