Not Meeting Mr Right (15 page)

'Hi Paul, you just caught me leaving school. How
are you?' It sounded a bit false, but it was okay for an
I'm-pretending-not-to-be-waiting-for-a-phone-call
response.

'Great, looking forward to tonight. Hope we're still
on. I've booked a table at the Harbourview for eight.
That okay?'

'Sounds fab,' I said, trying not to sound eager.
Interested
, but not too eager.

I gave him my address and hung up before I wet my
pants with excitement or said something too ridiculous.
I was like a three-year-old whose parents had just told
her the Wiggles were coming to dinner.

Paul said he'd pick me at seven-thirty, so I had
approximately seven hours to get ready. I headed
straight to the beautician to start the process of making
myself look irresistible.

***

'Okay, Kathy, do your magic. Brows, lip, chin, bikini,
in any order. I want a deluxe facial, too.' Kathy was my
trusted beautician who made an eyebrow wax feel like
a surgical procedure. I loved it. Her attention to detail
was matched by no other, and I always felt like I was on
the operating table as she checked and double-checked
that each brow was an exact replica of the other.

Eyebrows done, a quick line of hot wax across the
upper lip, and any remnants of hair were completely
gone. 'There's nothing on your chin, Alice,' Kathy said,
'Whaddya want me to do that for?'

'Because I can feel something there, a hard hair, just
one. If I can feel it, he'll be able to feel it as well. Pluck
it, wax it, nuke it if you have to, but get rid of the little
sucker or it will ruin my night.' I was a woman on a
mission.

'Who's the lucky guy then?'

'Oh, he's perfect, a friend of a friend, bought his
grandmother a dog this week ...' I told Kathy every
detail of the two two-minute conversations I'd had with
Paul. She could tell I was excited. Kathy knew what a
shortage of decent men there was in Sydney. She was
single too.

I shut my eyes and imagined the night ahead of
me – until she ripped the hair from my bikini line.

'Shit, Kathy, you trying to kill me or what?'

'Sorry, stubborn little buggers. You've got a couple
of ingrowns – I'm going to have to dig them out.'

She soon declared the job done. 'Anything else?
What about the legs?' She felt for any fur that might be
growing.

'You know my theory, Kathy. If I shave my legs
before I go on a date, it means I'm expecting to have
someone else's hands running up them.' I
was
supposed
to be sticking to the 'no sex until the third date' rule.

'Well don't you? I mean, what was the purpose of the
bikini wax if you weren't thinking along those lines?'

She was right of course, but I always liked to act as if
I were a bit saintly. I decided I should get my legs done
just in case, for whatever opportunities might present
themselves.

It hurt more than the lip, brows and bikini combined,
but I felt completely touchable at the end of it. I might
just have to ask him to touch my legs anyway, I thought,
just to get my money's worth.

Waxing done, the lights were dimmed as I donned
a terry-towelling strapless wrap and lay back for my
deluxe-state-of-the-art-top-of-the-range-only-Kathycan-
do facial. I immediately relaxed as Kathy's hands
massaged my décolletage, neck and face. Creams,
exfoliants, oils, steam, hot towels and gentle fingers
made their way over my face. I drifted away and imagined
Paul-the-Engineer doing the same honours once we
were a couple. Yes, that was another reason I wanted a
husband: face, neck and head massages upon request.
Mr I-Bought-My-Grandmother-a-Scottish-Terrier was
sure to be the sort of guy who would see this sort of
request as a privilege. I started to plan a lifelong program
of massages and caressing.

Before she finished, Kathy massaged my hands and
arms, and explained that she'd resisted squeezing the
odd blackhead for fear of causing unnecessary holes in
my face just before dinner. I looked and felt like a new
woman, and could have gone straight home to bed and
been happy. I had a better offer though – and it had
been a while since I'd been able to say that.

At three-thirty I had less than two hours to buy
something new to wear. Although my wardrobe
was bulging, it was essential that I wore something
specifically purchased to impress my date. Something
to mark the beginning of my new life, a life that included
Paul-the-Engineer, black dogs, lonely grandmothers
and endless massages.

I held my breath and thanked Biami as the first shop
I went into delivered the sexiest outfit I had worn in
years. A slinky blue satin slip dress falling just below
the knee. I was getting more and more excited.

'I have a date! With an engineer,' I proclaimed as I
handed over the cash to the salesgirl.

'He won't be able to keep his hands off you.' The shop
assistant was excited for me.

'That's the plan!'

Next I went three doors down Crown Street to my
stylist Denis (who preferred to be called Den Den),
pleading with him to do a quick wash and blow-dry,
promising he could do the whole bridal party for the
definitely-going-to-happen wedding. Den Den didn't
even charge me – he believed, like me, that Paul-the-
Engineer was the one. It seemed the whole world – the
universe – was on my side.

Home by six, I eased myself into a tepid bath instead
of a steamy shower, so as not to disturb my hair. I sat
with a glass of red in hand and tried to calm down. With
just over an hour to make myself gorgeous and prepare
to begin the first night of the rest of my life, I set myself
a new mantra:
I am beautiful, the world is beautiful,
I am surrounded by love, I will be loved, I am loved.

I looked at my watch impatiently, waiting for the buzzer
on my door to go off. The shot of schnapps I'd had after
the glass of red to calm my nerves had only made me
feel ill. I loved how the Austrians drank schnapps for
'medicinal purposes' – to warm the legs in the cold, to
settle the stomach after dinner, to cure almost anything.
No wonder I never needed an excuse to drink – it was
something I'd inherited from my father's family.

Finally, the door buzzer went. I took a deep breath,
mumbled
I am beautiful, I will be loved
, turned the
knob and gave a rehearsed smile. I need't have. I was
greeted by a warm, friendly face and a handsome – very
handsome – man (even from a lookist's perspective).
My nerves melted away.

'Hi.' Paul moved in and gave me a gentle peck on the
cheek. No awkwardness at all. I breathed a sigh of relief.
He was, it appeared at first glance, normal. 'Ready?'

'Yes, absolutely,' and before I knew it we were
downstairs in his car, driving towards the city.

'Peta tells me you're an engineer.' I wanted to know
all about him, while I discreetly checked out all the
gadgets on the dash of his sporty silver Peugeot coupé.
I loved his car. I loved that it had electronic windows
and a CD player and if you pushed the dash, two
drink holders popped out – they would be great for
those drives in the country we'd be taking. I loved that
we didn't have to take the train. I loved that I was a
passenger for the first time in a long time. Was I that
easily impressed?

'That's right, with the city council. First Blackfella
they've ever had as an engineer. Actually, I'm the only
Blackfella on indoor staff. You'd think a big city council
like ours would have heaps of Kooris on staff. I mean,
with so many living in Sydney.'

I was already falling in love, no doubt about it. From
the moment I'd opened the door and seen his Colgate ring-
of-confidence smile beaming back at me, I knew
it. Before I even got to the linen suit, and his oh-how-I-want-
to-crawl-all-over-you aftershave hit my nostrils,
I knew it. Now Mr Beyond-Right, Mr Perfect, had
something intelligent to say about the lack of Blackfellas
at the local council. He was my dream come true. Yes, I
would
be Mrs Paul-the-Engineer.
I would be Mrs Right!

Soon we'd parked the car and I found myself seated
across from him at the table, wine ordered, his jacket
off – biceps pushing through his crisp white shirt –
and I was completely hypnotized. I was in a dreamlike
state. It was Friday night, I was looking the sexiest I'd
ever looked, not a chin-hair in sight, and I was dining
with Paul-the-Engineer, the only Blackfella working as
indoor staff at Council, who drove his own car, could
order a bottle of wine,
and
smelled like heaven.

'Oysters – I love oysters, don't you?' Paul smiled,
raising one to his lips, the lips I was already dreaming
about kissing.

'Oh yes, I love the way they slide down my throat.'

'You have the last one', he offered.

'No, I'm right, it's all yours.' If I ate one more oyster
I'd rip his clothes off right there at the table. I didn't
need any more aphrodisiacs. It was better to be safe
than sorry, or horny for that matter.

It was destiny: Paul and I ordered the same meal,
salmon with olive teenage. It came with garlic
potatoes, which neither of us touched – clearly we were
both expecting a kiss at some point during the night. I
didn't even look at or really taste any of the food at all.
I felt full of the sight, smell, touch of Paul.

The night was perfect. He laughed at all my jokes,
told me stories about his youth and explained why he
loved his grandmother so much. Both his parents had
been killed in a car crash, and she had raised him. At
the end of the meal he insisted on paying the bill.

'Only if you let
me
buy
you
dinner sometime soon.'
I'd read in
Cleo
years before that one sure way to secure
a second date was to let him pay for the first one and
then offer to buy the next yourself. (Of course, if you
didn't want to see him again, best to go Dutch.) Even
men who aren't interested in a relationship will almost
always say yes to a free feed.

'You don't have to, but I'd love to have dinner with you
again,' he said. As
Cleo
had promised, it never failed.

We strolled around the Rocks, until Paul suggested
we have a cocktail at the Park Hyatt, overlooking
Circular Quay. My heart jumped. 'Park Hyatt sounds
perfect, great idea.' The Park Hyatt was where I'd
planned on spending my wedding night. How did he
know? It wasn't just a coincidence. There were so many
bars in the area, and he could have suggested any of
them. It was a sign for sure. (Or maybe it was because
it was the only
decent
bar close by.)

We sat and had a martini and just watched the
world go by on foot, ferry and water taxi. Every time I
looked at him, his smile made me weaker. I was either
very drunk or falling in love. Or maybe he had slipped
something in my drink? There'd been a lot of that going
on around Sydney, but he was Peta's friend and I had no
reason to mistrust him.

Paul couldn't be faulted. He was charming, sexy,
good-looking; not only employed, but had a career. He
knew who he was and didn't have to carry his Koori
family tree round with him. He didn't have a tat or
wear Koori beads to cement anything. It all seemed too
perfect. I was suspicious.

'So you finished your degree in ninety-five – what
were you doing before that?'

'Oh, just hanging around, as young lads do.'

He couldn't have been
that
young in ninety-five.
Counting back quickly, I calculated he must have been
around twenty-eight when he finished his degree.

'So, what is it that young lads do in their midtwenties?'
I couldn't help myself.

'Come on now, Aunty, what's with all the questions?'
Paul mocked me, and I felt like a right twit. Why was
I acting like some daggy old woman? He must've been
out sowing his wild seeds or whatever boys do in their
twenties, but, as Mum would say, 'That's what boys do.'
He wasn't being mysterious; there just wasn't any need
for me to ask so many questions on a first date – the
best first date of my life.

I excused myself and went to the ladies room,
surprised to find I was a little wobbly on my feet. I'd had
a bit to drink, but not half as much as I would've if I'd
been out with the girls. The martinis had gone straight
to my head. Or perhaps I was just love-drunk.

I liked using toilets in flash hotels with marble
vanities and fancy lights and mirrors; beats having
to queue up in a nightclub where going to the loo is
simply about necessity. The Park Hyatt toilets were the
kind you'd like to spend time in. I fixed my make-up,
checked my bra straps weren't showing, and made sure
there wasn't any lint on my dress or paper stuck to the
bottom of my shoe. I was looking so good I was turning
myself on.

As I made my way back across the restaurant to
our table, I wondered if Paul was going to kiss me or
not. He'd only touched me lightly as we crossed the
road and guided me out of the way of traffic. Maybe
he wasn't interested at all. Maybe he was gay. Maybe
he was just not that into me. Maybe I shouldn't have
bothered leaving the garlic potatoes on the side of my
plate.

'Paul, I thought maybe we could have a walk around
the Opera House – what do you think?' I asked, before
I even sat back down.

'I was just thinking the same thing. Ready now?'

He'd been thinking the same thing, oh my god, we
were so connected, so in tune. It was scary. He got up
and took my hand and my ridiculous theories were
instantly washed away. He
wasn't
gay, he
was
interested,
and he
was
into me.

His strong engineer's hand squeezed mine, and my
body went warm. Just hand-holding could have been
enough to satisfy me.

Strolling along the quay, we saw a mime artist, a didj
player, a clarinetist and a muso who sang just like Tracy
Chapman. We were impressed.

We walked around Bennelong Point, wondering
out loud what the corroborees were like there before
invasion, when all the local clans would gather for their
bush opera. The past and the present blended into one
as we shared a moment that only Kooris could.

At the front of the Opera House we stopped. I
leaned out over the rail that runs right around the edge
of the pavement and looked out over the water. Paul
stood behind me, arms around me. It was perfect. His
mouth went to my neck and I closed my eyes so that my
sense of touch was heightened. He gently caressed my
collarbone and shoulders with his lips.

I slowly turned around. He was taller than me; I
raised my eyes to meet his. They were smoky brown
and I just lost myself in them. Our lips touched, slightly
parted, and his tongue met mine. We kissed slowly,
standing pressed hard against each other. When we
eventually broke apart, I felt relaxed and comfortable,
waiting for a sign from him, waiting to find out what
would happen next.

He kissed my forehead, then the tip of my nose, and
pecked my lips once more before motioning me back
towards Circular Quay. We didn't speak, but walked
arms linked, me holding on tightly to his arm. His
bicep was massive! What do they say about men with
big biceps? Or was that feet? I didn't care.

We stopped for a last drink at the Aqua Bar. I decided
to have a lime and soda, so I could remember how good
the sex was in the morning. I could definitely break the
three-date rule: Paul was the one, Mr Right.

As I reached the bottom of my drink, he checked his
watch. 'I should get you back to Coogee and me back to
Rozelle soon, I've got a big day tomorrow. I'm building
a deck and the boys are coming round at eight.'

'Sorry?'

'I'm building a new deck. I've been wanting to do
it since I bought the house two years ago. Finally got
the plans approved last month.' He beamed, but I just
stood there, gobsmacked. I wanted to shout at him:
Build what deck? What about me? The night's over
because you want to build some bloody deck you haven't
mentioned all night?
I could hear Dillon chanting in my
head:
He's just not that into you, he's just not that into
you.
Why had Paul even started something back there
if he had no intention of finishing it?

I realised I was thinking like a bloke. I'd always said
how nice it would be to be able to have a passionate,
sensual kiss, or kisses, that didn't necessarily always have
to lead to sex. I should be grateful for the gentleman in
front of me.

I smiled at him and said, 'I've had a lovely evening,
Paul, the best in a long time. I hope you have good
weather for your work tomorrow.' We headed home, to
our separate beds.

***

At eight am the door buzzer went. The weather was
grey and overcast so I was still in bed. I knew who it
was. It was Peta and Liza, wanting to get the goss on
the Perfect Date. They both knew I wouldn't answer
the door if I had a bloke with me, so I let them sweat it
out, letting them at least
think
I was still in the throes
of passion. Peta put her finger on the buzzer, though,
and left it there for what seemed like ten minutes. I
scrambled out of bed before the neighbours could
lodge a complaint.

'I know what you were doing, Missy ... Can read you
like a trashy novel.'

'How did you know he wasn't here?'

Liza handed me a smoothie and pulled some
mangoes out of her bag. 'Thanks, love,' I said, and took
a long suck on the straw.

'He's been talking about his deck-building for the
last two months,' Peta said, 'and I'm going over there
later. Anyway, he's not that kinda guy, too much of a
gentleman.' It was true, and I grinned at her.

'So how was dinner?' Liza asked, mango dripping
from her chin. I'd always believed the only place to eat a
mango was in the bath: they were just so messy. Maybe
Perfect Paul and I could eat mangoes in the bath in the
happy future ahead.

'It was perfect. He was perfect. The food, the view,
the whole thing. Perfect!'

'Wow, that's a big call, Alice. Haven't heard you rave
about a date like that, ever!' Peta was proud that she'd
set up the perfect date.

'Yes, well, my friend, I think you may have done good
this time. Your friend Paul is simply perfect. I think he'd
be a great husband.'

'Don't get carried away, all right? You need to have
another date before you send out the invites and order
the flowers.' Peta didn't want the whole perfect set-up
to come crashing down just because I was being too ...
organised.

'She's right, Alice, just one step at a time, okay?
Maybe that's something we should have put on your
list of strategies for
not
meeting Mr Right.
Don't rush
things.
' Liza went to the list on the fridge and pencilled
it in.

I wasn't really listening to either of them, though.
I was just content to go get dressed and head off
Christmas shopping with my two friends, a spring in
my step: I would be Mrs Paul-the-Engineer's-Wife by
the time I was thirty.