Not Meeting Mr Right (18 page)

We toasted the bride and groom as newlyweds and
Crusher wished them the best for their honeymoon to
Noumea. The thought of the honeymoon set me off
again. I nudged Paul.

'I've always wanted to go to Noumea. What about
it? You and me? We don't have to go with the others, if
that's what you're worried about.' He didn't answer.
Why he was reluctant to travel with me? Perhaps with
his mortgage and new deck, money might be tight – that
was understandable. The man wasn't a bottomless pit of
cash. I should've thought of that earlier.

'There's often good specials on, you know, second
person goes half-price. We could wait for the best deal,
doesn't have to be straight away or anything.' All I wanted
was a glimmer of interest at this point and I'd be happy.
But Paul just grabbed my hand, pecked my cheek and
told me I shouldn't talk through the speeches.

'I might have bad table manners, but at least I'm not
afraid to fly,' I sulked.

Up on stage, Ben said that Bianca looked so
beautiful he was glad he'd married her, and we all
ooohed and aaaahed. When he commented that the
bridesmaids looked stunning, though, I couldn't help
myself.

'Oh puuulleease. They look like sticks of fairy floss in
those dresses.' Liza agreed, but I looked at Paul to make
sure that he did too. To my sheer horror, I saw that he
had started in on the carafe wine. I'd clearly upset him.

Every speech was more appalling than the one
before, and the telegrams didn't bring a change of
pace. One after another made reference to Ben's own
'performing eel', with puns on scoring, tries and the
sin-bin. Crusher seemed to have found his calling in
life. We were all grateful when the wedding waltz was
finally called and Bianca and Ben took to the floor to
Shania Twain's 'From This Moment'.

The DJ took the microphone from Crusher: 'Okay
girls, if your man doesn't ask you to dance now, he
doesn't really love you.' Very subtle. Liza and I stared
straight ahead, not knowing where to look. Paul took
a firm grip of my hand, not saying a word, but led me
onto the dance floor, and Luke followed suit with Liza.
George and Dannie had beaten us there.

Paul was a brilliant dancer, but he was uncharacteristically
quiet. I tried to make eye contact, but his
eyes evaded mine. He just pulled me closer and said
we'd talk about it later.

'I wish they'd cut the cake so we can leave. I want
to get Luke out of that tux.' Liza was really into Luke,
and fair enough, I thought. I also wanted to get Paul
back to the hotel to talk – or at least make up – but I
really thought we should stay until Ben and Bianca had
headed off.

I couldn't wait to see the cake. I imagined it in the
shape of a football, or perhaps it was one of those huge
ones that a cheerleader might pop out of. Liza and I
were both pleased to see it wasn't blue and yellow, but
a standard white-iced fruitcake – although we would
have been happier with a mud cake. The cake was cut
and everyone took to the dance floor again for what
seemed like hours. Paul and I only danced to a select
few: things weren't right between us. I was angry with
myself for being pushy.

Then the floor was cleared by Crusher, who was
rounding up all the single women for the tossing of
the bouquet. 'Come on all you girlies, shake your twats
over this way!' He'd had way too much to drink, but noone
seemed to be saying anything about it.

Luke and Paul encouraged both Liza and I to be
in the running, but we knew there was nothing more
pathetic than women our age fighting over a bouquet
of flowers to see who was supposed to get married
next. 'Up you go, girls,' Dannie scoff ed. She saw the
humiliation as our payback for being mean. She was
spared the embarrassment because she was married.

Liza and Dannie both knew I planned to be the next,
but no bouquet was going to make it happen any faster,
especially in light of the mess I seemed to have gotten
myself into with Paul. Glaring at Dannie, I stayed put.
Paul asked 'Don't you want to get married?' It wasn't a
proposal, of course, but I wasn't sure if he meant
ever
,
or if he meant
next
, or
to him
, or what. I was more
confused than I'd been an hour before, and that was
something.

Then it was time to throw the garter. Crusher was
a little over-enthusiastic: he struggled to hold the
mike and have a chance at catching at the same time.
George attempted to take the floor, but Dannie swiftly
pulled him back into his seat as we laughed. Both Luke
and Paul joined in the rumble to catch the garter, but
neither was lucky; Liza and I were relieved.

We formed a guard of honour as Bianca and Ben
left for their honeymoon, but I could only think about
getting back to our hotel so I could talk to Paul. I wasn't
quite sure why, but I felt the need to apologise.
We were all well over the limit, so we got a cab. Paul
and I didn't speak or touch at all, sitting in the back
seat. I don't know if Liza and Luke could tell – they
were both comatose.

Back in our room, Perfect Paul hung his suit up
properly and then had a shower. By the time he came
to bed, I was two-thirds asleep. He gave me a peck on
the forehead.

'Good night, princess.'

***

Morning brought seediness and sunshine.

'Do we need to talk?' I said hopefully.

Paul just held me, gave me his Colgate smile, and
said 'Later', as he went to kiss my knees. Who was I
to argue? At ten-thirty our phone rang. Luke and Liza
were waiting in the foyer. Dannie and George had
already left to pick up the kids.

All was as it should be in the world of Perfect Paul
and Princess Alice as we cruised along the motorway
back to the eastern suburbs and civilisation. None of
us could wait to get to the coast, as the overcast day
was proving anything but cool. Liza and I talked again
about the prospect of the four of us taking a holiday to
the Pacific at some stage. We'd both been to Fiji and
had worn the islands out over there, so we tossed up
between the Cook Islands or Samoa.

Paul finally joined in the discussion. 'I don't have a
passport.'

'That's a cinch, only takes a couple of weeks to
organise. You should do it anyway, in case we want to
go somewhere on the spur of the moment.' Paul still
looked concerned, but things seemed to be okay again.
I'd just have to workshop his fear of flying.

We dropped Liza and Luke at Bondi and headed
back to my place, then on to Coogee Beach, where we
spent the afternoon, the sun streaming down and the
alcohol gradually seeping out of our pores. Just before
dark, Paul suggested a drink at the Coogee Bay. I was
surprised; he knew it wasn't one of my favourite hangs.
There were too many backpackers, and the number of
brawls there had been growing in recent months too,
but I wanted to please my man any way I could, so I
just said, 'Sure.' Getting to my feet, I started to brush
the sand from my legs.

***

''Ullo love, wanna drink?' The half-pissed Pommy
backpacker's accent got my back up straight away.

'No thanks. My boyfriend's getting me one.' Where
the hell was Paul? In fifteen minutes I'd been approached
four times. It was never that way when I was single, I
thought, and I set off through the beer garden looking
for him.

'Here she is.' Paul put his arm around my waist and
handed me a lukewarm drink.

'I thought you must be queuing to get served.'
Why had he left me standing like an idiot for fifteen
minutes?

'Oh no, I just bumped into an old mate of mine. This
is Cropper.' His tattooed and bearded mate didn't look
like a mate at all, more like a crony. Given a choice, I'd
have preferred the backpacker who'd just pinched my
arse to Cropper, but I was polite.

'Hi. So how do you know each other?' I always liked
to know someone's context; where they fit into other
people's worlds. Especially now that Paul's world was
mine as well.

'Just around,' Cropper mumbled evasively, and took
another sip of his schooner, looking away.

'Where around?' He didn't look at all like the type of
character Paul would normally hang out with.

'Your woman asks a lot of questions, Pumper.'

'Pumper? What the hell kind of name is that, Pauly?'
Paul pinched my waist slightly, laughing nervously.

Cropper stood up. 'I'll get us another beer, Paauully.
Would the little woman like something?'

'No thanks, I'm off.' I was pissed off, but I was trying
hard to be the understanding girlfriend, conscious of
the fact that I hadn't actually
been
a girlfriend for some
time. I kissed Paul quickly. 'Why don't you stay and
have a drink with your mate, and come up when you're
ready?'

***

At ten, Paul stumbled in my door absolutely rotten. I let
him sleep where he fell on the lounge, a bit disturbed
that my Perfect Paul had changed so much in the last
twenty-four hours. Then I reminded myself that he
looked after me when I'd had too much to drink. I
gently put a blanket over him and kissed his forehead
before going back to bed.

I'd been looking forward to Valentine's Day for weeks,
ignoring all the cynics who say it's nothing more than
a commercial scam to sell flowers, chocolates and
tasteless red underwear. I've always admitted that
I'm an ad exec's dream audience when scouting the
lingerie outlets in Double Bay arming myself with
the sexiest underwear I could buy. This year I made a
special trip. I bought a black chemise and dusky-pink
bra with matching French knickers (red is so tacky and
obvious for Valentine's Day). I didn't concern myself
with comfort, as they weren't meant to stay on too long
anyway.

At home I did a fashion parade for myself. I lit some
candles, pulled the shades and struck a few practice
poses to see which were the most flattering. There
were only three out of about fifteen that did any real
justice to my curves. These would be the ones I'd use
with Paul.

This year would be perfect. Not like last year, when
I'd had no-one to buy lingerie or pose for. Last year had
been awful. I'd been feeling depressed and unloved,
and took a rare sickie from work, not wanting to see
all the obscenely huge bunches of roses I'd imagined
being delivered to the staff room. ('Yeah, right,' Mickey
had snorted. 'For this lot?') Mum was having dinner at
the RSL with Dad, and asked me along, but I'd decided
to stay in with Norah Jones, a block of chocolate and
a bottle of Moët. By eight pm I'd been convinced the
whole Valentine's Day thing was a plot by happily
married marketing executives to make usually happy
single women feel bad, so that they'd go and spend lots
of money to make themselves feel better.

This year I had decided to treat myself. On February
13, I took myself to the Korean Bathhouse in Kings
Cross for some pampering. It was my first time there.
I spent three hours bathing, steaming in the sauna and
being scrubbed, massaged and shiatsu-ed. It took me
some time to get used to it, but once I had, I never
wanted this indulgence to end. I lay naked on a vinyl
massage table as a Korean lady scrubbed every inch of
my body with her tiny hands. From the tips of my toes
right to the backs of my ears, she didn't miss an inch,
or a millimetre for that matter. I had to strain not to
pull a face as she scissored my legs apart and scrubbed
between my thighs, lifted my breasts and scoured my
butt. My mother would definitely have regarded it as a
lesbian act, so I vowed never to tell her about it.

Later I sat in the ginseng bath and scanned the room,
hoping that no-one would notice I was checking them
out. I was relieved to find that I wasn't that different
to other women. I realised how hairless I was, though,
and also noted that many of the other women there had
incredibly small breasts. I actually began to feel quite
good about being a DD myself. I compared stretch
marks and cellulite and realised I was doing all right
for a woman my age. My self-esteem didn't rise, but it
didn't plummet either, so all in all I thought it was a
valuable pre-Valentine's gift to myself.

***

I woke on Valentine's Day to the sound of the surf
and started the day by pounding the pavement up
Arden Street towards South Coogee. The morning
sun kissed my cheeks and shoulders as I walked east
to the headland, down along the beachfront and up to
the Ladies' Baths. The air was full of the chatter of old
women excited about their early morning dip. I breathed
in the sea tang and filled my lungs with the peace I only
ever found when I was at home in Coogee. My mantra
was:
I am surrounded by love, and I am loved.

I turned back, walked past Barzura to see if there
was anyone in there I knew, then headed home,
wondering if there might be flowers from Paul waiting
for me. There weren't, but I wasn't worried – there was
plenty of time yet.

Sweat dripped down my spine as I took the steps
to my front door two at a time, stripping off the
minute it closed behind me. As I lathered myself in
the shower, aware of how clean my skin felt after the
scrub the night before, I heard the familiar beep of
my mobile and knew that a text message was coming
through. It was only seven-thirty, a little early for
messages. I hadn't dried myself completely when it
went off again. My heart jumped in anticipation, but
they were only messages from Dannie, hoping I'd
text her back, because she didn't think George would
get her anything. George was a bloke's bloke, but he
sometimes showed up with roses from fashionable
Oxford Street florists. Dannie was proud that her
man, although he rarely bought flowers, made sure
they never came from a bucket at the mixed-business
shop down the corner. Another message arrived, this
time from Mickey, just to tease me.

I replied to both and then sent a couple messages to
those I thought would appreciate the beep of their own
phones, including Paul. He sent one back:

Happy Valentine's Day, Princess

Then I heard the sound of the postie's bike, surprisingly
early, and squashed my face against the window. I
should have just opened it and saved myself the job of
cleaning the smudge afterwards. Peering desperately
down on Arden Street, I saw him flying down the other
side of the road, delivering post to the shops. I figured
by the time I got downstairs, he'd likely have already
done my block of flats.

He was still there when I arrived at my letterbox.
He'd brought me only my phone bill, my rates bill and
a real estate agent's flyer saying 'We have buyers in
your area.' Nothing from Paul. I looked at the bills and
commented to the postie, 'Bill, the only reliable man in
my life!' He laughed and said, 'Well he must be gay,
and
he's two-timing you, 'cos he's in my life as well.'

My feet were heavier going upstairs than they had
been coming down; it was time to go to school.

Driving to work it was obvious what day it was:
bouquets of flowers were travelling through crowds,
workmen covered in dust carried long-stemmed
roses for their wives, and schoolboys and girls hugged
stuff ed toys. It made me smile. Jewellery shops seemed
to be busier than usual, with couples shopping for
engagement rings. I looked at my own fingers. Soon
I'd
have an engagement ring. I was sure of it.

I blamed Mum for my obsession with Valentine's
Day. Ever since I could remember, she had always given
Dad something: a card, chocolates, a cake. I used to buy
gifts for Dad to give to my mother when I was in school.
I'd meet him at the gate, arm him with his romantic
weaponry and send him inside to his valentine. When
I left school, he suddenly started buying the roses
himself, stuff ed toys, a plant. Even cards. He never
wrote on them, though, just left them in the paper bag
from the newsagent. It was about the effort he'd made
to buy it. Mum knew that. In more recent years, he'd
started taking her to the RSL for dinner as well. That
was the joy of growing old with someone.

Mum always gave Arnie, Dillon and I a Valentine's
Day surprise as well. We all knew they came from
her, but there'd be a parcel on the table from a secret
admirer for each of us. It was really cute – until I was
twenty-one and she was still doing it. Then one year it
just stopped, but the damage was already done. I was
an addict.

This year I had Paul, so I didn't need to worry. Mum
and Dad didn't need to invite me to the RSL for dinner.
I didn't need to take a day off work or buy my own
flowers or champagne. It was all taken care of and I was
anxiety free.

***

At school many of the senior girls had boyfriends, so
there were red hearts, teddy bears and a few flowers
in the room. I thought I'd lighten the history lesson
up and see how much the girls actually knew about
Valentine's Day.

'I see some of you are into the international day of
love, and a few of you are even lucky enough to have
received gifts. Does anyone know how or where the
first Valentine's Day happened?' I turned to write
'Valentine's Day' on the board.

'Someone told me it's named after a woman named
Val and a guy nicknamed Tiny and they were so in love,
their village – probably in France somewhere, because
the French are the most romantic – declared a Val and
Tiny Day, which became Valentine's Day!' one student
sung out, only to be mocked and jeered by the other
girls. 'It's just a theory,' she responded.

'Well, you're not completely off base – there is some
French involved.' I looked around the room at the class.
They were interested, but no light bulbs were going
on above heads. I could see they'd need some help.
'Anyone want to have another guess?' One hand slowly
crept up.

'Yes, Clair?'

'I know there's a Saint Valentine – has it got
something to do with him?'

'Actually, yes. Valentine was a priest in Roman
times. He died on 14 February 269 AD, after being
jailed by the Emperor Claudius. The priest apparently
left a note to his jailer's daughter and signed it "from
your Valentine". Some say that Pope Gelasius set aside
the day Saint Valentine died, Februrary 14, as a day to
honour him, and called it Saint Valentine's day.' I was
writing the main points on the board.

'But where did the love and romance come into it,
Miss?'

'Good question, and yes, this is where the French
are involved. Charles, a Duke of Orleans, was taken
prisoner by the English, and from his cell in the Tower of
London he sent a love poem to his wife on 14 February
1416. And so it became known as the day for sending
romantic verse to the one you loved. Saint Valentine
then became the patron saint of lovers.' There was a
warm sigh throughout the classroom.

'There are other theories and stories behind where
the day came from and how it has evolved over the
centuries.' Some of the girls were looking out the
window; following their glance, I saw a massive bouquet
of roses travelling across the playground to the school's
administration office.

'Now, for the rest of this class, I want you to go to
the library and do some research, and for Friday's class
I want you to bring five hundred words on the history
of Valentine's Day. Be conscious of your sources and
don't rely too heavily on internet research. You can
use the media as well – I'm sure there'll be articles in
today's papers.'

The girls all got up quickly, grateful for a lighthearted
assignment. It was a change from the Cold War
or the rise of Nazism.

When the girls had gone to the library I headed
straight for the canteen, oddly hungry for midmorning.
I grabbed an apple and mineral water and went to my
office, where the huge bunch of roses we'd all seen in
the playground was waiting on my desk. They looked a
little out of place with the NAIDOC posters on the wall
and the Aboriginal flag draped on the door as a claim
of place. The pretty and the political didn't seem to
blend well, but there was no reason why they shouldn't.
Paul had gone to the trouble of organising roses. He
thought –
knew
– I was worth the effort. I read the card
out loud:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
No rubbish
I fancy you!

I wasn't quite sure about the verse, but I was thrilled
by the flowers. Paul clearly wasn't afraid to show his
affection or to spend money on me. How lucky was I?
It was the most beautiful bouquet of roses I'd ever seen
– and my twenty-ninth birthday was only six months
away, a great time to get engaged, I thought.

***

At eight o'clock that evening, Paul showed up with
an even bigger and more beautiful bunch of roses. It
was slightly over the top, given he'd already spent a
fortune.

'Wow, I'm spoiled, aren't I?' I was truly surprised.

'I wanted to send you something to school, but I
wasn't sure if you'd be there or not. Peta said you took
a sickie last year.'

'Very funny. I got the flowers and I loved the verse,
but stick to engineering rather than poetry.' I took the
roses from him and went into the kitchen to get a vase.

'What flowers?' He followed me into the kitchen.

'The flowers you sent me at school. I left them in
my office as a reminder to all that I'm hooked up.' Paul
laughed strangely as I filled two vases with water to
accommodate the masses of roses he'd just given me.
Why would he pretend he hadn't sent the flowers to
school? Trying not to over-analyse the situation, I just
played along with the game. Who was I to complain,
with dozens of roses around me? Paul
must
have sent
them. Unless it had been Simple Simon – but it couldn't
have been, he was too cheap. And if Mickey had done it
as a joke, he sure as hell would have let me know before
the end of the day, because he'd want the glory and
glamour for the gift. No, Mickey wouldn't have been
able to keep it a secret the entire day.

It had to be Paul: there was no-one else it could have
been.

He took me to a fine little Italian restaurant in
Paddington, where we had good food and gazed into
each other's eyes. I was happy. He seemed happy. We
had moved to the next level, that place where the
L
word just needed to be said. So I did: 'I'm in love with
you, Paul.'

Then silence.

'I don't know what to say.'

What kind of response was that?

'You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to
know.' I was being very grown-up. I knew he loved me.
No man did the things Paul did for me without being
in love. He just couldn't say it. That was cool. I could
wait. I thought it was odd, but I could wait. We finished
dinner, went home, made love and all was good.