Not Meeting Mr Right (19 page)

A week later Paul dumped me. It was exactly two
months, one week, three days and twelve hours since
we'd met. I was checking my emails at work and read:

I really enjoy being with you, Alice, but I need time to
think! Perhaps we could be friends.

What the fuck! Time? Think? Friends?

Luckily I had no more classes that day and I left
school straight away. I called him on the way home,
but he didn't pick up. I waited for the beep and left a
message: 'Is this how you treat your friends, Paul? Do
you fuck your friends, Paul? Do you take them to the
Hyatt, Paul?'

Why, when everything was going so well? When
we had just had the best Valentine's Day ever? And
Mr Perfect-Colgate-Smile-Peugeot-Driving-Smell-So-
Good-Build-His-Own-Deck didn't have the balls to tell
me face to face – or even over the phone! He'd used the
most impersonal means of communication currently
known to humanity.

What could've happened? Why did he need time
to think? And how much time did he need? What did
he need to think about? Did he need me to help him
think? What the hell was going on?

He wouldn't take my calls and he didn't return them.
He didn't return my text messages or my emails either.
He was completely incommunicado. I was helpless.
Distraught and helpless. Sad, lonely, confused and
PISSED OFF!

There were so many questions I needed answered
– preferably by Paul, but anyone would do.

I didn't want to go to Peta just yet – I thought he
might go to her first. I'd wait to see if she called me.
Instead I went to Dannie, the only one of us in a truly
long-term relationship. I knew she'd give me logical
and rational advice. At least I hoped so.

Dannie just said, 'Give him the time to think.'

'How much time?' Could I set a limit?

'I don't know. As much as it takes?'

'What? Don't be ridiculous.' Why had I come to
Dannie for advice? In all honesty, she'd tolerated more
as a wife than I ever would. George adored Dannie, and
would never cheat on or criticise her. But George ran
his own race, did his own thing. She did most of the
running around with the kids, picking them up and
dropping them off at sports and activities so he could
play golf most weekends. The only real 'Dannie time'
she got was when she was with us girls, and that wasn't
even monthly. On top of going to the golf club every
Tuesday night for a drink with the boys, George never
lifted a finger around the house. I was sorry I'd asked
Dannie for her opinion: clearly she needed to sort her
own relationship out before she could help anyone else
with theirs.

Next I called Liza, still not wanting to drag Peta in.
With a Cosmopolitan in hand at the Cushion Bar, Liza
said, 'Forget him. He was too effortlessly nice anyway.
That Colgate smile always worried me. How many
other women do you think he wooed with that dental
work?'

I'd thought the same thing a couple of times as well,
but I couldn't just forget him. I could still smell him all
over my sheets, and I didn't want to wash them until
the problem was solved and I had him back.

'I need another drink.' I slid off my stool and walked
purposefully over to the bar.

'Hi there!' It was Shirt Guy – so he
was
a Cushion
local. Once I'd have been thrilled by his efforts to strike
up a conversation, but I was so totally over men right
now that I didn't even care that this stranger was the
only straight male in my life, family excepted, speaking
to me.

'Whatever,' I said rudely. It was all I could manage. I
took our drinks back to the table.

Liza was curious. 'What did you say to that guy? Do
you know him? He looks shattered.'

'Shattered, schmattered. He's Cushion Bar furniture,
like us. I call him Shirt Guy. But tonight's about me, how
I
feel and what
I
need. I really don't care what anyone
else, least of all a
man
might feel.'

'I'll drink to that.' Liza raised her glass. We drank
Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan. If I were lucky, I'd
be able to puke Paul right out of my life at the end of
the night.

***

Five days passed before I called Peta to ask her advice.
I'd hoped that I'd hear from Paul before then. That
he'd have done his thinking and realised his future was
with me. My phone never rang. Clearly he was still
thinking.

So I called her. It was
her
fault anyway: she had
introduced us.

'Peta, it's Alice, I need to talk to you. Paul dumped
me by email, and I haven't got a clue why.'

'He
what
? I'll be right over.'

Within fifteen minutes she was on my couch and I
was telling her everything.

'I don't get it. It doesn't make sense. He went from
perfection to rejection overnight,' I sobbed.

'What do you think sparked the change in his
behaviour towards you, Al?' Peta was being kind,
rubbing my shoulder, passing me tissues. I just sobbed
harder, trying to talk, sniff up tears and sip wine at the
same time. I had manage to down almost a whole bottle
of verdelho in half an hour. Paul wasn't just responsible
for my broken heart, I was also becoming an alcoholic.

'He's a lowlife, scumbag, dirtbag, grandmother's boy,
yellow-bellied liar,' I ranted. 'Prick, arsehole, fuckwit ...
What else?'

'Jerk,' Peta added.

'Jerk?
Jerk
? You think so? Just
slightly
. I hope the
loser rots in hell.'

'No you don't, not really. I know you love him. That's
why it hurts so much.'

'Yeah, maybe I should just give him time to think.'
I was confused. I was emotionally all over the place. I
drained my glass.

'The messed up dirtbag managed to mess me up as
well.' I blew hard into a soggy tissue.

'That's what men do, Missy, they mess up their
women so they can have something in common –
fuckedness!'

I found the biggest glass I could – in fact, it may
have been a vase – and walked through my flat with the
longest G&T known to humankind, shaking my head
in disbelief, leaving a trail of snotty tissues behind, in
front and to the side of me. I couldn't believe I had that
many tears inside me; I'd never cried like that before.
And where the hell was all the snot coming from?

There was knock on the door; Peta answered it. It
was Liza, with a box of chocolates in her hand.

'Peta sent me a text,' she said as she handed me the
box, which I tore open immediately. I shoved several
pieces in my mouth and almost gagged – it was all I'd
eaten all day and not much more than I'd eaten since
the beginning of the week.

'Everything seemed all right. He never said anything,'
I started again.

'How was the sex?' Peta was straight to the point.

'There was plenty, and it was fantastic, obviously.'

'Obviously.' Both friends confirmed what I knew was
true. That's what good friends did. They didn't need to
ask any more.

'Then why did he send me a fucken email?' Somehow
I found myself sucking on a joint that Peta had rolled. I
didn't even smoke tobacco, but it filled my lungs easily,
without coughs or dramas. Great! I thought. I was a
closet yarndi-head as well.

'I reckon it was his mate, the one you said you saw
at the Coogee Bay Hotel that day', Liza said. I passed
her the joint, but she handed it straight on to Peta. Liza
was always uncomfortable on the rare occasions when
we smoked in her presence, but she had learned to deal
with it. 'I remember thinking there was something odd
about that, when you told me.'

'His mate, that's it. He didn't look like the kind of
fella Paul would hang out with. Something must've
happened at the pub, but what?'

'Oh Missy, he hasn't told you, has he? About his
past?' Peta sat with a bowl of corn chips resting in her
lap, looking suddenly guilty.

'Told me about
what
past? What the hell are you
talking about?' I was crying and laughing at the same
time, ripped and confused, but still desperate for
answers. I had the munchies, too, so I motioned to Liza
to go to the pantry.

'Grab the Tim Tams, water crackers and salsa. Oh,
and the Jaff as. Thanks'

'Our sweet Paul spent some time in prison not long
ago,' Peta said, beginning to laugh, and as Liza walked
back into the room, she fell completely off the lounge. I
wasn't quite sure I had heard her correctly.

'Did you say Paul had been in prison?' Liza was
suddenly more interested.

'That's right.' Peta climbed up off the floor, wiping
the tears from her eyes. She was totally smashed.

'You've got to be kidding. That's not even slightly
funny, Peta.'

Liza had said exactly what I was thinking. I was
suddenly nervous.

'I'm sorry, but it's true, sweetie. Back in the nineties
he was in Bathurst for a break and enter.' She was still
gasping for breath, tears running down her face from
laughing so hard.

'What break and enter, and what's so fucken funny?'
I wanted the end of the story. I was angry, and sick to
the stomach from eating an entire box of chocolates,
washed down with a vaseful of G&T.

'I'm sorry, Missy. It's funny because the idiot was
trying to break into this place, and when he went to
smash the security camera with a cricket bat he ended
up knocking himself out. Police found him spreadeagled
at the scene of the crime.' She doubled over
again. Liza had started laughing now too – she was
dribbling ice-cream, she was laughing so hard.

'What? What?' I was in total disbelief. 'So you're
telling me that not only is he a criminal, but he's a lousy
crim at that? Can't even manage to do a job without
knocking himself out? Fucken idiot!'

'It all makes sense, Alice,' said Liza. 'My bet is that he
knew he could never tell you that, and with you talking
about going overseas all the time, and him having
trouble getting a passport, not wanting any searches
done on him, my guess is he was really embarrassed
about it.' Lawerly Liza had solved the case.

'So he fucken should be! But why did he need to
steal? He makes heaps of money, why would he even
do it?'

'Yeah I know,' said Peta. 'He's a smart guy, always
has been, but a few years back he was heavy into the
oky-doke and needed more money than he had. He's
clean now, of course, or I'd never have set you up. He's
completely on the straight and narrow. I reckon that
fella he met at the Coogee Bay Hotel was probably from
the old crowd and it reminded him of what he was
capable of and probably spun him out a bit. Just leave
it, Missy, give him some time. He'll figure it out or he
won't, and if he doesn't, well his loss big-time, eh?'

It was good advice, but it didn't make the heartache
any easier. I sobbed myself to sleep that night and
every night for what seemed like months. I even had
to replace my pillows because they were ruined by
the waterfalls of sadness I had cried. My mantra had
become:
I will never love again
. It was only in a few
brief moments of breakthrough that I acknowledged
that at least I'd known the amazing feeling of being
in love for a little while, which was better than never
feeling it at all.

I took the break-up with Paul hard. Who wouldn't?
I'd thought he was perfect. I'd thought
we
were perfect.
I sat and listened to every sad love song CD in my
collection. I had plenty. I played them over and over
and over, drinking enough gin to pickle myself. Before
I'd go to sleep every night I'd have one last blast of U2's
'I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For' as I cried
into my gin.

I resisted telling Mum for nearly two months,
concerned I'd get a lecture about how I'd ruined
another relationship and I'd
have
to become a lesbian.
I was worried for nothing. Mum was just loving and
supportive – and by the time I told her she'd worked it
out for herself anyway.

'Just focus on the nice memories, Al,' she advised.
Although she was probably right, her words of wisdom
didn't really help the immediate heartache. I had so
many questions – about myself, about men, about
how someone could just shut off like that. I needed
reassurance that I wasn't to blame. I needed to speak
to Dillon.

***

I sat on my couch under the doona with a cup of
peppermint tea. I'm sure Dillon thought I hadn't left
my flat for weeks. I had, but just to go to work.

'What's wrong with me?' I sobbed into my tea.

'I don't know.' He was sincere, but it wasn't the
answer I was looking for, obviously. He had brought a
pizza with him – a first. My baby brother was growing
up and looking after his big sister. While there was
something loving and precious in that thought, it also
depressed me that I needed taking care of.

'What do you mean, you don't know?' He knew I
was fishing.

'There's
nothing
wrong with you. You just need to
find someone who's comfortable with the way you are.'

'No, I need to find someone who's comfortable
in
himself
, so he can be comfortable with me.' Dillon
tilted his head, as if to say, 'Fair call.'

'Why didn't he just tell me the truth, Dillon?'

'Men aren't good with the truth, Al.'

'What? So it's a whole gender of liars we're talking
about then, is it? I've got no chance. What chance have
women got?' There was desperation in my voice.

'It's just that we don't want confrontation. We don't
want to hurt women, not on purpose, anyway.'

'So he thought dumping me via email wasn't going
to hurt me? It wouldn't have hurt me if he'd just told me
the truth. It's not like he broke into
my
place. I would've
been disgusted, but not hurt.'

'Geez, Al, how embarrassed do you reckon he was.
Spread-eagled at the scene of his own crime. The bloke's
a complete fuckwit. He knew it, and he wasn't going to
be the one to point that fact out to you. You don't deal
with fuckwits very well.'