Not Meeting Mr Right (21 page)

With my recent experience with the old historical
farts fresh in my mind, I couldn't even bring myself to
register for the national education conference that Peta
was going to. I couldn't bear a similar exchange lasting
three or four days. I moved straight onto Phase III:
checking out the classifieds.

I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea and the personal
pages and searched, highlighter poised to mark the first
advert that looked remotely like it had some potential.
After thirty minutes I found one that looked promising:

VO4936: Schoolteacher, n/s, loves reading, cooking,
movies, the beach, intelligent conversation. Seeking
similar in sassy single.

Seeing as he was a teacher and I was, after all, sassy, I
decided to give it a go. First I prepared my reply and
rehearsed it in my sexiest bourgeois-Black voice.

'Hi. I'm a sassy, non-smoking schoolteacher, and I
live at the beach all year round. I love literary fiction
and having meaningful conversation over a home-
cooked meal. And I really appreciate being cooked for.
I'm a Leo, so I can be a bit fiery. If you'd like to meet for
a drink or coffee, give me a call.'

Once I was ready, I dialled the number warily and
listened to his message. He sounded as sincere as a
stranger on a phone message could, articulate
and
enthusiastic, but I was put off responding when he
finished: 'Okay, speak soon, lots of love, Max.'

Lots of love?
Lots of love?
What the hell was that?
Generally speaking it's hard enough to get to the
L
word after six months of sex, dinners, shared baths
and family events. Paul had
never
managed to say it
at all
and had freaked out when I did. Now there was
someone saying it to the universe – in a voicemail
message – for
anyone
to receive. Nup, Max was definite
clingy stalker material and didn't know the true value
of the
L
word. I hung up without leaving a message.

I didn't throw in the towel, though, but kept trawling
column after column, searching until I found one that
just might be a goer: VO2869. I liked the number –
twenty-eight was my birth date; sixty-nine, well
obviously got to love that one. The ad read:

38, financially secure, GSOH, n/s, no children, animals or
baggage.

Well, the last bit was a lie – we've all got baggage – but
he got a brownie point for recognising that it existed!
It went on:

Love the sunrise and the sound of rain falling on a tin roof.

Okay, so he'd ripped that off from Norah Jones's 'Come
Away With Me' but that was fine, because I loved her
music and I gave him a brownie point for that too. I
dialled the number and listened to his chirpy message:
'Hi, this is Rod, thanks for calling. Leave a message, and
we'll talk.'

He sounded like a cool dude, so I left a few choice
words of my own and waited for a response. Within
an hour my mobile rang. He was either checking his
messages constantly – meaning he was
really
desperate
– or it was a fluke that he'd checked just then. Hoping
it was the latter, I answered my phone with the sultriest
voice possible.

During our short conversation, Rod sounded
pleasant enough. He was on the Gold Coast for a few
days, back in Sydney on the weekend. Sales rep for a
pool company and lived in Lane Cove. Was keen to
catch up when he got back. We agreed to meet in the
city somewhere, depending on time and weather.

'Why don't I call you when I get back and we can
meet on Saturday?'

'Sounds like a plan.' I wasn't even nervous or
embarrassed about the process of organising the date.
Let's face it, we were both in the same boat.

'Can you email me a photo of yourself in the
meantime, so I know who to look out for on Saturday?'
he asked. A fair request. I asked for the same back.

'Great, Alice. Well, I guess we'll speak soon.' Signed,
sealed and delivered – or at least it would be on
Saturday.

'Okay.' I felt a bit weird, but this new way of lining
up dates was proving to be manageable, and a lot easier
than going through friends.

That night his emailed photo arrived. He was
gorgeous: green eyes, sandy hair, warm smile. It was
taken on the water, but I couldn't work out where. I sent
back a photo of myself almost immediately. It had been
taken at Message Sticks, the Indigenous arts festival
held down at the Opera House, when we took students
on an excursion to see
Ten Canoes.
I looked fabulous.
Big smile. Luscious red lips. I was standing next to the
Message Sticks banner holding a small Aboriginal flag
Clair had stuck in my hand at the last minute. I didn't
intentionally want to send anything
Indigenised
, but it
was a great photo of me.

He didn't call the next day, or the next day, or the
next day. On Friday I sent him an email, just so I could
make other plans if he couldn't do Saturday now.

Hi Rod, hope you're well. Just wondering if you're still on
for coffee tomorrow? Or is there a problem? Alice

He responded a couple of hours later.

Hi Alice. Sorry, been really busy. Just wondering about your
photo. You look gorgeous, but what's with the flag? Rod

I knew it. He couldn't cope with the Black stuff. Should
I have sent a different photo? Would it really have made
a difference? Flag or not? I would still be the same
woman. I was furious and fired an email back.

Rod, if you're trying to ask whether I'm Aboriginal or not,
the answer is yes. Is that a problem? Alice

But already I knew it was, if not for him, then definitely
for me. I knew I wouldn't hear from him again and I
didn't.

***

I called Dillon and told him I'd made his favourite
chicken and olive dish, if he was in the area and wanted
to drop by. We both knew what that meant: I needed to
talk. We enjoyed our meal, then, as I washed the dishes
and he dried, I said, 'Dillon, I'm thinking of trying
internet dating.'

'Al, I think that's dangerous
and
it's a bit ...
desperate, isn't it? I know you want to get married and
have kids, but you know you can always get artificially
inseminated.'

'What? I'm not a cow, Dillon! I can get laid!'

My little brother went through my pantry for
something sweet and then left. So began Phase IV.

It was already late September and I was panicking. So
much for spring being in the air or spring romances
for that matter: it was pouring with rain outside, and
chilly, and I was sitting with a glass of gluhwein, staring
at Google on my laptop, looking for love in cyberspace.
Internet dating was all the rage, I told myself; Mickey
was on the net constantly, and in chat rooms. He
might've been looking for something slightly different
to me though, as he seemed to be dating someone new
every other day. I'd never done either: chatted online or
checked out any websites designed for singles. I couldn't
believe I was even contemplating it, but Mr VO2869
had really taken the wind out of my sails. I didn't want
to believe all men were racist jerks, so, if for no other
reason but to give me back my faith in humanity, I got
back on the job and logged on to find Mr Right.

There was no turning back once I'd registered
with Getadate.com.au, Australia's latest singles site. I
promised myself that once I hit that return button I
would remain seriously committed to finding myself
some internet lurv. So I pressed return, then spent
literally hours poring over the pages and pages of
profiles and pics of men from all walks of life, all over
Sydney, with different looks, different kinds of faces and
smiles, various political persuasions and wide-ranging
but definite tastes in women.

It disturbed me that many of the men indicated
in their profiles that they didn't have strong political
views and they didn't mind the political views of their
women. I wondered if the Palestinian guy with 'no firm
beliefs' would mind if a Jewish woman sent him an
email. I knew it was unlikely to happen, but something
similar could: what if the guy in the National Front got
a message from someone who
wasn't
'full-blood Anglo-
Australian'. I'd say most had pretty firm expectations
about race and political views, even if they weren't
aware of it, especially given my experience with Mr
Pool-Cleaner from Lane Cove.

While some men listed very little on their profile
and seemed to have only limited expectations in
meeting women, others were quite definite about what
they wanted their perfect woman to look like. 'Must be
petite, Caucasian, big-breasted, long-legged, naturally
blonde' and so on. I couldn't believe how shallow some
of the men were, many of whom wouldn't rank as pretty
boys themselves, even though it was obvious many of
the photos posted had been 'assisted' by technology.

I found a picture of a guy who looked pleasant
enough, but not too pretty. (Rule Number 1: Don't date
a guy who's prettier than me and then I won't have to
worry about every woman and half the men in the room
wanting him too.) I was no longer a lookist anyway,
after Charlie. I'd learnt my lesson.

My chosen internet guy said he liked reading and
the beach, was politically left of centre, didn't have
kids but wanted them eventually, and had no criteria
specifying what his ideal woman looked like or what her
nationality or political persuasion should be. Yep, he'd
do. I sent him a non-committal email just to say hello,
giving him a bit of basic information about myself:

I like reading historical novels, I literally live at the beach,
have done a wine appreciation course and am tertiary
educated. I am a champagne socialist with a sense of
social justice.

I invited him to email me back with some questions if he
was interested, then signed off with a carefully chosen
internet name: Koori Rose. I wanted to be up-front about
my identity right from the start. (He called himself the
White Knight – so was definitely not a Blackfella.)

A few weeks later, after numerous emails, we
planned to meet at Bronte Beach for breakfast on
Saturday morning.

I checked with Aria before leaving home and she
said I'd need to be very organised to get through the
day ahead, so I gave myself thirty minutes to make
the ten-minute trek from Coogee to Bronte. Finding
a park was a struggle – it was all revenue-generating
one-hour metered spots. Who the hell would want to
be at the beach for under an hour? Finally I found a
park a short distance away and hiked back down to the
beach-front cafes.

I grabbed a table at Swell, as agreed in our last email,
and took in the sights, surrounded by pretentious latte
drinkers, remembering how the area looked when I
was a kid at school: there had been a milk bar, and you
could only buy fish and chips and ice-cream cones.

I was early, but I wanted to be well seated and relaxed
when the White Knight finally arrived. I ordered a juice
and some water, then just sat and soaked up the view
and the atmosphere. Bronte was bordering on chaotic,
with the cars and kids and people walking dogs.

Time passed quickly; glancing at my left wrist, I
realised Mr White Knight was twenty-five minutes
late. More pissed off than disappointed, I called for the
bill, paid it and left.

I hated people wasting my time. It wasn't as though
I didn't have better things – or at least
other
things – to
do. The hassle with the parking was another frustration,
and I was pretty damned furious by the time I'd trudged
back up the hill to my car. Why had he stood me up?
The jerk had probably been watching from across the
road and hadn't liked what he'd seen. Fine, he didn't
know what he was missing out on.

'Prick, bastard, wanker, LOSER!' I got in my car and
drove to Bondi to meet Liza at her place. We'd planned
on conducting a post-mortem of the breakfast date
anyway, but she wasn't expecting me so early.

***

Liza was mid-sentence, trying again to persuade me
to meet her cousin Marco – 'Did I tell you he works
in international trade and is quite politically astute,
impressive eh?' – when my mobile rang. Saved! I looked
to the sky and mouthed 'Thank you, Biami.'

'Alice Aigner, ' I said.

'Where were
you
this morning?' It was the White
Knight, sounding angry.

'Where was
I
? Where the hell were
you
?' I was
angrier than he was ever going to be.

'I was fifteen minutes late.'

'No you weren't. I was there till nearly half-past-eight
and there was no sign of you. If you were just running
late, why didn't you call me and let me know?'

'I didn't have your number on me. Anyway, I asked
one of the staff if anyone had been waiting and she said
no.' He was insinuating that I was lying!

'Well, I was there at seven-fifty-five, reading a book
and enjoying the view. Perhaps I didn't look like a
desperate woman with nothing better to do than wait
for a loser to have breakfast with me.'

'Well do you want to organise to meet next week,
then – have another try?'

'I don't think so. I made enough effort this time
round. If you
really
wanted to meet me, you would've
been there. See ya!' I hung up.

'You are unbelievable!' Liza was disgusted. 'He was
just running late. He didn't stand you up.'

'Liza, Liza, Liza. Don't make excuses. I may not
have met my Mr Right, but I'm sure as hell not going
to tolerate someone being half an hour late for the
first
date. No way. I'm not waiting for anyone who can't be
bothered, or who isn't smart enough to ring me when
he's running late. Shit, Liza, he should've been there
half an hour early.' I was ruthless.

'Maybe my cousin Marco's not the fella for you then,
either. I mean, he's a great bloke, but works his arse off
and has been known to be late on occasion. In fact
maybe there is
no
fella for you at all, Alice.' Things were
a bit cool between us, and I soon left, determined to
prove Liza wrong.

An old mantra came to mind:
Try anything twice!
I went online and started scrolling through pics and
bios again. I scrolled right past the really good-looking
guys and stopped at a fella who wasn't Brad Pitt, but
wasn't off ensive either. He liked boating, good food and
wine, 'ladies who are ladies' (whatever that meant), and
had studied Swedish massage. I sent him an email and
we arranged to meet up the following weekend.

***

He had asked me to meet him in the car park of a
swanky Sydney yacht club. 'An RSL on the water' I'd
joked to him on the phone, but he hadn't laughed.

From the minute I saw him I had that sinking feeling.
Think
Titanic
× 1000. There was no chemistry between
us and the venue seemed to have had an atmosphere
bypass. All would have been forgiven, though, if the
restaurant attached to the club had actually been open.
I opted not to eat rather than order something fried
from the bistro. I was already feeling ill, and then he
started talking about how much money he had, his
weekends out on his yacht and how he could imagine
me as a yachtie's wife, G&T in hand, wind in the hair,
ocean in the background.

'Well, I like gin and tonic,' I said, making an effort to
be polite.

'Tick!' he responded.

'But I get seasick,' I lied, so I'd never have to go on
his boat.

'Cross!' What the hell?

I decided on a new tack: 'I watched
Amélie
on DVD
last night and loved it. Have you seen it?'

'Yes, tick!' Weirdo. I threw one more hook at him.

'I can't wait till winter comes round. It's my favourite
season.' I was lying: his profile had said he preferred the
warmer climate, and I wanted to see how he'd react.

'Cross!' That did it.

'What the fuck are you doing with your ticks and
crosses?'

'I'm giving you a tick for the things I like about you,
and a cross for the things I don't. I'd give you a cross for
saying "fuck". I like ladies who behave like ladies.'

'What?'

I thought you'd like the feedback.'

'Well, that's a cross from me, then.'

'Why?'

'I'm a teacher, I don't want ticks and crosses. Actually,
no-one really does on a date.'

'Isn't it a good way to work out if we want to see
each other again?'

'I'll help you out. I'm giving you one big cross!' With
that I got up and walked out.

On the way home, I received a text message:

I'm giving you a big tick anyway! Look forward to seeing
you again.

I didn't even waste the cost of an SMS to tell him what I
thought of him. A week later he texted me again:

Did I tell you I give really good full-body massages?

I couldn't ever consume enough G&Ts to make
that
happen. I blocked his number on my phone and swore
off men with boats.

My two internet dates so far had been disasters. I
decided not to try for three times lucky, so that was the
end of Phase IV.