Not Meeting Mr Right (22 page)

I gave the blind dating a miss for a while and instead
pinned my hopes on an email invitation to the upcoming
'Singles Uprising at Bondi Beach' that I found
in my inbox. It read:

You're invited to Sydney's Annual Singles Uprising at
Bondi Beach, but you will only be admitted if:

• You are single
  

• You bring another single person of the opposite sex
  

• You are smart, attractive and funny
  

Liza had clearly put me on the mailing list. It was good
to know she hadn't given up on me finding Mr Right
after our recent spat, but my immediate reaction was
to avoid the event at all costs. I considered the loads
of backpackers likely to be hanging around Bondi
Beach, lobster-red and full of booze. I could hang out at
Coogee any day and witness the same painful behaviour
from my balcony. Still, I was supposed to be open to
all
opportunities to meet heterosexual, single members of
the opposite sex, and that included attending events
I hadn't yet or wouldn't necessarily otherwise attend. I
met the criteria outlined in the invitation, so why not?
I decided to go to the uprising and drag Mickey with me
for moral support. Peta and Liza were still with their
fellas, and Mickey was really the only one buying into
my strategy 120 per cent at this stage. He was looking
for a new 'friend' anyway, after Tom. At least taking
each other along wouldn't cramp either of our styles,
just in case there was someone with potential there.

It was the hottest day Sydney had seen in fiftysix
years, and the humidity didn't help my attempt at
looking good when foundation just kept sliding off my
face. I struggled to see how I looked from behind, and
was thankful I had, because I was so hot and sweaty I
had a wet g-string mark on my white pants. I changed
into a lilac slip dress, wore no knickers at all, and
grabbed a hat as I ran out the door to meet Mickey
waiting downstairs.

'Doesn't get more desperate than this!' we said
simultaneously as we spied the two-metre-tall glittering
red
U
pegged into the ground near a blue shed at South
Bondi. The skateboard ramp looked more inviting to
me at that very moment than Sydney's Singles Uprising.
Mickey and I were both wary, so rather than lunging
right into the experience, we circled the designated
space three times, searching desperately for someone
within the singles precinct who didn't look totally
desperate. Someone who looked more like us, with a
take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

'They should have a fucken big
L
for loser there,
that'd be more apt,' Mickey said cynically, and I
agreed wholeheartedly. I wondered
why
the event
was 'invitation only' when it would
never
attract
gatecrashers anyway!

We were confident that we met all the criteria for
attending, but we were also just as confident that noone
else did. Our collective self-esteem was soaring at
this point.

As we slowed down to do a final circle of the space,
I felt Mickey's hand reach into my bag, searching
frantically for the bottle of bubbly and glasses we'd
packed in case we needed to make other people more
attractive and interesting. I let him dig it out, as I
looked around despairingly for the bright, adaptable
folk, the unattached thirties, forties and fifties who
were outgoing and socially capable, good for a laugh,
keen to meet others – keen to meet
us
! I looked for the
singles the invitation had promised we'd meet.

Mickey and I had no doubts at all that we looked as
interesting as the people we'd like to meet and, perhaps
slightly arrogant, we assumed that if we stood still,
people would just find themselves gathering around us.
Arrogant or not, we parked ourselves about five metres
from the main crowd of only twenty, cracked open
our bottle and toasted each other, proud of ourselves
for giving it a go. At least I'd able to tick off 'Singles
Uprising' from the strategy list on my fridge.

'God, there's some unattractive people around, Alice,'
Mickey complained. We
were
looking pretty gorgeous
compared to the rest, but then we hadn't had much to
drink. A couple of glasses of bubbly always managed to
make the least appealing person look like a fox.

***

By the time the bottle was drained of its last drop we
had met at least half-a-dozen of Sydney's singles, all
tired of being around couples apparently, and all sure
they had something to offer the opposite sex.

There was one guy who caught my eye, but he was
South African, and Peta and I had always agreed that
the Afrikaner accent made us think of the devil. I gave
him the benefit of the doubt until he made a comment
about Blacks being 'primitive', and how they should be
grateful for 'us civilising whites'. It was painfully clear
it was time to go. It was not the sun or the wine or the
other desperadoes I'd had enough of, but this jerk, who'd
made me realise that the only uprising happening was
his racist one, something I didn't want to be a part of.

Mickey and I went to the Clovelly Hotel and ate and
drank the rest of the day and night away.

As a last-ditch effort I decided to try for a holiday
romance, an expensive strategic move, but strategic
nonetheless. It was late October and Christmas was
fast approaching; memories of Paul were soon going
to choke me from within. I needed to meet someone
who'd at least get me through the festive season, if not
all the way to my thirtieth birthday and the altar.

I dug into my savings to take a trip to Aotearoa,
and the windy city, Wellington. While I was looking
forward to going to the Downstage Theatre to see the
latest offering from young playwright Briar Grace-
Smith, and visiting the national museum Te Papa, I was
more excited about the prospects of a holiday romance.
Mr Right needn't be right in my pocket in Sydney. He
could well be across the Tasman. Yes, a trans-Tasman
romance might be the thing for me.

I aimed to use the trip to brush up on my flirting
techniques. I re-read
How to Be a Sex Goddess
and
How
to Talk to Cute Guys
, finishing the last page of the latter
just before leaving for the airport. I flirted with the
assistant in the duty-free shop where I bought an iPod.

I batted my eyelashes more than once at the customs
officer, which just seemed to make him suspicious.
I was super-friendly to the guy at the service-desk in
the Qantas Club, because I knew there were definite
bonuses to dating an airline employee – all those
discounted trips I'd heard about. Smiling broadly, I felt
good as I made my way to Gate 23.

The flight wasn't full and I was grateful. I took my
window seat and sank into a relaxed mental space,
preparing for four days of rest and relaxation. As I
looked out the window at the rain falling lightly on the
wing, a handsome male sat down in the aisle seat. He was
wearing running shoes with jeans and a black roll-neck
jumper, Jerry Seinfeld style. An empty seat separated us;
my black winter coat and sky-blue scarf rested on it. We
exchanged smiles and 'hellos' and he ever-so-politely
asked the flight attendant to hang 'the lady's coat'. I
was impressed. He had a sexy, cultured voice and was
obviously older than me, pushing late forties probably,
and I made a note of his old-fashioned manners and
style, something lacking in many of the younger men in
Sydney these days. Many of them would sooner sit on a
woman's coat than ask someone to hang it.

We made small talk for the first hour of the flight.
He'd just spent forty-five days touring Australia. He
worked for himself, something to do with the music
industry, but he didn't give too much away – he was
very mysterious on that front. Although he told me he
was 'proudly Pakeha', he seemed to think he knew all
there was to know about being Maori.

'The haka is too commercialised these days. It's
lost its meaning and they should stop doing it at the
rugby,' he said, with the authority and arrogance only
a whiteman would dare assume when discussing the
culture of 'the other'.

'Hell, that's the only part of the rugby I even watch.'
His
views on the haka meant as much to me as a man's
opinion of women's business, but I thought I might as
well talk to him as practice for the weekend ahead.

We ate our meal and continued to chat and I asked
him what the highlight of his journey to Oz was. I had
already clued him in on my 'ethnic extraction' and with
that in mind he began: 'Well, this is probably going to
upset you ...'

It always fascinated me when someone opened their
dialogue with a comment like that and then proceeded,
as they had predicted, to upset me! If they already knew
what the consequences of their actions would be, why
did they carry on?

He continued, 'The highlight of my trip was climbing
Ayers Rock.' Of course it was. It would have been
impossible for this man who knew
all
about Maoris not
to know
all
about Aboriginal people too.

'Well, I guess that's the end of our conversation then,
isn't it? I don't want to begin my relaxing trip away with
conflict.'

He didn't take the hint, clearly feeling the need to
justify himself, to make sure I understood why he had
done it. 'I respect the religious views of others, I just
don't think they should be rammed down my throat.
I respect the wishes of the Aboriginal people, but they
should respect mine too.' He had wished to climb 'the
rock'. It had been a 'spiritual experience' for him. What
he got personally from the climb was worth denying
those who cherished Uluru the respect they deserved.

'Do you think you could climb St Mary's Cathedral
in Sydney? Do you think you'd get anywhere near
the top of the Vatican? They're a couple of "spiritual
experiences" worth climbing for, don't you think? Or
do you
really
respect the Catholic faith?'

I was over it. I couldn't be bothered re-educating
this man at 20,000 feet in the air. I put the headphones
on and pretended to watch the movie, an action film
with Will Smith I had no interest in whatsoever.

As we made our descent, the flight attendant came to
collect the headphones. I tried not to make eye contact
with Mr Pakeha, aiming to get off the plane without
any further communication at all.

'How was the film?' he asked.

'I wasn't watching it.' He finally understood that I
didn't want to speak to him.

***

At the end of day one I sat in the restaurant of my hotel,
waiting patiently and quietly to be noticed.

'Sit in the woods and wait for the timid deer to
come eat from your hands, Alice. Be patient and quiet.'
These were the final words my father had spoken as
he dropped me at the airport that morning. Mum had
obviously had a word with him. But 'patient' and 'quiet'
had never been adjectives used to describe me.

It had already been fifteen minutes, how long would
it take anyway? While sitting and waiting I became
increasingly conscious of my posture, of the way I
was drinking my wine, of whether or not my arse was
hanging out the back of the chair. It
felt
as though it was
practically touching the ground. I checked discreetly:
of course it wasn't. I'd drunk too much.

With my man-antennae up, it was only seconds
before I registered a guy enter the bar attached to the
restaurant. I'd seen him earlier at the pool, wearing
budgie-smugglers, while I was people-watching from
the spa. I liked the elegant dive he did into the pool and
the fact he effortlessly swam lap after lap. He was still
going long after I'd gone all pruney and decided to head
back to my room.

I was under pressure to order as the waiter
approached me for the third time. I was starving, but
couldn't make up my mind: should I order a delicate,
ladylike salad or the side of beef I really felt like? What if
Mr Budgie-Smuggler came into the restaurant and saw
me eating half a cow? 'How ridiculous, Alice,' I chastised
myself. 'Women should eat whatever they want, not be
concerned about what men think of their eating habits.'
I'd told my girls at school the same thing in the past, and
I'd meant it. Now I settled for a caesar salad with Cajun
chicken, knowing I could always order some room
service later on and scoff myself stupid in privacy.

Mr Budgie-Smuggler did in fact head into the
restaurant and straight for my table. 'Hi, would you
mind if I joined you? The restaurant is full and I don't
really want to travel far from the hotel – a bit tired from
swimming today. Didn't I see you near the pool in a red
swimsuit?' I didn't answer immediately. I was dry in the
mouth, but my palms were sweaty. Was he interested
in me? I didn't want to get carried away. The restaurant
was full, and he had to sit somewhere. But he'd said he
remembered seeing me at the pool, was that a clue?

'Sure, happy for you to join me.' What seemed like
ages had passed, but he finally sat.

His name was Jack. He was a philanthropist from
Sydney, living in Bronte (a pleasant coastal walk from
my place in Coogee), and was in NZ to help set up a
philanthropic foundation of some sort. He had a full
head of grey hair and hazel eyes. I gave him my brief
biography and he seemed to hang on every word I said.

Jack was older than me, possibly mid-fifties, ex-wife,
three grown-up kids, and travelled the world doing
philanthropic deeds like Bruce Wayne. By the end of
dinner and two bottles of wine, I didn't know who was
putty in whose hands. Jack offered to pay for dinner, and
I accepted graciously (and thankfully, as he had ordered
the most expensive wine on the menu, the sort of stuff
teachers rarely if ever got to drink). As we headed to
the lift, I had already gone through my criteria in my
head and Mr Budgie-Smuggler had a pretty good strike
rate. Lots of ticks, as Mr Yachtie would have said.

In the lift Jack yawned and stretched. 'I might head
to the spa, always helps me sleep better,' he said casually.
Was I supposed to take this as a hint and meet him
there? I had no idea, until he added, 'What about you?
Do you need something to help you sleep better?'

'Sometimes. I might join you,' I said nonchalantly as
I stepped out of the lift. I waited for the doors to close,
then ran to my room, desperate to get to the spa before
he did so I could position myself to my best advantage.
I slipped into my still damp and cold cozies, checked
that everything was tucked in where it should be and
I had enough cleavage. I threw a dress over the top,
pulled my hair up, grabbed a towel and did a fast walk
to the lift in as ladylike a fashion as possible.

He wasn't there when I arrived and I rushed to get
into the water and start the bubbles. The water was hot,
and so was I, because of all the alcohol. I sat with my
back to a jet and shut my eyes, remembering Peta's old
saying: 'Low speed is good, medium speed is better,
high speed ... who needs a man?'

'Looks like you're having a great time already.'

Jack had arrived.

'You were smiling.'

'Oh yes, just remembering a story a friend told me.'

'Want to share it?'

'Ah, no. It's not really for public consumption.' He
eased into the water at a comfortable distance from
me. He looked even better in his tight swimmers at
close range, and I wondered why a man with so much
'plumbing' didn't wear something more concealing. I'd
answered my own question almost before I'd finished
asking it.

We sat in the spa silent for some minutes before
I felt his foot on mine, and at first I shied away. St
Christina's had clearly had an influence on me. Within
seconds, though, I slid my foot on top of his, and then
suddenly felt his hands all over me. I was straddling
him, the straps coming off my shoulders, his tongue
in my mouth, on my neck, on my breasts. I could feel
him hard against me and wondered where the hell I
was going to put that plumbing. I'd forgotten about my
'No one-night stands or sex on the first date' rules. Sex
on holidays didn't really count. Not when no-one else
would ever know about it – unless we ended up getting
married, which was always possible, wasn't it?

Putting on a condom in the spa seemed a bit tricky,
so we headed upstairs before we reached the point of
no return.

We were barely dry, and laughing like two kids
about to shag in their parents' car, when we stepped
out of the lift on his floor, the penthouse suite. I felt
like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
, but I refused to
think of myself as cheap. I simply hadn't had sex since
Perfect Paul almost eight months ago, and I wanted
to feel desirable again. Jack seemed like a decent
guy, apparently not concerned about the obvious age
difference, lived in the next suburb back home. In fact,
he appeared to be quite perfect for a holiday romance –
one that even had the potential to grow into something
more permanent once on home turf again. I was trying
to give myself 'permission' to do the deed. I needed to
have that one night, as Peta had said, before planning a
million of them. I was still thinking this as he led me to
the shower, big enough to hold twelve people. We got
each other into a lather, which helped dilute the unsex
reek of chlorine.

We spent plenty of time in the shower, an added
bonus (Sydney had had water restrictions in place for
the past few years, and I was always conscious of how
much water I used when showering back home). We
were both wrinkly when we stumbled dripping wet into
the bed.

Jack flipped me around like some soft porn star –
and to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I had no idea people
his age had sex like that. I drifted off to sleep only to be
woken at irregular intervals during the night for encore
performances.

***

'So, what a night!' Jack put my thoughts into words
as we sat eating breakfast in his suite. I just nodded
and smiled. I was too physically exhausted to speak. I
couldn't remember ever feeling that way.

'I fly to Auckland this afternoon and then to Sydney
at the end of the week. Do you want to catch up on the
weekend?' Was I hearing things? Was Jack really that
charming, organised and capable, a star in bed
and
asking me out for another date?

'That'd be great.' Sitting there looking like crap with
nothing but a sheet around me, I suddenly realised
that in the rush of getting from the spa to his room, I'd
left my dress in the pool area. It was only seven am: I
could still make it back to my room without attracting
attention. Jack offered to fetch my dress and was back
in less than five minutes.

***

The day passed slowly and I savored every minute,
walking around the micro-city of Wellington, browsing
in clothes shops, spending money in second-hand
bookstores, stopping for a coffee or something to nibble
when the urge took me. I was content and glowing. I
went back to the hotel at three pm to say goodbye to
Jack, but he'd already left. There was a message waiting
under my door: