Not Meeting Mr Right (23 page)

You're an exciting woman, I'm glad we met!
Wish we were flying back together. Jack

He wished we were travelling home together! He was
definitely better than Mr I-Know-Everything-About-
Maoris. I'd given him my card, he'd call for sure. He was
a philanthropist – of course he'd call. He had integrity,
and ethics, and morals
and
a huge dick. He'd
have
to
call. Too tired to analyse anything further right then, I
lay down to have a nap, and didn't wake until the next
morning.

Two days later, having done the Te Papa museum
and library and all the other sights the Windy City had
to offer, I headed to the airport. On board the plane I
was excited about heading home and seeing Jack again.
That one night had been like having just a single Tim
Tam out of the packet. I just couldn't stop at one.

'You are now free to move about the cabin ...'

I was ready for a stretch. There wasn't anyone sitting
next to me, so I made an easy escape to the toilet. The
flight attendants were preparing a snack behind the
curtain as I went to enter the vacant cubicle.

'Did you hear about that man flying from Auckland
to Sydney yesterday? Spent the whole flight chatting up
Robyn Tyson – you know her, don't you?' I had to stop
and listen; a girl couldn't pass up the opportunity for a
good bit of gossip.

'Yeah, I heard the story this morning, about some
old fart – philanthropist, he said.'

'Isn't that someone who collects stamps?' another
attendant butted in. No wonder they called them trolley
dollies!

'No it's someone who works in charity, has lots of
money and donates it all over the place. Anyway, that's
not the story – thing is, he asked Robyn about the Mile
High Club.'

'What?'

'Yeah, asked if she was interested in joining it with
him. He had to be in his late fifties.'

'Robyn's only twenty-five!'

'Yeah, I know, that's what she said. He didn't care.
Just kept hassling her. Must have been one horny old
bloke. Wanting to spread his money and
seed
all over
the place.'

'You're sick.'

But I was the one feeling sick. It had to be Jack, but I
needed to know for sure. It wasn't as though I could ask
them, so I just waited, busting for the toilet now, but
hoping some more information was forthcoming.

The dippy one finally asked, 'So, did we get his name
so we know who to look out for?'

'We just called him Jack-the-lad, but Robyn gave
him such a serve I don't think he'll bother anyone again.
She was only worried she might spot him at the beach
– said he lives in Bronte and she's only at Bondi.' My
stomach nearly gave way and I violently pushed my way
into the toilet. I'd never thrown up on a plane before but
I had that watery-mouthed feeling happening and sure
enough,
pfffwooaarrr
. I'd have to say leaning over an
airline toilet, breathing in that antiseptic smell, was one
of the most unpleasant experiences I'd ever had. Then
I sat, peed, and got myself together. I splashed my face
with cold water before stumbling out and dribbling my
way back up the aisle. I'd been gone a while: afternoon
tea had already been served and cleared.

Staring out the window, I wondered how I could be
such a poor judge of character. I soon stopped beating
myself up, though, and started to smile. The sex had
been GREAT; vomiting on a plane had been worth it.
I just wished I hadn't heard the story, so I'd never have
known. The old fart had probably done 'it' up there a
dozen times. Hell, I probably would've done it with him
myself if it were on offer.

***

I grabbed some duty-free gin on my way towards
customs, figuring I was going to need it to get through
the next few weeks of self-deprecation and the number
of times I was going to have to tell the story to the
girls. I didn't even bother to check which customs desk
had the cutest guy, I was over meeting Mr Right. My
only concern at this point was not getting caught for
the gorgeous new bag I'd picked up from a local Maori
weaver. I planned to say that I didn't know it was natural
fibres, I thought it was plastic. I hoped that would
work. I pulled the front of my top down slightly just in
case the dumb-brunette act didn't work, and I had to
use cleavage to get through. Desperate times called for
desperate measures.

I got my passport checked and was directed to the
baggage carousel without question, but I panicked at
the sight of a sniffer dog. I was convinced he was going
to smell out the bag – that's what they're trained for. I
saw my suitcase on the carousel but I didn't pick it up
– I'd wait until the dog and his master had passed me.
Then the master, the customs officer, threw me a huge
smile. Shit! He knew. I was a goner and there'd be a huge
fine. I started talking to myself. Act dumb, act sexy, and
be sure and act cool. Calm down and don't panic!

The dog and the customs officer were heading right
for me and my suitcase was going round again. There
was nothing in my hand luggage, but the dog stopped
and sniff ed and sniff ed and sniff ed. Shit! Could he smell
my desperation to meet Mr Right? Or, just maybe, the
customs officer was looking for a woman. He was in the
perfect job: plenty of opportunities to frisk women, pat
them down, get them in compromising positions. Just
maybe, this poor cute beagle was being used to help its
master meet
his
Ms Right.

Well bugger that. I wasn't going to be part of
someone else's sleazy ploy or underhanded attempt at
meeting a woman. Just let him threaten to take me in
for a strip search. I'd expose him in front of everyone
here at the carousel!

I stopped myself suddenly: I was totally irrational,
tired and stupid. The dog and his master had moved
well and truly on. They were now two carousels along
and neither of them were looking back in my direction.
I grabbed my case as it swung by, and headed out.

***

Back at school, Mickey was weirdly interested in all that
Mr Budgie-Smuggler and I had got up to. I would've
thought that images of hetero sex would have made him
ill, but apparently not. Mickey was convinced Mr Dick-
Sticker ('dick-stickers' was Mickey's name for Speedos)
would call, if for no other reason than another shag.

'Great, thanks! That's what a girl wants to hear!'

'Well, if he comes back for more, it means he enjoyed
it,' was Mickey's rationale.

'Oh he enjoyed it all right, but it didn't stop him
looking for more of it on his flight home. He won't
call – he's an arsehole. They all are.'

Mickey gave me a hug. It was the first time I'd been
held with any real affection by a man in months. It
meant a lot to me.

***

'Alice, it's Jack – Jack the philanthropist—'

I cut in immediately. 'Don't you mean
philanderer
,
Jack-the-lad? Visited the Mile High Club lately?'

He laughed, thinking I was just kidding around.

'I hear you're barred from trans-Tasman Qantas
flights, something about being a pedophile ...' That was
below the belt, I knew, but seriously, twenty-five was
just a little too young for him.

'She was old enough,' he said defensively, openly
admitting he had tried something.

'Not old enough for you, you old geezer!'

'So I guess dinner and a spa is out of the question,
then?'

'Have you got thick skin, or are you just thick?' I was
quicker than usual, and gave myself the big thumbs up
for that response, but it elicited nothing from Jack.

'Right, well, I'm putting the phone down now mate,
and it's the
only
thing that'll be
going down
between me
and you!' I hung up – and so ended my final attempt at
meeting Mr Right.

I'd reached the end of my list of strategies and failed
in every effort I'd made to find a man. I didn't feel deadly
or desirable, loved or lovable – just over it. It was time
to go back to the SWOT analysis and remind myself of
Peta's arguments against married life. If I was going to
be single forever, I might as well enjoy it.

On Melbourne Cup Day, the sun rose over Wedding
Cake Island, the waves crashed on the shore of Coogee
Beach, joggers made their way up and down Arden
Street, and life continued as it had for the past months,
years, decades. Nothing had changed. I was still single,
even though I'd spent the past year dragging myself
through disastrous dates.

I was all dated, researched and strategied out. Men
were now merely objects to be observed, researched
and reviewed; specimens to be dissected and studied,
analysed and taken apart bit by bit in an effort to
understand them. All I wanted to know was why they
made it so damned hard to like them, love them, be
with them or marry them – why it was so hard to find
one worthy to be called Mr Right.

Liza had invited Peta and I to a Melbourne Cup
luncheon at the Park Hyatt. She had finally let go of
Luke – not organised enough for her – and she'd been
dating a sales rep for Moët & Chandon, who smuggled
us in. Peta had rung in sick, and my history students
were all away on retreat, so I wouldn't be missed at
school. Even Liza was playing hooky, a rare thing for
our legal eagle to do.

Sitting with Peta, looking around at the crowd, I
thought I'd try to summarise my findings for her. 'You
know what I reckon?' I said as I adjusted my fascinator.

'What d'ya reckon, Missy?' Peta fidgeted with her
hands. I could see she was desperate for a cigarette.

'I reckon that the really nice men are dingo ugly, the
hot men are not that nice, and the hot and nice men
99.9 per cent of the time are gay. The hot, nice and
straight men are mostly married; the men who aren't
that hot, but are nice, have no financial security; while
the men who aren't so hot, but are nice, with financial
security, think I am only after
their
security—' I took a
breath and Peta jumped in.

'And the hot men without security are after
your
security, right?'

'That's right, but I wasn't finished ... The hot men
who are not so nice and are straight don't think I'm
beautiful enough, and the men who think I'm beautiful,
who are straight, and nice enough, usually have financial
security but are cowards.'

'Missy, you're fucken depressing me.' Peta didn't
want to hear any more.

I kept going anyway. 'Aaaaand the men who are
the slightest bit hot, generally nice and have adequate
financial security
and
happen to be straight are usually
too fucken shy to make the first move! Farkkkkkk!!!!! To
make it harder, the men who never make the first move
automatically lose interest if I take the initiative. And
that's about all I understand about men.' Glad that I'd
got it all off my chest, I poured us both another glass.

'I'll drink to that.' Peta tipped her glass to mine.

Scanning the room I noticed an inordinate number
of couples. 'Paul and I came here on our first date,' I
said, and felt tears well.

'Oh god, don't start on about Paul, Missy, he's
history.'

'I know, but I always wanted to have my wedding
reception here.
Your company is requested at the
wedding of Mr and Mrs Right at the Park Hyatt ...
It should have been splashed across hundreds of
invitations and mailed out to all corners of the globe
by now.'

'Let it go, Alice, for both our sakes.' Peta looked
straight at me and her tone said
I'm over it
.

'A string quartet would be playing as guests made
small talk and sipped fine wines. Mr Right and I would
be swanning around and having our photos taken while
passers-by ooohed and aaaahed at the sight of us.'

'Alice, this really isn't healthy.' Peta was getting
annoyed.

'Just humour me, please. Let me finish. I promise
it'll be the end of it.

'I'd be wearing my Tiff any ring and a tiara and Mr
Right would be the happiest man in the world. Life
would be complete. We'd take the honeymoon to Venice
and Paris, have a couple of kids, I'd end up principal
at St Christina's, and we'd live where Wedding Cake
Island couldn't be seen and would never need to be
mentioned ever, ever again. We
would
live happily ever
after.' I wiped a single tear from my cheek with as much
dignity as I could.

'And that's the end of it, Alice. No more.' Peta stood
up and walked away.

No more, Alice. No more.

***

By half-past-five the ballroom was a flurry of gorgeous
women and men, TV cameras and Sydney socialites,
bubbles being poured to the left, right and centre of me.
I'd already had way too much champagne, but it didn't
stop me holding out my glass every time a waiter went
past. I hadn't had a win and I couldn't even remember
what horse I'd backed ten minutes after the race had
been run, but the eye candy was incredible – even the
waiters looked promising. It was a reminder that being
single meant you could do all the guilt-free perving you
wanted.

Liza had spent hours schmoozing with the mob
from Moët, and why not? It was a big change from her
clients at the ALS. It was funny to see her so posh. Her
new man seemed like a dream, and unlike Luke, could
show her affection without putting her in a headlock.
I took a photo of Liza and me together on my mobile
phone and sent it to Dannie, who'd watched the race at
the school with the kids.

I spied Peta across the room, talking endlessly with
a group of women who all looked suitably impressed.
She had always been an engaging storyteller, or should
I say bullshit artist. Rather than go into the whole
Indigenous education issue on Melbourne Cup Day,
my guess was she was spinning some yarn about being
the interior designer of the ballroom we were in, or
perhaps she was someone's agent, or had just patented
some great invention.

I tried to saunter as goddess-like as possible out to the
balcony for some space to myself and fresh air. I put my
shades on to shield the glare off the harbour, and smiled
at the warmth of the afternoon sun on my face. Leaning
over the railing, I closed my eyes and just enjoyed being
there, trying hard not to drift off to the wedding that
never was.
No more, Alice. No more.
I didn't know how
long I'd been there when Peta arrived.

'What're you doing out here?' she asked as she
handed me another glass of bubbles.

'Just thinking.' I took a careful sip – I
was
trying to
sober up. 'Not about weddings, so don't worry.' I didn't
want her walking away again. She smiled her broad
white smile.

'Life's not bad, eh?' Peta was cheerful, not drunk
cheerful, just happy-with-her-lot cheerful. As I looked
at how content Peta was, and where we were, and
how gorgeous we both looked, it happened. I had an
epiphany.

'You know what Peta? You're right. Life isn't bad at
all, is it?'

'Not at all,' she agreed.

'Being single isn't the end of the world.'

'Not even close to it.' Peta was looking through her
glass at the Opera House.

'I could go back in there and flirt, or score, if I wanted
to – right now.'

'You could.' Peta shifted her champagne eye-glass to
the Quay.

'Or I could just go home, crawl into my pyjamas and
eat toast for dinner, without worrying about a man or
kids.'

'Or you, Liza and I could just drink bubbly for the
rest of the night.' She touched her glass to mine.

'I mean, when you think about the men who've been
on offer over the past year in Sydney, I'm
clearly
better
off single anyway.'

'God, I wish Dannie could hear this.' I could see the
glimmer of victory in Peta's eye as she recalled their
SWOT analysis.

'Leave Dannie out of this, Peta, it's about me.' I leapt
to my feet and proclaimed, ' I love my life!'

'Thank god you're back! I missed you!' Peta stood
up, too, excited. 'I'll go grab some more bubbles, and
Liza, and we'll drink to your reclaimed singledom.'
She spun around and her mass of hair followed as she
headed back into the ballroom. I sat down on the stool
and closed my eyes, smiling with a sense of resolution.

Beside me, I heard someone say, 'It's a beautiful
spot, don't you think?' I wasn't sure if the comment
was meant for me, so I didn't open my eyes, but waited.
Nothing further was said. Peering over the top of my
sunnies, I saw the most luxurious hair, a rounded olive
face, hypnotising green eyes. Oh yes, I really, really
loved my life.

Could I possibly speak? Could I say something
without making a complete gig of myself? The vision
spoke again. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I've
been standing here for a while, but since you came out
the view is twice as beautiful.' I guessed he was pretty
pissed too.

I love my life, I love my life, I love my life.

'So did you back a winner?' I had to say something;
it was all I could think of.

'Actually, I missed the race, was caught up at work.
Dead loss in the office sweep too.' He had the sexiest
voice. I was sure he was younger than me, but I was
giving it a go, and every minute he hung around the
more points he got. Of course he was staying; the view
was
twice
as beautiful since I'd arrived.

What he said next surprised me.

'I was meant to be at a wedding here this month, but
it was called off. The guy was a cad – lucky she found
out sooner rather than later, eh?'

That sobered me up pretty quickly.

'I was meant to come to a wedding here once, too.
It's not happening now either.' I sounded positive, not
whiny or moany at all. 'There's probably enough Moët
functions to keep this place busy, though, I'm sure. Do
you work for Moët?' I was trying to see where he fit in,
and whether or not he was a mate of Liza's new man.

'No, I run an importing agency. I'm a ring-in here
today. I'm Mark.' He extended his hand and smiled
broadly.

'I'm Alice, and I'm a gatecrasher too – probably best
we hide ourselves out here, don't you think?' He laughed
and so did I.

The party seemed to be breaking up inside. Mark
asked for my number. I gave it to him, but without
expectations, just as Peta and Liza came looking for me
on the balcony. It was eight pm and Liza was hungry.
'So, Alice, I see you've finally met my cousin Marco.
Didn't take you long to find the most gorgeous woman
in the room, did it, Marco?'

I was dumbfounded, and so was he.

'You're
Marco
?'

'You're
that
Alice?'

Liza's new man walked out with a bottle of Moët and
topped up our glasses. I made a toast, 'To
not
meeting
Mr Right—'

'Until the time is right!' Liza added.

Marco turned to me. 'So, Liza said you weren't
interested in dating any of her family.'

'
Other
members of her family, Marco. I didn't mean
the good-looking ones.'

'Would you like to have dinner, then?'

'Sure. When?'

'Tonight?'

Liza grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

'I told you so.'

'You did, and I will
never
not listen to you again!
Thank you!'