Not Meeting Mr Right (24 page)

Spending time with Marco gave me faith in men again.
He proved to me that there
were
men out there who
were charming and honest and kind, and with no
specific agendas or baggage (well, noticeable baggage
that is).

The only problem was, without alcohol, we had no
real chemistry. We partied and got on well as mates, but
soon realised we were never going to be anything more
than that. We both agreed that chemistry isn't something
that will develop over time, like companionship or
conversation, and that sex is actually a very important
part of a relationship, especially a young one.

Liza was pleased that we'd at least given it a try, and
I enjoyed hanging out with a straight, single male for
a while, but Marco and I didn't last long. I was on my
own again.

***

The week before Christmas I was still looking for gifts,
even though St Christina's broke up weeks before the
state schools. I just didn't seem to have the energy
to spend days on end shopping among the growing
crowds of Bondi Junction after a long year as full-time
department head and husband seeker. I needed to relax
a bit and take it slowly, which is why I hadn't finished any
Christmas shopping. The upside was that I was loving
my single life. Marco had helped me find a comfortable
space between serial dater, husband hunter, female
friend and satisfied single. I was truly content for the
first time in ages.

I roamed a busy bookstore in Bondi Junction until
I'd found the right book for Larissa. It had become a
joke between us, giving self-help books. I'd moved on,
and was standing in the history section when I saw him:
Gary-the-Garbo, only a metre from me in the same
aisle. He caught me staring.

'Alice, fancy meeting you here!' Gary-the-Garbo
sounded surprised, but looked pleased to see me.

'Why do you seem so surprised? You think I can't
read?'

'Its just that I've only ever seen you on the street in
your pyjamas and at Cushion. I thought you only slept
and drank.' Gary-the-Garbo had a sense of humour. I
liked that.

'Reaaaallly? I could say the same for you,
mate
.' The
banter was flowing easily.

'I only go to Cushion to see you, surely you know
that.' He turned to put a book back on the shelf, so I
couldn't see his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was serious or
not. I hoped he was, but I kept it light.

'And
I
thought it was for the happy hour prices!' My
mouth was dry and my palms sweaty. The silence that
followed was awkward. We both turned to the shelves.

'So, looking for something specific?' I asked, not
wanting the conversation to end.

'Yeah, I'm supposed to be getting something for my
father, but I always end up here buying something for
myself. I'm a bit of a history buff.'

'What a coincidence. I'm a history teacher at St
Christina's.' We had more than bins and booze in
common.

'Maybe you could recommend a book, then. I'm
looking for something on the first Gulf War – I'm trying
to understand the link between the US involvement
in the Middle East then and today.' Wow, he was a
reader of history with an interest in world politics as
well. Gary-the-Garbo was
interesting
. Mental note to
self: stop referring to him as Gary-the-Garbo. World
wars weren't my area of expertise, so I couldn't really
suggest anything, but I did help him scan the shelves
briefly. Neither of us was really concentrating on books
anyway.

'What about you?' Gary took Larissa's Christmas
present out of my hand and read the title out loud:
Women Who Think Too Much.
He looked back at me
with a smile. 'Interesting. For you?'

I half-heartedly snatched it back. 'It's not for me.' I
didn't want him to think that I was the over-analysing,
paranoid type, even if I had been known to be. 'It's for
my brother's girlfriend – kind of a joke.' He didn't need
to know that I had planned on reading it as well, later.

Then it was awkward again. The kind of awkwardness
two people feel when they like each other but are both
too nervous to do anything about it. Fear of rejection is
often more powerful than desire for happiness. It had
been ten months since I was with Paul and even though
I'd had other dates, the scars had not completely healed.
I wasn't going to be making the first move with a man
for a while, not after a year of disastrous dates and failed
relationships. I'd see him around again, I always did, so
there was no need to push it.

I dug into my bag for my purse. 'I best be off, got
Christmas lights to struggle with. It's a tradition of mine.
The annual light-hanging nightmare, I like to call it.'

His face lit up. 'Do you need a hand with them? I'm
actually an electrician by trade. Christmas lights are my
specialty.'

'Are you being funny, Gary? I'll have to call you
Funny Guy.'

'I thought I was Shirt Guy.' He'd remembered. He
was good with details too. I liked that. How could I
refuse the assistance of the only man to ever offer to
hang my lights who could
also
read
and
was funny
and
remembered details
and
wasn't related to me?

'I'd really love your help with the lights, if you have
some spare time.'

'I'm free this afternoon, after I have a swim. How
about three?'

'Perfect. I'll give you the address ... oh, right.' He
didn't need it. I was still nervous.

Gary came round and hung my Christmas lights,
changed a globe in the hallway, fixed a dripping tap
with his bare hands, and even helped me trim my tree.
All the while we talked easily. He told me stories about
the weird things people left out with their garbage and
summarised the Vietnam War for me too. I told him
about school and cleverly raised as many potentially
problematic topics as I could – from the stolen
generations to Aboriginal arts and culture. I wasn't
looking at him as a possible partner, but I didn't want
a racist hanging my lights either. I'd sooner sit in the
dark. But I needn't have worried. He was surprisingly
clued in, for a garbo.

'Just because I pick up your garbage, doesn't mean
I don't read the broadsheets or watch current affairs
programs, Ms Alice.' I liked that he stood up to my
snobbishness and narrow thinking too!

That Saturday turned out to be the best I'd had in a
year, not only because I got so many 'man-jobs' done,
but because my new straight, male, single friend was
just that – a friend. He was obviously keen, but was
taking it slowly in getting to know me and vice versa.
It was comfortable: he didn't come on too strong. I
was tempted to think of a mantra, but decided to leave
those behind with the failed strategy.

The following week Gary took me to a nursery. We
went shopping for some herbs to sit on my kitchen
windowsill. He didn't try to woo me with promises of
yachts or expensive dinners.

I didn't spoil our friendship by thinking about
weddings, or taking him home on Christmas Day. I
didn't need the pressure from my family, and neither
did he. His sister Liesl would be on his case anyway, he
said. She was his equivalent to Dillon, but a little like
Mum too, wanting to marry him off. That's what proud
sisters do, so I was with her on that one.

Our shared passion for history made conversation
easy. I learned so much from him talking about the
Cold War, Vietnam and the rise and fall of Hitler.
He taught me about world history, and I taught him
about Australian history. Between us we had the globe
covered.

At first glance, many women wouldn't consider
a garbo or someone they only ever saw at a bar as an
impressive option. It worked for me, though. I liked
drinking a lot, and I hated putting my bin out. Gary
was the complete package. His life would fit perfectly
with mine. And there was plenty of chemistry.

***

Six months later it wasn't the ringing of wedding bells
that woke me, but life was certainly heading in that
direction as the council garbage truck ground its way
down Arden Street. I sprang out of bed, then raced
to splash some water on my face and took a swig of
Listerine. I even managed to find the time to run some
lipstick across my lips before running downstairs. I
didn't rush to drag the bin out, though.

It was just on winter, but I didn't even feel the cool
coastal air – the fullness in my heart kept me warm as
Gary drove the truck towards me. Who'd have thought,
eh, that all those mornings he'd laughed at me as I
ran out on the street in my pyjamas, sleep-encrusted
eyes and hair like a witch, that he was perving on me,
desperately wanting to take me out?

Who'd have thought that the cactus plant left on
top of my garbage bin so long ago had been his way
of dropping the hint? Why hadn't I realised back then
that Shirt Guy was Gary? I must have been completely
blind not to see him right under my nose. My very own
Mr I-Can-Put-Out-and-Pick-Up-the-Trash-
and
-Say-
'I-Love-You,' too.

Dating Gary I was happier than I had been in years.
My parents, too. Mum was relieved I wasn't a lesbian.
Dad didn't have to come and fix anything. Even Dillon
was glad he didn't have to hear all the personal details
of his sister's sex- and love-life anymore. Bianca started
calling again when she came back from her honeymoon
and things settled down for her. Sometimes we all met
at Dannie's for dinner. Peta was with a new guy, still
happily 'serial dating'. Liza was with Mr Moët ... and we
were
all
happy about nurturing
that
relationship.

Life with Gary around was good. No expectations,
no disappointments, no dick-fiddling, no break and
enters, no uprisings – emotional or otherwise – no
moonwalking, no victim mentality, no more blind dates
or mixed messages or excuses, and no more dripping
taps or dragging bags of shopping up too many flights
of stairs. Most importantly I had no concerns about
being married by my thirtieth. All that mattered now
when I looked out at Wedding Cake Island were the
endless laughs, love and don't-have-to-go-looking-forit-
passionate sex, which neither of us was ever too busy
or tired for. And, as it happens, the bin is always out the
night before.

I would like to thank:

Josef and Mark Heiss, Phillipa McDermott, Linda
Mirabilio, Darrell Sibosado and Bernadine Knorr for
inspiration. The bits you love are all
you
. The bits you
don't like are not you, they are fictional!

Terri Janke, Kerry Reed-Gilbert, Rosie Scott, Josie
and Bella Vendramini for reading and commenting on
early drafts.

Nicola O'Shea for her expert structural edit and for
'getting it'.

Tara Wynne from Curtis Brown for working in my
best interests with professionalism and humour.

Meredith Curnow and Larissa Edwards from
Random House for having a vision for Australian
publishing that includes me in it. I'd also like to thank
my editor Elizabeth Cowell, who unnecessarily stroked
my ego, laughed at all my jokes, and taught me the
difference between 'uninterested' and 'disinterested'.
She is possibly one of the most patient people I know.

The Arthur Boyd Estate and the Australia Council –
for the time and space to write the first 20,000 words.

Warawara Department of Indigenous Studies at
Macquarie University – for the time and space, as
Writer in Residence, to write the next 50,000.

The National Centre for Indigenous Studies, the
Faculty of Arts and the School of Humanities at the
ANU – for the time and space, as visiting fellow, to do
the final edits.

Geraldine Star, for being my life coach and personal
guru.

All the Heiss family – for watering my plants when
I'm away writing, feeding me when I'm too tired to
cook, picking me up from airports late at night, and
simply for loving and supporting me unconditionally. I
am, undeniably, the luckiest daughter and sister in the
world.

Finally, all the men who have ever lied to or cheated
on me, told me they loved me then not returned my
call, led me on and then run off, stood me up or put me
down – you're all bastards!