Not Meeting Mr Right (8 page)

Mickey, Gabrielle and Dannie had failed me, but Liza
hung in there, trying desperately to palm me off on one
of her relatives. Uncles, cousins, second cousins, third
cousins, the suggestions never seemed to end. She
came from a big Italian family and often joked about
how it would be great if I married into it. They had huge
weddings, if nothing else. On top of that, she reminded
me, most of the men in her family were great cooks.

Liza was adamant that I should meet her cousin
Marco, who'd just returned from Italy and was working
in an exporting business. (I wondered if he'd met Cliff
at all.)

'He's gorgeous, and I know he would love you. Just
have a coffee with him. He fits most of the criteria
you've got scribbled all over those bits of paper on your
fridge. I just know you'll hit it off.'

'I'm trying to give up coffee and I'm not interested in
meeting Marco. I already have a strategy in place that
I'm supposed to be following, remember?'

'I don't recall not dating Liza's family being on that
list.'

'It is now!' After dating Dannie's cousin and the
stress it had caused between us, I didn't want to risk
it with Liza as well. I'd come across as abrupt, though,
and hated myself for it. The last thing I wanted to do
was hurt Liza's feelings when she was trying to help me
meet my Mr Right, but she'd had years of dealing with
me being gruff, and bounced back quickly.

It was dusk. We were sitting at a table on the
footpath outside Barzura, a restaurant overlooking
Coogee Beach. Liza's phone beeped, interrupting our
conversation. It was a text message from someone in
her basketball team. She was the manager of a men's
amateur team in the western suburbs, but didn't
talk about it much. It was something she did out of
obligation really, having started years ago when she'd
had more time. She was too nice to just quit now.
Didn't want to let anyone down, because that's the kind
of girl Liza was. Several years ago she'd admitted to
me that she first got involved so she could meet men,
after being advised that the best way to a man's heart
was through 'sport, stomach and sex', in that order.
Liza claimed her experience proved that theory wrong:
she said the more she got into sport, the hungrier she
was, the more she ate and the more weight she put on,
making her feel less attractive; she ended up having less
sex rather than more.

'That was Shaun.' Liza had a wicked look in her eye.
'And you know what? He might be a good date for you.
Who knows, Mr Right even.'

'Tell me more.' I could feel a wicked smile starting
on my own face.

'He's your age and single. A bit of a lad, but not like
Mickey's cousin Daniel. He's actually very respectful
and kind. He's the only one on the team who asks if I'd
like a drink after the game. You should just send him a
message for fun and see where it goes.'

'What? You mean set up a date? You know I can't
ask a bloke out, not straight up like that. I'm not that
desperate.' Of course we both knew I was, but Liza let
me pretend I was still the sought after, not the seeker.

'So, it's okay for you not to seem desperate, but have
your friends act desperate on your behalf? I just want to
be clear about it!' Liza laughed and sipped her wine.

'Well, yes.' It was completely ridiculous and, some
might say, irrational. She knew it and so did I, but the
whole blind date thing was bad enough without me
actually having to ask out men I didn't even know.

I suddenly wondered why Liza hadn't set me up with
someone from the team before. There must've been at
least a dozen men to choose from. Take the married
ones and young ones out, and there'd still have to be
at least a couple to choose from. Fit men. Tall men.
Sydney men. Most likely straight men. Hot, sweaty,
sexy men!

'Come to think of it, Liza, why haven't you set me up
with one of them before?' And why was she doing it now?

'It would be unethical to use my position to suss out
people's relationship information. I'd also have needed
your consent to pass on your details to them as well.'

'You have my consent now.'

'I'll give him your number, then.' Liza looked around,
trying to catch the waiter's eye.

'Do it now,' I said.

'What? Can't we order first?'

'Do it now and do it often. That's the approach
I'd like you to take when you're helping me with the
strategy, okay?'

'Except when it comes to my family, right?' Liza
knew how to make her point strong and clear, but she
did it without any drama. She didn't even look up at me
when she spoke. She punched a few keys on her phone
and sent a message.

'That oughta do it. If I know him, he'll be back to you
in no time. Can we order now?'

The young Italian waiter took our orders, refreshed
our glasses of verdelho and left a basket of bread on the
table. We both lunged for a piece, starving.

'Liza, why haven't you dated anyone on the team?'
I was concerned that she'd set me up with a guy she
wouldn't go out with herself.

'Alice,' she explained patiently, 'I'm the manager, and
it's just not kosher to date the team members. Anyway,
this mightn't even end up in a date, you know, it's just to
take your mind off all the womanisers and hula dancers
you've dealt with so far, and to give you some fun. The
whole thing seems to have become an obsession, and
you need to lighten up.' She was right. It had become
an obsession. Setting a deadline, developing a strategy,
risking my friendships – and all in the name of finding
myself a husband by my thirtieth birthday. Was it too
much? I wasn't sure. But my thirtieth birthday was now
only nineteen months and six days away.

Another young waiter arrived – English this time,
a backpacker, I assumed – and put our meals on the
table: mine salmon and spinach, Liza's a massive bowl
of pasta, which she dived into as though she hadn't
eaten for a week. I'd always admired Liza's metabolism.
She only had a small frame but she could pack it away,
eating masses of carbs but never putting on weight,
despite what she said.

I noticed a good-looking guy at a table inside the
restaurant. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.
I must have seen him at the Cushion Bar. It was like
seeing a Blackfella walking down the street, giving that
nod or raised eyebrow in recognition of belonging to
an exclusive club, even though you'd never met. Same
for the regulars at Cushion. I smiled at him across the
restaurant, hoping I didn't have any baby spinach in
my teeth, assuming that he was also wondering why I
looked familiar. He was wearing a funky navy and white
Mambo shirt, and when he stood to greet someone, it
accentuated his slim waist and broad shoulders. He
was actually very, very sexy. Mental note to self: keep
an eye out for Shirt Guy at the Cushion. Then my
phone beeped. Checking, I saw an unfamiliar number:
it was probably Shaun. Shirt Guy disappeared from my
thoughts.

Hello. Liza said I should contact you. Why?

Shaun's first text message almost stumped me and then
I remembered my mantra.

Because I'm daunting and desirable.

And clearly confident while under the influence of
alcohol.

The SMS dialogue between Shaun and I went back
and forth for the next three hours. Liza and I ordered
more food, more wine, dessert, coffees. I didn't even
think about how much we were spending, or what my
phone bill would look like either. Thank goodness I'd
signed on for one of those capped plans and could spend
up to $500 – I'd need it if my dating habits were going
to be like this. I regarded the exchange as an investment
in my future wedded happiness. As the night wore on,
though, what started as innocent flirtation became
somewhat sleazy. I asked Shaun what he was reading, a
safe question, I thought, and the answer would give me
some insight into his character. His response?

The Karma Sutra!

What was I supposed to do with that? 'Do you think
he's serious?' I asked Liza, a little unnerved. I motioned
for her to fill my glass again.

'You're a puritan, Alice. It's a great answer.'

Texting was a dangerous form of communication.
Dillon had once told me that no matter what you said
in a text message, a man would read it as meaning sex.
'Even if I just said "Do you want to see a movie?" ' 'Even
if you sent the word
fish
,' was his answer. I thought I
should be sensible and choose my words carefully.

Good book?

Was that the best I could come up with?

Shaun didn't respond for some time, and I was
grateful, as things were moving into territory I wasn't
overly comfortable with. A couple of cocktails at
Cushion Bar later that night helped me relax, though.
I looked for Shirt Guy, but didn't see him. Maybe he
wasn't a Cushion regular after all. But where did I know
him from then? He had looked so familiar – and hot.

I was home by eleven-thirty. At quarter to twelve
I had one final SMS from Shaun, asking what my
favourite sexual position was. Prudish Alice appeared
immediately. I went to bed without texting him back,
but actually thinking of my favourite position and, for
some reason, Shirt Guy. God, had I kissed him drunk
one night? Perhaps that's why he looked familiar. If so,
where? When? I drifted into slumber with a smile on
my face.

***

The next day I hit Bondi Junction. My wardrobe was
in need of a summer clothing injection. I bought a
black dress with a slightly Spanish hemline, some black
strappy heels, a black silk skirt and a red top. By five
o'clock I was exhausted and so was my credit limit, so I
decided to spend the evening in with a movie and some
chocolate. No sooner had I settled in than my phone
beeped with a message. It was him, the SMS guy, the
basketballer, the Karma Sutra man, the STALKER!

How are you, Al?

He was being familiar, calling me Al. I panicked, not
sure why he had sent me a message. It was over. Surely
he knew that. I hadn't responded to his last text. That
meant, at least in my books, hasta la vista, baby! We'd
had a few hours of flirting and that was it. Why was he
still contacting me? Weirdo. It was my fault. I'd started
it. It was meant to just be a little bit of fun during
dinner –
maybe
something that would help me find a
husband, or maybe just a date. Now this guy thought I
was a skanky ho who picked up blokes over SMS and
just wanted a shag.

What if he wanted to meet me? What if he was
an axe-murderer? All of a sudden I was scared of a
bloke who'd already been given a character reference
by my dearest friend! Where was my commitment to
my future happiness now? What about that wedding
before my thirtieth birthday? Why was I panicking over
a bloody text message from someone who'd never seen
me and didn't know where I lived? He'd just asked how
I was.

I rang Liza and she laughed at me.

'Shaun's harmless. What are you afraid of? Text him
back or don't, but stop being so weird.' She was right.
I was being weird. I wanted to date, she pointed out. I
wanted to get laid. I wanted to get married. I'd asked
her for her help. I'd made her contact this guy as part of
my strategy. '
Do it now.
Those were your exact words,
Alice.
Do it now and do it often.
Do you remember?'

Liza was in lawyer mode; it was her way of telling
me that she was only just tolerating my pain-in-thearse
behaviour. It gave me the shits, but I knew she was
a good friend.

After I'd spoken to Liza, I walked into the kitchen
and looked at the lists on the fridge. Just as I thought,
there it was, written in purple texta: 'BE OPEN TO
ALL OPPORTUNITIES.' That included SMS-Shaun.
But how could I tell my grandchildren I met their
grandfather via a text message? It just didn't feel right;
in fact, it felt really, really wrong, but I sent a reply
anyway.

Had a great day, staying in tonight, very tired.

I was sure that would put him off ; he'd think I was a
loser, staying in on Saturday night.

Where's in?

He wanted to know where I lived. He
was
a stalker!
Shit!

Eastern suburbs.

That should be enough.

I'm in Villawood.

Did he mean
in
Villawood? Surely not. Liza hadn't
mentioned anything about a refugee basketball team,
but she had been doing pro bono work for some
asylum seekers. Now I was being stupid – of course he
didn't live in an immigration detention centre. I didn't
respond. I was glad there was distance between Coogee
and Villawood. Could westie meet waxhead ever work
anyway? It seemed to be working out for Bianca and
Ben. They were engaged, soon to be married, and
seemed likely to live happily ever after, but I couldn't
see it working for me. I turned my phone off for the
night, and thought briefly about having the number
changed.

Sunday morning was overcast and I was glad. It meant
I could stay in bed and read, drink tea and enjoy the
mellow sounds of Vika and Linda's
Love is Mighty
Close
down low on my stereo. I couldn't help thinking
that it wasn't close enough, because I was lying in bed
alone. Still, I was happy. Life was pretty good. I stared
out the window and looked at the choppy ocean and
a few boardriders trying their luck. I smiled briefly as
I imagined a couple of backpackers drowning in the
whitewash, then slapped myself for enjoying such nasty
thoughts.

My mobile beeped and my heart skipped a beat, but
it was just Peta wanting to know if I was laying around
like a slug or if I might be up for a coastal walk. I got
dressed straight away, and headed off to meet her.

***

Peta was waiting for me near the Bali bombing
memorial on the headland. I could feel the southerly
coming up, already bringing summer heatwave relief. It
didn't usually arrive until late afternoon. Peta's hair was
flying all about the place. We paused at the memorial
for a moment and looked out to sea.

'I've got a surprise for you.' Peta was excited, and it
was infectious. I like surprises.

'What is it?'

'I got some free tickets to that play you've been going
on and on about.'

'What? The one with Marcus Graham about interracial
relationships?

'That's the one,' said Peta.

'The one where he gets completely in the nick?
How? When? How much do I owe you?' The thought
of seeing Marcus in the flesh was so exciting I nearly
peed myself. 'I've always thought I'd make a great
reconciliation project for Marcus,' I said.

Peta laughed at me. 'You'd be doing it for the cause,
right? Facilitating harmony between Black and white?
That's what we need, a good Black woman like you with
someone gorgeous like Marcus Graham.'

I could breed with a Black man, but we needed to
unite with the whiteman as well. It would help water
down the white race.

'It only takes one Black parent to make a few Black
kids,' I said. 'I'd do it for my people. Anyway, how much
do I owe you?'

'You don't owe me anything. It's a gift from me to
you. It's this Friday, are you free?'

'Of course. Should we have dinner and a few bevvies
first?'

'Sorry darl, I can't go, but I've lined up someone to
take you. Bit of help with the strategy.'

'What? I can't go with a bloke and perv on Marcus
at the same time. That's just not right. I do have some
ethics, you know.'

'You asked for my help, didn't you?' Of course she
was right, but there seemed to be something very sad
about my friends now going out of their way to help me
find a bloke. Did they actually feel sorry for me?

'Okay then, so who is it?' I didn't even think about
asking what he looked like.

'A guy I worked with last year on the new state
government policy for education and the arts. His
name's Jim Akee. He's from the Torres Strait. He'll meet
you at the theatre bar at six pm.'

***

Friday arrived. I checked with Aria to see if she had any
advice re my date with Jim from the Torres Strait. She
said: 'Don't get carried away with expectations today
Leo. Remember, no expectations, no disappointments,
no regrets.'
No expectations, no disappointments, no
regrets
became my mantra for my date with Jim.

I wore a black jersey dress and looked pretty hot. I had
no expectations but I reckoned that if Mr Torres Strait
Islands didn't work out, I might just hang round to see
what else was in the offing. I arrived at the bar, looking
casually around for 'a person of Islander appearance',
(a description that could have come straight out of
The
Daily Terror
). I spotted him immediately he walked
through the door. Hair in a bun, theatrically camp,
sauntering towards me with a self-assured air. I knew
he was an actor straight away. Peta hadn't told me: she
knew I'd never go out with an actor (except Marcus
Graham), because they are so damned precious.

'Hi, I'm Jim. You must be Alice.'

'That's right, nice to meet you.' I put out my hand to
shake but he didn't respond, not even with an air kiss
to the cheek.

'Yeah, hey, I've just spotted someone I know on
the other side of the bar, I must go speak to them. I'll
be back in a second.' And he just walked off. I waited,
downing a couple of glasses of the house bubbly to fill
in the time until it was curtain call. Jim only came back
to see me because I had the tickets – I knew it and he
knew I knew it. I was already pissed off and the date
hadn't even really started.

As we climbed the stairs to the theatre, Jim told me
about himself, his acting, his career. We took our seats
and he kept right on till the curtain went up. He didn't
bother to ask me
anything
about
anything
– work,
leisure, how I knew Peta. Nothing.

The play itself was brilliant. Marcus Graham was
gorgeous and, although the script needed serious
editing, no woman would ever complain at seeing him
forced to be on stage longer than necessary. It was a
bonus for the audience.

However, while the actors were taking their bows,
my date just up and left. I was furious. I decided to go
to the after party without him.

***

'It was possibly the worst date I have ever been on, Peta,
what were you thinking? Was it payback for something
I've done to you I don't know about?' I had to ask. Surely
she knew Jim could never love anyone but himself.

'Don't be ridiculous, Alice. I'd tell you if I were upset
with you about anything. What happened? I know he's
good-looking, so it couldn't have been that.' Peta tried
to look shocked for me, but she was busy shovelling
pancakes into her mouth. We'd planned to meet at
Barzura for breakfast and a debriefing. I was nursing
a hangover from the glasses of cheap bubbles I'd lost
count of the night before.

'To cut a long and hideous night short, he pissed off
five seconds after he met me, came back only because I
had the tickets, talked about nothing but himself right
up until the show started, didn't ask me one thing about
what I did, and walked out before the audience had
even finished applauding at the end.'

'What? Did you speak to him at the after party? You
did go, didn't you?' She wiped some maple syrup from
the side of her mouth.

'Oh I went all right, and as soon as I was surrounded
by other blokes
your mate
' – I felt the need to give her
ownership of the jerk – 'butted in, trying to make small
talk, acting like he was my fucken date. He was only
cramping my style by then, so I told him in front of
everyone that he was the worst date I had ever had.'
Both Peta and I knew that was a blatant lie, but we
were both prone to dramatics at times, so she nodded,
agreeing with me like sistas of similar temperaments
do. 'By the time I finished with him he was ready to get
back in his canoe and paddle home!' We both laughed
and ordered more coffee.