Not Meeting Mr Right Read online

  He'd thought I'd probably have lots of invitations. That meant he thought I was very popular. That everyone must want me at their parties. Of course they did, but how did he know that? I was grinning from ear to ear.

  He was going to pick me up. He had a licence and a car. I loved him already. I wondered what sort of car it was. Didn't matter – as long as dinner didn't have to be on a train line, I didn't care.

  Mental note to self: buy Peta something extra special for Christmas. She must've fed him a whole heap of info to make me sound deadly and desirable.

  ***

  By half past twelve on Friday, most of the teachers and students had gone home, following the final assembly for the year, but I stayed back and pretended to clean out the fridge as a gesture of community service. The principal was suitably impressed but it was really an excuse to wait somewhere quiet for the phone to ring. I didn't want to be driving or shopping when Paul called me, so staying put until he had seemed the smartest option. My phone hadn't completed its first ring when I picked up.

  'Hi Paul, you just caught me leaving school. How are you?' It sounded a bit false, but it was okay for an I'm-pretending-not-to-be-waiting-for-a-phone-call response.

  'Great, looking forward to tonight. Hope we're still on. I've booked a table at the Harbourview for eight. That okay?'

  'Sounds fab,' I said, trying not to sound eager. Interested, but not too eager.

  I gave him my address and hung up before I wet my pants with excitement or said something too ridiculous. I was like a three-year-old whose parents had just told her the Wiggles were coming to dinner.

  Paul said he'd pick me at seven-thirty, so I had approximately seven hours to get ready. I headed straight to the beautician to start the process of making myself look irresistible.

  ***

  'Okay, Kathy, do your magic. Brows, lip, chin, bikini, in any order. I want a deluxe facial, too.' Kathy was my trusted beautician who made an eyebrow wax feel like a surgical procedure. I loved it. Her attention to detail was matched by no other, and I always felt like I was on the operating table as she checked and double-checked that each brow was an exact replica of the other.

  Eyebrows done, a quick line of hot wax across the upper lip, and any remnants of hair were completely gone. 'There's nothing on your chin, Alice,' Kathy said, 'Whaddya want me to do that for?'

  'Because I can feel something there, a hard hair, just one. If I can feel it, he'll be able to feel it as well. Pluck it, wax it, nuke it if you have to, but get rid of the little sucker or it will ruin my night.' I was a woman on a mission.

  'Who's the lucky guy then?'

  'Oh, he's perfect, a friend of a friend, bought his grandmother a dog this week ...' I told Kathy every detail of the two two-minute conversations I'd had with Paul. She could tell I was excited. Kathy knew what a shortage of decent men there was in Sydney. She was single too.

  I shut my eyes and imagined the night ahead of me – until she ripped the hair from my bikini line.

  'Shit, Kathy, you trying to kill me or what?'

  'Sorry, stubborn little buggers. You've got a couple of ingrowns – I'm going to have to dig them out.'

  She soon declared the job done. 'Anything else? What about the legs?' She felt for any fur that might be growing.

  'You know my theory, Kathy. If I shave my legs before I go on a date, it means I'm expecting to have someone else's hands running up them.' I was supposed to be sticking to the 'no sex until the third date' rule.

  'Well don't you? I mean, what was the purpose of the bikini wax if you weren't thinking along those lines?'

  She was right of course, but I always liked to act as if I were a bit saintly. I decided I should get my legs done just in case, for whatever opportunities might present themselves.

  It hurt more than the lip, brows and bikini combined, but I felt completely touchable at the end of it. I might just have to ask him to touch my legs anyway, I thought, just to get my money's worth.

  Waxing done, the lights were dimmed as I donned a terry-towelling strapless wrap and lay back for my deluxe-state-of-the-art-top-of-the-range-only-Kathycan- do facial. I immediately relaxed as Kathy's hands massaged my décolletage, neck and face. Creams, exfoliants, oils, steam, hot towels and gentle fingers made their way over my face. I drifted away and imagined Paul-the-Engineer doing the same honours once we were a couple. Yes, that was another reason I wanted a husband: face, neck and head massages upon request. Mr I-Bought-My-Grandmother-a-Scottish-Terrier was sure to be the sort of guy who would see this sort of request as a privilege. I started to plan a lifelong program of massages and caressing.

  Before she finished, Kathy massaged my hands and arms, and explained that she'd resisted squeezing the odd blackhead for fear of causing unnecessary holes in my face just before dinner. I looked and felt like a new woman, and could have gone straight home to bed and been happy. I had a better offer though – and it had been a while since I'd been able to say that.

  At three-thirty I had less than two hours to buy something new to wear. Although my wardrobe was bulging, it was essential that I wore something specifically purchased to impress my date. Something to mark the beginning of my new life, a life that included Paul-the-Engineer, black dogs, lonely grandmothers and endless massages.

  I held my breath and thanked Biami as the first shop I went into delivered the sexiest outfit I had worn in years. A slinky blue satin slip dress falling just below the knee. I was getting more and more excited.

  'I have a date! With an engineer,' I proclaimed as I handed over the cash to the salesgirl.

  'He won't be able to keep his hands off you.' The shop assistant was excited for me.

  'That's the plan!'

  Next I went three doors down Crown Street to my stylist Denis (who preferred to be called Den Den), pleading with him to do a quick wash and blow-dry, promising he could do the whole bridal party for the definitely-going-to-happen wedding. Den Den didn't even charge me – he believed, like me, that Paul-the- Engineer was the one. It seemed the whole world – the universe – was on my side.

  Home by six, I eased myself into a tepid bath instead of a steamy shower, so as not to disturb my hair. I sat with a glass of red in hand and tried to calm down. With just over an hour to make myself gorgeous and prepare to begin the first night of the rest of my life, I set myself a new mantra: I am beautiful, the world is beautiful, I am surrounded by love, I will be loved, I am loved.

  twenty

  Mr Too-Right?

  I looked at my watch impatiently, waiting for the buzzer on my door to go off. The shot of schnapps I'd had after the glass of red to calm my nerves had only made me feel ill. I loved how the Austrians drank schnapps for 'medicinal purposes' – to warm the legs in the cold, to settle the stomach after dinner, to cure almost anything. No wonder I never needed an excuse to drink – it was something I'd inherited from my father's family.

  Finally, the door buzzer went. I took a deep breath, mumbled I am beautiful, I will be loved, turned the knob and gave a rehearsed smile. I need't have. I was greeted by a warm, friendly face and a handsome – very handsome – man (even from a lookist's perspective). My nerves melted away.

  'Hi.' Paul moved in and gave me a gentle peck on the cheek. No awkwardness at all. I breathed a sigh of relief. He was, it appeared at first glance, normal. 'Ready?'

  'Yes, absolutely,' and before I knew it we were downstairs in his car, driving towards the city.

  'Peta tells me you're an engineer.' I wanted to know all about him, while I discreetly checked out all the gadgets on the dash of his sporty silver Peugeot coupé. I loved his car. I loved that it had electronic windows and a CD player and if you pushed the dash, two drink holders popped out – they would be great for those drives in the country we'd be taking. I loved that we didn't have to take the train. I loved that I was a passenger for the first time in a long time. Was I that easily impressed?

  'That's right, with the city council. First Blackfella they've ever ha
d as an engineer. Actually, I'm the only Blackfella on indoor staff. You'd think a big city council like ours would have heaps of Kooris on staff. I mean, with so many living in Sydney.'

  I was already falling in love, no doubt about it. From the moment I'd opened the door and seen his Colgate ring- of-confidence smile beaming back at me, I knew it. Before I even got to the linen suit, and his oh-how-I-want- to-crawl-all-over-you aftershave hit my nostrils, I knew it. Now Mr Beyond-Right, Mr Perfect, had something intelligent to say about the lack of Blackfellas at the local council. He was my dream come true. Yes, I would be Mrs Paul-the-Engineer. I would be Mrs Right!

  Soon we'd parked the car and I found myself seated across from him at the table, wine ordered, his jacket off – biceps pushing through his crisp white shirt – and I was completely hypnotized. I was in a dreamlike state. It was Friday night, I was looking the sexiest I'd ever looked, not a chin-hair in sight, and I was dining with Paul-the-Engineer, the only Blackfella working as indoor staff at Council, who drove his own car, could order a bottle of wine, and smelled like heaven.

  'Oysters – I love oysters, don't you?' Paul smiled, raising one to his lips, the lips I was already dreaming about kissing.

  'Oh yes, I love the way they slide down my throat.'

  'You have the last one', he offered.

  'No, I'm right, it's all yours.' If I ate one more oyster I'd rip his clothes off right there at the table. I didn't need any more aphrodisiacs. It was better to be safe than sorry, or horny for that matter.

  It was destiny: Paul and I ordered the same meal, salmon with olive teenage. It came with garlic potatoes, which neither of us touched – clearly we were both expecting a kiss at some point during the night. I didn't even look at or really taste any of the food at all. I felt full of the sight, smell, touch of Paul.

  The night was perfect. He laughed at all my jokes, told me stories about his youth and explained why he loved his grandmother so much. Both his parents had been killed in a car crash, and she had raised him. At the end of the meal he insisted on paying the bill.

  'Only if you let me buy you dinner sometime soon.' I'd read in Cleo years before that one sure way to secure a second date was to let him pay for the first one and then offer to buy the next yourself. (Of course, if you didn't want to see him again, best to go Dutch.) Even men who aren't interested in a relationship will almost always say yes to a free feed.

  'You don't have to, but I'd love to have dinner with you again,' he said. As Cleo had promised, it never failed.

  We strolled around the Rocks, until Paul suggested we have a cocktail at the Park Hyatt, overlooking Circular Quay. My heart jumped. 'Park Hyatt sounds perfect, great idea.' The Park Hyatt was where I'd planned on spending my wedding night. How did he know? It wasn't just a coincidence. There were so many bars in the area, and he could have suggested any of them. It was a sign for sure. (Or maybe it was because it was the only decent bar close by.)

  We sat and had a martini and just watched the world go by on foot, ferry and water taxi. Every time I looked at him, his smile made me weaker. I was either very drunk or falling in love. Or maybe he had slipped something in my drink? There'd been a lot of that going on around Sydney, but he was Peta's friend and I had no reason to mistrust him.

  Paul couldn't be faulted. He was charming, sexy, good-looking; not only employed, but had a career. He knew who he was and didn't have to carry his Koori family tree round with him. He didn't have a tat or wear Koori beads to cement anything. It all seemed too perfect. I was suspicious.

  'So you finished your degree in ninety-five – what were you doing before that?'

  'Oh, just hanging around, as young lads do.'

  He couldn't have been that young in ninety-five. Counting back quickly, I calculated he must have been around twenty-eight when he finished his degree.

  'So, what is it that young lads do in their midtwenties?' I couldn't help myself.

  'Come on now, Aunty, what's with all the questions?' Paul mocked me, and I felt like a right twit. Why was I acting like some daggy old woman? He must've been out sowing his wild seeds or whatever boys do in their twenties, but, as Mum would say, 'That's what boys do.' He wasn't being mysterious; there just wasn't any need for me to ask so many questions on a first date – the best first date of my life.

  I excused myself and went to the ladies room, surprised to find I was a little wobbly on my feet. I'd had a bit to drink, but not half as much as I would've if I'd been out with the girls. The martinis had gone straight to my head. Or perhaps I was just love-drunk.

  I liked using toilets in flash hotels with marble vanities and fancy lights and mirrors; beats having to queue up in a nightclub where going to the loo is simply about necessity. The Park Hyatt toilets were the kind you'd like to spend time in. I fixed my make-up, checked my bra straps weren't showing, and made sure there wasn't any lint on my dress or paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I was looking so good I was turning myself on.

  As I made my way back across the restaurant to our table, I wondered if Paul was going to kiss me or not. He'd only touched me lightly as we crossed the road and guided me out of the way of traffic. Maybe he wasn't interested at all. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he was just not that into me. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered leaving the garlic potatoes on the side of my plate.

  'Paul, I thought maybe we could have a walk around the Opera House – what do you think?' I asked, before I even sat back down.

  'I was just thinking the same thing. Ready now?'

  He'd been thinking the same thing, oh my god, we were so connected, so in tune. It was scary. He got up and took my hand and my ridiculous theories were instantly washed away. He wasn't gay, he was interested, and he was into me.

  His strong engineer's hand squeezed mine, and my body went warm. Just hand-holding could have been enough to satisfy me.

  Strolling along the quay, we saw a mime artist, a didj player, a clarinetist and a muso who sang just like Tracy Chapman. We were impressed.

  We walked around Bennelong Point, wondering out loud what the corroborees were like there before invasion, when all the local clans would gather for their bush opera. The past and the present blended into one as we shared a moment that only Kooris could.

  At the front of the Opera House we stopped. I leaned out over the rail that runs right around the edge of the pavement and looked out over the water. Paul stood behind me, arms around me. It was perfect. His mouth went to my neck and I closed my eyes so that my sense of touch was heightened. He gently caressed my collarbone and shoulders with his lips.

  I slowly turned around. He was taller than me; I raised my eyes to meet his. They were smoky brown and I just lost myself in them. Our lips touched, slightly parted, and his tongue met mine. We kissed slowly, standing pressed hard against each other. When we eventually broke apart, I felt relaxed and comfortable, waiting for a sign from him, waiting to find out what would happen next.

  He kissed my forehead, then the tip of my nose, and pecked my lips once more before motioning me back towards Circular Quay. We didn't speak, but walked arms linked, me holding on tightly to his arm. His bicep was massive! What do they say about men with big biceps? Or was that feet? I didn't care.

  We stopped for a last drink at the Aqua Bar. I decided to have a lime and soda, so I could remember how good the sex was in the morning. I could definitely break the three-date rule: Paul was the one, Mr Right.

  As I reached the bottom of my drink, he checked his watch. 'I should get you back to Coogee and me back to Rozelle soon, I've got a big day tomorrow. I'm building a deck and the boys are coming round at eight.'

  'Sorry?'

  'I'm building a new deck. I've been wanting to do it since I bought the house two years ago. Finally got the plans approved last month.' He beamed, but I just stood there, gobsmacked. I wanted to shout at him: Build what deck? What about me? The night's over because you want to build some bloody deck you haven't mentioned all night? I could hear Dillon chanting in my he
ad: He's just not that into you, he's just not that into you. Why had Paul even started something back there if he had no intention of finishing it?