Not Meeting Mr Right Page 19

  'I wish they'd cut the cake so we can leave. I want to get Luke out of that tux.' Liza was really into Luke, and fair enough, I thought. I also wanted to get Paul back to the hotel to talk – or at least make up – but I really thought we should stay until Ben and Bianca had headed off.

  I couldn't wait to see the cake. I imagined it in the shape of a football, or perhaps it was one of those huge ones that a cheerleader might pop out of. Liza and I were both pleased to see it wasn't blue and yellow, but a standard white-iced fruitcake – although we would have been happier with a mud cake. The cake was cut and everyone took to the dance floor again for what seemed like hours. Paul and I only danced to a select few: things weren't right between us. I was angry with myself for being pushy.

  Then the floor was cleared by Crusher, who was rounding up all the single women for the tossing of the bouquet. 'Come on all you girlies, shake your twats over this way!' He'd had way too much to drink, but noone seemed to be saying anything about it.

  Luke and Paul encouraged both Liza and I to be in the running, but we knew there was nothing more pathetic than women our age fighting over a bouquet of flowers to see who was supposed to get married next. 'Up you go, girls,' Dannie scoff ed. She saw the humiliation as our payback for being mean. She was spared the embarrassment because she was married.

  Liza and Dannie both knew I planned to be the next, but no bouquet was going to make it happen any faster, especially in light of the mess I seemed to have gotten myself into with Paul. Glaring at Dannie, I stayed put. Paul asked 'Don't you want to get married?' It wasn't a proposal, of course, but I wasn't sure if he meant ever, or if he meant next, or to him, or what. I was more confused than I'd been an hour before, and that was something.

  Then it was time to throw the garter. Crusher was a little over-enthusiastic: he struggled to hold the mike and have a chance at catching at the same time. George attempted to take the floor, but Dannie swiftly pulled him back into his seat as we laughed. Both Luke and Paul joined in the rumble to catch the garter, but neither was lucky; Liza and I were relieved.

  We formed a guard of honour as Bianca and Ben left for their honeymoon, but I could only think about getting back to our hotel so I could talk to Paul. I wasn't quite sure why, but I felt the need to apologise. We were all well over the limit, so we got a cab. Paul and I didn't speak or touch at all, sitting in the back seat. I don't know if Liza and Luke could tell – they were both comatose.

  Back in our room, Perfect Paul hung his suit up properly and then had a shower. By the time he came to bed, I was two-thirds asleep. He gave me a peck on the forehead.

  'Good night, princess.'

  ***

  Morning brought seediness and sunshine.

  'Do we need to talk?' I said hopefully.

  Paul just held me, gave me his Colgate smile, and said 'Later', as he went to kiss my knees. Who was I to argue? At ten-thirty our phone rang. Luke and Liza were waiting in the foyer. Dannie and George had already left to pick up the kids.

  All was as it should be in the world of Perfect Paul and Princess Alice as we cruised along the motorway back to the eastern suburbs and civilisation. None of us could wait to get to the coast, as the overcast day was proving anything but cool. Liza and I talked again about the prospect of the four of us taking a holiday to the Pacific at some stage. We'd both been to Fiji and had worn the islands out over there, so we tossed up between the Cook Islands or Samoa.

  Paul finally joined in the discussion. 'I don't have a passport.'

  'That's a cinch, only takes a couple of weeks to organise. You should do it anyway, in case we want to go somewhere on the spur of the moment.' Paul still looked concerned, but things seemed to be okay again. I'd just have to workshop his fear of flying.

  We dropped Liza and Luke at Bondi and headed back to my place, then on to Coogee Beach, where we spent the afternoon, the sun streaming down and the alcohol gradually seeping out of our pores. Just before dark, Paul suggested a drink at the Coogee Bay. I was surprised; he knew it wasn't one of my favourite hangs. There were too many backpackers, and the number of brawls there had been growing in recent months too, but I wanted to please my man any way I could, so I just said, 'Sure.' Getting to my feet, I started to brush the sand from my legs.

  ***

  ''Ullo love, wanna drink?' The half-pissed Pommy backpacker's accent got my back up straight away.

  'No thanks. My boyfriend's getting me one.' Where the hell was Paul? In fifteen minutes I'd been approached four times. It was never that way when I was single, I thought, and I set off through the beer garden looking for him.

  'Here she is.' Paul put his arm around my waist and handed me a lukewarm drink.

  'I thought you must be queuing to get served.' Why had he left me standing like an idiot for fifteen minutes?

  'Oh no, I just bumped into an old mate of mine. This is Cropper.' His tattooed and bearded mate didn't look like a mate at all, more like a crony. Given a choice, I'd have preferred the backpacker who'd just pinched my arse to Cropper, but I was polite.

  'Hi. So how do you know each other?' I always liked to know someone's context; where they fit into other people's worlds. Especially now that Paul's world was mine as well.

  'Just around,' Cropper mumbled evasively, and took another sip of his schooner, looking away.

  'Where around?' He didn't look at all like the type of character Paul would normally hang out with.

  'Your woman asks a lot of questions, Pumper.'

  'Pumper? What the hell kind of name is that, Pauly?' Paul pinched my waist slightly, laughing nervously.

  Cropper stood up. 'I'll get us another beer, Paauully. Would the little woman like something?'

  'No thanks, I'm off.' I was pissed off, but I was trying hard to be the understanding girlfriend, conscious of the fact that I hadn't actually been a girlfriend for some time. I kissed Paul quickly. 'Why don't you stay and have a drink with your mate, and come up when you're ready?'

  ***

  At ten, Paul stumbled in my door absolutely rotten. I let him sleep where he fell on the lounge, a bit disturbed that my Perfect Paul had changed so much in the last twenty-four hours. Then I reminded myself that he looked after me when I'd had too much to drink. I gently put a blanket over him and kissed his forehead before going back to bed.

  twenty-three

  I've got a valentine!

  I'd been looking forward to Valentine's Day for weeks, ignoring all the cynics who say it's nothing more than a commercial scam to sell flowers, chocolates and tasteless red underwear. I've always admitted that I'm an ad exec's dream audience when scouting the lingerie outlets in Double Bay arming myself with the sexiest underwear I could buy. This year I made a special trip. I bought a black chemise and dusky-pink bra with matching French knickers (red is so tacky and obvious for Valentine's Day). I didn't concern myself with comfort, as they weren't meant to stay on too long anyway.

  At home I did a fashion parade for myself. I lit some candles, pulled the shades and struck a few practice poses to see which were the most flattering. There were only three out of about fifteen that did any real justice to my curves. These would be the ones I'd use with Paul.

  This year would be perfect. Not like last year, when I'd had no-one to buy lingerie or pose for. Last year had been awful. I'd been feeling depressed and unloved, and took a rare sickie from work, not wanting to see all the obscenely huge bunches of roses I'd imagined being delivered to the staff room. ('Yeah, right,' Mickey had snorted. 'For this lot?') Mum was having dinner at the RSL with Dad, and asked me along, but I'd decided to stay in with Norah Jones, a block of chocolate and a bottle of Moët. By eight pm I'd been convinced the whole Valentine's Day thing was a plot by happily married marketing executives to make usually happy single women feel bad, so that they'd go and spend lots of money to make themselves feel better.

  This year I had decided to treat myself. On February 13, I took myself to the Korean Bathhouse in Kings Cross for some pampering. It
was my first time there. I spent three hours bathing, steaming in the sauna and being scrubbed, massaged and shiatsu-ed. It took me some time to get used to it, but once I had, I never wanted this indulgence to end. I lay naked on a vinyl massage table as a Korean lady scrubbed every inch of my body with her tiny hands. From the tips of my toes right to the backs of my ears, she didn't miss an inch, or a millimetre for that matter. I had to strain not to pull a face as she scissored my legs apart and scrubbed between my thighs, lifted my breasts and scoured my butt. My mother would definitely have regarded it as a lesbian act, so I vowed never to tell her about it.

  Later I sat in the ginseng bath and scanned the room, hoping that no-one would notice I was checking them out. I was relieved to find that I wasn't that different to other women. I realised how hairless I was, though, and also noted that many of the other women there had incredibly small breasts. I actually began to feel quite good about being a DD myself. I compared stretch marks and cellulite and realised I was doing all right for a woman my age. My self-esteem didn't rise, but it didn't plummet either, so all in all I thought it was a valuable pre-Valentine's gift to myself.

  ***

  I woke on Valentine's Day to the sound of the surf and started the day by pounding the pavement up Arden Street towards South Coogee. The morning sun kissed my cheeks and shoulders as I walked east to the headland, down along the beachfront and up to the Ladies' Baths. The air was full of the chatter of old women excited about their early morning dip. I breathed in the sea tang and filled my lungs with the peace I only ever found when I was at home in Coogee. My mantra was: I am surrounded by love, and I am loved.

  I turned back, walked past Barzura to see if there was anyone in there I knew, then headed home, wondering if there might be flowers from Paul waiting for me. There weren't, but I wasn't worried – there was plenty of time yet.

  Sweat dripped down my spine as I took the steps to my front door two at a time, stripping off the minute it closed behind me. As I lathered myself in the shower, aware of how clean my skin felt after the scrub the night before, I heard the familiar beep of my mobile and knew that a text message was coming through. It was only seven-thirty, a little early for messages. I hadn't dried myself completely when it went off again. My heart jumped in anticipation, but they were only messages from Dannie, hoping I'd text her back, because she didn't think George would get her anything. George was a bloke's bloke, but he sometimes showed up with roses from fashionable Oxford Street florists. Dannie was proud that her man, although he rarely bought flowers, made sure they never came from a bucket at the mixed-business shop down the corner. Another message arrived, this time from Mickey, just to tease me.

  I replied to both and then sent a couple messages to those I thought would appreciate the beep of their own phones, including Paul. He sent one back:

  Happy Valentine's Day, Princess

  Then I heard the sound of the postie's bike, surprisingly early, and squashed my face against the window. I should have just opened it and saved myself the job of cleaning the smudge afterwards. Peering desperately down on Arden Street, I saw him flying down the other side of the road, delivering post to the shops. I figured by the time I got downstairs, he'd likely have already done my block of flats.

  He was still there when I arrived at my letterbox. He'd brought me only my phone bill, my rates bill and a real estate agent's flyer saying 'We have buyers in your area.' Nothing from Paul. I looked at the bills and commented to the postie, 'Bill, the only reliable man in my life!' He laughed and said, 'Well he must be gay, and he's two-timing you, 'cos he's in my life as well.'

  My feet were heavier going upstairs than they had been coming down; it was time to go to school.

  Driving to work it was obvious what day it was: bouquets of flowers were travelling through crowds, workmen covered in dust carried long-stemmed roses for their wives, and schoolboys and girls hugged stuff ed toys. It made me smile. Jewellery shops seemed to be busier than usual, with couples shopping for engagement rings. I looked at my own fingers. Soon I'd have an engagement ring. I was sure of it.

  I blamed Mum for my obsession with Valentine's Day. Ever since I could remember, she had always given Dad something: a card, chocolates, a cake. I used to buy gifts for Dad to give to my mother when I was in school. I'd meet him at the gate, arm him with his romantic weaponry and send him inside to his valentine. When I left school, he suddenly started buying the roses himself, stuff ed toys, a plant. Even cards. He never wrote on them, though, just left them in the paper bag from the newsagent. It was about the effort he'd made to buy it. Mum knew that. In more recent years, he'd started taking her to the RSL for dinner as well. That was the joy of growing old with someone.

  Mum always gave Arnie, Dillon and I a Valentine's Day surprise as well. We all knew they came from her, but there'd be a parcel on the table from a secret admirer for each of us. It was really cute – until I was twenty-one and she was still doing it. Then one year it just stopped, but the damage was already done. I was an addict.

  This year I had Paul, so I didn't need to worry. Mum and Dad didn't need to invite me to the RSL for dinner. I didn't need to take a day off work or buy my own flowers or champagne. It was all taken care of and I was anxiety free.

  ***

  At school many of the senior girls had boyfriends, so there were red hearts, teddy bears and a few flowers in the room. I thought I'd lighten the history lesson up and see how much the girls actually knew about Valentine's Day.

  'I see some of you are into the international day of love, and a few of you are even lucky enough to have received gifts. Does anyone know how or where the first Valentine's Day happened?' I turned to write 'Valentine's Day' on the board.

  'Someone told me it's named after a woman named Val and a guy nicknamed Tiny and they were so in love, their village – probably in France somewhere, because the French are the most romantic – declared a Val and Tiny Day, which became Valentine's Day!' one student sung out, only to be mocked and jeered by the other girls. 'It's just a theory,' she responded.

  'Well, you're not completely off base – there is some French involved.' I looked around the room at the class. They were interested, but no light bulbs were going on above heads. I could see they'd need some help. 'Anyone want to have another guess?' One hand slowly crept up.

  'Yes, Clair?'

  'I know there's a Saint Valentine – has it got something to do with him?'

  'Actually, yes. Valentine was a priest in Roman times. He died on 14 February 269 AD, after being jailed by the Emperor Claudius. The priest apparently left a note to his jailer's daughter and signed it "from your Valentine". Some say that Pope Gelasius set aside the day Saint Valentine died, Februrary 14, as a day to honour him, and called it Saint Valentine's day.' I was writing the main points on the board.

  'But where did the love and romance come into it, Miss?'

  'Good question, and yes, this is where the French are involved. Charles, a Duke of Orleans, was taken prisoner by the English, and from his cell in the Tower of London he sent a love poem to his wife on 14 February 1416. And so it became known as the day for sending romantic verse to the one you loved. Saint Valentine then became the patron saint of lovers.' There was a warm sigh throughout the classroom.

  'There are other theories and stories behind where the day came from and how it has evolved over the centuries.' Some of the girls were looking out the window; following their glance, I saw a massive bouquet of roses travelling across the playground to the school's administration office.

  'Now, for the rest of this class, I want you to go to the library and do some research, and for Friday's class I want you to bring five hundred words on the history of Valentine's Day. Be conscious of your sources and don't rely too heavily on internet research. You can use the media as well – I'm sure there'll be articles in today's papers.'

  The girls all got up quickly, grateful for a lighthearted assignment. It was a change from the Cold War or the rise of Nazism.<
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  When the girls had gone to the library I headed straight for the canteen, oddly hungry for midmorning. I grabbed an apple and mineral water and went to my office, where the huge bunch of roses we'd all seen in the playground was waiting on my desk. They looked a little out of place with the NAIDOC posters on the wall and the Aboriginal flag draped on the door as a claim of place. The pretty and the political didn't seem to blend well, but there was no reason why they shouldn't. Paul had gone to the trouble of organising roses. He thought – knew – I was worth the effort. I read the card out loud: