Not Meeting Mr Right Page 24

  'Do you think you could climb St Mary's Cathedral in Sydney? Do you think you'd get anywhere near the top of the Vatican? They're a couple of "spiritual experiences" worth climbing for, don't you think? Or do you really respect the Catholic faith?'

  I was over it. I couldn't be bothered re-educating this man at 20,000 feet in the air. I put the headphones on and pretended to watch the movie, an action film with Will Smith I had no interest in whatsoever.

  As we made our descent, the flight attendant came to collect the headphones. I tried not to make eye contact with Mr Pakeha, aiming to get off the plane without any further communication at all.

  'How was the film?' he asked.

  'I wasn't watching it.' He finally understood that I didn't want to speak to him.

  ***

  At the end of day one I sat in the restaurant of my hotel, waiting patiently and quietly to be noticed.

  'Sit in the woods and wait for the timid deer to come eat from your hands, Alice. Be patient and quiet.' These were the final words my father had spoken as he dropped me at the airport that morning. Mum had obviously had a word with him. But 'patient' and 'quiet' had never been adjectives used to describe me.

  It had already been fifteen minutes, how long would it take anyway? While sitting and waiting I became increasingly conscious of my posture, of the way I was drinking my wine, of whether or not my arse was hanging out the back of the chair. It felt as though it was practically touching the ground. I checked discreetly: of course it wasn't. I'd drunk too much.

  With my man-antennae up, it was only seconds before I registered a guy enter the bar attached to the restaurant. I'd seen him earlier at the pool, wearing budgie-smugglers, while I was people-watching from the spa. I liked the elegant dive he did into the pool and the fact he effortlessly swam lap after lap. He was still going long after I'd gone all pruney and decided to head back to my room.

  I was under pressure to order as the waiter approached me for the third time. I was starving, but couldn't make up my mind: should I order a delicate, ladylike salad or the side of beef I really felt like? What if Mr Budgie-Smuggler came into the restaurant and saw me eating half a cow? 'How ridiculous, Alice,' I chastised myself. 'Women should eat whatever they want, not be concerned about what men think of their eating habits.' I'd told my girls at school the same thing in the past, and I'd meant it. Now I settled for a caesar salad with Cajun chicken, knowing I could always order some room service later on and scoff myself stupid in privacy.

  Mr Budgie-Smuggler did in fact head into the restaurant and straight for my table. 'Hi, would you mind if I joined you? The restaurant is full and I don't really want to travel far from the hotel – a bit tired from swimming today. Didn't I see you near the pool in a red swimsuit?' I didn't answer immediately. I was dry in the mouth, but my palms were sweaty. Was he interested in me? I didn't want to get carried away. The restaurant was full, and he had to sit somewhere. But he'd said he remembered seeing me at the pool, was that a clue?

  'Sure, happy for you to join me.' What seemed like ages had passed, but he finally sat.

  His name was Jack. He was a philanthropist from Sydney, living in Bronte (a pleasant coastal walk from my place in Coogee), and was in NZ to help set up a philanthropic foundation of some sort. He had a full head of grey hair and hazel eyes. I gave him my brief biography and he seemed to hang on every word I said.

  Jack was older than me, possibly mid-fifties, ex-wife, three grown-up kids, and travelled the world doing philanthropic deeds like Bruce Wayne. By the end of dinner and two bottles of wine, I didn't know who was putty in whose hands. Jack offered to pay for dinner, and I accepted graciously (and thankfully, as he had ordered the most expensive wine on the menu, the sort of stuff teachers rarely if ever got to drink). As we headed to the lift, I had already gone through my criteria in my head and Mr Budgie-Smuggler had a pretty good strike rate. Lots of ticks, as Mr Yachtie would have said.

  In the lift Jack yawned and stretched. 'I might head to the spa, always helps me sleep better,' he said casually. Was I supposed to take this as a hint and meet him there? I had no idea, until he added, 'What about you? Do you need something to help you sleep better?'

  'Sometimes. I might join you,' I said nonchalantly as I stepped out of the lift. I waited for the doors to close, then ran to my room, desperate to get to the spa before he did so I could position myself to my best advantage. I slipped into my still damp and cold cozies, checked that everything was tucked in where it should be and I had enough cleavage. I threw a dress over the top, pulled my hair up, grabbed a towel and did a fast walk to the lift in as ladylike a fashion as possible.

  He wasn't there when I arrived and I rushed to get into the water and start the bubbles. The water was hot, and so was I, because of all the alcohol. I sat with my back to a jet and shut my eyes, remembering Peta's old saying: 'Low speed is good, medium speed is better, high speed ... who needs a man?'

  'Looks like you're having a great time already.'

  Jack had arrived.

  'You were smiling.'

  'Oh yes, just remembering a story a friend told me.'

  'Want to share it?'

  'Ah, no. It's not really for public consumption.' He eased into the water at a comfortable distance from me. He looked even better in his tight swimmers at close range, and I wondered why a man with so much 'plumbing' didn't wear something more concealing. I'd answered my own question almost before I'd finished asking it.

  We sat in the spa silent for some minutes before I felt his foot on mine, and at first I shied away. St Christina's had clearly had an influence on me. Within seconds, though, I slid my foot on top of his, and then suddenly felt his hands all over me. I was straddling him, the straps coming off my shoulders, his tongue in my mouth, on my neck, on my breasts. I could feel him hard against me and wondered where the hell I was going to put that plumbing. I'd forgotten about my 'No one-night stands or sex on the first date' rules. Sex on holidays didn't really count. Not when no-one else would ever know about it – unless we ended up getting married, which was always possible, wasn't it?

  Putting on a condom in the spa seemed a bit tricky, so we headed upstairs before we reached the point of no return.

  We were barely dry, and laughing like two kids about to shag in their parents' car, when we stepped out of the lift on his floor, the penthouse suite. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but I refused to think of myself as cheap. I simply hadn't had sex since Perfect Paul almost eight months ago, and I wanted to feel desirable again. Jack seemed like a decent guy, apparently not concerned about the obvious age difference, lived in the next suburb back home. In fact, he appeared to be quite perfect for a holiday romance – one that even had the potential to grow into something more permanent once on home turf again. I was trying to give myself 'permission' to do the deed. I needed to have that one night, as Peta had said, before planning a million of them. I was still thinking this as he led me to the shower, big enough to hold twelve people. We got each other into a lather, which helped dilute the unsex reek of chlorine.

  We spent plenty of time in the shower, an added bonus (Sydney had had water restrictions in place for the past few years, and I was always conscious of how much water I used when showering back home). We were both wrinkly when we stumbled dripping wet into the bed.

  Jack flipped me around like some soft porn star – and to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I had no idea people his age had sex like that. I drifted off to sleep only to be woken at irregular intervals during the night for encore performances.

  ***

  'So, what a night!' Jack put my thoughts into words as we sat eating breakfast in his suite. I just nodded and smiled. I was too physically exhausted to speak. I couldn't remember ever feeling that way.

  'I fly to Auckland this afternoon and then to Sydney at the end of the week. Do you want to catch up on the weekend?' Was I hearing things? Was Jack really that charming, organised and capable, a star in bed and asking me out for anothe
r date?

  'That'd be great.' Sitting there looking like crap with nothing but a sheet around me, I suddenly realised that in the rush of getting from the spa to his room, I'd left my dress in the pool area. It was only seven am: I could still make it back to my room without attracting attention. Jack offered to fetch my dress and was back in less than five minutes.

  ***

  The day passed slowly and I savored every minute, walking around the micro-city of Wellington, browsing in clothes shops, spending money in second-hand bookstores, stopping for a coffee or something to nibble when the urge took me. I was content and glowing. I went back to the hotel at three pm to say goodbye to Jack, but he'd already left. There was a message waiting under my door:

  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!'