Not Meeting Mr Right Page 26
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.
Acknowledgements
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!