Not Meeting Mr Right Read online

  'Actually ladies, I think we can do something with this.' She tore off a few more sheets of paper, preparing to be scribe again. 'Peta, why don't you come up with the threats and weaknesses, and Dannie can do the strengths and opportunities.'

  Peta didn't need prompting. 'Well isn't it obvious, Alice? The threats are to your independence, individ- uality, disposable income and ability to party. Dare I say it, a threat to the depth of your friendship with other singles.' She ran through this spiel like a well-rehearsed script. 'Haven't heard you mention Bianca for a while, come to think of it. Now why would that be? My bet is that it's because she's getting married and her whole social calendar has changed – no single friends in sight, eh?'

  Dannie wasn't fazed at all. She was married, and managed to maintain her friendships, so she didn't think Peta's remarks warranted rebuttal.

  'The opportunities far outweigh the threats,' she said. 'You'll have opportunities to love and grow and be enriched by a partnership with someone who shares your beliefs and opinions. That's something too great to deny yourself, Alice. And meeting Mr Right will also provide you with the opportunity to have children. Little images of yourself.'

  'Yeah, needy, reliant little images of yourself,' Peta mumbled into her glass. She'd once told me she never, ever, ever wanted to have kids. 'The world's overpopulated,' was all she'd said.

  'Look Alice, I know you've always wanted to have little brown kids, as you call them.' Dannie was right. Who didn't want to see themselves reborn in another little human being? That's why people bred, wasn't it? I also wanted someone to look after me when I was old and sick. I didn't mind going into a retirement village and playing bridge and bingo, but I sure as hell wanted to have visitors. Yes, meeting Mr Right would be the best way to ensure that I'd be taken care of in my old age. Perhaps that's what having children was really about.

  'Now the weaknesses,' said Peta. 'You'll become reliant on someone else to do all the things you do for yourself now.' I wasn't convinced – quite the opposite. I had already started thinking about how nice it would be to have someone else put my garbage bins out for me – the one thing I really hated doing as a single girl. In fact, there were several things I had to do for myself that I'd be happy to have a man take care of.

  Dannie's response was calm: 'And the strengths, Alice, are that you'll meet your soul mate, share your life, have unconditional love and support.'

  Unconditional love and support. That was the deal breaker for me. Dannie had found the missing elements in my life. I wanted both of them bestowed upon me, even though I had always doubted my own ability to give unconditional love in return. Perhaps it would be easy to reciprocate once Mr Right showed me how it was done. Yes, meeting Mr Right could even help me grow as a person, and so it became even more important, and urgent, to make a firm commitment to the strategy.

  In true peacemaking style, Liza called the exercise a tie at three am, even though we all knew that the strengths and opportunities we'd discussed far outweighed the weaknesses and threats. Dannie had to get home because the kids would be up at seven looking for breakfast and cartoons. Peta had a draft policy to read and a plane to catch the next day for a department meeting in Canberra, and Liza had to prepare for a hearing on Monday morning. I needed to process all that had happened that night and find time to mark essays as well.

  Finally in bed, my head pounding, but only lightly, I considered what my Mr Right might be like. It was my dream, so I made him drop-dead gorgeous, and as he began to undress me, he grew even sexier. I went to sleep smiling: I would soon implement my strategy for meeting Mr Right.

  three

  Feng shui-ing Mr Right

  I rose with a hangover and stumbled and groaned my way to the kitchen, but after an orange juice and some coffee, the seediness subsided. I contemplated the lists on my fridge and felt inspired. Today was the first day of my soon-to-be-Mrs-Right life, and I was keen to swing into action. The first strategy on my list was feng shui-ing my flat, and I decided to start straight away.

  I'd recently cut an article on feng shui out of the local paper, and following its instructions, I completely rearranged my bedroom, rotating my bed to face my south-west 'love corner'. I also decided to replace two of the mirror doors on my wardrobe with frosted glass. In feng shui, pairs are auspicious, representing couples, but this wasn't really about feng shui –I just didn't want to roll over in bed anymore and see my naked reflection. I kept one mirrored-door for future use, though.

  Calling my father in to help wasn't originally part of my plan for the morning, or his for that matter. As fathers do, though, he came to my assistance. He always did. He often replaced light globes for me, fixed leaking taps, hung pictures and screwed, nailed and hammered things when needed. He was the reason that I hadn't really noticed not having a man around. I was a feminist, but I was also quite comfortable with not having to swing a hammer or turn a screwdriver. I knew what I was good at, and it wasn't home maintenance.

  He seemed puzzled today. 'Why fix something that isn't broken, Alice? There's nothing wrong with these doors.' How could I possibly explain to my father the self-nudity thing, and that the two new doors were supposed to symbolise a couple? He simply wouldn't get it. Nor would he have cared, I'm sure. My dad is from the old school. Man meets woman, man courts woman, man marries woman, man supports woman and they live happily ever after. Just like him and Mum. They were both outcasts when they met in the 1960s. Mum was a Koori from the country, not even a citizen in her own land, and Dad, a migrant from Austria, was simply a 'wog' to just about everyone he met, but to each other, they were immediately the world. Their love knew no racial or class barriers. They were married in their early twenties and were still happy after nearly thirty years together. Dad still brushed Mum's hair when they got up every morning, and she still had his meal on the table at the same time every night. They were complete opposites, and both Scorpios (Aria would not have approved!), but they were bound by shared notions of respect and family and hard work. Their relationship was my benchmark; was it any wonder I'd been avoiding commitment by dating losers and long shots? My marital bar was unbelievably high because of them.

  My dad believed there were certain ways to do things. The way he did things. The way he and Mum did things. They expected my brothers and me to meet someone, fall in love, get married, just as they had, and they would expect the same of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was the natural course of events – in my dad's world anyway.

  I might subscribe to Dad's happily-ever-after approach if I actually met someone who loved me the way that Dad loved Mum. Until then, I was happy to have him do all the 'boy jobs' around my flat; I only wished he lived next door so he could put my bins out as well.

  After Dad had gone home, I spent the rest of the day creating a feng shui love and romance shrine in the south-west corner of my lounge room. At first it posed a problem: my TV currently sat in the same corner that, by feng shui law, should bring me love and romance. Unfortunately, it was the only place in my flat where I got decent reception. I did a Liza, and tried to analyse the situation dispassionately. What was more important to me: watching another series of The West Wing alone, or finding love? Somewhat reluctantly, I relocated the TV and replaced it with red candles and paper lanterns, as prescribed by my newspaper clipping. The love corner was a must if I wanted lasting romance and love-related happiness. My TV-related happiness from now on would just have to take second place – and another corner.

  In the late afternoon, I went to the florist on Coogee Bay Road and bought two matching bonsai plants in terracotta pots and brought them home. Then I dug out two ceramic painted tiles – red and black, with matching calligraphic designs – that I'd bought at a garage sale around the corner three months before. I hung them one on each wall in the love corner. Two of everything symbolised the coupledom I knew I would soon enjoy. Perhaps I should just buy another TV: I could put them both in my south-west love corner as well, and all my happines
s would be realised.

  four

  I'm not a lesbian

  Living in a large block of units, with snowdroppers stealing underwear regularly, I tended to do my washing at Mum and Dad's. Twice a week I'd stop by before school to do a quick wash and hang it out. Sometimes it didn't seem worth it, though; I often came away upset, and fumed all the way to work, if not the entire morning. Without fail, my mother would spend my whole visit following me around, asking me why I didn't have a man. Then she'd try to set me up with an unlikely suitor – like Cliff.

  'Cliff just got back from Venice!' Anyone would've thought Cliff was her own son, she was so pleased he'd returned after three years abroad. Cliff was actually the son of Janet, one of Mum's friends from ceramics class.

  'He's landed himself a great job as a hair colourist. Some salon in Darlinghurst.'

  'That's nice.'

  'You colour your hair, don't you?'

  'I have a hairdresser, Mum.'

  'He lives at Clovelly. Just round the corner from you. That's an omen, don't you think?'

  'I'd say coincidence, Mum.'

  'He's still single too, Alice, and Janet said he hardly dates. Now that's a coincidence. We both think you'd make a lovely couple.'

  Both Mum and Janet were in denial. Cliff was actually gay, and he wasn't dating anyone special because he was a serial slut. I never said anything about it, though. I knew Janet would have been delighted to see us together. I reckon in her heart she knew of his sexual preferences but naively hoped he would grow out of it. Cliff was thirty-three and had never had a girlfriend, so there was little chance of that happening. I was sure Mum knew Cliff was gay, but she just wanted me to get married anyway.

  I thought Cliff was a right-wing fuck-knuckle. He and I had had a number of arguments about our prime minister's concept of the black armband view of history, and his assertion that there was no such thing as generations of stolen children. Cliff was a huge fan of John Howard and his views, and Keith Windschuttle was his favourite historian. Come to think of it, perhaps I should tell Janet he's gay, just to get back at him for his appalling take on Australian history. Mental note to self: save telling Janet about Cliff until real payback is needed.

  Mum had been going on about Cliff for ages, which was why my daily visits had of late trickled down to a couple a week, but I dropped in on my way to work on the Monday following the disastrous school reunion at the Hub.

  'I don't know how much longer I've got, Alice. I'd like to be a grandmother one day, and you are my eldest.'

  'Only by a couple of years, Mum.' My brothers were both younger than me, but not by much: Arnie was twenty-six and Dillon was twenty-four.

  'Don't you worry about being alone?' She followed me around the kitchen as I unpacked some fruit I'd picked up from the fresh food market on Saturday morning.

  I just couldn't bring myself to tell her about my new strategy; she'd want in on all the dates and processes. I simply couldn't have that.

  'I'm not alone – I have you guys, and great friends.'

  'You spend too much time with Liza and Peta. People are going to think you're a lesbian if you don't start spending time with men. Go on dates. What about one with Cliff?'

  'Liza and Peta are the best dates I've ever had, Mum.'

  'I knew it, you are a lesbian, aren't you?' She clasped her head dramatically.

  'I'm not a lesbian, Mum. I actually like my single life and having no-one to worry about, being able to sleep and read when I want to.'

  'Are you sure you're not a lesbian? It seems like everyone's a lesbian these days.' I think Mum just liked saying the word lesbian.

  'Oh for god's sake, I'm not a lesbian, Mum, I'm just saying that it's much easier to hang out with the girls. They're far less work than men – I don't have to try to figure them out or organise them.' My mantra for the day seemed to be I'm not a lesbian, I'm not a lesbian. As much as my mother enjoyed saying the word, I didn't!

  'Well, you'll have to settle down one day, and with a MAN. Look at your brother Dillon – it looks like he and Larissa'll be together forever. As for Arnie, well he's just sowing his wild oats. That's what boys do.'

  I'd lost count of the number of times I'd heard Arnie on the phone to women saying 'Trust me, babe!' He was always breaking innocent hearts, but my mother would never have anything bad said about her sons. It was pointless arguing with her.

  'Yeah, that's what boys do. I wouldn't trust most of them as far as I could throw them. I've got to go to school now, Mum.' I headed for the door, but she called after me.

  'Alice, you know, your father worries about you too. About who will look after you when he's gone, hang your pictures, nail things, fix things. He'd like to see you married too.'

  'I can look after myself,' I shouted back to her, already on my way out.

  'Then why don't you? Why do you get him to help you all the time? He's getting old too, Alice.' What? This was the first time I'd heard anything about Dad's age and me having to fend for myself on the home improvement front. He must have said something after the feng shui effort. There were no secrets between Mum and Dad. They were as tight as nun's knickers.

  Mum was hanging out her bedroom window as I got into the car. 'I can call Cliff if you like.' I pushed my foot hard on the accelerator and drove off, wishing Dillon and Larissa would just get married and take some of the heat off me. Actually, as Dillon was the only source of straight male input into my personal life, I should probably run my new strategy by him at some stage.

  For a young fella, Dillon was pretty wise when it came to matters of the heart. It was not unheard of for me to SMS him the middle of the night to ask for 'boy advice': What does it mean if he said this? How many days should I wait till I call him? Should I call him at all? Why hasn't he called me? Is he going to call me? If not, why not? What's wrong with me? What's wrong with him? And so it went. Dillon always answered my messages, but he didn't hold back if he thought I was being desperate or if I was way off base. If he needed to be blunt with me he would. He wouldn't sugar coat his frustration at my raving or my commitment to finding reasons for dragging out relationships that were obviously over. 'Build a bridge and get over it!' was his favourite response, but more than a few times he'd sent me a text saying: 'You've fucked it up, now it's time to move on.' Nine times out of ten Dillon was correct in the advice he gave me, but I didn't really listen to it, because it was generally the opposite to what I really wanted to do. Perhaps I needed to add 'Heed Dillon's advice when it comes to relating to the opposite sex,' to my list of strategies.

  It wasn't that I didn't want advice or assistance in finding a husband – god knows I needed both. It was just that I hated everyone knowing my business and feeling sorry for me. It made me seem desperate, and I wasn't. I just hadn't been in such a rush before. Having a deadline made it all seem more of a priority than it had been in the past.

  As I drove on, I started thinking about my wedding and considered the options. Mum had always said I could have Archie Roach sing at the reception. I love him singing 'Love in the Morning', probably because I've always preferred making love at dawn. (Then again, I don't mind a bit of afternoon delight either.) Archie rarely performs without Ruby, though, and I didn't know that Mum and Dad could afford to fly them both to Sydney.

  Perhaps an island wedding? The Cooks. Or Fiji. That'd weed out the real friends, wouldn't it? Who'd pay to travel across the Pacific to see me finally get married?

  Or what about a Sydney Harbour wedding down at the Park Hyatt? A celebrant rather than a priest, of course. Mum would really struggle with it, not being in a church and all, but it would be my wedding. I'd wear a tiara rather than veil. Designer dress, not one off the rack. The groom would wear whatever I told him to. A cocktail party would follow, as opposed to sit-down meal. Dillon would MC, but I would write his speech, or at least check it – I was a teacher, after all. I'd have a big heart-shaped chocolate cake, with fresh red roses around the base. We'd spend the night at the Hyatt
and then fly out the next day to honeymoon in Venice or Paris or maybe both. We'd live happily ever after. Yes, it was all planned.

  I was so excited about the plans for my wedding that I needed to share them with one of the girls. My first class that morning wasn't until second period, so I had time to make a quick call. Dannie would be at her kids' school, helping out with reading group, and Peta was in Canberra discussing the future of Indigenous education, but I knew Liza would still be at home with her face in a book or file, so I dialled her number.