Just As You Are

by Kate Mathieson

  ‘Aha.’ She nodded politely. I couldn’t tell if that had been a win, or if I was just blathering. Because I knew the truth of it. I was blathering. ‘So, you can angle anything so I want to buy it? How?’ She looked around. ‘Make me want something in this room. Really sell it to me.’

  I felt like fainting. Sell a pink room? I thought about what a real estate agent would say. What an interior designer might mention. The carpet looked expensive. The chandelier above us almost magical. The chaise was nice. But nice wouldn’t sell a thing. I moved my bag, which was behind me, to the side, where it leaned against my leg. I took my jacket off and folded it on top of my bag and then smiled at Donna.

  I stood and asked her to step outside. I waited for her to stand too. She looked taken off guard.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  I opened the door and let her out first, wondering if my idea would work. Would I be sent from the building and told never to return? Either way, I thought this was make or break. Do or die. I’d have to wing it.

  I closed the door behind us and stood there like an unsure bouncer. Except, I wasn’t very mean. Donna had her eyebrows raised, and her dainty nose slightly flared, as though she’d just smelt my cheap Kmart underwear. We were both standing uncomfortably in the plush black (real black) corridor. I cleared my throat.

  ‘So, Donna, what you don’t know is that when I was in there, I left something behind my chair I think you’d really like. Did you see it? You probably didn’t. I was quick. It was while we were chatting about the coffee.’

  ‘So that coffee talk was a cover?’ Her eyes squinted with the hint of a smile; she seemed interested.

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t. It wasn’t a cover at all.

  ‘But the only way you get to go inside the, um, black room, and find what I’ve left for you, is if you know the password.’

  ‘Password?’ Her eyebrows rose.

  ‘Yes, password.’ I had no password. I had nothing. I was making this up as I went along.

  She stood for a while, thinking. I was sweating under my arms, and into my bra, and I’m sure a little rivulet ran down my leg, which seemed to come from my general bottom area.

  ‘Was there a clue?’

  ‘Yes.’ No. There was no clue. I had done nothing. Left no clue.

  ‘Lifestyle?’ she asked.

  I shook my head and did a laugh, as if to say, Oh, Donna, really?

  ‘Well, I just don’t know.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘But I’m quite intrigued.’

  ‘So, you want to know what’s inside the room?’ I asked.

  She laughed more persuasively this time. ‘Well, yes, I do.’

  ‘And you’d want to buy your way in, to see what I’d left in there for you?’

  She laughed again. ‘I would!’

  ‘Excuse me for a second.’ I held up my hand to her, quickly opened the door, stepped into the queasy pink room and closed the door immediately in her face. I waited two seconds – long enough for her to think I was actually doing something – then grabbed my bag and opened the door.

  ‘Well, Donna, it’s back with me now. But if you can work out the password, give me a call, and I’ll bring it back for you.’

  I held out my hand to shake hers. I was leaving. I was leaving the Goddamn interview. And hopefully this little stunt would set me apart from all the other ‘sell me this room’ descriptions she’d had to live through.

  Her mouth was slightly agape as she shook my hand.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ I called cheerfully as I turned and walked down the corridor. ‘Thanks again!’

  When I turned the corner, she was still standing outside the door to that ironic black-pink room, her head slightly cocked to the side, perhaps still trying to figure it all out.

  As I rode the lift back down to ground level, I knew I had either won myself a position at Maker or I had just made the absolute biggest fool of myself and would never work in PR again.

  Chapter 7

  After that interview I needed a night out. With lots of wine. I called everyone and demanded they come to the pub. They all said they would love to, but just couldn’t because of kids, or burning dinners on the stove, or having piles of laundry to get through. Maggie was exhausted and on kid bathing and bedtime duty, Tansy and Brie were fighting off uncontrollable gastro (I didn’t need the details) and Amy was having an argument with Brad, her fiancé, over what type of candles to have at the wedding. I wanted to text, there’s more than one type? Then thought it would only add fuel to the fiancé fire, and deleted it.

  I tried friends I hadn’t spoken to in ages. I went on a Facebook binge and group emailed long-lost friends I hadn’t spoken to in years, suggesting we start the night off with a round of shots – I even offered to buy us all tequila, or whisky or fluffy bunnies or whatever people’s drink of choice was. No luck. Everyone was with partners, and kids, and sick kids, and broken dishwashers, or on the couch in sweats and not moving after hideously long days. I couldn’t blame them. But was this what life was like now?

  Since arriving back in Sydney, I’d begun to realise that when I asked any of my friends to go for a coffee, they all had to check with the husband/lover/partner/nanny /babysitter/parents-in-law/dog/cat/dusty shelf-top before they could commit. Brunch was another story. So were drinks and dinner. I needed to schedule that in their diaries at least three months in advance, as if I were booking in to see a ridiculously popular hairdresser.

  Finally, I popped open a bottle of wine and decided instead to stay in and watch The Proposal. Like always, it made me want Ryan Reynolds to secretly fall in love with me rather than Sandra Bullock. After the movie, and half a bottle of wine, it was only 8 p.m. and too early for bed. All my friends were busy, they had lives, and I was laying on my bed, in my pajamas, in my parents’ house, and I realised – this is not what most thirty-four-year-olds are doing. For a second, I felt a pang of regret wash over me. I regretted going overseas, I regretted not marrying Murray, I regretted leaving for so long – for what? For some travel and living in a house crammed with other expats in London. I could have been back here, working on my career, stepping up the ladder, finding a husband like all my friends.

  All these thoughts were running around my mind, and truthfully, I felt a bit lonely. And a bit blue. I suddenly craved to talk to someone, but the last thing I felt like doing was putting on some clothes and going out to a bar or a restaurant by myself. And before I could think better of it, I downloaded an online dating app on my phone, you know, just to see what it was like.

  I shouldn’t do this, I thought. But despite my trepidation, I found myself clicking yes, I’d like to confirm my profile. I uploaded my main photo – tanned and happy, I’m standing on the balcony of a Monaco hotel, my arms in the air, a large grin on my face. My normally light brown hair is long and highlighted blonde by the summer sun, pulled into a large messy bun. My green eyes are happy, bright. My legs look almost muscular underneath a blue sundress, rather than stocky and a bit wobbly, like they actually are. And just like that, in a few easy clicks, I was officially online.

  Let the games begin.

  In one hour and another half a bottle of wine, I had ten ‘kisses’ in my inbox. I’m not sure if this was a normal number. Should I be expecting more? This meant one man every six minutes had been ‘kissing’ me. And when you put it like that, I’d been quite a busy girl.

  I scanned the catalogue of men within the parameters I’d set. Age thirty-three to forty. Distance under 50km. Must have a photo. And the photos were interesting. I was seeing quite a lot of men without shirts. A lot of girls would like this. I’m not sure if I did. I’m not repelled by the six-pack, by all means, well done to you dedicated souls out there that have a set. That means plenty of non-fat whatever and stomach crunches. Or perhaps just really lucky genes. And muscles are definitely a thumbs-up attribute on a guy. I’m definitely not going to say well well, you have a six-pack? A six-pack? It’s over. But, I could only imagine our conv
ersations would be solely about how many reps they did at the gym that morning and what they can do with tuna – tuna salad, tuna bake, tuna in omelettes, tuna in cottage cheese.

  And I did feel a little strange knowing these guys waxed their chests before I even knew their real names. Speaking of names there were some interesting choices; CaringGuy, SweetGuy, LookingforLove, FunlovingMan etc. There’s also the six-pack guys Hot4U, CheekyBoi, FixitMan and FunTimez. This seemed to leave little choice for the newest members who had to get a little more creative to pick a unique name. One example went something like ‘xxoohxxooh’ which made me feel like I was either watching Gossip Girl or overhearing a budget X-rated flick.

  And suddenly these men were landing in my inbox, ‘kissing’ me, and then making some very unusual offers.

  36yo man led with this, I’m a guy with a tiny heart.

  Probably not your best selling point. Maybe you should be sharing this with your cardiologist instead?

  40yo divorced guy emailed to tell me, I’m naughty. Very naughty.

  De-friend. Block. Reject. Hide under my mattress.

  45yo Italian guy ‘kissed’ me and I dutifully accepted his offer to take it to the ‘next level’ with an email.

  Do you like ital pizza? That was his entire email to me, no hello, or goodbye or anything else.

  Me: Hey there, Yes I do like Italian pizza—actually it’s one of my favourite foods. I love Italian coffee too—actually all coffee really. Especially at 7am in the morning when I’m struggling into work. Do you live or work in the city?

  Him: You should come for ital pizza. norton st.

  Me: I actually live on the north shore so not really out norton street way all that much. Perhaps we could grab a coffee halfway instead? Have you always lived in Australia?

  Him: I from Aus. come to ital pizza.

  I was beginning to think I was part of an advertising campaign for Norton Street. On the other hand, he clearly thought I was from the immigration department enquiring about his living status and his strongly confirming he was from Australia – except without the use of helping verbs.

  All the other men had written ‘Hi’. And that was it. Nothing else, just ‘Hi’. I responded ‘Hi’. And they replied ‘Hello’. It seemed this online dating bar was set low, very very low.

  The last ‘kiss’ in my inbox was from SnakeGuy, who managed to write a whole six sentences, about himself and seemed coherent and intelligent. He also referenced a book I liked, and given the low bar already set, this almost swept me off my feet. Jeez, this is what online romance looks like.

  I said that I was happy to hear from him and I’m glad he liked Booky Wook. Wasn’t Russell Brand just the best?

  SnakeGuy wrote back within minutes and asked to add me on Facebook – was this part of the dating ritual now? I cautiously accepted. And when I did, I found out he hailed from England and liked snakes. Actually loved them. According to his frequent status updates, he currently had eight snakes in his house that liked to ‘roam around’.

  Now, I adore animals and even extend my love to all things reptilian, but the thought of them dropping from curtains into my hair, coiling up from the inside of a toilet bowl towards my … erm – well it makes me feel like nervously piddling on the floor.

  Snake Guy ‘liked’ eighteen of my photos in two minutes after we ‘friended’ online. He then asked me out for dinner. I replied and downgraded dinner to coffee (in case he bought a snake and I needed a quick getaway). He didn’t reply. Ten minutes later he ‘liked’ another ten or so of my photos, then emailed ‘How about that coffee?’

  I replied, ‘Sure sounds great. When were you thinking?’

  I took the chance to open up a second bottle of wine, even though I shouldn’t. I did. While I was mid-pour SnakeGuy sent me a Facebook message. Hurrah! I excitedly opened it.

  He’d written: what’s your best kiss and your favourite sex position? Send me a pic of your hot self. You’re gorgeous.

  Oh God. Snakeguy. I felt deflated. He seemed to have potential and now this.

  Even though I didn’t want to remember, my brain flicked through my memories back to my best kiss – Nick. Kissing him had been so easy. Oh Nick, why did you give me the wrong number? Did you really like me? Was that the only lie you told me? Was everything else a lie too?

  Ugh, men. I thought. They promised things, said things to get what they wanted. And then they didn’t follow through, or they gave you wrong numbers or asked you to send hot pics. And worse still, they got away with it, because some of us ladies were too worried about coming off bitchy, or needy, or desperate – or any of the labels they used to make us feel unsure about things we should rightly have feelings about. And I was feeling a little off about this last email, so I thought I should actually reply to SnakeGuy. I downed my entire glass of wine, before replying.

  Dear Snake Guy, playing with snakes on the loose is a bit weird. But I can work with that. What I can’t work with is you asking me out several times for the never-occurring coffee. We’re not planning to get a mortgage together, just a little cup of hot brown liquid. You either do want to or you don’t, and frankly after all your multiple likings of my photos and asking me my favourite sex position or to send a hot pic (please), I don’t.

  p.s. snakes are not cuddly. Buy a dog.

  p.p.s. unfriend

  Maybe I hadn’t given it a proper go, but it seemed there were weirdos out there, and I didn’t want them turning up in my inbox, so I deleted my dating profile and wiped the app permanently from my phone. And then poured myself another wine and decided to watch Ten Things I Hate About You.

  Chapter 8

  Donna called at the very early hour of eleven the next day.

  ‘I’m still intrigued!’ she purred down the phone.

  I’m still drunk, I thought, sitting up so quickly in bed, all the blood rushed to my feet and I felt woozy. My tongue was thick and my entire mouth tasted of wine.

  ‘Emma, we’d normally have a few more chats in the process, but I have to say you really impressed me. I’ve been thinking about what was in the room and the password all this time. Now that you’ve got the job, are you going to reveal it?’

  I got the job? I GOT THE JOB?

  ‘Sorry, Donna,’ I heard drunk me saying, ‘but rules are rules. If you ever do figure out the password though, let me know.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Well, I just know you’re going to be perfect for the role. For our team. You start in two weeks and I’ll have the recruitment team have your contract shipped to your address this afternoon.’

  ‘Great,’ I said with a thick tongue.

  ‘Welcome to Maker, Emma.’ After she hung up, it took me a minute to realise what had happened.

  I had a grin plastered on my face, but then I felt sick. Really sick. As if I’d spent the night shucking and gobbling off oysters-sick, and everything hurt. I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  Knowing I needed something to fill my stomach pronto, I went into the kitchen to have a dry piece of toast. As I was eating it, I shoved a fizzy Panadol in water, gulped it down and thought about my list. Number one – get job – had been successful. I should feel happy, but I felt a little guilty too.

  I called Tansy.

  ‘I got it!’

  ‘Oh Em! That’s brilliant!’

  ‘I’m a little nervous, actually a lot. I think I need to do a crash course in PR or something.’

  ‘What a great idea – there are heaps of online courses you could do.’ Tansy was always so supportive.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’ I said starting to feel a little better about the role. ‘And I need some new clothes on a very tight budget.’ There was no way Donna or the rest of Maker would accept me coming into work in my cheaper-style work attire I’d bought exclusively at Primark in the UK: five pounds for a pair of trousers? Amazing! And just a tenner for a faux silk shirt! My UK employers hadn’t worried at all that my cheap polyester knit top had made me sweat more than it sh
ould, as long as I was filing and sending emails. But I knew Maker was a different story.

  Dad walked in the door from mowing and gardening and started washing his hands in the sink as Mum appeared, in the same instant, in the corridor.

  ‘Ted! She’s here!’ before looking at me and declaring, ‘We have somewhere to be.’

  ‘We do?’ I asked them both tentatively, hoping Mum wasn’t trying to get us to the gym or, even worse, CrossFit.

  She held up a pair of keys.

  ‘We’re going for a drive?’ I guessed.

  She shook her head. ‘Try again.’

  ‘You’ve bought me a palace and I’m emigrating to Liechtenstein.’

  ‘No, but close.’

  ‘That’s close?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘Well, close enough. Keep guessing. Keep guessing,’ she said excitedly, using this as her new mantra, rather than ‘High knees’.

  I laughed. ‘Mum. Just tell me.’

  ‘You have a new place. All your things are in the car, and we’re going there right now.’

  ‘How can I …? What new place …? What?’

  Mum held up the keys even higher as though she’d just won the Mum of the Year trophy. ‘You’re going to be living in your new place tonight!’

  Forty minutes later, I was astonished to find myself standing in my new ground-floor apartment in Marrickville, a trendy inner west suburb. My new apartment was a small studio, emphasis on the small. My double bed against one wall, it had room at the other end for a small seating area, and a galley kitchen with two stools made an intimate breakfast-bar area. The storage was next to nothing, but at least there was a wardrobe next to the bed (preventing me from ever getting out of the bed on one side) where I could hang all my new work clothes. The bathroom was long and thin, with a shower, and a large cracked window that made the wind howl as it blew.

  Turns out that whilst I’d been sleeping, Mum had been talking down at the local pool about needing to ship me out of the house. A lady had overheard her (which mustn’t have been hard, considering Mum was born with a megaphone lodged in her throat), and had offered her son’s place whilst he was overseas for the next year. Mum had taken the keys in a second this morning at the pool, without even seeing the place.