Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  I laugh. ‘Got time for a chat?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s up?’

  I sit on the edge of her desk. ‘What bank does David work for again?’

  ‘National. Why?’

  ‘I’m just wondering how they’re faring in the financial crisis …’

  Nicola looks thoughtful. ‘I don’t know. David doesn’t talk much about work.’

  ‘What does he talk about?’ I can’t resist teasing her a little.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Still keeping her cards close to her chest …’

  ‘Stop talking about me in the third person!’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Something about the financial crisis?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to David – sound him out about the industry in general.’

  ‘I’m not his keeper,’ Nicola responds tartly. ‘You don’t have to ask my permission.’

  ‘Why are you being so touchy?’ I say, grinning.

  ‘I’m not touchy!’ Snatching a post-it pad from her desk, she writes down some numbers, her handwriting heavy and slanted. ‘Here, work and mobile numbers.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I call David as soon as I get back to my desk. Though he sounds surprised to hear from me, he agrees without too many questions to meet for a coffee later in the week. I put down the phone and jump when I realise Jarrod has been listening in. ‘Jesus! You gave me a fright.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he replies, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Just letting you know that Derek and another Telelink executive are coming in at eleven. I want you to keep a low profile while they’re here.’

  ‘How low?’

  ‘Go out for a while.’

  ‘Okay, if you think that’s necessary.’

  ‘It is.’ He turns to walk away. ‘At least until I get the order in the bag,’ he offers over his shoulder.

  It’s my order. If anyone should be getting it ‘in the bag’, it’s me! Smarting, I begin to type, hitting the keys with unnecessary force, missing some and backspacing to correct the errors. I invested months of groundwork in that deal and now I’m being excluded, being asked to leave the building no less. Anger blurs my vision of the few words I’ve managed to type. Anger with Jarrod and Derek. And, most of all, with myself.

  I sweep mascara along my lashes, leaving a thick black coat, instantly transforming my eyes, making them look bigger, darker, more striking than they really are. Outlining my lips with pencil, I fill them in with cherry-coloured gloss and decide to leave it at that: mascara and lip gloss, jeans and a dark purple cotton top, casual, perfect for a night at the movies and my third date with Matthew.

  The phone rings just as I’m leaving. Pausing, I calculate the time difference, and deduce that it’s possibly my father, sitting upright behind his office desk, fitting in a phone call to his estranged daughter before his official lectures commence for the day. I close the door behind me and descend the stairs, the ringing becoming fainter and fainter until I can no longer hear it.

  Walking along the street outside, I will the calmness of the evening to settle over me, trying not to think about Jarrod and Derek, or about the other matter that’s been occupying my thoughts all day: whether Matthew will kiss me tonight. There’ll be no obvious reason not to – no colleague waiting in the car, no four-year-old nephew tagging along – and this is making me feel irrationally nervous.

  As I approach, I scan the outside of the cinema for his large, distinctive figure. When I don’t immediately locate him, I instantly assume the worst: that he’s stood me up. Just as my heart begins to plummet and everything about my life feels instantly and overwhelmingly hopeless, he emerges from inside the building and waves to catch my attention.

  ‘What’s on?’ My nervousness manifests as a show of briskness.

  ‘I was just checking that,’ he replies and gives a run-down of the films that are showing. ‘What would you like to see?’

  I turn the question back on him. ‘What would you like to see?’ Conscious that I sound even more abrupt than before, I tell myself, firmly, to relax.

  ‘I’d like to see something light. I think I need a laugh.’

  Looking at him more closely, I see lines of weariness on his face. ‘Not a good day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A teenager beaten up for the amusement of other bored teenagers. He’s having brain surgery as we speak, to remove a massive clot, and if he survives the operation it’s quite likely that he’ll be brain damaged.’

  My problems with Jarrod and Derek are swiftly put into perspective. ‘I’m sorry. That’s awful. The poor boy. His poor family.’

  I instinctively reach for Matthew’s hand, but once I have it in mine it doesn’t seem enough and so I hug him instead. We stand there, my cheek pressed against his shoulder, my hands spanning his back as though they’re quite used to hugging him like this, the bustle around us distant and irrelevant.

  ‘Do you want to just give the movie a miss?’

  ‘No.’ He steps back from me. ‘It will take my mind off things.’

  And so we go inside and agree on a romantic comedy. Matthew buys the tickets and I insist on buying drinks, bottled water and the obligatory popcorn.

  The movie is surprisingly good – funny, cynical and satisfyingly unpredictable – and when it’s over and we’re leaving the cinema, I feel like I’ve been away somewhere for an extended time. Outside the calm evening has transformed into an equally serene night.

  ‘Do you want to go for a drink?’ Matthew asks, pausing outside one of the half-empty bars.

  I can see from his face that he’s exhausted and, while the movie has undoubtedly eased some of the stress from his day, I’m sure he’d rather call it a night. Maybe he won’t kiss me after all. Maybe, after such a bad day at work, he’ll deposit me outside my apartment and that will be that.

  ‘No, thanks. You’re clearly very tired – and I’ve an early meeting in the morning.’

  The meeting is with Jarrod: he wants me to talk him through the pricing models for Telelink. Just thinking about it makes me feel angry all over again and I have to make a conscious effort to put it out of my mind. I’m with Matthew now. Is he going to end this date with a kiss? Or is the timing not quite right this time too?

  Matthew holds my hand firmly in his as we leave the main strip behind. The side streets are deserted, it’s just the two of us, our footsteps echoing and our voices hushed and intimate as we chat about our favourite films. It isn’t long before we reach my apartment block and suddenly the conversation ceases. I know then that he will. Kiss me, that is. He looks as nervous as I feel.

  Once again he touches my face with his hand. And again the tenderness of his touch is surprising, totally at odds with the sheer size of his hand, the size of him. He lowers his head and I instinctively tilt mine back. My first impression is that it feels awkward, my neck is strained: he’s too tall for me. As though reading my mind, he sits down on the low retaining wall that borders the front garden and manoeuvres me gently onto his lap. His thighs feel solid and muscular beneath me and I experience a strong physical reaction even before my mouth opens under his. It’s immediately obvious that Matthew Blake is a good kisser. His lips are at once tentative and firm, edging me towards a state of sweet, sharp arousal. His big hands burrow in my hair, encasing my head, and the kiss deepens further. How long it goes on I’m not sure, but when it finally comes to an end we’re both breathing hard.

  ‘I feel like a teenager, pashing in the front garden.’ He smiles, his lips still very close to mine.

  ‘In Ireland we would say “snogging” but I know what you mean!’ My voice comes out husky and disjointed. I sound as though I’ve been well and truly kissed, which I have.

  My apartment is upstairs, tantalisingly close, and I have to stop myself inviting him up. I don’t want to rush things with Matthew. I need to get used to each new stage before I can proceed to the nex
t. I don’t know why I feel like this, but it seems to be intuitive.

  We start to kiss again and once more it builds to a point where I’m hardly aware that we’re sitting in full public view. His hard thighs on which I’m still seated, the warm strength of his arm, supporting my lower back, his mouth pressing, retreating, pressing again are all I’m conscious of until reality intrudes, in the form of someone slamming shut the front door. It takes all my willpower to pull away and disengage myself from his lap.

  ‘I should go …’ I feel a little wobbly on my feet. ‘That meeting in the morning …’

  He also gets to his feet. ‘Yes, I should be going too. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Good luck with the boy. I hope he comes through the surgery okay.’

  His face clouds over. ‘I think the best I can hope for is to catch the kids who did it to him.’

  He leans his head down for one last kiss, a stand-up variety, definitely not as good as the sit-down ones, but still very nice all the same, and then says goodnight.

  When I get inside, the light on the phone is flashing. I warily press the button, but it isn’t my father after all. It’s Jeanie, sounding vexed.

  ‘Caitlin, Jeanie here. I’ve been calling all evening. Why don’t you ever answer the bloody phone? Anyway, I’ve lost my mobile, but wanted to let you know I’ll be home on Friday. I’ll see you then.’

  I’m sorry now that I didn’t pick up the phone when it rang before I went out. Poor Jeanie! All those contact details lost with her phone. On the positive side, she’ll be back soon. This trip seems to have gone on forever, and a lot has happened since she went away. For one thing, Matthew Blake has happened.

  I climb into bed and my thoughts revert to Matthew, which is becoming somewhat of a bedtime habit. My lips curve in an involuntary smile as I relive the feeling of his mouth moving over mine, his hands gathering up my hair, the words and glances and details that made up the evening. His list of attributes is growing steadily: handsome, strong, well-mannered, good with kids, excellent taste in films, brilliant kisser.

  If Matthew has a major personality flaw, it has yet to reveal itself. Even his profession, initially a sticking point, seems to matter less and less. He doesn’t preach, lay down rules or force his opinions on others; in fact, now that I know him better, I can safely say that he isn’t of the same ilk as my father at all.

  David is late. Nearly twenty minutes so. Still, when he eventually turns up at the bistro where we arranged to meet, he seems genuinely apologetic.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, scraping out a seat and sitting down. ‘I had a meeting that went over.’

  ‘Oh well, at least you’re here now.’ I smile, pretending not to mind.

  He raises his hand, signalling to the waiting staff that he’s arrived and expects immediate service. I notice his cufflinks, mini clocks that seem, from my quick glance, to keep the correct time.

  ‘No chance of losing time with those.’

  He smiles. ‘Unfortunately not!’

  The waiter comes promptly. David orders a latte and I ask for a long black. Then David clasps his hands and leans forward in his seat. ‘Well, Caitlin, what’s this all about?’

  ‘I’m hoping you can help me second guess the effects of the GFC on the Australian financial sector.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s a tall order.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you guys do every day? Make educated guesses?’

  ‘Usually about other industries, not our own!’

  ‘What’s so hard about your own?’

  ‘It’s harder to predict. And there’s this scary phenomenon called the self-fulfilling prophecy.’

  ‘That’s if you say something will happen, the market blindly believes it and involuntarily makes it happen?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, just between us, and not for the market’s ears,’ I slip my notebook across the table, ‘I have a list of financial institutions here, and I’m trying to determine who’s the strongest, the most likely to acquire – that’s assuming there are acquisitions to be made.’

  David glances down at the notebook, then back up at me. ‘Can I ask why you care?’

  I shrug. ‘Because acquisitions, at the end of the day, mean training.’

  ‘I see.’ He lifts the notebook and studies it closely, then quickly reels off a number of organisations missing from the list. By the time his latte arrives, he’s slashing lines across the page, drawing arrows up and down and generally rearranging the list to his satisfaction.

  I peer across at his handiwork, trying to read it upside down. ‘So you think Chambers is strong?’

  ‘Chambers is rock solid. They’ll cut back but they’ll never go down.’

  ‘And Net Banc?’

  ‘Net Banc is carnivorous – they like to eat other banks. In times like this, all the smaller institutions will be potential fodder.’

  Suddenly David startles, checks his watch and exclaims that he has to be somewhere else. He returns the notebook to me, slips his Cartier pen back into his shirt pocket and drains his latte.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That was really informative.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  He walks away, his dark skin and hair striking against the white of his shirt, his stride that of a man who knows exactly where he’s going, albeit a little late. I’m beginning to understand what Nicola finds attractive about him.

  Jeanie returns late on Friday. Her keys jangle in the lock, her suitcase lands with a thud on the floor and the door bangs shut behind her.

  ‘Hi, stranger.’ I stand up from the sofa where I’ve been watching TV.

  ‘Hellooooo,’ she replies, elongating the word until it descends into a sigh. ‘What a week!’

  ‘Did you find your phone?’

  ‘No.’ She sighs again and moves away from the doorway and further into the room. ‘Didn’t think you’d be home.’

  ‘I had a few drinks with Nic after work, but left early to be part of your welcome-home committee.’

  ‘Some committee!’

  ‘Want a drink?’

  Jeanie flops down on the couch. ‘I think it might be a matter of need rather than want.’

  I go to the fridge and extract a bottle of beer, using the hem of my T-shirt to twist off the lid. ‘Here.’ I hand it to her. ‘Anything else madam would like? Vegemite sandwich? Cheese and crackers? Or perhaps a bar of chocolate?’

  Jeanie slugs the beer. ‘No, thanks. This is all that’s required.’

  I return to the kitchen to fix my own drink: the usual vodka and Diet Coke, the only variant being the number of ice cubes. Holding the glass in my hand, I curl up on the sofa across from Jeanie. ‘Other than the missing phone, how was the trip?’

  ‘Harder than usual. Complex problem and, worse, complex personalities.’ Jeanie takes another long drink, the bottle in her hand already half-empty. ‘How about you? Anything new?’

  Matthew Blake is new – and complex too, at least in how he makes me feel. ‘Nothing much. Only that Nic has a new boyfriend.’

  Jeanie raises her eyebrows. ‘Her usual type?’

  I nod. ‘Investment banker, slick from head to toe …’

  We all have types. Jeanie’s is rough and ready, men who talk and laugh in loud voices, a line of dirt under their fingernails evidencing an honest day’s work. My type is, or at least was, surfy and irreverent; men who flaunt the sea and any kind of authority. Matthew’s nothing like my usual type, but I’m not ready to dissect this deviation and so I continue to talk about David instead.

  ‘He seems okay, though,’ I say. ‘I met him yesterday for a coffee.’

  Jeanie cocks her head. ‘You did? Why?’

  ‘I wanted to pick his brains about the economy,’ I reply with a shrug. ‘Have you noticed the slowdown?’

  ‘It’s impossible not to notice.’ Jeanie rubs her forehead as if struck with a sudden headache. ‘When business slows, people look around for reasons: systems, proces
ses, any recent changes to how things are done. That’s what made this last job so difficult. The general manager would not accept that the drop in online orders was only partly due to the glitch in the system.’ She puts down her empty bottle and stands up, her arms extended above her in a long stretch. ‘Geez, I’m whacked. All I want to do is go to bed. I’ll move my suitcase in the morning, okay?’

  ‘No worries. ’Night, Jeanie.’

  The apartment descends into quiet, though the empty bottle on the coffee table and the abandoned suitcase at the door promise that the silence will only last the night.

  Chapter 20

  ‘Take the bean bag and cradle it in the palm of your hand. With your elbows close to your sides and your arms extended at about waist height, toss the ball repeatedly from one hand to the other. Each throw should peak at about eye level, with the throw coming from slightly towards the centre of the body and the catch slightly towards the outside.’

  As instructed, I throw my red bean bag with one hand and catch it jerkily in the other.

  Nicola, throwing and catching adeptly, rolls her eyes. ‘I thought this was a business skills development class, not a crash course for clowns!’

  Jarrod overhears, as Nicola intended him to. ‘This … is to … show us … how learning new skills … can be … fun …’ He says through gritted teeth, his expression not conveying the fun he’s supposed to be experiencing.

  The instructor joins in on the conversation. ‘Juggling is not only fun, it’s good for stress relief, problem solving and developing a flexible attitude to work and life in general. It also teaches us how to handle failure – there will be times when you drop the balls in front of an audience and you have to learn how to handle it!’

  ‘Speaking of balls, why are we using bean bags?’ Nicola asks.

  ‘Because balls roll when you drop them,’ he replies dryly, ‘which can be very irritating when you’re learning.’

  As though on cue, I drop my bean bag. Nicola sniggers and I elbow her in the ribs. She bellows in pretend pain but still doesn’t lose her rhythm: it’s already obvious that she will be the star pupil today.