Not Meeting Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

I turned the phone off then, just in case Casper called. I wasn't sure whether I'd given him my number or not.

  'Next stop Central,' came the much-appreciated announcement. As the train pulled in, I added up how many drinks I'd had the night before. I was okay to drive – just. I counted again to be sure. I couldn't afford to lose my licence, and I was always giving Mickey a hard time for even suggesting he drive after a couple of drinks.

  I had no idea where to go once I got off the train, so I followed everyone else. I found myself in Eddy Avenue, near the country buses and coach terminal. I knew where I was, but felt despair as I contemplated the long walk to my car. I hoped it was still there.

  I briefly considered getting a cab back to Abercrombie Street, but that would've been sheer laziness, and I'm not a lazy woman. I was just hungover, tired, hot and pathetic. These were the times when I needed Mr Right. He'd just pick me up in his flashy car and drive me home, stopping for a Coke or two on the way, lavishing me with sympathy. I started my trek towards Broadway half expecting that flashy car to pull up next to me. Maybe I was still drunk; there was no other excuse for such craziness.

  Behind the wheel of my red Golf, I drove ever so carefully back to my little piece of paradise in Coogee, past Moore Park and the Randwick Race Course. Even though the air conditioning provided relief from the heat of the day, my belly didn't enjoy the hills of Alison Road and there were a few moments where I thought I might need to pull over. I didn't though, and I finally felt a sense of peace and belonging as I caught view of the ocean and a glimpse of Wedding Cake Island in the distance.

  Heading downhill towards home in the weekend traffic, I reflected grimly that the hard work in finding a husband could only be matched by the hard work in finding a car space in Coogee on a Saturday morning in summer. I prayed, as I did regularly, to the creator: Please Biami, not only bring me spiritual guidance and long life, but also let me find a parking space without effort and a long walk today. Surprisingly, I managed to get a park right out the front of my unit on Arden Street. Biami was often good to me, even if I was still single. Biami not delivering me Mr Right just yet might well have been a good thing.

  I didn't care that the security door of my building was wide open; in fact I was grateful for one less task to complete in order to get into my bed. I hiked the two flights of stairs, shakily put the key in the lock and almost fell through the door, so relieved to be home that I cried a little. I threw all my clothes off, gulped some orange juice from the bottle (a bit of an effort, as it was a three-litre jumbo bottle), then staggered down the hallway, bumping from wall to wall, finally collapsing on my bed. It was ten-thirty. I figured I could have three hours' sleep before I had to get ready for the kitchen tea. My eyes weren't even closed before I was asleep. The sound of my phone ringing in the kitchen couldn't raise me from my pillow. I'd let the machine get it.

  ***

  I woke in a dribbly haze to the sound of my phone ringing again. The machine picked it up before I got to it, and it was a few seconds before I recognised Liza's voice, wanting to know where I was. It was two-thirty. I'd overslept. I raced to the phone and grabbed the mouthpiece, breathless. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm on my way out the door,' I lied, then hung up and checked the message waiting for me.

  'Hi Alice, it's Simon. You didn't say goodbye. Guess you didn't want to wake me, eh? I got your number from the phone book. Lucky you're the only Aigner in Coogee. Just wanted to know what you were doing this arvo. I'll call you later on the mobile.'

  Simon – that was his name. I didn't want to see him again, couldn't even remember really seeing him the first time, and he now had my mobile number as well. I'd have to change that message as soon as I got home from the kitchen tea, and maybe get myself a silent number.

  I jumped into a steamy shower and relaxed, enjoying the jets of hot water massaging my shoulders and back, washing away the night before. Running some conditioner through my hair (I didn't have time to shampoo), I thought about what I would wear, how I'd crawl to Liza for being late, and what excuse we'd use for leaving the kitchen tea early. It was all too much – I was still so tired my eyes were barely open.

  fifteen

  The kitchen tea

  The hostess greeted us with a cheery 'Welcome to my home and Bianca's kitchen tea. Please put your gifts in the room on the left and make your way through to the kitchen. The toilet is upstairs, but if you have to go, can you take your shoes off please? The carpet is new.' Why would anyone have a party where guests had to take their shoes off to use the toilet? I rolled my eyes at Liza, who just started laughing.

  'Lucky we peed at Maccas on the way,' Liza whispered, looking at my shoes, knowing fully well how badly my feet reek. (We'd stopped for some fries – 'best thing for a hangover', Liza had said.)

  'Yeah, wonder what would happen if I went upstairs with these clodhoppers on, eh?' I wasn't game to find out. Bianca would already be shitty that we were an hour late. Dannie was there, scowling at us for our tardiness.

  In the kitchen, both Liza and I received our mandatory name tags so that everyone knew who the two slackers were. I joked that I was on Koori time, of course. Liza and Dannie chuckled, but no-one else seemed to get it. Bit of an in-joke perhaps. Liza and I took our seats in the chairs designated especially to us. We just sat for a while and watched, saying nothing to each other, or to anyone else. More to the point, no-one said anything to us. Most of the twelve or so women were engaged in conversation of some sort, eating mini-quiches and corn chips, party pies and sausage rolls. We weren't left in peace for long, though. The games soon started.

  First we were given pegs to wear. In order to keep them, we couldn't cross our legs. 'For every leg crossed, is a peg lost – simple!' The woman wearing the name tag 'Mother of the Bride' was very good at explaining the rules. 'The one with the most pegs at the end of the game wins a prize.' Liza and I had already missed out on the lucky door prize – a set of tea towels and matching oven mitts. I felt like I was in some parallel universe.

  I deliberately crossed my legs on and off enough times in the next ten minutes to ensure I'd lost all my pegs, and therefore didn't have to play anymore. I was over the game before it had even begun. The groom's grandmother, who was the most competitive of the otherwise conservative group, pinched most of my pegs. By the end of the game, which took about twentyfive minutes, I thought to myself that if marrying Mr Right involved brawling over clothes pegs with eightyyear- old women, I'd be happy to remain single. Mr Right could stay where he was until his grandmother and great-aunties were well and truly dead and buried.

  As the women all laughed and pinched pegs from each other, I pondered the absurdity of the ritual. Who came up with the concept of the 'kitchen tea' anyway? The whole event was simply about getting as many presents as possible leading up to the wedding. As if an engagement present and a wedding present weren't enough, without having to buy something for the kitchen too. How sexist anyway. Why doesn't the man have a kitchen tea to receive appliances he can use in the kitchen? It was such a fifties concept. The whole reunion came flooding back. Why do we maintain friendships with school friends anyway? Life is a series of cycles, but for some reason we feel compelled to make the school-friend-cycle go on past its expiry date. No-one wants to admit that we change, that who we are as teenagers may or may not determine who we are as adults, and that there is no guarantee that we'll get on with our old friends ten years down the track. Bianca really had broken the cycle now, though, I thought, because she was getting married, and her new life cycle was beginning. I hardly ever saw her these days. Yet here I was, pretending I was excited to be there.

  'Where's the booze?' I asked Liza. I needed a drink to cope with it all. I looked around to see who was drinking what, and to my horror and disappointment I couldn't see a drop of alcohol anywhere. 'Maybe we have to take our shoes off before we can have a wine or a beer. Should I ask Mrs New-Carpet or not?'

  Liza put her finger up to her mouth, as if to say, 'Shhhh.'


  'I need a drink', I persisted. I got up and strolled casually through the kitchen, grabbed myself a party frank, and winked at Granny. 'Love the little boys, eh?' She didn't laugh, so I just shrugged my shoulders and made my way to the drinks area. Juice, mineral water, cordial and every soft drink mentionable, but not so much as a light beer in sight. I was getting agitated. While I mightn't be the best cook in the world, I'm a damned good hostess. Never let it be said that someone couldn't get a decent drink at Alice's place. Why hadn't the bride-to-be and Mrs New-Carpet organised any alcohol? How did they expect people to enjoy themselves during an afternoon of kitchen-teaing and all that entails and stay sober?

  It was painfully clear that peg stealing wasn't entertaining enough for me and Liza, even though all the other girls seemed amused. Dannie seemed to be enjoying herself, but she had an excuse to leave early, and soon did. Had to pick up the school bully from netball.

  She stopped to say goodbye to us on the way out. 'There's a reason to breed,' I whispered to her. 'Kids get you out of doing lots of things you don't want to.'

  'But you end up doing a whole lot of other things you don't want to do,' she said. Perhaps motherhood was not a win-win situation.

  The afternoon dragged on like a game of chess between two people who don't know the rules. Liza and I reluctantly participated in game after game that showed us just how pathetic the socialisation process into suburban wifedom is.

  'I've been nothing but critical from the moment I walked in, so remind me why I'm so desperate to get married myself, Liza?' Seriously, sitting there I was truly happy to be single.

  'You want to get married for the wedding party, the honeymoon and a guaranteed lifetime of don't-haveto- go-looking-for-it sex,' she said, as we lined up to play pin-the-penis-on-the-spunk. I was blindfolded and spun around and I did my best to cheat. I wasn't quite sure I'd be able to find it, but Granny assured me it was like riding a bike. I wondered how poor old Grandpa would cope when she got home that night.

  Time ticked by slowly, and although Dannie had made her escape, Liza and I knew we couldn't leave before the presents were opened – that being the whole purpose of the event. Gift getting, and making your friends and relatives compete with each other over who spent the most on what. Or maybe the idea was to make others feel completely inadequate because they couldn't afford the top-of-the-range whatever it was you were expecting. Yes, gifts for the kitchen, that's what the kitchen tea was all about.

  The next game was pass-the-parcel, with terrible folk music. I won a pair of rubber gloves and a scourer.

  Liza and I both groaned with relief when we were finally summoned into the living room for the next part of the kitchen-tea program. Mrs New-Carpet was assisted by Mrs Sister-in-Law-to-Be in ushering us to our chairs, but by then Liza and I knew which were 'our seats'. The choruses of 'Ooooohhhh, aahhhh, isn't it lovely? ... Wish I had one of those ... That will come in handy ... I have one just like it ... I nearly bought one for myself ... I did buy one for myself!' almost made me want to puke.

  I thought about kitchen teas I'd been to in the past, and realised none of them had been for Koori women. All my Koori girlfriends were relishing singledom, working on their careers, hanging out in the city, and, more often than not, terrifying men with their confidence and expectations, so that even a first date left a bloke in shock and in need of counselling. Many of the women in my circle did aspire to meeting Mr Right at some point, but I couldn't imagine any one of them going through this charade as part of their initiation into wifehood.

  I wondered whether or not I'd do the kitchen tea gig, given that I rarely cooked anyway. If I did, the event would definitely involve lots of booze, good music and maybe even a stripper or two. Yes, that's the way a kitchen tea should run. Instead of Bianca's cookbook library, I'd get every marital aid on the market. I smiled at the thought – the first real smile after an afternoon of fake grins.

  The kitchen clock Bianca received read six-thirty pm. (The gift-giver pointed out she had already put batteries in it!) The younger women talked excitedly about heading to a pub in Parramatta – a sign that it was time for Liza and I to leave. There was no way I was heading anywhere other than home. When I explained I needed to rest, Bianca didn't seem sorry to see us go.

  'Yes, you do look dreadful, Alice.' Apparently I hadn't done as good a job on the make-up as I thought. We departed without fuss or fanfare.

  On the way home, we discussed the urgency of the upcoming hens' night and wedding. How were we ever going to cope? Apart from the fact that we hadn't really connected with anyone else at the party, neither of us fancied doing the night-animal-bus-pub-crawl planned for the western suburbs the following Saturday, but we both agreed we should support Bianca in her hour of need: she'd be walking the streets of Parramatta with a shower curtain tied to her head and sixteen single, desperate girls and Mrs New-Carpet trailing behind.

  I couldn't bring myself to tell Liza about my onenight stand with Casper just yet. I needed to be feeling healthy to do that.

  sixteen

  A date with Casper

  'Alice, can you answer that? You are rostered on this week.' The sports mistress, who hated my guts because I was young and gorgeous, suddenly felt the need to remind me of my duties. But the phone ringing in the staff room made me nervous – I was frightened to pick it up in case it was Simon. If he'd managed to find my home number, he'd have no problem tracking me down at school. Just then my mobile rang.

  'Sorry, I have to get this,' I said, waving it in the air. The other teachers were pissed off with me: I hadn't answered the phone in the staff room for three days. I pretended to answer my mobile, but sent the call straight to voicemail. Simon had already left three messages that week and I was sure it was him again. Mickey looked at me strangely.

  'What's wrong?' he whispered. Even though Mickey was a mate, I didn't want to explain to him that I'd woken up next to a guy I had called Casper because I didn't know his real name. Mickey never judged me, though, so in the end I told him the full story and he laughed till he cried.

  'Why don't you just speak to him? It's obvious he's into you. God, when's the last time you had a bloke pay you so much attention? And you didn't even sleep with him! Imagine if you had.' So he's into me is he? I thought. Great, never the ones you want.

  Of course, Mickey was right. It'd been an eternity since anyone had paid me so much attention. But the thought of Simon and his apartment made me feel sick. Apart from the way he lived, I couldn't imagine what he and I might have to talk about. I couldn't even remember what we'd spoken about when we met – just that I'd been teasing him and calling him 'Simple Simon'. Whatever his line, it must have been good.

  No sooner had I decided Simple Simon was not Mr Right than I received a letter from him in the post. He didn't know my flat number – thank god that's not listed in the phone book – but my postie must have just put the letter in my box. Simple Simon was definitely stalker material. I opened it cautiously, thinking that I'd have to photocopy it at school the next day and send a copy to Liza to use as evidence in case I mysteriously went missing. Then I read it and was surprised:

  You have a beautiful spirit, Alice, the kind of presence other people want to be around. I feel good about the world just because you're in it. I can see how your friends draw strength from you, because you are so sure of who you are, and that's something most of us struggle with every day.

  The letter made me soft. I knew he was trying to flatter me – but it worked. His words had a sincerity and a charm that hadn't come through in the phone messages he'd left. Maybe he'd been nervous when he called. I knew I was like that sometimes, when I was ringing someone daunting, deadly and desirable. The man was only human; lily-white, but human.

  In the letter, he said he wanted to prove that we had a chance at 'something special'. But how the hell could he claim all that from one drunken night at the pub – and from what I could remember, not even a kiss? Of course, there probably had been a kiss,
but I'd been so horrified at the state of his apartment that I'd sent that memory to the darkest pit of my mind, never to resurface.

  A few days went by and I kept thinking of the letter, reading and re-reading it between classes, at lunch, at home. Then I weakened. I would give Simple Simon a chance. He just might be Mr Right. He might be the love of my life. He might even be a dynamo in bed, I thought, if I could actually get him off the floor and into it. He mightn't really live in that flat anyway; maybe he was in transition. It certainly looked like a temporary kind of set-up. There had to be an explanation for anyone living like that out of choice.