Less Than Perfect (16 page)

‘I still have your card, in case you're wondering how I got your number …'

‘I wasn't wondering, but thank you for explaining.' Now he sounds like he's teasing me. Maybe it would be best to stop focusing so hard on the tone of his voice and say what I want to say.

‘I just wanted to apologise for last night. It wasn't a good time …'

‘No worries.'

The taxi is closing in on St Kilda. Soon I'll have to give the driver directions. If I'm going to do this, I have to be quick.

‘Look, Matthew, I was … I was wondering if you'd still like to go for a drink sometime …'

I wake up, the inside of my mouth like cardboard and the inside of my head equally dry and dull. It takes me a few moments to determine what day it is – Saturday – and another few to figure out why I feel so bad. Bloody Nicola! My mind flits through disjointed memories of last night: the beer garden and darkening sky overhead, the steak and chips I didn't eat, Mr Slick and his diamond cufflinks, the taxi ride home. Then I jolt in the bed, squint my eyes to sharpen my recollection. The taxi. Sitting in the back. My phone in one hand, his card in the other. I didn't, did I?

Oh, Jesus. Please don't tell me that I rang Matthew Blake and asked him out!

Even as I ask the question, I know that I did, and I sit up in bed with a loud groan. I asked a police officer on a date. And if my sluggish memory serves me right, he said yes. I'm meeting
him tonight, for dinner. I cover my face with my hands. What a huge mistake! I will absolutely have to cancel.

Getting out of bed, I test to see if I can function vertically before slowly making my way to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, shivering while I wait for the water to warm up. The water courses over my face, cleansing the residue of yesterday's makeup from my sticky skin, soaking my hair, gushing over the red, stinging skin on my arm and hip, the bandaging now removed. Steam rises around me. Feeling dizzy, I flatten my hand against the shower wall to steady myself. I have to stop doing this. Drinking too much, not eating enough.

I step out of the shower and wrap a thick white towel around myself. Rubbing some of the excess water from my hair, I rake through its length with a wide-tooth comb. Back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed. A few moments later a small drop of blood pools on my finger. Bright, glistening, vibrant; it's hard to believe something so beautiful comes from me. Sometimes, on days when my self-esteem is really low, I fantasise about extending the cut down the length of my finger, slitting it open, but I don't seem to hate myself enough today to indulge in such a fantasy.

The kitchen serves as another reminder of last night, a slimy black banana skin and a half-empty packet of crackers sitting on the table. Too little, too late.

I fill the kettle and pop two slices of wholegrain bread in the toaster. The coffee eases my hangover and the toast fills the craving in my stomach while I strive to clearly recall the conversation with Matthew. He sounded guarded at first, I remember, but once he relaxed, he seemed pleased to hear from me. If I ring
now to cancel, he won't think much of me at all. I'm not sure why, but I don't want him to think badly of me.

The phone rings and I answer, thinking that it'll be Mum with her regular Saturday morning call.

‘Caitlin – it's Matthew.'

‘Oh, hello.' My face blushes bright red and I'm hugely grateful that he can't see.

‘I hope you don't mind me calling your home number – your mobile doesn't seem to be working.'

‘Oh, the battery must be flat.' I attempt a joke. ‘Lucky you have all my details in that notebook of yours!'

‘Yeah, lucky.' He sounds as nervous as I do. ‘Look, about tonight …'

He's going to cancel. He's taking the problem out of my hands. Relief and disappointment combine to form a tightness in my chest.

‘Yes?' I prompt.

‘I'm sorry, but I have to work. Two of my officers have called in sick.'

‘No problem,' I say, my voice shaking a little.

‘Maybe I can call you during the week to organise something else?'

‘Yeah, sure,' I manage, trying to be casual.

There's a pause. This is where he'll say goodbye.

‘Sorry to let you down.' He doesn't seem to be ready to hang up just yet. ‘Hope it's not too late for you to make other plans.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I reassure him. ‘I think a quiet night at home is in order.'

Nicola will be going out tonight but I'm not sure I can take
two of those kinds of nights in a row. Jeanie's in Sydney visiting family and so it will be a genuinely quiet night in.

We talk for another few minutes, though when I hang up the phone I'm hard-pressed to remember what we spoke about. Afterwards I sit and sip my coffee and try to comprehend my seesawing reactions to him. Though he's easy to talk to, I could hear a certain reticence in his voice, the same underlying shyness that was evident when I met him the other night, and I find it hard to marry this side of his personality to the police sergeant who gives such confident, opinionated quotes to the media.

My head aches. I'm far too hungover to figure him out.

The phone rings again. This time it is Mum. ‘Hello, love.'

‘Hi, Mum.'

‘You're up?'

‘Yes, just having a nice wholesome breakfast.'

‘I'm glad that you're eating well.' Lucky she doesn't know I skipped dinner last night. ‘Is Jeanie there with you?'

‘No. She's up in Sydney.'

‘With the family?'

‘Yes. Boarding at the lunatic asylum – her words, not mine.'

Mum chuckles. She likes to talk about Jeanie as though she's met her, which of course she hasn't. The closest she gets is a friendly chat on the occasions Jeanie answers the phone. Mum deeply appreciates these chats and the chance to become acquainted with one of my friends even on a limited level.

‘I'm so happy that you have a good friend staying with you,' she often says. ‘I hate the thought of you living with virtual strangers, or, even worse, on your own.'

I know exactly where she's coming from. I hate the thought of
her being on her own too, rattling around a house that was once home to a family of five. I'm really glad that she has Tony in her life, and that he stays over some nights and absorbs some of the empty space in the house. One day I will tell her this.

‘And how are things with you, Mum?' I ask now, setting down my coffee mug and directing all of my concentration, and love, down the line.

‘Caitlin!' Jarrod calls from the doorway of his office. He stays long enough to ascertain that his summons has been heard before disappearing back inside.

Zoe sighs perplexedly as she stares in the direction of his office. ‘Such a beautiful morning! The sun is shining. Birds are singing. And Jarrod, he is unaware.' Zoe's positivity is always at its height on Monday mornings after a weekend of candle-lighting, meditation and aura alignments.

‘Can't hear any birds in here.' I grin, getting up from my seat.

Jarrod is back behind his desk. ‘Close the door, please, Caitlin.'

Being asked to close the door isn't unusual; Jarrod likes to have his conversations in private. But there's something different about his tone: it doesn't have its usual stern edge.

‘Sit.'

I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. He isn't going to fire me, is he? Sitting, I stare at him. He shifts his eyes away.

‘Caitlin, the thing with Telelink –'

‘I'm sorry, Jarrod. It won't happen again, I promise. And you were right, I need to learn when to stop, where to draw the line –'

‘Caitlin!' He cuts across my babbling. ‘Look, taking the
account off you has been hard, on you and on me, and I'm realising that maybe I was too hasty …'

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat. ‘You are?'

‘I can't handle the day-to-day account, I was naive about the sheer volume and so I'm going to hand it back to you.'

‘Okay.' I nod, too relieved to be smug. ‘What about the proposal?'

‘I still believe it's for the best that I'm the main interface on the new deal.'

I nod again. The proposal is the butter icing, the day-to-day orders the rather bland cake beneath. Still, at least I'm back in.

‘Thanks, Jarrod. I'm sorry again about what happened.' I stand up to leave but the expression on his face tells me that he isn't quite finished.

‘All week I've fielded questions from the Telelink people about you. “Where's Caitlin? Why isn't Caitlin taking our orders? Caitlin knows about this …” I got a strong sense of the various relationships you've built, Caitlin. Not everyone has that ability to reach people on all levels of an organisation. It's one of your strengths.'

Praise. From Jarrod. A rare thing. I acknowledge it with a modest smile and leave his office feeling anchored. Jarrod needs me. That's good, because I need this job. More than he could ever know.

Before returning to my desk, I take a detour via the training rooms where I find Nicola reading the riot act to one of the technicians.

‘Change it!' she orders, using her foot to point to the tangle of cables on the floor.

The technician, a boy who looks too young to be in the workforce, drops mutely to his knees, his blunt fingers unpicking the cables.

‘What's wrong?' I ask Nicola as we walk towards the breakout area.

‘He used a blue cable!' She throws up her hands in a gesture that reveals her Greek roots. ‘Our protocol is white. Bloody colour blind!' Nicola is a perfectionist. One blue cable in a roomful of white ones is enough to make her want to strangle the guilty technician with the offending cable.

At the kitchen bar, I take two rainbow-coloured coffee mugs down from the shelf. ‘Now, tell me
all
about Friday night.'

She instantly looks coy. ‘What about Friday night?'

I press the hot-water dispenser and fill the first of the mugs. ‘What happened with Mr Slick?'

‘Don't call him that!' Nicola gives me a little push in protest. Then, realising she could have scalded me, she claps her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.'

‘Feeling a little tense, are we?' I can't resist teasing her further. ‘Waiting for a certain someone to call, perhaps?'

She shrugs.

I finish filling the second mug and add coffee and milk before leading the way to an empty sofa seat. ‘Well?' I prompt again when Nicola doesn't volunteer information of her own accord.

‘Well, what?'

‘God! This is like drawing blood from a stone.'

‘We left the pub shortly after you … Went for a walk … talked.'

‘Talked?'

‘Actually, yes.'

‘And?'

‘As a matter of fact, he called yesterday. We met in St Kilda and went for an ice cream.' She sees me trying to hide a smirk. ‘What's so funny?'

‘Nothing,' I answer, almost deadpan.

She looks at me suspiciously before deciding to change the subject. ‘What did
you
do over the weekend?'

‘Nothing much at all.'

‘You should have called me!'

‘To be honest, I was still suffering the effects of Friday night,' I raise my coffee mug to take a small sip, ‘and I wasn't up to another big night out on Saturday. I did manage a bike ride yesterday, all the way from St Kilda to Brighton. Now I wish I'd thought to stop off for an
ice cream
on the way back!'

Nicola stands up, her face darkening with temper. ‘Oh, I'm sorry that I told you
anything
!' She stomps away, which is easier said than done in stilettos. I hope, for the technician's sake, that the blue cable has been removed and put somewhere safely out of sight.

Returning to my desk, I have a quick chat with Zoe before getting down to work. An hour later, my inbox is clear and my admin completely up to date. The rest of the day stretches in front of me, peppered with small, unsatisfying tasks. Thank God Jarrod has come round. The operational orders, once they're filtered my way again, will bolster my workload and sense of purpose. I'd go out of my mind if I had to put down another week like the last one.

My phone rings and I pick it up eagerly.

‘Caitlin, this is Tanya McManus.'

‘Hello, Tanya.' I envisage Tanya in my mind, her wide torso behind a fragile-by-comparison desk, her pouting mouth emitting breathy sentences down the phone.

‘I need to
meet
you to discuss some
changes
at Chambers.'

‘What changes?'

‘I'd rather not say over the phone,' Tanya replies in a hushed voice.

‘Let's meet for lunch,' I say, stifling a sigh. Tanya loves to be taken out for a meal and is much more amenable on a full stomach. Sitting on the other side of the table from her is not a pleasant experience, though, as she consumes voluminous quantities of food; it makes me feel a little queasy. ‘Can you do today?'

‘No, it will have to be next week. There's too much going on at the moment.'

We agree on a time and place and hang up. I turn from the phone to the window, where the sunny start to the day has been obliterated by multiplying clouds and a wind that swishes the hair and clothes of those walking along the pavement. Clients like Chambers and the Roads and Transport Board are steady accounts; business trickles in all year round with no major surges or fall-offs. ‘Changes' are something to be nervous about.

The tram rattles along under the grey-black sky, doing its best to get people home before the clouds fulfil their threat. I get off at my usual stop and, ignoring the droplets of rain in the wind, walk towards the bay instead of heading home. When it comes
into view, the water is grey and swollen, just like Belfast Harbour. Needing to get closer, I walk to the tide line, and sit down on the last of the soft sand, my legs pulled up and crossed at the ankles. The wind roars in my ears and homesickness washes over me with the same ferocity. Days like this – the heavy grey sky, the cruel wind – fill me with yearning. To see Mum, divorced, recovered, a new man in her life. To see Maeve, books under her arm, preoccupied with the next assignment. To see Liam. God, what I wouldn't give to see my brother! I scoop up some sand and watch it trickle between my fingers. What would Liam make of Melbourne? The city, the buzz, the way of life. The diverse ethnic influences, the vast sporting facilities, the opportunities every which way one turns.