Less Than Perfect (17 page)

Sorry, Liam. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

I have the money to go home. I wouldn't have to stay long, a flying visit, just enough to satiate the yearning and fill the pit of loneliness inside of me. But the problem about going back is that I'd see my father, too. I can picture Mum producing him with a flourish and standing back, expecting a heart-tugging reunion. She simply refuses to accept how much I despise him.

The sand has disappeared through my fingers, leaving a fine layer of grit on my skin, and I wipe my hands against each other to get rid of the residue. In fairness, Mum never puts pressure on me to go home: she hasn't once asked me to, even though I've not been back, not once in ten years. As far as she's concerned, I'm safer in Australia. She has no desire for her family to walk the streets of Clonmegan; she hardly goes into town herself. Apparently she's not alone in that respect: many of the locals have a deep-rooted fear of their own town.

The drops of rain are heavier now, though still sporadic. From the depths of my handbag, my phone begins to ring. I should go, make a run for it before the rain starts in earnest. But I'm lonely, so achingly lonely that I need to hear a voice.

‘Hello?' The wind is whistling around me and I have to press the phone firmly against my ear to block it out.

‘Caitlin, it's Matthew. Can you hear me?'

‘Just about,' I breathe, immediately feeling less desolate. Another gust of wind fills the pause that stretches down the line.

‘I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner on Friday night?'

‘Yes, I'd like that,' I hear myself answer.

Rain pelts down, suddenly ferocious, and I hurriedly get to my feet and run for shelter, the phone still to my ear. ‘It's pouring.' For some strange reason I'm laughing, in total contrast to the despair I felt only moments ago. ‘I'm getting
soaked
.'

He laughs too. ‘Are you in the city?'

‘No, on the beachfront.' I find shelter under the eaves of a nearby building. The beach and surrounds have cleared within seconds and many people are in the same position as me, standing under shelter and peering at the black sky for clues as to when the deluge will ease.

‘Hello? Are you still there?' Matthew asks on the other end of the phone.

‘Yes, still here. God, that certainly woke me up!'

He laughs again and then he mentions a restaurant on Acland Street, a place I've walked past countless times but never gone into.

‘Yes, I know the one.' I nod, gazing at the rain angling in from the bay and bouncing off the promenade.

‘Is eight okay?'

‘Yes, fine. I'll see you then, Matthew. Bye.'

After a few minutes it becomes apparent that the rain is in for the long haul, there's no waiting it out. I put my head down and make a dash for it. The rain lashes against my shoulders and arms, cold and unforgiving, indeed very like the rain in Ireland. Yet for some reason I'm smiling as I run towards home.

Summer seems to have died a sudden death. I surge forward against the wind and rain, holding my umbrella close. The restaurant is a mere ten-minute walk but the wind resistance is turning it into much more. The umbrella inverts as the erratic wind changes direction once again; I swear and turn to catch a fresh gust to pop it back into place. When it's right side up, I fold it down and jog the remaining distance, rain cascading on my bare head.

The restaurant's outdoor area is shielded from the elements by thick plastic sheeting and indoor gas heaters. I smooth the rain from my hair and scan the half-empty tables. Matthew, sitting on the far side, raises his hand to catch my eye. My stomach does a little turn. Ever since I agreed to this date I've been contemplating pulling out, telling myself that I was lonely when he phoned, not thinking straight, and it was impossible to say no. I've already decided I won't see him again after tonight.

‘I'm joining that table over there,' I say to the maître d' when he sails my way.

He nods imperiously and holds out his arm. ‘I'll take your jacket and put it somewhere to dry.'

I slip off the jacket. Underneath I'm wearing a plain black top and navy-blue jeans, knee-high boots keeping my calves warm and snug, protecting them from the wet denim.

Matthew stands up from his seat as I approach. His smile is unmistakably self-conscious, and again I find his shyness endearing if somewhat perplexing. How can he present so differently at times? Then again, I realise, if he were to see
me
at work, he might be equally confused, finding it difficult to equate the reckless girl from the motorbike accident with the composed professional at her desk, typing decisively and talking business jargon on the phone.

‘Hello, Caitlin.'

‘Hello.'

He's wearing a casual shirt and jeans, similar to the last time I saw him, which suggests that his wardrobe is basic and unfussy. This, too, I find quite appealing. I see suits and ties and sharp dressers in the office every day, and hordes of ultra-trendy surfy types at the weekends. Matthew falls into neither category.

He grins. ‘You got caught in the rain again?'

I smile in return. ‘Whatever happened to the summer?'

He waits until I'm seated before sitting down again himself. ‘Would you like something to drink?'

‘Yes, definitely! Vodka and Diet Coke, please.'

As he relays my order to the waiter, I hear him emphasise the ‘Diet'. Matthew Blake knows how to listen.

‘How was your week?' he asks when the waiter has gone.

‘It was quiet. I much prefer when it's busy. How about you? How was work?'

‘Okay. Quiet too.'

I cock my head to one side as though I don't quite believe him. ‘No fights? No drinks poured over your head?'

He smiles the slow smile I'm beginning to recognise, the one that shows the small gap between his front teeth and makes his eyes sparkle. ‘Not this week.'

The waiter returns and sets down my drink on the white tablecloth. I pick it up. ‘Well, if it would make your week complete, I could always do the honours with this …'

He laughs. ‘No, it's okay, really. Better that you drink it.'

I raise the glass to my lips and sip from the mix of fizz and ice. ‘Yes, better in me than on your head! While we're on the subject, what's the worst injury you've had on the job?'

He spaces his fingers out on the table. ‘I've broken a few of these.' The crooked knuckles seem to fit his large hands. ‘I've dislocated my shoulder more than once. And cuts, bruises and verbal abuse are par for the course.'

I lift one eyebrow. ‘No bullets?'

‘Sorry to be boring.'

A waiter, different from the first one, positions himself next to us. ‘Ready to order?'

Matthew looks at me. I nod and he waits for me to order first. His manners are impeccable; not that I haven't dated well-mannered men, but Matthew is different, almost old-fashioned.

‘I'll have the Thai beef salad, please,' I say, glancing up at the waiter.

‘Anything to start?'

‘No thanks.'

Matthew takes his cue from me and doesn't order a starter. The waiter removes the redundant cutlery and departs in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Where were we?' asks Matthew.

‘Talking about work safety, or lack of.' I smile.

‘How about you? Any hazards where you work?'

I tell him about the food embezzlement on the training floor, Jarrod's dangerous lack of humour and some of my clients' bulldozing behaviour (I'm thinking specifically of Tanya McManus, though of course I don't name her).

He laughs again. I'm trying to stay detached because of my decision not to see him again, but he's making it hard. His laughter is warm and inclusive, his smiles frequent and uncomplicated, like invisible cords drawing me closer.

‘Do you like your job?'

‘Yes,' I reply, because I do. I like figuring out what my clients need and then delivering beyond their expectations. I even get a kick out of trying to please difficult clients like Tanya. Matthew asks more questions and I find myself expanding on what my job entails. Now I not only like the way he laughs and smiles, I also like that he seems genuinely interested in what I do. My job is a big part of who I am – sometimes I think it's the only worthwhile thing about me – and I've never been on a date where I've felt free to talk about it this much. It's as though Matthew knows what's at the heart of me.

Our food arrives. Matthew, I notice, eats nicely, his mouth shut, seeming to enjoy the food but not shovelling it in at a rate of knots like some men.

‘So, are all the family back in Ireland?' he asks between bites.

‘Yes.'

‘Brothers and sisters?'

‘One of each,' I respond shortly.

For the first time since I sat down, there's silence. It sits awkwardly between us, testament that we don't know each other and that some things are out of bounds.

‘How about you?' I ask after a while. ‘Do you have any family close by?'

‘My sister lives here in Melbourne, in Carlton, with my nephew, who's four going on forty! The rest of the family – my parents and two brothers – are in Deniliquin. Mum and Dad have a farm about twenty kilometres outside the town.'

‘What kind of farm?'

‘Bit of everything. Livestock, dairying, a few crops …'

‘So you're a country boy through and through!' It fits with what I know of him so far. The nice manners, the shyness, the rough and tumble of his job.

The waiter comes to take our empty plates and tempt us with dessert. I decline and so does Matthew, but we order coffee and talk more about the farm and his family and then, somehow, it's nearly eleven and the staff are starting to close up for the night.

Standing under the canopy outside the restaurant, we survey the rain as it pings off the pavement and the road beyond.

‘Where do you live?' he asks.

‘Ten minutes' walk … Far enough to get soaked through, but I don't fancy my chances with a taxi.' The road is empty of all kinds of traffic, not to mention taxis.

‘Excuse me a minute …' He takes his mobile from his pocket and uses his large but surprisingly nimble thumb to press the keys. ‘Hey, Karen, it's me.' His voice is quiet and distinct. ‘Any cars close to Acland? Yeah, would appreciate a lift.'

I gape at him. ‘Please don't tell me that our taxi is a police car!'

He grins. ‘Desperate times …'

I grin back. This is a surprising end to what has been a surprising night. ‘Let's just hope I don't meet anyone I know!'

The car pulls up a few minutes later. Matthew takes my hand and we run through the rain, diving for cover into the back seat.

The driver shoots a friendly grin over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Sarge. Where to?'

Matthew looks at me.

‘Dalgety Street,' I supply.

Matthew and the driver, whose name is Will, talk easily as the car splashes through the saturated streets.

‘Quiet night?'

‘Yeah, Sarge. Hooligans don't like the wet weather!' Though they're clearly on friendly terms, I can hear respect in Will's voice.

‘Who's back at base?'

‘Annie and Max. Jamie and Tom are at a domestic on Lock Street, and Caroline and Dan are at a minor car accident on the intersection of Princes and Fitzroy.'

Will parks outside my apartment block. I pull my jacket tighter, hitch my bag over my shoulder and thank him for being my stand-in taxi.

‘I'll walk you in.' Matthew swings the door open. ‘Won't be long,' he adds to Will.

Once more we dash through the rain, and we're both slightly out of breath by the time we reach the shelter outside the main door of the building.

‘Well, goodnight,' I say awkwardly.

‘Goodnight, Caitlin.'

He lingers. A few seconds pass, measured by the beat of the rain against the perspex of the shelter.

‘I'm working nights for the next couple of days,' Matthew says finally. ‘I'll call you as soon as I know the roster for next week.'

‘Okay.'

His hand, wet and cold, trails along the line of my jaw. It's a tentative gesture, profoundly tender, and it suffuses me with warmth. He leans down, and just as I'm wondering if he's about to kiss me, I feel his lips brushing my forehead.

‘I'd better go,' I hear him say.

‘Okay.' I'm too disorientated to expand my vocabulary.

Then he's gone, head hunched, darting through the deluge. The car door slams shut and the tail-lights disappear down the street.

Inside, the apartment is silent, hollow, aching for Jeanie's return. I carry out my bedtime routine, removing makeup and moisturising, brushing my teeth, all the while trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in my stomach. When I'm clean and scrubbed, I pause in front of the mirror and look critically at my face. A flush spreads across my cheekbones and my eyes are brighter than usual. When Matthew touched me I felt a tingle, an undeniable feeling of attraction. Would he have kissed me properly, on the mouth, if Will wasn't waiting in the car? My face goes a shade redder at the thought. I stare harder at the
mirror, my eyes narrowing with familiar self-hatred. What does Matthew see in me anyway? Wouldn't he prefer dark skin and eyes? A girl with more curves, who isn't so skinny, who doesn't have so many defects, so many imperfections that no amount of gym workouts or makeup or trendy clothes can fix. I shake my head to dispel the negative thoughts. Though I can identify the self-hatred as it happens and try to hold it in check, I can't seem to stop it from coming to the surface in the first place and tainting everything, just like now.

I turn out all the lights and climb into bed. Rain drums against the guttering outside and I snuggle into the bedclothes. My stomach continues to dance, though, not at all ready to settle down. Matthew. Matthew Blake. Sergeant Matthew Blake. Why is he single? Don't women find doctors and policemen fatally attractive? Shouldn't he have a beautiful wife or girlfriend in the wings? Is there a reason he doesn't, some annoying personality trait that will eventually be revealed? Is Matthew Blake a little too good to be true?