Not Meeting Mr Right (13 page)

I stopped then, because he may well have been called
names – he was so fucken white it was off ensive.

'Okay, so maybe you got called whitey or Casper,
but that's because you should really get some sun on
your body.'

He just sat there stunned, mouth agape, and
obviously off ended.

'And what do you know about being part of an
Aboriginal community, Simon? You think singing some
songs at the pub with Blackfellas when you're pissed
makes
you Black? You think finding out your greatgreat-
great grandmother was Aboriginal makes
you
Aboriginal? You reckon living in Blacktown makes
you
Black? Pulleeaaase ...'

'Aboriginality is spiritual, and it's a lived experience –
not something you
find
by accident and then attach its
name to yourself. I'm sick of white people deciding
they're Black so they have some sense of belonging, or
worse still, so they can exploit our culture.'

I was raving. I could tell he had no idea about what
I was talking about. He rolled one cigarette, then
another, then another. His hands were shaking, and he
kept dropping filters on the floor. I was just waiting for
him to get up from the table to go smoke any one of
those cigarettes, because he'd end up shitting filters for
weeks I'd shove so many of them down his throat.

I took a deep breath and looked around to see if
anyone else in the restaurant could hear me. 'Well?' I
prompted.

'I'm getting the Koori flag tattooed on my arm on
Saturday,' he said nervously, hoping it was the right
answer. It wasn't.

'You're an idiot!' I proclaimed in frustration. Like
the beads and the t-shirts people wore like a second
skin to show they were Aboriginal, I knew he believed
the tattoo would somehow instill in him his new-found
Aboriginality. I'd slap him then and there if he went on
to tell me he was going to give himself an Aboriginal
name as well. If I hadn't detested him so much at that
point, I'm sure I'd have felt a little sympathy. He was
suffering a complete identity crisis. I'd seen a lot of
white Blackfellas go through it.

Simple Simon really wasn't that simple. He knew
exactly what he was doing and saying with that letter
he sent me. Trying to align himself with a strong Koori
woman to help him infiltrate the community and be
accepted by the local mob. He'd probably be asking
me to organise a confirmation of Aboriginality for him
from the housing co-op in no time, so that he'd have the
paperwork at least to say he was a Blackfella. Not if he
was the only bloke with the only tongue left in Sydney.

I shook my head. Simon wasn't just the antithesis
of Mr Right, he wasn't even Mr Wrong, he was simply
Mr Fucked-Up. I asked for the bill. To further cement
my views on him, he divided the bill in two right down
to the last cent. I left a generous tip to compensate the
staff for having to listen to us argue, then we left the
restaurant and headed off in opposite directions: he
with a fag stuck to his bottom lip, on his way to the
train station, and me to the parking station near UTS.

As I walked briskly away he sung out what a lovely
evening he'd had and that he'd like to do it again
sometime. I responded, 'Thanks, but no thanks',
mumbling 'psycho' under my breath.

Saturday morning arrived soon enough and I was
greeted with the news that another rich, skinny famous
woman was getting married for the third greedy time. I
was so uninterested I didn't even read the name. Who
really cared? Wasn't there any
real
news that could go
on the front page of the paper?

I turned the page of the trashy
Daily Terror
in
disgust, only to learn that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
were arguing again.
Who cares!
looked to become the
mantra for the day.

I wasn't at all surprised to find an article about a
march and hunger strike protesting the government's
treatment of refugees rated only two paragraphs on
page eight. I was immediately ashamed of myself for
even buying a paper and giving money to the fascist
media empire that produced it. It was hard to believe
that for some this paper was their only form of social
education. Real news and issues of importance never
even ranked in these tabloids. God knows Blackfellas
only made the pages if they were throwing rocks at
cops or fulfilling negative stereotypes that soothed the
consciences of ignorant racist whites. I declared out
loud that I would never buy another paper.

As I took the paper and other recyclables downstairs,
I began to psyche myself for Bianca's hens' night, due
to start in ten hours. It would take me that long to
convince myself that I should participate in such an
appalling event, the second-last step in the process of
becoming Mrs Wife.

I dropped the paper and empty bottles in the
appropriate sides of the bin.

'Morning, Gabrielle!' I hadn't seen her for a while,
not since the last time I'd put the garbage out, actually.

'Hi Alice, what've you got planned for tonight? A
hot date?' Gabrielle had hope in her eyes.

'No, a bloody hens' night. I can't think of anything
worse, except for a kitchen tea. I don't even think I like
the guy my friend's marrying.'

'Now Alice, didn't your mum ever tell you that if
you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all?'
Gabrielle smiled at me like a wise mother as she walked
off. I felt like a bitch. She was right. In an attempt to
seek the Buddha within everyone and the positive in
every situation, I would adopt a new mantra:
I will
only say things that assist, contribute to, or are pleasant
about any individual, place or event.
Before I reached
my door, though, I was laying bets with myself on how
long this mantra would last.

The phone was ringing as I entered the flat, but I didn't
answer it in case it was Simple Simon. I let the machine
get it and heard Peta's voice: 'Alice, it's me. I know you're
there. You want to go to the Ladies' Baths?'

I picked up. 'Great idea.'

It was terrific having Peta living so close, both of
us only walking distance from the secluded, womenonly
rock pool. It was always more peaceful there than
the main beach, even if at times it was hard to find
somewhere to sit. I was surprised a sundeck hadn't been
built there for more women to sit on, but it was still just
a natural space. We sometimes pretended to do laps in
the pool but mostly we just floated and talked. Peta and
I agreed to meet there in half an hour.

I ran the dry mop over the polished floorboards,
sprayed some lemon citrus cleaner in the bathroom
so that it at least smelled clean, and pulled the shower
curtain right around the bath to hide the underwear
hanging in there, then donned my expensive new bikini
that made me feel like I'd had breast implants. Next I
checked for unwanted pubic hairs hanging around the
bikini line and plucked a few strays. I had planned on
getting a Brazilian wax for summer but chickened out
at the last minute. I had a really low pain threshold.

It only took me ten minutes to get to the Ladies'
Baths, stake my claim on one of the few rocks left to
sit on, and get settled with the latest
Who
magazine.
I'd vowed to stop buying papers, not trashy mags. Like
AA, it's a twelve-step program.

Peta arrived shortly afterwards. We didn't speak
much for the first half-hour: we were old friends, and
simply enjoyed spending time together. Eventually,
though, Peta sat up and looked at me over the top of
her sunglasses.

'So, I bumped into Mickey last night. He tells me
you had a date last week. How was it?' Only because
she'd asked, I gave a brief post-mortem on what I had
chosen to call the 'Simple Simon Scenario'.

Peta laughed but I could tell she felt sympathetic.
She did remind me, though: 'No one-night stands, Al –
remember to stick to the strategy. See what happens
when you don't?' She rolled herself a cigarette and lit
up. It didn't worry me when Peta smoked, though I
hated it when anyone else did.

I put some sun lotion on my chest, as my boobs
hadn't seen the sun for some months, and lay back to
absorb the rays. I thought about how many times Peta
and I had sat there and analysed our disastrous dates.
If the rocks could talk, they'd spill a million beans
about our sad attempts at finding love, and even more
disappointing attempts at finding decent lovers.

Vitamin D rays from the sun stung my shoulders but
I didn't care. I love how it feels to have a good colour up.
I started to doze, thinking about what I should wear to
Bianca's hens' night, when Peta's mobile rang. I listened
to her making plans to meet people at the Coogee Bay
Hotel later.

Snapping her phone shut, she turned to me. 'I've got
Mr Right for you! That was him on the phone. He's an
old mate of mine. Gorgeous. Slightly damaged goods,
but aren't we all?'

I nodded, somewhat unsure, but encouraged her to
go on.

'His name's Paul and he's Koori. Thirty-eight,
single, straight, has a good job as an engineer. Plenty
of walang, and doesn't mind spending it either. He's got
perfect skin and he's not precious at all. Yes, he'd be
perfect for you.' He did sound perfect, but if he was,
why hadn't Peta scooped him for herself? What did she
mean about 'slightly damaged goods'? And why hadn't
she mentioned him earlier on in my search? After all,
Phase I of the strategy was over. I wasn't supposed to be
going on any more blind dates.

'Why aren't you going out with him yourself, then?
Seems like an obvious thing to me.'

'No, he's not really my type. Doesn't do anything for
me, you know, down there,' she said, gesturing to her
loins.

'So he must be dingo ugly.'

'No, he's not. He's just not my type,' she assured me.
I was no longer a lookist anyway, right? But what did
she mean by 'slightly damaged goods'?

'You know we all have some baggage we carry. Don't
try and tell me you don't. You practically need a porter
for yours, Alice.'

Peta knew me well enough to know what she was
talking about, so I trusted her if she thought Paul was
okay for me. She promised to arrange something for the
next week. Suddenly, the sun shone brighter. Wedding
Cake Island was out in the distance and I peered at it
hopefully. The prospect of having someone to wake up
with on Christmas Day, only three weeks away, seemed
almost possible again, maybe even likely. I pushed
my straw hat over my face and lay back, imagining
Mr Engineer telling our wedding guests that he was the
luckiest man in the world.

At five pm the alarm on my mobile rang loudly and I
woke from my nanna-nap with a renewed interest in
the evening's hens' night. Perhaps it wouldn't be that
bad after all. Maybe sixteen women having a good time
would attract a few guys having a good time, and amidst
those few guys might be Mr Right. Yes, perhaps it would
be a great evening after all. I had to keep all my options
open, even though Paul-the-Engineer was looking
promising. I didn't want to put all my unfertilised eggs
in one basket.

I showered, shaved my legs, tidied up the eyebrows,
and plucked one or two annoying hairs from my chin.
Mental note to self: get oestrogen levels checked. I
put on my lucky bra and knickers I saved for special
occasions, donned my sexy black dress, styled my hair,
put on blood-red lipstick, and dabbed a little glitter on
the arch of my brow. I was happy with the elegant but
fun look I'd achieved in just under an hour.

At six I cruised over to Liza's place, where she had
a jug of sangria waiting on the balcony. I commented
approvingly that Mrs New-Carpet could take some
lessons from Liza on how to entertain properly, but
couldn't help noting that she was drinking a lot for
someone who'd been off the booze for so long. It really
was all or nothing with Liza. Still, I was grateful to have
my drinking partner back.

'So what's the deal with hens' nights anyway?' I
asked, knowing Liza would have an answer.

'Funny you should ask that. Someone at work told
me that the hens' night is meant to
replace
the old
tradition of the kitchen tea. So you either do one or the
other, I reckon. Get presents for your kitchen
or
go out
with your girlfriends. Not both.'

'Don't tell me we were meant to get Bianca a present
for this as well?' I asked. It was going to be a 7-Eleven
job if we did.

'No way. We just pay for her dinner.'

'That's cool. This whole wedding gig's costing me a
fortune. You know, engagement present, kitchen tea,
wedding present, outfit, hair, nails, and of course, with
the wedding happening out west, we're going to have
to stay overnight.'

'It's the western suburbs, Alice. Stop making it sound
like it's Broken Hill!' Liza joked.

'All I'm saying is that my own bloody wedding won't
cost this much, I'm sure.'

'Which reminds me,' Liza said as she topped up my
glass, 'we should book our motel too.'

'See, moooore money.' I rolled my eyes.

'Are you taking a partner?' Liza asked, sucking the
alcohol-soaked fruit out of her already empty glass,
then refilling it quickly.

'Yeah, well, I'm hoping there's still time before
Christmas to meet someone, maybe even New Year's
Eve. Else, it might have to be you!'

'Same, same. Mum said a woman she works with
has a son who's just come back from studying in the
States and—' She jumped up and down, spilling her
third glass of sangria over herself and waving her hands
about in the air.

'I forgot, I forgot! My cousin Marco, the one you
didn't want to meet months ago, he's just arrived home
again from Sorrento. He's here for a couple of years this
time, working with my uncle's importing business. He's
gorgeous, Al, I know you'd love him. The most beautiful
green eyes you've ever seen, and tall. He's got the most
beautiful head of hair and olive skin, and if he weren't
my cousin I'd be taking him myself. I'm sure he'd love
to go with you to the wedding. Do you want me to ask
him?' She was so excited, and he sounded lovely, which
made it harder to say no, but I did.

'I went out with Dannie's cousin Charlie and it
caused tension between us for weeks. I don't even want
to risk it with you.' I watched her body language to see
what she was thinking.

'That wouldn't happen to us. Marco's better looking
than Charlie, and I know that's why you didn't like him,'
Liza paced around as if she was addressing a jury, 'And
he's perfect for you, Alice. Even though he looks like
a true Italian Stallion, he's really a good Catholic boy,
at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.' Liza was persistent,
and she was making sense, but I wasn't convinced.

'I really think we should leave your family out of
my search for Mr Right. I'll just try and get a pub-pash
in before the wedding and meet someone too. If not,
I'm sure we can coordinate our clothes and take each
other – you know I make the perfect date, eh!'
We toasted each other and looked out over her
balcony to the block of flats behind. Liza didn't have
an ocean view, but it was enough just knowing we were
close to the beach.

We had time to slurp down another glass of Liza's
'special sangria' before we left: the hens' night venue had
been moved closer to home. Bianca had sent a broadcast
SMS out after a few hensters from the east and the
north-east had complained about doing the M4, M5 or
M2 trip. We were going to Capitan Torres on Liverpool
Street in the city's Spanish district (hence Liza's choice
of pre-dinner drinks), and then onto the Bristol Arms
for some serious seventies and eighties sounds. The
night was already looking better than we'd anticipated.
The warm glow in my cheeks was a bonus, especially
given that I'd raced out without putting any blush on.

A short time later we were eating garlic prawns
and potatoes, squid in ink and the best paella I've
ever tasted. Liza and I had a slight disagreement on
how it was pronounced. She said
pay-ella
and I said
pay-eeya
. Dannie remained neutral and just ate it. As
at the kitchen tea, we'd all been given name tags to
wear. 'The Bride', 'Chief Bridesmaid', 'The Bridesmaid',
'The Mother of the Bride' and so on. I was grateful that
'Granny of the Groom' wasn't there, and that Liza's,
Dannie's and my tags simply had our names. At least
if we got lost or speechless, other people would know
who we were. We were tempted to write our addresses
on them as well for worst-case scenarios, but decided
against it.

There was giggling and chatter, and some pretty
crappy jokes were being told to the left and right of me.
All noise stopped, though, when the bridesmaid-to-be
mentioned that her hens' night would be in eighteen
months' time and she was planning on taking her party
abseiling in the mountains. Liza and I couldn't believe
it. How had we managed to end up here among these
people? Our snobbery must have shown on our faces,
because Dannie threw us a mother glare –
behave
yourselves
– across the table. Dannie's hens' night had
been a gorgeous dinner down at the Rocks followed by
very late-night cocktails at Level 31. Dannie was the
classiest of us, even when she'd been a relatively new
mother. She'd sometimes come out with baby food on
her clothes, but she'd duck into the loos and minutes
later emerge looking almost pristine again. She'd always
had natural style.

'Even Bianca can't possibly fit in here,' Liza whispered
in my ear.

'Ab-fucken-seiling?' I slurred back in hers. 'How
does pre-wedding, freedom-ending socialising with
your girlfriends translate into ab-fucken-seiling?'

Liza admitted to my complete surprise that she
wanted to do the male strip show Bad Boys Afloat
for her hens' night. 'You're supposed to do something
daring on your hens' night, but I was thinking going
a little crazy at a strip show rather than going crazy
rock climbing.' Dannie's eyes even lit up momentarily,
but I didn't know if George would give her a leave pass
for that. Personally, I thought it was good for women,
whatever age, to be reminded of that animal urge to
jump a complete stranger in a leopard-print g-string.
Not that I'd actually do it myself, of course.

'Pity most of the dancers are gay.' I thought I should
tell Liza that up-front.

After a few unflattering comments about male
strippers, Liza asked me what I'd do for my hens' night.
I liked to think I was a little more mature than Liza,
who'd only just moved out of home at the age of twentyeight.
Besides, I'd done the Bad Boys Afloat gig more
than once, in a number of venues, and with me playing
a number of roles. I wasn't the least bit interested in
abseiling or going to some old pub in Parramatta as
part of my wedding preparations either. I confessed that
I'd probably just have a girls' night in with pizza and
good friends, but admitted that if someone
happened
to order a stripper, I wouldn't be the least bit off ended.
Liza looked at Dannie and they both winked, hint
taken.

Just as I was trying to get the attention of a very sexy
waiter to order another jug of sangria, an ugly pink cake
arrived at the table.

'That is the aarrrrgllliieesst looking attempt at a cake
I've ever seen,' Liza observed loudly. Unfortunately,
the cook was 'The Bride's Cousin' (her name tag said
so), sitting immediately to Liza's left. Silence almost
strangled the table, and The Bride's Cousin threw a
deathly look at my friend. I tried to break the tension:
'Looks better than any cake that I've ever made.' The
cousin gave me a grateful smile, but Liza, who was
really pissed by then, burst into laughter and fell off her
chair onto the floor.

'Leave her there,' Dannie suggested. I wasn't sure
if she was serious or not. I
was
tempted to leave Liza
there, but helped her up anyway.

'You've never cooked a fucken cake in your life,' she
said. 'So my arse looks better than any of your cakes ...'
She was swearing, which wasn't like her at all. I couldn't
help laughing, though, and Dannie was in hysterics. It
was good to be with the girls like this, even though
none of us really fit in with the rest of the party. It'd also
been a long time since Liza had let all her inhibitions
go. I was pleased to see her relaxed for once. She was
always so uptight with work.

We all got a piece of the ugly pink cake and a big
cheer went up for the cook, who'd bitten into the piece
with a ring in it. Apparently tradition says that the hen
who gets the piece with the ring in it is the next to be
married.

'Riiiiiigggged, rriiiigggged,' Liza yelled across the
table. 'She planted it in there, and she knew which piece
had it. That doesn't count. Redraw! I want a redraw.'

'This isn't a chook-raffle at the RSL,' Dannie tried to
explain, 'We can't redraw, look around the table, love –
most people have eaten their cake.'

'Alice should've got that ring. You want to get
married don't you, Alice? Why aren't you upset?' Liza
was working herself into an unnecessary state.

'Calm down, Liza. It's just a cake.' She had the
attention not only of the other women at the table, who
were all clearly off ended, especially the cook, but also
other patrons in the restaurant.

'But if Mrs New-Carpet can get married, then why
the hell can't you or I? This sucks.' Mrs New-Carpet
got up and left the table. Liza did have a point. If Mrs
New-Carpet could scoop a husband, then why couldn't
we? I tried not to think about it, and focused on eating
the leftover fruit in the bottom of the sangria jug, but
I was increasingly aware of how drunk I was, and then
suddenly the bill had landed on the table.

Liza, Dannie and I threw in a few extra dollars
before anyone could comment that we'd drunk more
than the rest of them. Surely they understood that they
were all complete losers and the only thing that made
them bearable was the three litres of grog we'd each
had. Dannie was well and truly pickled, so we put her in
a cab and rang George to say she was on her way, before
following the crowd from Liverpool Street into Sussex
Street, Bianca leading the way. I noticed the women at
the front of the group wrestling with a huge bag, then
passing things around. The penny finally dropped as I
saw the women struggle to put them on – they were tiny
little pseudo wedding veils. One by one they were being
fitted to each henner's head. Bianca had a metre-long
white one and everyone else had smaller pink ones. The
big bag made its way to the back of the group, towards
Liza and me. Liza said it for me: 'No way am I putting
on some fucken pink tulle mini-veil because someone
else is getting married.'

As luck would have it, the bag reached us empty. For
some unexplained but much-appreciated reason, we
were two mini-veils short. The others felt bad for us, but
we both said with sincere gratitude, 'We'll manage.'

Before we knew it, we'd paid our $20 entry fee to the
Bristol Arms and elbowed our way to the bar.

'More wine?' Liza shouted over Katrina and the
Waves, but it was more a statement than a question.
She grabbed the bottle by the neck, left the ice bucket
on the bar and headed towards the first of the three
dance floors. Lots of bodies were walking on sunshine,
bopping along to some of the coolest music from the
seventies. I loved it.

The evening became more of a haze the later it got,
and Liza and I staggered between floors, minus the other
henners. Before long I had some young gun gyrating
against me to the sounds of the Hues Corporation
singing 'Rock the Boat', and I started to feel seasick.