Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  ‘One vodka and Diet Coke for you,’ Jeanie puts a glass in front of me a few minutes later, ‘and one big pint of beer for me.’ She sits down, tucks her blonde hair pragmatically behind one ear, and takes a swig of beer. She doesn’t have a preferred brand: beer is beer, and as far as she’s concerned all the various brands taste just as good.

  ‘It’s getting quite rowdy over there,’ she comments, glancing over my shoulder.

  I swivel in my seat to take another look. Two bouncers are having an exchange with a group of men at a neighbouring table. The music swallows their voices but it’s obvious the men are being asked to leave.

  I turn back to Jeanie. ‘Yeah, it’s getting to that point in the night. Might go after this, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jeanie takes another swig of beer. ‘Not like you to be the one to call it a night.’

  ‘I shouldn’t even be drinking,’ I say wryly. ‘I’m still on antibiotics until tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Jeanie frowns and looks at my drink as though she’d like to take it back.

  ‘Besides,’ I add, ‘Tuesday night’s a school night and maybe the last few days have taught me the error of my ways.’

  I’m not joking. I have, in fact, done a lot of self-examination since the accident. I’ve replayed what everyone said: the police officer, the paramedic, the doctor, Jeanie and, of course, Jarrod. They’re right, all of them. I went too far. If Derek didn’t want to negotiate, I should have stepped back. If I had bided my time, the accident wouldn’t have happened. It’s that simple. Of course, Derek was in the wrong too. He should have turned me down, knowing that he was a relatively inexperienced rider and that his reflexes could be affected by the alcohol. But that’s almost beside the point.

  I sip my drink. The Diet Coke is flat and reflects exactly how I feel. ‘Jarrod says I’ll never go any further in my career, that I’ll never become a manager.’

  Jeanie shrugs. ‘Jarrod’s pissed off with you and so he’s not being very nice.’

  ‘He also insinuated that the only way I know how to make a sale is by wining and dining my clients – with the emphasis on wining.’

  ‘As I said, he’s pissed off.’ Jeanie is matter-of-fact to the point of being snappy. It would be interesting to see her up against Jarrod in a conflict situation. Or a scenario, like my own, where Jeanie had done something wrong and was in a position of disadvantage. I’m quite sure that Jeanie would come off the better of such an exchange. Not only is she strong and direct with her opinions, she somehow still manages to be warm and endearing, which has a very disarming effect. There’s a lot I could learn from Jeanie.

  I swirl the drink in my glass. ‘He said that I don’t know the meaning of boundaries. I don’t think that’s true or particularly fair …’

  Jeanie considers this at more length. ‘I would say that your true nature is to be compliant and very respectful of boundaries and such,’ she muses, cocking her head to one side as she looks at me. ‘But there’s also this rule-breaking streak in you – it’s like there are two very different Caitlin O’Reillys.’

  ‘You’re making me sound schizophrenic!’

  Jeanie grins in response. ‘You said it, love. Though I do think that this wild streak goes against your true nature and that in your heart of hearts you’re more of a good girl than a party animal.’

  ‘And what about being a hard worker, super-intelligent and a good friend?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say all that too,’ Jeanie replies in a tone that suggests the opposite.

  I pull a face. Even though Jeanie’s succeeded in making me laugh, I’m still extremely peeved with Jarrod and the comments he made about my career.

  ‘Party girl, smarty girl, what difference does it make?’ Jeanie asks, seeing the shift in my mood.

  ‘Party girls don’t get promoted.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ Jeanie is suddenly distracted by something over my shoulder. ‘Hey! The cops are here!’

  I turn in my seat and see two police officers walking towards the group of men who were asked to leave earlier but obviously haven’t budged. My eyes are instantly drawn to one of the officers. He’s tall and broad with a distinctive square jaw and blue, blue eyes.

  I turn back to Jeanie, my face bright red. ‘I don’t believe it! That’s the officer – I mean, the sergeant – who was there on Friday night.’

  ‘Really? Which one?’

  ‘The taller one.’

  ‘A fine, strapping fellow,’ Jeanie states in her woeful Irish accent.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask urgently, afraid to look over my shoulder again should the officer see and recognise me.

  ‘Looks like they’re all willing to go home except for one of them. He’s talking back. Uh-oh …’

  I swing around, curiosity getting the better of me. The man Jeanie mentioned has sprung forward, his friends holding him back by his arms while he snarls his displeasure. He’s dressed respectably enough but is drunk to the point of being obnoxious and abusive. The sergeant nods calmly, as if taking the man’s viewpoint on board, and says a few words before jerking his head towards the exit.

  ‘He’s going,’ Jeanie breathes.

  But just as his well-meaning friends loosen their grip, the man lurches forward again, burrowing his head into the sergeant’s midriff, taking him down along with a table of drinks.

  Jeanie scarpers from her seat. ‘Get out of the way, Caitlin!’

  I get up more slowly, my eyes transfixed by the rolling bodies on the ground. Another table goes down in a ruckus of shattering glass and spraying liquid. Onlookers gasp. Some barstools are the next casualties, toppling down and bouncing off the ground, the legs dislodging on impact. The bodies on the floor twist through the debris, the sergeant on top then under the drunk, and then on top again. He somehow manages to get the drunk in a headlock and soon it’s over, and the man is being handcuffed by the other officer. Both policemen pull him to his feet and, taking an elbow each, march him outside. Bouncers usher spectators back from the scene and bar staff move in to begin the cleanup.

  ‘Fight over,’ says Jeanie, gulping the last of her beer. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Picking my way through the broken glass, the ground wet and sticky against the soles of my shoes, I retrieve the sergeant’s hat from under one of the toppled tables. It’s soaked through and smells like a brewery, but I assume that he wants it back.

  Outside, the drunk is already in the paddy wagon, screaming abuse as he kicks and pounds the back door, the vehicle rocking from side to side with the onslaught. The sergeant stands close by, notebook in hand as he takes a statement from one of the bouncers. A cocktail of spilt drinks splotches his shirt and glistens in his hair. He looks up as I approach and I notice a small cut over one of his eyebrows.

  ‘Excuse me …’ I begin.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You lost this.’ I hold out the hat, my heart beating erratically and a little too hard. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving.

  Blue eyes flick from my face to the sodden hat in my hand. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m Caitlin. You probably don’t remember me –’

  ‘I do remember. The motorbike, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m acutely conscious of the bouncer and Jeanie looking on, but there’s something I have to say. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know that I’m not usually that stupid.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Well, goodbye …’ I turn to go.

  ‘How are your injuries?’

  Surprised at the question, I turn back to him. ‘Much better today, thanks.’

  ‘Good.’

  I take a step back, attempt another goodbye. ‘Bye … officer.’

  ‘Matthew.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Matthew. That’s my name.’ A smile sparkles into his eyes. ‘Bye, Caitlin. See you around.’

  Chapter 14

  The rest of the week crawls by, punctuated by a few insigni
ficant orders from other clients (not Telelink), a breakfast seminar, some boring meetings and far too much thumb twiddling for my liking. I clear my inbox, catch up on some filing, make cups of tea and coffee I don’t finish and read The Age from front to back. I’m at a loose end and can’t disguise it no matter how many trivial tasks I try to busy myself with. Telelink is my biggest account and their daily small, high-volume orders usually form the backbone of my work schedule. Those orders belong to Jarrod now, along with the one-off multimillion-dollar deal I cultivated and priced, if Jarrod manages to save it. All incoming calls and emails from Telelink are being diverted to his office. It feels as though I’ve been fired, except for the fact I’m still sitting at my desk with more time than I have work.

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ Zoe advises when I complain.

  ‘I can’t,’ I wail. ‘I need to be busy.’

  She nods sagely. ‘No urgency, no motivation.’

  ‘Want to go out for a long lunch?’ I ask beseechingly.

  ‘Sorry, can’t do today. I’m meeting a friend to do some lunchtime meditation. Of course, you’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks. I’ve had more than enough “quiet” time today, I think!’ Next I phone Nicola. ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’

  ‘Can’t. The modems in one of the training rooms are acting up. Need to stick around to make sure the tech guys fix them properly.’

  Jo in reception has another commitment and can’t go to lunch either and so I leave the office without a companion. Outside the sky is picture-perfect blue, the kind of blue that would usually make me happy just to look at it. Not today, though. Instead of going straight to get something to eat, I find myself heading towards Bourke Street Mall. I veer in and out of a few clothes shops, glancing at the garments on the racks but not caring enough to pick up anything for closer examination. I feel aimless, demotivated and superfluous among the lunchtime bustle. My job is like my access card to this city, but now Jarrod has watered it down to the mundane, to something that doesn’t have enough substance to give me purpose. If he continues to punish me, do I have the courage to resign, to go out into the market and find something else? Up until now I’ve loved working at Learning Space – for the flexibility, the autonomy, and because my qualifications, or lack thereof, don’t seem to matter. Once I start going for interviews, it will matter a lot.

  ‘Why didn’t you finish your degree?’ the recruiters will ask.

  Now there’s a question I don’t care to answer.

  I wander into one of the shopping arcades and stop at a jewellery stall. The pieces are eye-catching and unusual, made of silver and patterned glass. I pick up a necklace; it feels heavy in my hand, substantial, and for some reason I think of Maeve. I imagine that she would like the eclectic design, even though I know little about what my sister likes or dislikes these days. Maeve has twice come to visit me, making Melbourne a stop on the backpacking trips she sandwiched between her degrees. Though she had friends in tow on both occasions, I really enjoyed the time we spent together. It was lovely to see a face I’d known all my life, to savour the freshness and yet the deep familiarity of her voice and her gentle, girlish laugh. My last image of Maeve is at Melbourne airport. I remember what she was wearing as she said goodbye – a red tank top, loose white cotton pants, Jerusalem sandals – her plaits of light brown hair and the straps of her backpack resting on her shoulders. She was twenty-three then and looked much younger than her age. From what Mum tells me, it sounds like Maeve hasn’t changed at all since the last time I saw her; she still leads a student lifestyle and seems to have retained a teenage perspective on the world, including an aversion to responsibility. I send my sister books and CDs for birthdays and Christmas, but I’m never sure if they’re to her taste. As I stand in the middle of the arcade, the assistant hovering close by and the silver and glass weighing in my hand, it feels like too much time has elapsed since I bought Maeve an impulsive gift, where I thought of her before I thought of a reason for buying her something.

  I extract some money from my purse to pay for the necklace, deciding that I will send it as an early congratulations for achieving her PhD. At the register there’s a small display of gift cards and I choose one with a glossy pink orchid on a white background. By the time I pay and my purchases are sealed in a paper bag, I feel quite light-headed. I will have to eat, and afterwards I will go to the post office and send the necklace and card to Maeve. Then back to work, though I can’t imagine how I’m going to fill the rest of the afternoon.

  Luke, the twenty-four-year-old surfer I met when I was out with Nicola, phones on Thursday, almost two weeks after taking my number. He asks if I want to meet for a drink, his tone so casual it borders on indifferent. I should say ‘thanks but no thanks’. Instead I arrange to meet him.

  The Elephant is busy, a live band setting up on stage, testing microphones and instruments and tweaking the sound system. I sit at the bar and I’ve half finished my drink before Luke makes an appearance. I recognise him immediately, which is a relief considering I haven’t been able to clearly picture his face. He wears a blue Billabong T-shirt and ripped jeans, his snowy blond hair ruffled with gel. Girls pay attention as he sashays in my direction. He’s very aware of the effect he’s having.

  ‘Hi.’ His smile is apparently the only apology I’m going to get. He nods at my drink. ‘Fancy another one of those?’

  ‘Yes, please. Vodka and Diet Coke.’

  Luke catches the barman’s eye. ‘A bottle of Crown and a vodka and Coke, mate.’

  ‘Diet Coke.’

  ‘That’s Diet Coke,’ he relays my correction to the barman. Once the order is placed, his eyes glance to the stage. ‘Who’s playing?’

  I shrug. ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘How was work today?’ It’s a perfunctory question.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, equally superficial. ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, it was all right.’

  We have nothing in common, no shared interests, and I wonder what I’m doing here. If I analyse it past the current moment I know the reason. Men like Luke are hard to get, impossible to keep, and there’s no chance of a relationship developing. I know where I stand with him and in that way he makes for a ‘safe’ date, though I’m well aware that most women would regard him in quite the opposite way.

  I finish off my drink to make way for the new one. The band finally gets it together and starts to play, throaty voices and acoustic guitars filling the air. I like their sound and lyrics, and for the first few songs I almost forget that I’m with Luke. When I finally look his way, he’s leaning against the bar, his heavily lashed eyes surveying the room. He looks bored, with the music, the venue, with life in general. I wonder again what I’m doing here and realise that I’m here for exactly the same reason as him: in some vain attempt to keep boredom at bay.

  An attractive girl walks in with her friends and Luke openly looks her up and down, his mouth curling in appreciation. On another night I might not have cared, but tonight I do. I’m not pretty enough or interesting enough for Luke. Really, it’s better to be bored than to sit here feeling so utterly inadequate.

  I gulp some of my drink and stand up to leave. ‘This wasn’t such a good idea.’

  Luke looks momentarily confused. ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am.’

  He moves his shoulders up and down in a shrug that’s both offhand and insulting. He clearly couldn’t care less if I leave now or later. He wouldn’t have cared if I hadn’t turned up at all tonight. But, in fairness, I more or less knew this from the outset.

  I push my way towards the exit and pause outside the pub, the cool breeze from the bay chilling the skin on my arms.

  ‘Hey, Caitlin.’

  I look around to find myself the focus of blue eyes that seem strangely familiar. The face beyond them also looks familiar, albeit somewhat out of context. It’s the sergeant, Matthew. He’s not in uniform, and this is what threw me.

  ‘Oh, it�
��s you – again!’

  He grins a little self-consciously. ‘Well, St Kilda’s a relatively small place.’

  I take a moment to readjust to this disconcertingly casual version of him. He’s wearing a white shirt, loose over faded jeans. The shirt accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, so wide and muscled that he looks like he belongs on the back line of a rugby team. His hair is cut too short and his eyes glitter against the tan of his skin. He seems even taller than I remembered, six foot three or four, yet, stripped of the authority that comes with his uniform, there’s something oddly vulnerable about him standing with his hands sunk into the pockets of his jeans and that hint of self-consciousness in his expression.

  ‘Getting some fresh air?’ he asks.

  ‘No, going home.’

  ‘Seems a bit early for that.’

  ‘I had a date that went wrong.’ He looks immediately concerned and I feel compelled to reassure him. ‘It was just a bad case of incompatibility, that’s all.’

  There’s an awkward silence, into which I should say goodbye and go not-so-merrily on my way. Instead I scan the vicinity, looking for someone I have so far failed to notice that Matthew might be here with. ‘You’re on your own?’

  ‘I have some friends who went in ahead of me.’

  ‘Police officers?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answers with a sheepish smile. ‘Off duty, though. Like me.’

  A pause follows. It’s less awkward than the one before.

  ‘Have you always worked in the St Kilda area?’ I ask.

  ‘No, only in the last six months.’

  ‘Where were you before then?’ I seem to be unable to look away from his eyes, and I can feel my face heating up in response.

  ‘My home town, Deniliquin.’

  I’ve heard of Deniliquin; it’s located somewhere between Melbourne and Sydney, though I’m unsure which state it falls into, Victoria or New South Wales.

  ‘Ah, a country boy.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve been in St Kilda, or at least the general area, for the last seven years. Before that I frittered away a few years in Sydney and Brisbane.’