Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Ireland.’

  His mouth lifts in another smile. ‘Well, that’s quite obvious. I meant what part of Ireland.’

  I feel the usual twinge this question evokes. ‘The North.’

  ‘Belfast?’

  ‘No. A small town inland from Belfast.’ The twinge deepens before it eases, and suddenly I feel silly standing here, chatting to this virtual stranger. ‘Well, I’d better get going. I guess I’ll see you around.’

  Matthew surprises me by putting his hand on my arm, preventing me from moving away. ‘Caitlin, wait. Do you want to have a drink before you go home?’

  I look back at him, confused.

  ‘I mean, we don’t have to go in here.’ He indicates the doorway behind my back. ‘We can go somewhere else if you like.’

  I feel so bemused that I can’t begin to formulate an answer. As the silence grows, I can’t help but notice a deeper colour creep across his face. He’s embarrassed, sorry that he asked and put us both in this excruciatingly awkward situation. This knowledge, that I’ve managed to embarrass him, throws me even further off kilter.

  ‘Thanks for asking,’ I eventually manage, ‘but I think I’ll just go home.’

  I walk away, along the street and towards home, my arms hugged around my body, keeping out the cold breeze, and keeping in my conflicting emotions. I should have answered him more quickly; it would have been much less embarrassing if I hadn’t hesitated for so long. In my defence, I didn’t see it coming: it doesn’t seem that long since he was glowering at me and calling me stupid for getting on the back of Derek’s bike.

  I make it all the way home and into bed before I acknowledge there was a split second when I actually considered it: having a drink with Matthew Blake. I was right to turn him down, though. He’s nice, really nice in fact, but he’s not my type. He’s a police officer, and for some reason I can’t quite pin down, this bothers me.

  I chew the top of my pen as I read the newspaper article. The headline is inconspicuous, the font small and narrow as though the journalist wasn’t confident enough to make a bolder statement: Net Banc circling Metro.

  Both Net Banc and Metro have refused to comment on a possible acquisition and the article lacks hard evidence. Still, the journalist, Joe McFaddon, has regular pieces in the business section and they’re usually well researched and written. My instincts tell me that Joe is onto something with this alleged acquisition; he obviously doesn’t have all the facts but I’m sure that he’s sniffing in the right direction. I flick through my filing cabinet, searching for the client questionnaire form I used last time I called Harry Dixon. I locate it and laugh to myself when I see CRANKY BASTARD written after his name. Dialling the number, I mentally brace myself for another curt reception.

  ‘Harry Dixon.’

  ‘Hello, Harry, this is Caitlin O’Reilly from Learning Space.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Learning Space,’ I say pleasantly. ‘We provide training –’

  ‘We do our own training!’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I’ve just read the article in The Age about Metro –’

  ‘Net Banc will not comment on that article.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, keeping my tone light. ‘I’m not looking for a comment. I just wanted to let you know that if something does happen, Learning Space may be able to –’

  ‘As I said, I have no comment!’ he roars and crashes down the phone.

  Rubbing my ear, I put the receiver back in its cradle and neatly print VERY before CRANKY BASTARD. Then I cut out the newspaper article and attach it to the back of the form with a paperclip. After returning everything to the filing cabinet, I make a diary note to send Harry some marketing material in a week’s time. By then he will have hopefully forgotten this last conversation and realised that any acquisition will involve significant systems change and training.

  With nothing else of interest in the newspaper, I once again find myself at a loose end. It’s at least an hour before I can legitimately go to lunch, and another six hours before I can call the working week over. I hate clock-watching like this. For the want of something to do, I go on the internet and google Deniliquin. The town is in New South Wales, three hours’ drive from Melbourne and eight from Sydney, set on the fringes of the Riverine Plain and a vast redgum forest. The tourism website describes the area as ‘an oasis of green’, a haven for fishermen, kayakers, bird-watchers and bushwalkers. It looks like Matthew grew up in a nice place.

  Next, before I can question my motives too closely, I google Matthew himself. The results line up one after the other on my screen.

  Sergeant Matthew Blake praises rescue efforts.

  Sergeant Blake of St Kilda Police says bail decision will be appealed.

  Local sergeant warns of crackdown on antisocial behaviour.

  Apparently, and quite understandably given his position in the community, Matthew is someone journalists seek out when they want a comment, and a considered opinion. He probably stands in front of the police station looking solemn and righteous in the same way my father used to stand in front of the university when he was being interviewed by the media.

  This is what bothered me about Matthew last night, though at the time I couldn’t pinpoint my reservations. Now, thanks to Google, I can.

  The Mitre Tavern is our local, and Learning Space people congregate there most nights of the week, not just Fridays. I like the Mitre; it reminds me of the old traditional pubs at home: nooks and crannies, rustic tables and chairs, quirky artefacts on the walls and behind the bar, a certain smell that I like to think of as the scent of history. In the alleyway outside there’s a beer garden and in summer people prefer it to the dim interior – pavers under their feet, the open sky overhead. This is where I go with Nicola when my terminally long working week is finally over.

  ‘Here.’ Nicola slips a drink into my right hand, even though the glass I’m holding in my left is still three-quarters full.

  I regard the drink suspiciously. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  She screws up her face. ‘Trying to get myself drunk.’ Apparently it’s been a hard week on the training floor.

  ‘Well, no need to take me down with you.’ I laugh. Truth be told, I already feel quite tipsy.

  I throw back the old drink and set down the empty glass on a nearby table. Once my hand is free, I turn my wrist to glance at my watch: 8 pm. A waitress passes by, plates lined along her forearm, steam rising from them, the smell of grilled steak and hot chips whetting my usually erratic appetite.

  ‘Should we get something to eat?’

  ‘Let’s hold off until it’s quieter.’ Nicola twirls the stem of her glass, her eyes sweeping across the crowd.

  ‘See anything of interest?’

  ‘Maybe. Left wall. Halfway down. The one with the black hair.’

  I follow her gaze. The man in question has slicked-back dark hair, an arrogant set to his face and glinting cufflinks on his designer shirt. ‘He looks like an investment banker. Just your type.’ Nicola’s taste in men runs to smooth, handsome, rich and, more by consequence than design, shallow.

  ‘He’s seen you staring,’ she hisses.

  I grin unrepentantly. ‘Well, at least now you’re on his radar.’

  ‘Face this way,’ she instructs urgently, moving so that he’s no longer in her direct line of vision.

  I turn sideways with a long-suffering sigh, my view now truncated by the back wall. My eyes swoop upwards. The sky is murky, dusk smudging the brightness from the blue that was there the last time I looked. Noise bubbles around me: conversation, laughter, clinking glasses, the rumbling of a truck going down Collins Street. I raise my glass, still looking up at the sky, and drink until the ice rushes forward to kiss my lips.

  ‘This is going to be my last,’ I slur to Nicola.

  ‘Don’t be so boring – it’s still early.’

  I wag my finger. ‘You are a bad, bad influence.’ A little un
steady on my feet, I go inside and add my body to those pressed around the bar, waiting for service.

  I come back outside to find that Mr Slick has made his move on Nicola.

  ‘I’m David,’ he introduces himself to me with a confident, practised smile.

  ‘Caitlin,’ I return.

  Like Nicola he has glossy hair and tanned skin; they could be brother and sister.

  ‘So, you work with Nicola?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in sales. What about you?’

  He mentions an investment bank on William Street, confirming my earlier guess. His friends, still huddled by the wall, obviously hail from the same industry.

  Nicola nudges me. ‘Checking out his friends?’ she asks in a stage whisper.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come on …’

  ‘No, seriously not interested.’ I sip my drink and realise I’m quite full up. ‘Think I’ll go home.’

  ‘Hey, don’t leave.’ Nicola looks distressed.

  I smile to indicate that I’m not leaving because I feel like a spare wheel; I actually want to go home. ‘Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  I make my way down the alleyway, the voices and music fading behind me. My head is swimming nicely, my feet blurred as one goes in front of the other. I’m drunk. I should have eaten. Bloody Nicola! I always have too much to drink when I’m out with her. My father would call her an ‘unsuitable friend’. I burst into a fit of giggles.

  Emerging onto Collins Street, I look up and down in search of a taxi. Seeing one in the distance I raise my hand. Fortunately, it stops. ‘St Kilda,’ I say as I slide in the back. The driver nods and glides away from the kerb.

  My handbag sits uncomfortably on my knees. I move it to the seat, next to my thigh. My eyes keep darting back and forth to it. Finally, I give in to the urge to extract my phone, along with the card, his card: Sergeant M. Blake. Before I can think twice, I dial the number on it.

  He answers on the first ring, his voice at once hesitant and authoritative. ‘Hello.’

  I could pass this off as an act of spontaneity, fuelled by too many drinks on an empty stomach. But the truth is that he’s been on my mind all day. The sergeant: crisp uniform, bulging forearms and that cool blue stare. Then his alter ego, Matthew: faded jeans, hands in his pockets, disarmingly shy. Despite what Google revealed about certain, disturbingly familiar aspects of his job, I still can’t seem to dismiss him from my thoughts.

  ‘Hi, Matthew. It’s Caitlin.’

  His voice becomes wary. ‘Hello, Caitlin.’

  There’s a pause. A long pause.

  ‘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 …’

  Chapter 15

  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 whole
some 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.