Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  ‘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.

  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.

  Chapter 16

  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 boun
ds.

  ‘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.