Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  ‘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?

  The big question, however, is whether he will call. The answer: of course. Matthew Blake doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean – I know this instinctively. And when he calls I’ll have to find a polite way of turning him down. Aside from how indisputably attractive he is, he’s interesting, polite and very easy to talk to. He’d make a good friend, but he’s not boyfriend material. When it comes down to it, Matthew Blake is of the same ilk as my father: the police officer and the ethics professor, both driven by very definite notions of right and wrong, delusions of safety and a dogged overriding belief in justice. I left all that propaganda behind me in Ireland. The last thing I need is to start it all over again.

  Chapter 17

  At the sales meeting Jarrod brims with Monday morning purpose. I sit up straighter in my seat, trying to convey that I’m also feeling purposeful; in reality, I’m still in weekend mode.

  ‘Good morning, all.’ Jarrod’s greeting comes out sounding like a reprimand. I sit even straighter. ‘Let’s shake up the order this morning. Zoe, you can go first.’

  On hearing her name, Zoe shuffles her papers and softly clears her throat. ‘Good morning,’ she begins, her voice gentle and floaty and infinitely more pleasant than Jarrod’s. ‘This week is going to be a busy one for me. I have a number of client meetings and I’m quietly confident that I can move them all to a better place …’

  Zoe is still getting to know her clients and she clearly enjoys this stage: finding out what they need, building trust and respect.

  ‘I have a wonderful surprise for my clients this week. I’ve booked a three-minute angel.’

  ‘A what?’ Jarrod splutters.

  ‘A three-minute angel.’ She smiles beguilingly. ‘The angel massages the neck and shoulders for three minutes, easing tension and stress from the muscles.’

  Zoe’s sales tactics are far too intangible for Jarrod’s liking. For someone who’s supposed to be so in tune with auras, she seems quite oblivious to the scepticism written on his face.

  ‘After the lovely massage, my clients will be much more receptive and malleable when I speak to them about their training needs.’

  Jarrod’s expression remains thoroughly unconvinced.

  The other sales reps, Gary, Chris and Nathan, follow Zoe in turn, flat and unsmiling. In fact, they’re so interchangeable that if I close my eyes, which I’m very tempted to do, it would be hard to tell which one of my male colleagues is speaking. My thoughts drift back to Friday night, the feeling of Matthew’s cold, wet hand on my face and his lips as they brushed my forehead, such small gestures that seem to have become oddly enhanced by the fact I can’t stop thinking of them. Matthew phoned me on Saturday, and on Sunday too. Though our conversations disclosed nothing significant, I can’t seem to stop thinking of them either.

  ‘What are your plans for today?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Nothing much. Some chores. Might go for a ride on my bike – if the rain stops. How about you?’

  ‘Just getting ready for an eight-hour shift,’ he replied wryly. ‘Very antisocial, I’m afraid.’

  I pictured him in his uniform, the tan of his skin against the fresh blue fabric, the complementing shimmer of his eyes, and felt an instant wave of something that could very well have been lust.

  ‘Do you have to work many weekends?’

  ‘A fair share of them.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘I guess I’m used to it.’

  And so though nothing monumental was revealed, I gained snippets, mainly about his work and how committed he is to it. This should turn me off him, because again it has echoes of my father, but it doesn’t. He’s wrong for me, I know this for a fact – it’s just that whenever I hear his voice or as much as think of those eyes, I instantly seem to forget it. The only saving grace is that he doesn’t have his roster worked out yet and so he hasn’t asked me on another date and I haven’t had to turn him down.

  Nathan is talking now; like the others he seems to revel in reporting tedious details the rest of us have no real need to know about. I would much rather be at my desk doing something semi-constructive than sitting here listening to him droning on about the technical, cash-flow and location challenges of a deal that, now I’ve listened properly, doesn’t seem worth pursuing. I contain my boredom with an inward sigh – or maybe not so inward, because Zoe blinks in my direction.

  I’m last to speak and Jarrod is glancing at the clock, which suits me: I don’t have a lot to say. Unfortunately my sales pipeline sums up to very little, and I don’t want to mention my concerns about Chambers until I know the facts.

  ‘I’ve got some leads to follow up on,’ I finish my status report with false brightness, ‘so hopefully I’ll have something more exciting to talk about at the next meeting!’

  I glance at Jarrod, who looks even more cynical than when Zoe described her three-minute angels.

  With a flick of his hand, the waiter whisks the napkin from the table to my lap. He repeats the exercise with Tanya
, who is wearing a low-cut top revealing an expanse of cleavage that seems quite inappropriate for a respectable restaurant in the middle of the day. The waiter’s gaze becomes momentarily lost in her bosom before he averts his eyes and stares steadfastly at me. ‘Drinks, madam?’

  ‘Water for me, please. Tanya?’

  ‘I think some wine … Red, to go with the sudden change of season … Something warm and full-bodied …’ She winks flirtatiously at the waiter. ‘I’ll let you choose for me.’

  His face reddens. ‘A selection of bread to start?’ he squeaks.

  Tanya nods emphatically. ‘Yes.’

  He leaves, with visible relief, to dispatch the order, his steps short and tight.

  Tanya presses her heavily ringed fingers against her mouth as she clears her throat. ‘Pity all the good-looking ones are gay,’ she says chirpily. ‘Still, no harm trying, is there?’

  I smile, nod and refrain from commenting.

  Tanya doesn’t waste any further time on preliminaries. ‘Well, Caitlin, Chambers has just finalised budgets and the year ahead is tough, very tough. The global credit squeeze is hurting us, as it is all other financial institutions.’

  Tanya becomes distracted by the arrival of the bread basket, set on the table by the waiter who is gone before we can thank him. She helps herself to a slice, layers it thickly with butter, and demolishes it in two large bites. Some crumbs land unnoticed in her cleavage. She reaches for another slice, this time speaking as she butters. ‘As usual in hard times like this, learning and development is impacted the most. Our budget has been slashed by thirty per cent.’ She pops the bread in her mouth, chewing vigorously. ‘I’m sorry to say that I will have to make a few people in my department redundant, and that our training program will be cut back to bare bones. I feel it’s only fair to alert you in advance that our use of your training facilities will drop significantly.’ She eyes the bread basket again. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

  I put on my auto-smile. ‘No. But you go ahead.’

  Tanya doesn’t need to be told twice. I ponder the situation while she polishes off the remainder of the bread. It’s quite depressing, really. I have no other prospects on the horizon to make up for this significant drop in business. ‘When do you expect the changes to take effect?’

  She swallows a mouthful. ‘Within the next two weeks.’

  The main course arrives. I pick at the food while Tanya stuffs in as much as she possibly can. Before she devours dessert, she has another crack at flirting with the waiter. It’s mortifying to watch.

  I get back to work late in the afternoon. Jarrod’s in his office, talking on the phone. I hang by his door until he’s free.

  He nods as he puts down the phone, beckoning me to enter. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I just had lunch with Tanya. She announced that she’ll be reverting to minimum contract levels.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the next few weeks.’

  Jarrod takes the news in silence, his hand cupping the lower half of his face.

  ‘The thing that worries me is that it’s not just Chambers,’ I continue. ‘Business is quiet, really quiet. I think the GFC is finally heading our way.’

  When Jarrod speaks, his words are measured and I realise he’s been aware of the situation for a while. ‘Yes, things are quiet. The Australian market is definitely slowing but everyone is still at denial stage. It won’t be long before we can no longer ignore the obvious and there’ll be a rush of drastic cutbacks, probably more than is really needed.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We look harder for business,’ he replies pragmatically. ‘It’s not going to come to us – we have to seek it out, intelligently and strategically. And obviously we’ll have to cut back our costs too.’

  Jarrod has a master’s degree in economics. His certificate is framed on the wall and I often find myself looking at it when I can’t quite face looking at him. Its gilt frame and embossed cursive print reminds me of my own unfinished degree. When I can’t bear to look at it any longer, I’m ready to turn my eyes back to him.

  We talk a little further on Chambers and what we can do to minimise the impact, but he doesn’t mention his cost-cutting plans again. Will he, like Tanya, have to make some people redundant? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Maeve phones on Wednesday night. I haven’t spoken to my sister for a few months. Usually we’re better at keeping in contact, every few weeks emailing or ringing, more the former than the latter.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ she begins.

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ ‘I’ve been busy with the PhD – trying to get everything in before the deadline.’

  ‘Well, you’re nearly there now. How does it feel to be on the last stretch?’

  ‘Exhausting!’

  The pause that follows is long, even for us.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask, suddenly anxious.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she replies quickly. ‘I was just ringing to thank you for the necklace.’

  ‘Of course. The necklace. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’d just forgotten about it, that’s all. Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it. I’m wearing it now. It was very thoughtful of you.’

  I smile into the phone, glad that I made the effort to send the gift. ‘It’s my pleasure. I’m thrilled that you like it.’

  There’s another pause. When we speak on the phone it’s always like this: full of awkward pauses, long gaps laden with thoughts and memories. Sometimes it’s the same with Mum, but not as often. Over the years Mum and I have learned how to keep the conversation going, how to disregard what we’re really thinking and maintain our dialogue on a different level. But Maeve and I don’t talk frequently enough to have developed such a technique. The pauses are gaping, so big that sometimes I feel as though I could go hurtling through them.

  ‘So, the PhD is almost done …’ I revert to where the conversation began.

  ‘Yes. Just another two months now.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Well, actually, I’m considering law.’ Maeve’s voice trails away.

  ‘Law?’ Incredulity sharpens my tone.

  ‘Yes. I’ve always been interested in it.’

  ‘So why, exactly, have you spent the last four years doing a PhD in modern history?’

  ‘I’m allowed to be interested in more than one thing, aren’t I?’ Her tone is light but I can hear the defensiveness underneath.

  ‘Yes, but you don’t have to do a degree on every single subject that takes your fancy!’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m collecting degrees,’ she cries.

  ‘Are you?’ I can’t help but ask.

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t you think that this is a good point in your life to look for a job?’

  Maeve responds with a blatant change of subject. ‘How about you? How are things at your work?’

  I hesitate. I want to pin Maeve down, tell her that she needs to get out into the workforce and stop hiding behind academia. But it’s a hard conversation to conduct over the phone. Face to face would be easier, less harsh and less likely to come across as criticism. I don’t want to be judgmental – that would make me no better than my father – but at the same time I’m not sure I can stand back and watch Maeve become so overqualified that she’s virtually unemployable.

  Maybe I can ask Mum to talk to her? Mum would handle it more gently than me. She’d sit Maeve down and quietly remind her how soul-destroying it was for Liam when he couldn’t get a job, and point out that Maeve wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to her. Yes, that’s a better way to go about it. I’ve said enough for now. I’ll ask Mum to take it from here.

  ‘My work’s just same old, same old,’ I say, feeling slightly embarrassed at how non-committal I sound.

  My client’s making people redundant and I’m worried that
Jarrod might be too, I could have replied. It would have been a more truthful response, and might even have eased the niggling feeling I’ve had since Monday. But such a response would necessitate an explanation of who Tanya and Jarrod are. I would have to provide details, descriptions, history. Maeve knows next to nothing about my job and what I do all day, and it seems like a mammoth task to bring her up to date.

  ‘Anything else going on? Any man on the scene?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘No.’ Matthew isn’t exactly on the scene. Yes, he called again yesterday and sent a few text messages but that’s hardly significant enough to tell my sister. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Nothing serious … How’s the weather there? Beautiful?’

  ‘Not quite! It’s been raining solidly for more than a week now.’

  ‘Sounds just like here.’

  The conversation is at its end. We’ve both kept our distance. Nothing worthwhile has been shared, other than Maeve’s crazy notion of doing law.

  ‘I wish you’d call Dad,’ she says suddenly.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘He’d love to hear from you.’

  This is why emails work better: the messages are warm and chatty without any agonising pauses or last-minute pleas on my father’s behalf.

  ‘Well, thanks for calling,’ I say, feeling like I’ve failed but at a loss as to how I could have managed the conversation differently.

  ‘And thanks again for the necklace,’ Maeve replies softly and hangs up.

  Though it’s early, not yet nine o’clock, I start to get ready for bed. In the bathroom mirror I examine my not-pretty-enough face. Then I turn to the left to reveal the angry flesh on my arm and hip. The GP said I’d be left with some minor scarring. Is this what life is about? A collection of scars? Fresh shiny scars alongside aged dull ones, new scars layered over old ones in particularly painful spots. Never knowing if the blemish will eventually disappear, or if it’s there for keeps.

  I walk around the apartment, turning off the lights and checking the doors. Jeanie’s in Asia, first China then onto India and Singapore, the trip ending with a quick stop in Sydney to see her family. She’s not due back in Melbourne for at least another week.