Less Than Perfect

by Ber Carroll

  *

  I’m early for my date with Matthew, despite the fact that I took an inordinate length of time to get ready, styling my hair and experimenting with eyeshadow and lipstick, changing my outfit a total of four times before settling on a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a black sleeveless top.

  He comes through the door and I’m grateful that he’s early, too. I feel a stirring of happiness, the first in this memory-logged weekend.

  ‘Hi.’ I can’t help but smile when I see him.

  ‘Hi, yourself.’ He leans down, his mouth covering mine in a short kiss that tastes of the air outside, and then he sits on the bar stool next to me.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ I beckon the barman, ordering Matthew a beer. ‘How was the barbecue?’

  ‘Good, though Sophie was a bit subdued. She finds family occasions hard – that’s when she misses Steve the most.’

  ‘And Ben?’

  ‘Ben was his usual chatterbox self – five thousand questions a minute.’

  I laugh, picturing Ben with his serious, questioning eyes. ‘Did they mind you leaving to come here?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I got the third degree from Ben, though!’

  ‘Not from Sophie?’

  ‘Not as much. She can’t really think beyond her current situation.’

  ‘Mum was like that,’ I reveal, surprising myself. ‘It took almost a year before she could talk to me on the phone without crying.’

  ‘I’m sure Sophie will eventually be okay, too.’ Matthew’s beer arrives and he pauses to take a sip. ‘Are your parents on good terms now?’

  ‘Mum claims that Dad’s her closest friend.’ The words feel acidic in my mouth.

  Matthew’s eyes fix on me as he waits for me to expand on the topic. Instead I change the subject. ‘Do you play pool?’

  I’ve noticed a free table at the far end of the bar, the electricblue cloth luminous under the suspended light fitting overhead, and I feel the sudden urge to crack a cue stick against a ball.

  ‘Yes.’ He follows my gaze. ‘Do you want a game?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d love a game.’

  Drinks in hand, we make our way towards the table. Matthew delves in his pocket for some coins. The balls rumble down the chute and I crouch to gather them up.

  ‘Do you want to break?’

  ‘Ladies first.’ He throws me a cue.

  I chalk the tip, lean over the table to take aim and forcefully strike the white, which careers into the top of the triangle, dispersing the balls evenly, one disappearing into the bottom right pocket. Walking around the table, I survey the lie of the remaining balls before potting the red in the middle pocket, the white pulling back nicely to set up the brown. After the brown goes down, I sink the purple from long range.

  ‘I didn’t realise I was playing a pro.’ Matthew watches me with folded arms.

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘Who taught you to play like that?’

  ‘My brother. And Josh, my first boyfriend.’

  I don’t know whether it’s mentioning their names or just that my aim is slightly askew, but I stuff up the next shot, hitting it too far to the right and causing it to bounce back up the table.

  Matthew steps up to take his turn. The cue wedged between his fingers, he pots his first ball with ease. His next ball, which is in a rather awkward spot, goes in just as fluidly.

  ‘You’re not too bad yourself,’ I comment. ‘Where did you learn to play?’

  ‘We had a table in the back barn. I spent many happy hours being thrashed by my older brother.’

  Matthew pots two more balls before missing an ambitious ricochet shot off the side. I take my turn eagerly and send down a series of balls to close out the game. He looks slightly bemused.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve just realised there’s nothing as sexy as a girl who can polish off a game of pool in the manner that you did just there!’

  I laugh and blush at the same time. ‘Another game?’

  ‘You set up while I get us some more drinks. Same again?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Matthew disappears into the growing crowd while I set up the table. I feel happy, unfathomably happy considering how down in the dumps I’ve been all weekend.

  While Matthew’s at the bar, I get a text message from Jeanie. It was me! I was the one who started the row this time.

  I smile and text back: Must have been your turn! Hope you’re not in too much trouble with your mum.

  Jeanie’s response is quick. Wish I was somewhere else. Where are you? Are you out?

  Matthew returns from the bar and kisses me before taking his cue.

  ‘Your turn to break,’ I remind him.

  I reply to Jeanie while he lines up his shot. Yes, I’m out. See you tomorrow.

  Matthew wins the next game and we decide to play best out of five. I enjoy watching him play every bit as much as I enjoy taking my own turn at the table. For someone so big, he’s remarkably good with his hands, careful, precise, dextrous. I find him sexy too, his skilfulness with the cue, the way he looks up at me before taking a shot, the taste of beer from his lips when he kisses me, which is increasingly often. We get a new round of drinks to complement each game and I’m buzzing from the alcohol, the game, the chemistry between us. Eventually we reach a point where we’ve sated our desire to play pool, where it’s impossible to concentrate on what’s happening on the table; we can hardly keep our hands off each other. And so I decide that this is the right time, that to sleep with him now would not be ‘rushing things’ at all, and that I’m more than ready to go to this next stage.

  ‘I think we should go somewhere more private,’ I suggest, breaking away from one of his kisses.

  ‘Sophie and Ben are sleeping over at my place, just as a novelty for Ben. I’m sorry, but it won’t be very private there …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘My flatmate’s away for the weekend.’

  Outside on the street, voices and music billow from the restaurants and bars. Traffic and pedestrians are thick as we walk towards my apartment, hands held tightly. I have no clear plan for when we get there, I don’t know if I will show him around or offer him a drink or put on some music. But the moment, when it comes, is not staged in any way. Once inside the door, I turn into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to do, and within moments we’re lying on my bed, hands and mouths sweeping warm, bare skin. The curtains are open and the room has borrowed some light from the street outside. Matthew is a shadow, a large tender shadow moving over me. He’s gentle and thorough with my body, tracing its outline with his fingers, using his mouth for deeper exploration. No part goes untouched. I feel as though I’m melting, dissolving into the bed, becoming nothing but a jumble of sensations. I explore him too, the muscles knotted across his shoulders, the taut skin on his back, the jut of his hips and the part of him that will go inside me. Impatient now, I writhe beneath him. I’ve been ready for a long time, well before tonight, and cannot wait another moment longer.

  I wake in the early hours. Dawn has infused the room. Birds squawk outside, their calls loud and intrusive in the otherwise peaceful morning. Matthew lies flat on his back beside me, his head turned slightly to one side, his body naked beneath the white cotton sheet. I feel a tingle at the thought of last night, his hands on my skin, how his body felt against mine. The sex was hot, intense, meaningful. I gaze at his face, boyish in repose, his mouth slightly open. Taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the light hair on his upper chest, the sheet making it necessary to use last night’s recollection for the rest of him. I feel incredible tenderness towards this huge man in my bed. I haven’t felt this way about anyone for a long time. Not since Josh.

  Thinking about Josh ruins the good feeling. Suddenly I’m scared that Matthew will hurt me or I’ll hurt him. Or that fate will take us from each other, just like it did with Josh. Matthew’s job is dangerous – he could get involved in a random f
ight at any time of the day or night. Or someone holding a grudge could attack him in a premeditated way, injuring or even killing him …

  I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s still only early days with Matthew, and this panicked feeling is unwarranted. Taking some deep breaths to calm myself, I shimmy closer to him in the bed. Heat radiates from his body. Feeling instantly safer I close my eyes.

  When I wake the second time Matthew is sitting on the side of the bed, dressed to the waist. ‘Good morning.’ He smiles down at me.

  I smile drowsily in reply.

  ‘Sleep okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Very nicely, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Excellent. Very comfortable bed and very beautiful bed companion.’

  I blush. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re satisfied …’

  ‘More than satisfied,’ he says with a mock leer and I laugh. ‘I just need to use your bathroom …’

  ‘Go ahead. It isn’t hard to find.’

  He kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll be back.’

  I stretch in the bed while I wait. More memories of last night circle in my head. Matthew’s hands stroking my breasts, his mouth and tongue on my nipples. His hands caressing the velvet skin on my stomach, my inner thigh, his mouth following again. I feel aroused just thinking about it. I hear the flush of the toilet and then the running of the tap. He’ll be back soon. I hope he isn’t rushing off somewhere, that he can come back into bed.

  He is slower to return than I expected, and instead of getting into bed with me, he stands near the door, his face solemn. ‘What’s going on, Caitlin?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I opened your fridge to see if there was some cold water. It looks like a mini pharmacy in there!’

  Last night’s glow is quickly extinguished. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You have those scabs on your fingers and last night I noticed some bruising on your stomach …’

  I sit up in the bed and open my mouth only to close it again. I’ve told him about my father’s affair and the divorce; I’ve gone as far as mentioning Josh’s name; but this is of a completely different magnitude. All my insecurities, the cracks in my self-image, the loathing I feel for my body emanates from this one thing.

  ‘You’re always so conscious of your diet – no dessert after dinner, no ice cream that day with Ben, Diet Coke as a mixer …’

  From the expression on his face I can tell that he’s already worked it out. He wants to hear it from me, though. It’s hard to say it, to admit that my body, the one he made love to last night, is so dysfunctional, so imperfect.

  ‘The fridge is like a pharmacy because I keep insulin in there,’ I reply finally, my voice sounding more like that of a child than a grown woman. ‘My diet needs to be healthy, low in sugar and fat, and I shouldn’t miss meals. The scabs on my fingers are from the glucometer, which I use every day to test my blood. I inject the insulin into my stomach and sometimes, if the needle is blunt, I bruise. I’m a Type 1 diabetic.’

  My announcement is met with a long, loaded silence.

  Finally he reacts, moving from the doorway to sit heavily on the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this weeks ago?’

  I shrug, and I’m sure the gesture looks every bit as defensive as it feels but I can’t help it. ‘Don’t most people want to show their better side? Hide all their faults and weaknesses until later on in the relationship?’

  He looks at me with that stare of his that sees everything. ‘This isn’t any old fault or weakness, Caitlin. It’s a matter of your health, and safety, too. What if something had happened any of those times you were out with me? How could I help, get medical assistance or whatever, if I didn’t even know you were a diabetic?’

  I didn’t expect this. At best, I expected him to spout reassurances that it didn’t matter, that it didn’t change things between us, that he still liked me. But he seems to have leapfrogged past this stage, as if it’s a given, and is instead concerned about how he can protect me, keep me safe. In surprise and shock, something inside me breaks open and suddenly the teenage me is speaking, venting her sorrow and frustration.

  ‘I hate it! I hate that my body won’t do what it’s meant to do. I hate that everything I put into it must be considered and later on measured and adjusted, taking all the joy out of eating and drinking. I hate that I always need to have insulin pens and snacks in my handbag, and that if I ever pick up the wrong bag for work it’s imperative that I turn back to get the right one. I hate that it’s easier, safer and healthier to stick to the same boring low-fat diet, the same boring sugar-free vodka and Diet Coke, and that any impulsiveness and experimentation are not worth the ensuing game of Russian roulette with the insulin. I hate being like this, Matthew! I know there are people worse off than me, with much more serious illnesses and problems, but that doesn’t stop me detesting this part of me that just won’t work as it should.’

  I bury my face in my hands as my outburst meets with another long silence. This self-hatred, this sense of inadequacy, dogged my teenage years until I met Josh and realised how perfect he was despite his physical defect. I’ve learned to keep it under control and in perspective, but sometimes, when I feel vulnerable and unsure of myself, it spirals back up to its former prominence. I suppose it will always be there, like a nondescript colour on a painter’s palette, a primer for the other colours even if it’s not the main hue itself.

  After a few moments, I feel his arms circle around me, both heavy and reassuring.

  ‘All right, I get the picture – you hate it. But let’s not ignore it. It’s there. It’s part of you, and I need to know about it as much as I need to know about the rest of you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, my voice muffled and reluctant from behind my hands.

  His voice holds a smile as he says, ‘You know, I can’t kiss you properly if you don’t take your hands away.’

  I remember that I’m stark naked under the sheet at the very same moment I realise that Matthew Blake has every intention of getting back into bed with me.

  Chapter 22

  June 2009

  I read the headline with immense frustration: Net Banc completes successful takeover of Metro.

  The journalist’s predictions three months ago were on the mark, as was David when he said that Net Banc was carnivorous, but given that I’ve not managed to break into the account both the headline and the fact I guessed this was coming are maddeningly irrelevant.

  I pop my head over the partition and see that Zoe is also reading the paper. ‘Zoe, what do you do with people who have cranky auras?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You know, what’s the best way to handle cranky bastards?’

  ‘You mean Jarrod?’

  ‘No. Harry Dixon – the man’s in a completely different league to Jarrod.’

  ‘Really?’ She seems unfazed.

  ‘Yes, really. He must be pulling out his hair at the thought of merging all the systems and I could make his life so much easier, if only he would listen.’

  ‘Firstly, you need to be calm,’ she advises. ‘You’re giving off all the wrong signals.’

  I shrug with disheartenment. ‘It’s just that I have so little else on, and I know that this account would be great for both me and him.’

  ‘And don’t call him a cranky bastard. You shouldn’t label people like that.’

  ‘I know, I know. But every time I phone he bites my head off – I can’t seem to get past first base.’

  ‘Maybe you should try a different medium?’

  The problem with asking Zoe for advice is that her solution is often slightly bizarre. ‘What?’

  ‘Verbal clearly isn’t his thing. He might respond better to the written word.’

  ‘Oh. You mean write him a letter?’

  ‘Maybe. At the very least you’ll feel like you’re doing something constructive.’

  Well, that’s not too bizarre at all. Zoe’s obviously feeling quite conventional today. As I sit back down my phone beeps wit
h a text. It’s from Matthew.

  See you tonight. Your place or mine?

  Mine! I send back. Jeanie’s away on business and it’s a perfect time to have him over.

  Hope you’re not working too hard, he adds.

  Chance would be a fine thing. I’ve hit the odd lull with work before but none lasting this long. Is it me? Have I lost my touch? Or is it the impact of the global financial crisis, as Jeanie, Jarrod and the media would have me believe? I sigh. All I know is that I can only spend so much time in the day reading the newspaper. I open a Word document and begin to type a short letter to Harry, congratulating him on the takeover and reminding him that I’m here if he needs me. Funnily enough, Zoe is right: it does make me feel like I’m doing something both positive and productive.

  That night, curled up against Matthew on the sofa watching a legal drama on TV, I find my thoughts wandering back to the situation at work. I can’t help but wonder how long Jarrod can hold out. Australian businesses have started to shed employees, it’s in the papers every day. How much extra must Zoe and I and the rest of the team sell in order to make our jobs safe?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Matthew asks, perhaps sensing my abstraction.

  ‘Just worried about work – or the lack of it.’

  ‘Things are quiet?’

  ‘That’s pretty much an understatement.’

  ‘Are you going to look for something else?’

  I really don’t want to entertain the possibility. ‘I’ve so much invested with Learning Space … I don’t think I could get such a good position with another company.’

  ‘So you’re going to ride it out.’