Not Meeting Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  'You mean accountable.'

  'I like to have variety in my life.'

  'So you like to play the field. No pun intended.'

  'I like to meet lots of different people.'

  'You mean you're a slut?'

  'That's a bit rough, isn't it?'

  I knew how irrational I was being. Just because I wanted to meet my one and only, it didn't mean everyone else wanted to. I left before I made any more of a fool of myself.

  thirteen

  Mr I'm-Just-Not- That-Into-You

  'Alice, it's Mum, how are you?'

  'What's up, Mum?' Mum never called me just to say hello. There was suspicion in my voice.

  'Nothing. I just wanted to see if you had any time this weekend? The son of an old friend of mine from the Aboriginal Medical Service is moving to Sydney and needs someone to show him round. He's single.'

  'Muuuuummm ...' I whined. I didn't want her in on my strategy. She'd only ever offered Cliff in the past, and I wasn't interested in another gay man to dodge.

  'Don't be like that, Alice, he's a nice boy. Goodlooking, too. His name is Malcolm, and he's a project manager with a youth service. He doesn't know anyone here. Can't you just meet him and introduce him to some of the young mob? He doesn't want to hang out with an old duck like me.'

  She was right, he wouldn't. Anyway, I needed to be open to each and every opportunity. Malcolm from Melbourne might just prove a positive experience, so I agreed to show him around, and before long I'd started to regard our first meeting as another blind date. It was always possible that he was doing the same thing. Actually, it was highly likely that he was. Men didn't think that differently, did they?

  We agreed to meet at Redfern Park during a family day, with Koori bands providing the entertainment. I SMS'd him when I arrived and told him to meet me at the Koori crafts stall. Not expecting him to be there for a few minutes, I looked at all the wares and reached out to pick up a beaded necklace. An incredibly handsome young guy put his hand on the same set of beads, accidentally brushing my fingers. A shot of electricity went up my arm and somehow hit me right in my loins.

  'I'm sorry, you have them.' I looked up into his black eyes and suddenly knew what love at first sight was. Or lust at first sight, anyway.

  'No please, you have them – they'd look good on you,' he said. I thought I would orgasm there and then, with the soulful sounds of Emma Donovan singing in the background, kids with painted faces milling around, johnnycakes being fried nearby and Caro from Koori Radio calling it all live to air.

  'I'm Alice.' I extended my hand. I couldn't believe I was being so forward. It wasn't my style at all, but I couldn't let him get away.

  He took my hand and shook it. 'You're not Alice Aigner, by chance?' He'd heard of me, but how? 'What a coincidence meeting like this. I'm Malcolm.'

  'That's not coincidence, that's destiny. Fate I'd say.'

  He looked at me as if to say, 'What are you on?' and then laughed. Didn't he know that there was no such thing as coincidence?

  We hung around the stall for a while, pretending not to check each other out. I kept my dark glasses on so I could perv without being caught. He looked young.

  'So, how old are you, Malcolm?'

  'Just had my twenty-fourth birthday.'

  'Blinder, I bet.' Young guys usually get trashed when they go out, birthdays or not. Dillon was always doing it and driving Mum to the point of despair.

  'I don't drink actually.'

  'Really?'

  'Just trying to be healthy. Don't smoke, eat hot chips or have carbonated drinks, either.' He was a health nut, but I liked that. At least I'd be healthier if we got together. 'Sounds boring to you, I suppose, but I spent a few years running a kids' dance group in Melbourne and I had to be fit. Cycled and kickboxed every day just to be able to keep up with them.'

  He was the most attractive man I'd ever met. Healthy, fit, working with kids. Young. Black. In Sydney and knowing only me!

  'Your body is a temple,' he said as we sat on the grass, half listening to Sean Choolburra crack some jokes. Yeah, I'd be happy for my body to be your temple, no worries, I thought to myself.

  'What about you, Alice? You into the fitness kick too?' His piercing black eyes unnerved me, his smile made me melt.

  I'd have to lie. How could I tell him I drank a litre of gin a week? Only ate healthy meals accidentally, loved hot chips and hadn't ridden a bike since I was eleven?

  'I do my best. I'm big on the coastal walk from Coogee to Bondi and back.' At least that wasn't a lie. I did try my best and I did do that walk occasionally.

  Malcolm was the strong but quiet type – my type. I knew straight away that he was the closest thing to my Mr Right I'd seen so far. He was four years younger than me, but there wasn't anything about age on my list of criteria. Anyway, his confidence and worldliness hid any age discrepancy others may have questioned. He'd be a great young father, have lots of energy to do sports with the kids, and keep up with me as I reached my sexual peak in my mid-to-late thirties. Yes, a younger husband would be a good option.

  I felt a huge relief: I had almost accomplished my goal – and my thirtieth birthday was still more than a year away. Of course, it might take some time for Malcolm to recognise how right we were for each other – women process things much faster than men. He would realise it, though, eventually. A clever guy like Malcolm would manage to figure things out himself for sure. Or maybe he already had. I was deadly and desirable. I could give up soft drink and chips. I'd even been to a kickboxing class once. And he could use my body as a temple any time.

  We enjoyed the day and went to the after party that night at the Strawberry Hills Hotel. I introduced Malcolm to everyone I knew, and encouraged him to exchange numbers, cards and email addresses with them all. I wanted him to feel at home in Sydney, have a good network of friends and acquaintances. He'd need them for sure if he were going to stay on here after his project was finished.

  We had a great night. He got on with everyone. It was like we'd been friends for years.

  Around midnight I was ready to leave. I had a long day of school starting early in the morning, and teacher-parent night at the end of the day. It was time to go home, hopefully with Malcolm on my arm. We walked outside into the crisp midnight air, his hand in the small of my back, gently guiding me through the crowd. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like the next step would be a good-night kiss. Then ... nothing. He hailed a cab, opened the back door and put me in it, closed the door and waved me off.

  What had gone wrong? I tried to reassure myself: Malcolm was a gentleman, that was all. He was well raised and too polite to try anything sleazy when we'd only just met, even though there'd been enough electricity between us to light up the city. He was just showing me respect; after all, I was the daughter of 'Aunty Ivy', whom his mother had always spoken so fondly of.

  ***

  I woke the next day expecting to hear from him. But he didn't call that day, or the next, or the next. I reminded myself that he was busy settling into a new city, getting to know the ropes in his new job, and probably analysing his new feelings for the wonderful woman he'd been lucky enough to meet in his first week here. He was probably a little overwhelmed by it all.

  When I hadn't heard from him by the end of the week, though, my patience and understanding started to turn to anxiety. We both knew I was his Ms Right. I was the love of his life. The woman who gave him his connections in Gadigal country. The one who'd encouraged him to swap numbers with a whole bunch of other single Black women. Gorgeous, strong, single, capable, single, sexy, smart, single Koori women. What had I been thinking? He was probably calling them.

  Just as I was about to start doing some research on the Koori grapevine to see what he'd been up to, he texted me, saying, 'Hello, how are you?' I'd expected an invitation to dinner or a movie or something – anything. Still, I saw his communication as an invitation to make contact, so I texted back suggesting he call me if he had some time and wa
nted to catch up.

  A week later the phone finally rang and we went out for dinner, at my suggestion. We strolled along Crown Street before deciding on a small but atmospheric Nepalese restaurant. We ate, we laughed, and he said I looked gorgeous and that it was lovely to see me. We drank copious amounts of wine – or I did, anyway – and then, as the night drew to a close, I panicked. What next?

  'Would you like me to drop you home, Alice?'

  'That'd be great, thanks.'

  Naturally I assumed he expected to come in. I was getting that loving feeling as we drove to Coogee and all I could think about was his young, rock-hard body. He pulled up right outside the building in a spot invisibly marked 'Al and Mal'.

  'Would you like to come up for a herbal tea? I've got sencha, green, fruit?' I'd stocked up because I knew Malcolm was a health freak. He turned the motor off and we walked upstairs.

  He took himself on a tour of the flat at my insistence, then came and stood near me as I prepared the tea. I realised, too late, that all my lists were still on the fridge. Shit. I panicked. I'd have to kiss him. His eyes would at least be shut then, and I could probably manoeuvre him back out into the lounge room.

  I had no choice but to glide in slowly, hoping that it would look like it was partly his idea. However it looked, it happened: his arms moved around my waist and our mouths connected.

  The kiss was nice, easy, warm. Malcolm definitely responded – but after we'd pulled away from each other, he looked at his watch.

  'I've got an early start, Alice, better be going.'

  I was confused. He was, after all, a bloke. He was young and fit. Surely he was horny. I was, whether he'd been instructed to call Mum 'Aunty' or not.

  Fair enough, though. I didn't want him to have to eat and run, so to speak. At least we were on our way to greater things, and I assumed we'd catch up where we left off soon enough. The anxiety was gone. We were now a couple – though we'd take things slowly, of course. We could discuss Malcolm's permanent move to Sydney in the near future. My thirtieth birthday was eighteen months off, so we had plenty of time.

  ***

  I thought he'd call the next morning – but he didn't. I sent him a couple of text messages – nothing. I left a message on his voicemail – nothing. What could possibly have gone wrong? I needed to confer with Dillon. He was the same age as Malcolm, so perhaps he could tell me.

  ***

  Dillon sat on my lounge, a pizza box in his lap and a juice on the coffee table in front of him. Like Malcolm, Dillon didn't drink fizzy drinks. It was good thing to see young men being health conscious. I handed him a serviette.

  'There's some ice-cream in the freezer too, if you like.' I was sweetening him up for the big discussion. This was an old, familiar pattern.

  'So, what's up this time? Who is he? Or should I say who isn't he?' Dillon knew what was going on.

  'His name's Malcolm, he's Mum's friend's son. He's lovely and we get on really well, and I think he's perfect and he doesn't drink soft drink either, like you, and he's gorgeous, and he's Black and we'd be perfect together if he gave it a chance, and, well ... he's a bit younger than me.' I knew Dillon would have an issue with the age thing. He'd think I was a cradle-snatcher.

  He put his pizza down. 'How much younger?' he said sternly, wiped his mouth and took a swig of juice.

  'Four years. And I think it bothers him. He hasn't called me for two weeks. Maybe he's worried about the age difference?'

  'Al, I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's a bloke's fantasy to be with – learn from – an older woman. Personally, I'd rather that the older woman they were fantasising about wasn't you, but it's your life.'

  'So you don't think it's the age thing, then?'

  'Has he mentioned anything about age since you've been seeing him?'

  'Well, no.'

  'Okay, I'm sure it's not an age thing. Let's back up a bit. When's the last time you heard from this guy?'

  'He sent a text—'

  Dillon cut me right off.

  'Stop right there. Text messages don't count. When's the last time he called you?'

  'Oh, he didn't really call much – generally SMS'd.'

  'So, he didn't want to actually speak to you, or hear your voice, then?'

  'Do you have to put it like that?' I was a little hurt by Dillon's immediate and adamant response.

  'How long have you been dating this dude anyway?'

  'A couple of months,' I said, 'but we're not really dating as such.' I had to lie about how long I'd known Malcolm because I knew Dillon would think I was an idiot putting so much emotional energy and time – his and mine – into a brief fantasy. 'Why?'

  'I'm just trying to work out why he disappeared so fast if you were so right for each other. How often did he text you?'

  'Well, he always responded to my messages almost immediately.'

  'So you initiated every communication?'

  'Well, as the older of the two, I kind of took charge', I explained, knowing I sounded pathetic. I kept going before Dillon could say anything. 'Doesn't it count that he replied immediately? Surely that counts for something?'

  'No, Alice. You were telling him he was on your mind, but he never demonstrated the same about you, did he? He just responded politely to your communication. Seriously, if a man is really into a woman, he'll call her regularly to hear her voice, not just send the odd text every fortnight.' He was making sense but I didn't want to hear it.

  'Malcolm is a very busy guy. He works long hours, home late, up early. He couldn't even stay at my place because he had to be at the office before seven am.' Dillon looked incredibly suspicious by this time.

  'Alice, now please know I don't really want to ask you this question, and as your younger brother I feel uncomfortable doing so, and I'm only asking because I have to, to get to the end of this conversation, but did he ever stay over? Did you ever have sex?'

  'No, like I told you ... he was very busy.' Even I knew how pathetic this sounded.

  Dillon shook his head. 'Al, no man is ever too busy for sex! It doesn't matter how early we have to get up. We won't sleep at all if there's sex on offer.'

  'But his priority is his job! He's responsible for some very important community initiatives.'

  'I'm sure he is, but Al, don't you want to be a priority? His first priority?'

  'Yes, of course, but maybe he's just not ready for a relationship.'

  'Maybe he's not Al, but it sounds as though you are. You need to think about what you want.' Dillon got up and walked to the kitchen.

  His advice was painful, but it all made sense. It didn't sound like Dillon, though. It was far more measured and considered than his usual 'just get over it' or 'move on'.

  'But he kissed me. Why did he do that, then?' I sung out after him. I wasn't ready to give up just yet.

  'Maybe he liked kissing you, Al.'

  'Not maybe – he did, I know that for sure.'

  'Okay. So perhaps he gave you mixed messages.'

  'Maybe I gave him some too. Maybe he's confused,' I said sadly, as Dillon returned with the tub of ice-cream and a single spoon.

  'Al, stop it. You're being pathetic. Stop making excuses. Cut him loose, cut yourself loose. Enjoy the freedom of letting go.' Dillon was making me uncomfortable now, with his new-age insights and psychological analysis.