by Anita Heiss
Peta arrived shortly afterwards. We didn't speak much for the first half-hour: we were old friends, and simply enjoyed spending time together. Eventually, though, Peta sat up and looked at me over the top of her sunglasses.
'So, I bumped into Mickey last night. He tells me you had a date last week. How was it?' Only because she'd asked, I gave a brief post-mortem on what I had chosen to call the 'Simple Simon Scenario'.
Peta laughed but I could tell she felt sympathetic. She did remind me, though: 'No one-night stands, Al – remember to stick to the strategy. See what happens when you don't?' She rolled herself a cigarette and lit up. It didn't worry me when Peta smoked, though I hated it when anyone else did.
I put some sun lotion on my chest, as my boobs hadn't seen the sun for some months, and lay back to absorb the rays. I thought about how many times Peta and I had sat there and analysed our disastrous dates. If the rocks could talk, they'd spill a million beans about our sad attempts at finding love, and even more disappointing attempts at finding decent lovers.
Vitamin D rays from the sun stung my shoulders but I didn't care. I love how it feels to have a good colour up. I started to doze, thinking about what I should wear to Bianca's hens' night, when Peta's mobile rang. I listened to her making plans to meet people at the Coogee Bay Hotel later.
Snapping her phone shut, she turned to me. 'I've got Mr Right for you! That was him on the phone. He's an old mate of mine. Gorgeous. Slightly damaged goods, but aren't we all?'
I nodded, somewhat unsure, but encouraged her to go on.
'His name's Paul and he's Koori. Thirty-eight, single, straight, has a good job as an engineer. Plenty of walang, and doesn't mind spending it either. He's got perfect skin and he's not precious at all. Yes, he'd be perfect for you.' He did sound perfect, but if he was, why hadn't Peta scooped him for herself? What did she mean about 'slightly damaged goods'? And why hadn't she mentioned him earlier on in my search? After all, Phase I of the strategy was over. I wasn't supposed to be going on any more blind dates.
'Why aren't you going out with him yourself, then? Seems like an obvious thing to me.'
'No, he's not really my type. Doesn't do anything for me, you know, down there,' she said, gesturing to her loins.
'So he must be dingo ugly.'
'No, he's not. He's just not my type,' she assured me. I was no longer a lookist anyway, right? But what did she mean by 'slightly damaged goods'?
'You know we all have some baggage we carry. Don't try and tell me you don't. You practically need a porter for yours, Alice.'
Peta knew me well enough to know what she was talking about, so I trusted her if she thought Paul was okay for me. She promised to arrange something for the next week. Suddenly, the sun shone brighter. Wedding Cake Island was out in the distance and I peered at it hopefully. The prospect of having someone to wake up with on Christmas Day, only three weeks away, seemed almost possible again, maybe even likely. I pushed my straw hat over my face and lay back, imagining Mr Engineer telling our wedding guests that he was the luckiest man in the world.
eighteen
The hens' night
At five pm the alarm on my mobile rang loudly and I woke from my nanna-nap with a renewed interest in the evening's hens' night. Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad after all. Maybe sixteen women having a good time would attract a few guys having a good time, and amidst those few guys might be Mr Right. Yes, perhaps it would be a great evening after all. I had to keep all my options open, even though Paul-the-Engineer was looking promising. I didn't want to put all my unfertilised eggs in one basket.
I showered, shaved my legs, tidied up the eyebrows, and plucked one or two annoying hairs from my chin. Mental note to self: get oestrogen levels checked. I put on my lucky bra and knickers I saved for special occasions, donned my sexy black dress, styled my hair, put on blood-red lipstick, and dabbed a little glitter on the arch of my brow. I was happy with the elegant but fun look I'd achieved in just under an hour.
At six I cruised over to Liza's place, where she had a jug of sangria waiting on the balcony. I commented approvingly that Mrs New-Carpet could take some lessons from Liza on how to entertain properly, but couldn't help noting that she was drinking a lot for someone who'd been off the booze for so long. It really was all or nothing with Liza. Still, I was grateful to have my drinking partner back.
'So what's the deal with hens' nights anyway?' I asked, knowing Liza would have an answer.
'Funny you should ask that. Someone at work told me that the hens' night is meant to replace the old tradition of the kitchen tea. So you either do one or the other, I reckon. Get presents for your kitchen or go out with your girlfriends. Not both.'
'Don't tell me we were meant to get Bianca a present for this as well?' I asked. It was going to be a 7-Eleven job if we did.
'No way. We just pay for her dinner.'
'That's cool. This whole wedding gig's costing me a fortune. You know, engagement present, kitchen tea, wedding present, outfit, hair, nails, and of course, with the wedding happening out west, we're going to have to stay overnight.'
'It's the western suburbs, Alice. Stop making it sound like it's Broken Hill!' Liza joked.
'All I'm saying is that my own bloody wedding won't cost this much, I'm sure.'
'Which reminds me,' Liza said as she topped up my glass, 'we should book our motel too.'
'See, moooore money.' I rolled my eyes.
'Are you taking a partner?' Liza asked, sucking the alcohol-soaked fruit out of her already empty glass, then refilling it quickly.
'Yeah, well, I'm hoping there's still time before Christmas to meet someone, maybe even New Year's Eve. Else, it might have to be you!'
'Same, same. Mum said a woman she works with has a son who's just come back from studying in the States and—' She jumped up and down, spilling her third glass of sangria over herself and waving her hands about in the air.
'I forgot, I forgot! My cousin Marco, the one you didn't want to meet months ago, he's just arrived home again from Sorrento. He's here for a couple of years this time, working with my uncle's importing business. He's gorgeous, Al, I know you'd love him. The most beautiful green eyes you've ever seen, and tall. He's got the most beautiful head of hair and olive skin, and if he weren't my cousin I'd be taking him myself. I'm sure he'd love to go with you to the wedding. Do you want me to ask him?' She was so excited, and he sounded lovely, which made it harder to say no, but I did.
'I went out with Dannie's cousin Charlie and it caused tension between us for weeks. I don't even want to risk it with you.' I watched her body language to see what she was thinking.
'That wouldn't happen to us. Marco's better looking than Charlie, and I know that's why you didn't like him,' Liza paced around as if she was addressing a jury, 'And he's perfect for you, Alice. Even though he looks like a true Italian Stallion, he's really a good Catholic boy, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.' Liza was persistent, and she was making sense, but I wasn't convinced.
'I really think we should leave your family out of my search for Mr Right. I'll just try and get a pub-pash in before the wedding and meet someone too. If not, I'm sure we can coordinate our clothes and take each other – you know I make the perfect date, eh!' We toasted each other and looked out over her balcony to the block of flats behind. Liza didn't have an ocean view, but it was enough just knowing we were close to the beach.
We had time to slurp down another glass of Liza's 'special sangria' before we left: the hens' night venue had been moved closer to home. Bianca had sent a broadcast SMS out after a few hensters from the east and the north-east had complained about doing the M4, M5 or M2 trip. We were going to Capitan Torres on Liverpool Street in the city's Spanish district (hence Liza's choice of pre-dinner drinks), and then onto the Bristol Arms for some serious seventies and eighties sounds. The night was already looking better than we'd anticipated. The warm glow in my cheeks was a bonus, especially given that I'd raced out without putting any blush on.
A short time later we were eating garlic prawns and potatoes, squid in ink and the best paella I've ever tasted. Liza and I had a slight disagreement on how it was pronounced. She said pay-ella and I said pay-eeya. Dannie remained neutral and just ate it. As at the kitchen tea, we'd all been given name tags to wear. 'The Bride', 'Chief Bridesmaid', 'The Bridesmaid', 'The Mother of the Bride' and so on. I was grateful that 'Granny of the Groom' wasn't there, and that Liza's, Dannie's and my tags simply had our names. At least if we got lost or speechless, other people would know who we were. We were tempted to write our addresses on them as well for worst-case scenarios, but decided against it.
There was giggling and chatter, and some pretty crappy jokes were being told to the left and right of me. All noise stopped, though, when the bridesmaid-to-be mentioned that her hens' night would be in eighteen months' time and she was planning on taking her party abseiling in the mountains. Liza and I couldn't believe it. How had we managed to end up here among these people? Our snobbery must have shown on our faces, because Dannie threw us a mother glare – behave yourselves – across the table. Dannie's hens' night had been a gorgeous dinner down at the Rocks followed by very late-night cocktails at Level 31. Dannie was the classiest of us, even when she'd been a relatively new mother. She'd sometimes come out with baby food on her clothes, but she'd duck into the loos and minutes later emerge looking almost pristine again. She'd always had natural style.
'Even Bianca can't possibly fit in here,' Liza whispered in my ear.
'Ab-fucken-seiling?' I slurred back in hers. 'How does pre-wedding, freedom-ending socialising with your girlfriends translate into ab-fucken-seiling?'
Liza admitted to my complete surprise that she wanted to do the male strip show Bad Boys Afloat for her hens' night. 'You're supposed to do something daring on your hens' night, but I was thinking going a little crazy at a strip show rather than going crazy rock climbing.' Dannie's eyes even lit up momentarily, but I didn't know if George would give her a leave pass for that. Personally, I thought it was good for women, whatever age, to be reminded of that animal urge to jump a complete stranger in a leopard-print g-string. Not that I'd actually do it myself, of course.
'Pity most of the dancers are gay.' I thought I should tell Liza that up-front.
After a few unflattering comments about male strippers, Liza asked me what I'd do for my hens' night. I liked to think I was a little more mature than Liza, who'd only just moved out of home at the age of twentyeight. Besides, I'd done the Bad Boys Afloat gig more than once, in a number of venues, and with me playing a number of roles. I wasn't the least bit interested in abseiling or going to some old pub in Parramatta as part of my wedding preparations either. I confessed that I'd probably just have a girls' night in with pizza and good friends, but admitted that if someone happened to order a stripper, I wouldn't be the least bit off ended. Liza looked at Dannie and they both winked, hint taken.
Just as I was trying to get the attention of a very sexy waiter to order another jug of sangria, an ugly pink cake arrived at the table.
'That is the aarrrrgllliieesst looking attempt at a cake I've ever seen,' Liza observed loudly. Unfortunately, the cook was 'The Bride's Cousin' (her name tag said so), sitting immediately to Liza's left. Silence almost strangled the table, and The Bride's Cousin threw a deathly look at my friend. I tried to break the tension: 'Looks better than any cake that I've ever made.' The cousin gave me a grateful smile, but Liza, who was really pissed by then, burst into laughter and fell off her chair onto the floor.
'Leave her there,' Dannie suggested. I wasn't sure if she was serious or not. I was tempted to leave Liza there, but helped her up anyway.
'You've never cooked a fucken cake in your life,' she said. 'So my arse looks better than any of your cakes ...' She was swearing, which wasn't like her at all. I couldn't help laughing, though, and Dannie was in hysterics. It was good to be with the girls like this, even though none of us really fit in with the rest of the party. It'd also been a long time since Liza had let all her inhibitions go. I was pleased to see her relaxed for once. She was always so uptight with work.
We all got a piece of the ugly pink cake and a big cheer went up for the cook, who'd bitten into the piece with a ring in it. Apparently tradition says that the hen who gets the piece with the ring in it is the next to be married.
'Riiiiiigggged, rriiiigggged,' Liza yelled across the table. 'She planted it in there, and she knew which piece had it. That doesn't count. Redraw! I want a redraw.'
'This isn't a chook-raffle at the RSL,' Dannie tried to explain, 'We can't redraw, look around the table, love – most people have eaten their cake.'
'Alice should've got that ring. You want to get married don't you, Alice? Why aren't you upset?' Liza was working herself into an unnecessary state.
'Calm down, Liza. It's just a cake.' She had the attention not only of the other women at the table, who were all clearly off ended, especially the cook, but also other patrons in the restaurant.
'But if Mrs New-Carpet can get married, then why the hell can't you or I? This sucks.' Mrs New-Carpet got up and left the table. Liza did have a point. If Mrs New-Carpet could scoop a husband, then why couldn't we? I tried not to think about it, and focused on eating the leftover fruit in the bottom of the sangria jug, but I was increasingly aware of how drunk I was, and then suddenly the bill had landed on the table.
Liza, Dannie and I threw in a few extra dollars before anyone could comment that we'd drunk more than the rest of them. Surely they understood that they were all complete losers and the only thing that made them bearable was the three litres of grog we'd each had. Dannie was well and truly pickled, so we put her in a cab and rang George to say she was on her way, before following the crowd from Liverpool Street into Sussex Street, Bianca leading the way. I noticed the women at the front of the group wrestling with a huge bag, then passing things around. The penny finally dropped as I saw the women struggle to put them on – they were tiny little pseudo wedding veils. One by one they were being fitted to each henner's head. Bianca had a metre-long white one and everyone else had smaller pink ones. The big bag made its way to the back of the group, towards Liza and me. Liza said it for me: 'No way am I putting on some fucken pink tulle mini-veil because someone else is getting married.'
As luck would have it, the bag reached us empty. For some unexplained but much-appreciated reason, we were two mini-veils short. The others felt bad for us, but we both said with sincere gratitude, 'We'll manage.'
Before we knew it, we'd paid our $20 entry fee to the Bristol Arms and elbowed our way to the bar.
'More wine?' Liza shouted over Katrina and the Waves, but it was more a statement than a question. She grabbed the bottle by the neck, left the ice bucket on the bar and headed towards the first of the three dance floors. Lots of bodies were walking on sunshine, bopping along to some of the coolest music from the seventies. I loved it.
The evening became more of a haze the later it got, and Liza and I staggered between floors, minus the other henners. Before long I had some young gun gyrating against me to the sounds of the Hues Corporation singing 'Rock the Boat', and I started to feel seasick.
***
I love that my bedroom faces east and gets the morning sun – except when I've had a big night out. The temperature was already twenty-eight degrees and it was only seven-thirty. My room was like a sauna; the day was going to be a scorcher. I rolled over to see myself naked in the lone full-length mirror that hadn't been thrown out when I feng shui-ed my flat. I decided that the final mirror might have to go as well.
I hadn't made it under the covers when I got home, and I was lying on top of the bed, my clothes scattered across the room. My lucky bra hung on the doorknob like the warning sign used in a share house I lived in during uni. It meant 'Do Not Disturb', which translated to 'Sex In Progress'. I dozed on and off for an hour before my door buzzer went. I pulled on my knickers and cupped my breasts in my hands as I ran to the intercom
.
'Yes?' My voice was croaky.
'Someone's hungover, then.' It was Peta. I threw on a top while she came up the stairs, then ran out to open the door and found her there holding two carrot and ginger juices.
