Not Meeting Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  No rubbish

  I fancy you!

  I wasn't quite sure about the verse, but I was thrilled by the flowers. Paul clearly wasn't afraid to show his affection or to spend money on me. How lucky was I? It was the most beautiful bouquet of roses I'd ever seen – and my twenty-ninth birthday was only six months away, a great time to get engaged, I thought.

  ***

  At eight o'clock that evening, Paul showed up with an even bigger and more beautiful bunch of roses. It was slightly over the top, given he'd already spent a fortune.

  'Wow, I'm spoiled, aren't I?' I was truly surprised.

  'I wanted to send you something to school, but I wasn't sure if you'd be there or not. Peta said you took a sickie last year.'

  'Very funny. I got the flowers and I loved the verse, but stick to engineering rather than poetry.' I took the roses from him and went into the kitchen to get a vase.

  'What flowers?' He followed me into the kitchen.

  'The flowers you sent me at school. I left them in my office as a reminder to all that I'm hooked up.' Paul laughed strangely as I filled two vases with water to accommodate the masses of roses he'd just given me. Why would he pretend he hadn't sent the flowers to school? Trying not to over-analyse the situation, I just played along with the game. Who was I to complain, with dozens of roses around me? Paul must have sent them. Unless it had been Simple Simon – but it couldn't have been, he was too cheap. And if Mickey had done it as a joke, he sure as hell would have let me know before the end of the day, because he'd want the glory and glamour for the gift. No, Mickey wouldn't have been able to keep it a secret the entire day.

  It had to be Paul: there was no-one else it could have been.

  He took me to a fine little Italian restaurant in Paddington, where we had good food and gazed into each other's eyes. I was happy. He seemed happy. We had moved to the next level, that place where the L word just needed to be said. So I did: 'I'm in love with you, Paul.'

  Then silence.

  'I don't know what to say.'

  What kind of response was that?

  'You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know.' I was being very grown-up. I knew he loved me. No man did the things Paul did for me without being in love. He just couldn't say it. That was cool. I could wait. I thought it was odd, but I could wait. We finished dinner, went home, made love and all was good.

  twenty-four

  Men suck and I am just too deadly

  A week later Paul dumped me. It was exactly two months, one week, three days and twelve hours since we'd met. I was checking my emails at work and read:

  I really enjoy being with you, Alice, but I need time to think! Perhaps we could be friends.

  What the fuck! Time? Think? Friends?

  Luckily I had no more classes that day and I left school straight away. I called him on the way home, but he didn't pick up. I waited for the beep and left a message: 'Is this how you treat your friends, Paul? Do you fuck your friends, Paul? Do you take them to the Hyatt, Paul?'

  Why, when everything was going so well? When we had just had the best Valentine's Day ever? And Mr Perfect-Colgate-Smile-Peugeot-Driving-Smell-So- Good-Build-His-Own-Deck didn't have the balls to tell me face to face – or even over the phone! He'd used the most impersonal means of communication currently known to humanity.

  What could've happened? Why did he need time to think? And how much time did he need? What did he need to think about? Did he need me to help him think? What the hell was going on?

  He wouldn't take my calls and he didn't return them. He didn't return my text messages or my emails either. He was completely incommunicado. I was helpless. Distraught and helpless. Sad, lonely, confused and PISSED OFF!

  There were so many questions I needed answered – preferably by Paul, but anyone would do.

  I didn't want to go to Peta just yet – I thought he might go to her first. I'd wait to see if she called me. Instead I went to Dannie, the only one of us in a truly long-term relationship. I knew she'd give me logical and rational advice. At least I hoped so.

  Dannie just said, 'Give him the time to think.'

  'How much time?' Could I set a limit?

  'I don't know. As much as it takes?'

  'What? Don't be ridiculous.' Why had I come to Dannie for advice? In all honesty, she'd tolerated more as a wife than I ever would. George adored Dannie, and would never cheat on or criticise her. But George ran his own race, did his own thing. She did most of the running around with the kids, picking them up and dropping them off at sports and activities so he could play golf most weekends. The only real 'Dannie time' she got was when she was with us girls, and that wasn't even monthly. On top of going to the golf club every Tuesday night for a drink with the boys, George never lifted a finger around the house. I was sorry I'd asked Dannie for her opinion: clearly she needed to sort her own relationship out before she could help anyone else with theirs.

  Next I called Liza, still not wanting to drag Peta in. With a Cosmopolitan in hand at the Cushion Bar, Liza said, 'Forget him. He was too effortlessly nice anyway. That Colgate smile always worried me. How many other women do you think he wooed with that dental work?'

  I'd thought the same thing a couple of times as well, but I couldn't just forget him. I could still smell him all over my sheets, and I didn't want to wash them until the problem was solved and I had him back.

  'I need another drink.' I slid off my stool and walked purposefully over to the bar.

  'Hi there!' It was Shirt Guy – so he was a Cushion local. Once I'd have been thrilled by his efforts to strike up a conversation, but I was so totally over men right now that I didn't even care that this stranger was the only straight male in my life, family excepted, speaking to me.

  'Whatever,' I said rudely. It was all I could manage. I took our drinks back to the table.

  Liza was curious. 'What did you say to that guy? Do you know him? He looks shattered.'

  'Shattered, schmattered. He's Cushion Bar furniture, like us. I call him Shirt Guy. But tonight's about me, how I feel and what I need. I really don't care what anyone else, least of all a man might feel.'

  'I'll drink to that.' Liza raised her glass. We drank Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan. If I were lucky, I'd be able to puke Paul right out of my life at the end of the night.

  ***

  Five days passed before I called Peta to ask her advice. I'd hoped that I'd hear from Paul before then. That he'd have done his thinking and realised his future was with me. My phone never rang. Clearly he was still thinking.

  So I called her. It was her fault anyway: she had introduced us.

  'Peta, it's Alice, I need to talk to you. Paul dumped me by email, and I haven't got a clue why.'

  'He what? I'll be right over.'

  Within fifteen minutes she was on my couch and I was telling her everything.

  'I don't get it. It doesn't make sense. He went from perfection to rejection overnight,' I sobbed.

  'What do you think sparked the change in his behaviour towards you, Al?' Peta was being kind, rubbing my shoulder, passing me tissues. I just sobbed harder, trying to talk, sniff up tears and sip wine at the same time. I had manage to down almost a whole bottle of verdelho in half an hour. Paul wasn't just responsible for my broken heart, I was also becoming an alcoholic.

  'He's a lowlife, scumbag, dirtbag, grandmother's boy, yellow-bellied liar,' I ranted. 'Prick, arsehole, fuckwit ... What else?'

  'Jerk,' Peta added.

  'Jerk? Jerk? You think so? Just slightly. I hope the loser rots in hell.'

  'No you don't, not really. I know you love him. That's why it hurts so much.'

  'Yeah, maybe I should just give him time to think.' I was confused. I was emotionally all over the place. I drained my glass.

  'The messed up dirtbag managed to mess me up as well.' I blew hard into a soggy tissue.

  'That's what men do, Missy, they mess up their
women so they can have something in common – fuckedness!'

  I found the biggest glass I could – in fact, it may have been a vase – and walked through my flat with the longest G&T known to humankind, shaking my head in disbelief, leaving a trail of snotty tissues behind, in front and to the side of me. I couldn't believe I had that many tears inside me; I'd never cried like that before. And where the hell was all the snot coming from?

  There was knock on the door; Peta answered it. It was Liza, with a box of chocolates in her hand.

  'Peta sent me a text,' she said as she handed me the box, which I tore open immediately. I shoved several pieces in my mouth and almost gagged – it was all I'd eaten all day and not much more than I'd eaten since the beginning of the week.

  'Everything seemed all right. He never said anything,' I started again.

  'How was the sex?' Peta was straight to the point.

  'There was plenty, and it was fantastic, obviously.'

  'Obviously.' Both friends confirmed what I knew was true. That's what good friends did. They didn't need to ask any more.

  'Then why did he send me a fucken email?' Somehow I found myself sucking on a joint that Peta had rolled. I didn't even smoke tobacco, but it filled my lungs easily, without coughs or dramas. Great! I thought. I was a closet yarndi-head as well.

  'I reckon it was his mate, the one you said you saw at the Coogee Bay Hotel that day', Liza said. I passed her the joint, but she handed it straight on to Peta. Liza was always uncomfortable on the rare occasions when we smoked in her presence, but she had learned to deal with it. 'I remember thinking there was something odd about that, when you told me.'

  'His mate, that's it. He didn't look like the kind of fella Paul would hang out with. Something must've happened at the pub, but what?'

  'Oh Missy, he hasn't told you, has he? About his past?' Peta sat with a bowl of corn chips resting in her lap, looking suddenly guilty.

  'Told me about what past? What the hell are you talking about?' I was crying and laughing at the same time, ripped and confused, but still desperate for answers. I had the munchies, too, so I motioned to Liza to go to the pantry.

  'Grab the Tim Tams, water crackers and salsa. Oh, and the Jaff as. Thanks'

  'Our sweet Paul spent some time in prison not long ago,' Peta said, beginning to laugh, and as Liza walked back into the room, she fell completely off the lounge. I wasn't quite sure I had heard her correctly.

  'Did you say Paul had been in prison?' Liza was suddenly more interested.

  'That's right.' Peta climbed up off the floor, wiping the tears from her eyes. She was totally smashed.

  'You've got to be kidding. That's not even slightly funny, Peta.'

  Liza had said exactly what I was thinking. I was suddenly nervous.

  'I'm sorry, but it's true, sweetie. Back in the nineties he was in Bathurst for a break and enter.' She was still gasping for breath, tears running down her face from laughing so hard.

  'What break and enter, and what's so fucken funny?' I wanted the end of the story. I was angry, and sick to the stomach from eating an entire box of chocolates, washed down with a vaseful of G&T.

  'I'm sorry, Missy. It's funny because the idiot was trying to break into this place, and when he went to smash the security camera with a cricket bat he ended up knocking himself out. Police found him spreadeagled at the scene of the crime.' She doubled over again. Liza had started laughing now too – she was dribbling ice-cream, she was laughing so hard.

  'What? What?' I was in total disbelief. 'So you're telling me that not only is he a criminal, but he's a lousy crim at that? Can't even manage to do a job without knocking himself out? Fucken idiot!'

  'It all makes sense, Alice,' said Liza. 'My bet is that he knew he could never tell you that, and with you talking about going overseas all the time, and him having trouble getting a passport, not wanting any searches done on him, my guess is he was really embarrassed about it.' Lawerly Liza had solved the case.

  'So he fucken should be! But why did he need to steal? He makes heaps of money, why would he even do it?'

  'Yeah I know,' said Peta. 'He's a smart guy, always has been, but a few years back he was heavy into the oky-doke and needed more money than he had. He's clean now, of course, or I'd never have set you up. He's completely on the straight and narrow. I reckon that fella he met at the Coogee Bay Hotel was probably from the old crowd and it reminded him of what he was capable of and probably spun him out a bit. Just leave it, Missy, give him some time. He'll figure it out or he won't, and if he doesn't, well his loss big-time, eh?'

  It was good advice, but it didn't make the heartache any easier. I sobbed myself to sleep that night and every night for what seemed like months. I even had to replace my pillows because they were ruined by the waterfalls of sadness I had cried. My mantra had become: I will never love again. It was only in a few brief moments of breakthrough that I acknowledged that at least I'd known the amazing feeling of being in love for a little while, which was better than never feeling it at all.

  I took the break-up with Paul hard. Who wouldn't? I'd thought he was perfect. I'd thought we were perfect. I sat and listened to every sad love song CD in my collection. I had plenty. I played them over and over and over, drinking enough gin to pickle myself. Before I'd go to sleep every night I'd have one last blast of U2's 'I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For' as I cried into my gin.

  I resisted telling Mum for nearly two months, concerned I'd get a lecture about how I'd ruined another relationship and I'd have to become a lesbian. I was worried for nothing. Mum was just loving and supportive – and by the time I told her she'd worked it out for herself anyway.

  'Just focus on the nice memories, Al,' she advised. Although she was probably right, her words of wisdom didn't really help the immediate heartache. I had so many questions – about myself, about men, about how someone could just shut off like that. I needed reassurance that I wasn't to blame. I needed to speak to Dillon.

  ***

  I sat on my couch under the doona with a cup of peppermint tea. I'm sure Dillon thought I hadn't left my flat for weeks. I had, but just to go to work.

  'What's wrong with me?' I sobbed into my tea.

  'I don't know.' He was sincere, but it wasn't the answer I was looking for, obviously. He had brought a pizza with him – a first. My baby brother was growing up and looking after his big sister. While there was something loving and precious in that thought, it also depressed me that I needed taking care of.

  'What do you mean, you don't know?' He knew I was fishing.

  'There's nothing wrong with you. You just need to find someone who's comfortable with the way you are.'

  'No, I need to find someone who's comfortable in himself, so he can be comfortable with me.' Dillon tilted his head, as if to say, 'Fair call.'

  'Why didn't he just tell me the truth, Dillon?'

  'Men aren't good with the truth, Al.'

  'What? So it's a whole gender of liars we're talking about then, is it? I've got no chance. What chance have women got?' There was desperation in my voice.