Not Meeting Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  I like reading historical novels, I literally live at the beach, have done a wine appreciation course and am tertiary educated. I am a champagne socialist with a sense of social justice.

  I invited him to email me back with some questions if he was interested, then signed off with a carefully chosen internet name: Koori Rose. I wanted to be up-front about my identity right from the start. (He called himself the White Knight – so was definitely not a Blackfella.)

  A few weeks later, after numerous emails, we planned to meet at Bronte Beach for breakfast on Saturday morning.

  I checked with Aria before leaving home and she said I'd need to be very organised to get through the day ahead, so I gave myself thirty minutes to make the ten-minute trek from Coogee to Bronte. Finding a park was a struggle – it was all revenue-generating one-hour metered spots. Who the hell would want to be at the beach for under an hour? Finally I found a park a short distance away and hiked back down to the beach-front cafes.

  I grabbed a table at Swell, as agreed in our last email, and took in the sights, surrounded by pretentious latte drinkers, remembering how the area looked when I was a kid at school: there had been a milk bar, and you could only buy fish and chips and ice-cream cones.

  I was early, but I wanted to be well seated and relaxed when the White Knight finally arrived. I ordered a juice and some water, then just sat and soaked up the view and the atmosphere. Bronte was bordering on chaotic, with the cars and kids and people walking dogs.

  Time passed quickly; glancing at my left wrist, I realised Mr White Knight was twenty-five minutes late. More pissed off than disappointed, I called for the bill, paid it and left.

  I hated people wasting my time. It wasn't as though I didn't have better things – or at least other things – to do. The hassle with the parking was another frustration, and I was pretty damned furious by the time I'd trudged back up the hill to my car. Why had he stood me up? The jerk had probably been watching from across the road and hadn't liked what he'd seen. Fine, he didn't know what he was missing out on.

  'Prick, bastard, wanker, LOSER!' I got in my car and drove to Bondi to meet Liza at her place. We'd planned on conducting a post-mortem of the breakfast date anyway, but she wasn't expecting me so early.

  ***

  Liza was mid-sentence, trying again to persuade me to meet her cousin Marco – 'Did I tell you he works in international trade and is quite politically astute, impressive eh?' – when my mobile rang. Saved! I looked to the sky and mouthed 'Thank you, Biami.'

  'Alice Aigner, ' I said.

  'Where were you this morning?' It was the White Knight, sounding angry.

  'Where was I? Where the hell were you?' I was angrier than he was ever going to be.

  'I was fifteen minutes late.'

  'No you weren't. I was there till nearly half-past-eight and there was no sign of you. If you were just running late, why didn't you call me and let me know?'

  'I didn't have your number on me. Anyway, I asked one of the staff if anyone had been waiting and she said no.' He was insinuating that I was lying!

  'Well, I was there at seven-fifty-five, reading a book and enjoying the view. Perhaps I didn't look like a desperate woman with nothing better to do than wait for a loser to have breakfast with me.'

  'Well do you want to organise to meet next week, then – have another try?'

  'I don't think so. I made enough effort this time round. If you really wanted to meet me, you would've been there. See ya!' I hung up.

  'You are unbelievable!' Liza was disgusted. 'He was just running late. He didn't stand you up.'

  'Liza, Liza, Liza. Don't make excuses. I may not have met my Mr Right, but I'm sure as hell not going to tolerate someone being half an hour late for the first date. No way. I'm not waiting for anyone who can't be bothered, or who isn't smart enough to ring me when he's running late. Shit, Liza, he should've been there half an hour early.' I was ruthless.

  'Maybe my cousin Marco's not the fella for you then, either. I mean, he's a great bloke, but works his arse off and has been known to be late on occasion. In fact maybe there is no fella for you at all, Alice.' Things were a bit cool between us, and I soon left, determined to prove Liza wrong.

  An old mantra came to mind: Try anything twice! I went online and started scrolling through pics and bios again. I scrolled right past the really good-looking guys and stopped at a fella who wasn't Brad Pitt, but wasn't off ensive either. He liked boating, good food and wine, 'ladies who are ladies' (whatever that meant), and had studied Swedish massage. I sent him an email and we arranged to meet up the following weekend.

  ***

  He had asked me to meet him in the car park of a swanky Sydney yacht club. 'An RSL on the water' I'd joked to him on the phone, but he hadn't laughed.

  From the minute I saw him I had that sinking feeling. Think Titanic × 1000. There was no chemistry between us and the venue seemed to have had an atmosphere bypass. All would have been forgiven, though, if the restaurant attached to the club had actually been open. I opted not to eat rather than order something fried from the bistro. I was already feeling ill, and then he started talking about how much money he had, his weekends out on his yacht and how he could imagine me as a yachtie's wife, G&T in hand, wind in the hair, ocean in the background.

  'Well, I like gin and tonic,' I said, making an effort to be polite.

  'Tick!' he responded.

  'But I get seasick,' I lied, so I'd never have to go on his boat.

  'Cross!' What the hell?

  I decided on a new tack: 'I watched Amélie on DVD last night and loved it. Have you seen it?'

  'Yes, tick!' Weirdo. I threw one more hook at him.

  'I can't wait till winter comes round. It's my favourite season.' I was lying: his profile had said he preferred the warmer climate, and I wanted to see how he'd react.

  'Cross!' That did it.

  'What the fuck are you doing with your ticks and crosses?'

  'I'm giving you a tick for the things I like about you, and a cross for the things I don't. I'd give you a cross for saying "fuck". I like ladies who behave like ladies.'

  'What?'

  I thought you'd like the feedback.'

  'Well, that's a cross from me, then.'

  'Why?'

  'I'm a teacher, I don't want ticks and crosses. Actually, no-one really does on a date.'

  'Isn't it a good way to work out if we want to see each other again?'

  'I'll help you out. I'm giving you one big cross!' With that I got up and walked out.

  On the way home, I received a text message:

  I'm giving you a big tick anyway! Look forward to seeing you again.

  I didn't even waste the cost of an SMS to tell him what I thought of him. A week later he texted me again:

  Did I tell you I give really good full-body massages?

  I couldn't ever consume enough G&Ts to make that happen. I blocked his number on my phone and swore off men with boats.

  My two internet dates so far had been disasters. I decided not to try for three times lucky, so that was the end of Phase IV.

  twenty-nine

  Uprising

  I gave the blind dating a miss for a while and instead pinned my hopes on an email invitation to the upcoming 'Singles Uprising at Bondi Beach' that I found in my inbox. It read:

  You're invited to Sydney's Annual Singles Uprising at Bondi Beach, but you will only be admitted if:

  You are single

  You bring another single person of the opposite sex

  You are smart, attractive and funny

  Liza had clearly put me on the mailing list. It was good to know she hadn't given up on me finding Mr Right after our recent spat, but my immediate reaction was to avoid the event at all costs. I considered the loads of backpackers likely to be hanging around Bondi Beach, lobster-red and full of booze. I could hang out at Coogee any day and witness the same painful behaviour from my balcony. Still, I was supposed to be open to all opportunities to
meet heterosexual, single members of the opposite sex, and that included attending events I hadn't yet or wouldn't necessarily otherwise attend. I met the criteria outlined in the invitation, so why not? I decided to go to the uprising and drag Mickey with me for moral support. Peta and Liza were still with their fellas, and Mickey was really the only one buying into my strategy 120 per cent at this stage. He was looking for a new 'friend' anyway, after Tom. At least taking each other along wouldn't cramp either of our styles, just in case there was someone with potential there.

  It was the hottest day Sydney had seen in fiftysix years, and the humidity didn't help my attempt at looking good when foundation just kept sliding off my face. I struggled to see how I looked from behind, and was thankful I had, because I was so hot and sweaty I had a wet g-string mark on my white pants. I changed into a lilac slip dress, wore no knickers at all, and grabbed a hat as I ran out the door to meet Mickey waiting downstairs.

  'Doesn't get more desperate than this!' we said simultaneously as we spied the two-metre-tall glittering red U pegged into the ground near a blue shed at South Bondi. The skateboard ramp looked more inviting to me at that very moment than Sydney's Singles Uprising. Mickey and I were both wary, so rather than lunging right into the experience, we circled the designated space three times, searching desperately for someone within the singles precinct who didn't look totally desperate. Someone who looked more like us, with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

  'They should have a fucken big L for loser there, that'd be more apt,' Mickey said cynically, and I agreed wholeheartedly. I wondered why the event was 'invitation only' when it would never attract gatecrashers anyway!

  We were confident that we met all the criteria for attending, but we were also just as confident that noone else did. Our collective self-esteem was soaring at this point.

  As we slowed down to do a final circle of the space, I felt Mickey's hand reach into my bag, searching frantically for the bottle of bubbly and glasses we'd packed in case we needed to make other people more attractive and interesting. I let him dig it out, as I looked around despairingly for the bright, adaptable folk, the unattached thirties, forties and fifties who were outgoing and socially capable, good for a laugh, keen to meet others – keen to meet us! I looked for the singles the invitation had promised we'd meet.

  Mickey and I had no doubts at all that we looked as interesting as the people we'd like to meet and, perhaps slightly arrogant, we assumed that if we stood still, people would just find themselves gathering around us. Arrogant or not, we parked ourselves about five metres from the main crowd of only twenty, cracked open our bottle and toasted each other, proud of ourselves for giving it a go. At least I'd able to tick off 'Singles Uprising' from the strategy list on my fridge.

  'God, there's some unattractive people around, Alice,' Mickey complained. We were looking pretty gorgeous compared to the rest, but then we hadn't had much to drink. A couple of glasses of bubbly always managed to make the least appealing person look like a fox.

  ***

  By the time the bottle was drained of its last drop we had met at least half-a-dozen of Sydney's singles, all tired of being around couples apparently, and all sure they had something to offer the opposite sex.

  There was one guy who caught my eye, but he was South African, and Peta and I had always agreed that the Afrikaner accent made us think of the devil. I gave him the benefit of the doubt until he made a comment about Blacks being 'primitive', and how they should be grateful for 'us civilising whites'. It was painfully clear it was time to go. It was not the sun or the wine or the other desperadoes I'd had enough of, but this jerk, who'd made me realise that the only uprising happening was his racist one, something I didn't want to be a part of.

  Mickey and I went to the Clovelly Hotel and ate and drank the rest of the day and night away.

  thirty

  Holiday romance

  As a last-ditch effort I decided to try for a holiday romance, an expensive strategic move, but strategic nonetheless. It was late October and Christmas was fast approaching; memories of Paul were soon going to choke me from within. I needed to meet someone who'd at least get me through the festive season, if not all the way to my thirtieth birthday and the altar.

  I dug into my savings to take a trip to Aotearoa, and the windy city, Wellington. While I was looking forward to going to the Downstage Theatre to see the latest offering from young playwright Briar Grace- Smith, and visiting the national museum Te Papa, I was more excited about the prospects of a holiday romance. Mr Right needn't be right in my pocket in Sydney. He could well be across the Tasman. Yes, a trans-Tasman romance might be the thing for me.

  I aimed to use the trip to brush up on my flirting techniques. I re-read How to Be a Sex Goddess and How to Talk to Cute Guys, finishing the last page of the latter just before leaving for the airport. I flirted with the assistant in the duty-free shop where I bought an iPod.

  I batted my eyelashes more than once at the customs officer, which just seemed to make him suspicious. I was super-friendly to the guy at the service-desk in the Qantas Club, because I knew there were definite bonuses to dating an airline employee – all those discounted trips I'd heard about. Smiling broadly, I felt good as I made my way to Gate 23.

  The flight wasn't full and I was grateful. I took my window seat and sank into a relaxed mental space, preparing for four days of rest and relaxation. As I looked out the window at the rain falling lightly on the wing, a handsome male sat down in the aisle seat. He was wearing running shoes with jeans and a black roll-neck jumper, Jerry Seinfeld style. An empty seat separated us; my black winter coat and sky-blue scarf rested on it. We exchanged smiles and 'hellos' and he ever-so-politely asked the flight attendant to hang 'the lady's coat'. I was impressed. He had a sexy, cultured voice and was obviously older than me, pushing late forties probably, and I made a note of his old-fashioned manners and style, something lacking in many of the younger men in Sydney these days. Many of them would sooner sit on a woman's coat than ask someone to hang it.

  We made small talk for the first hour of the flight. He'd just spent forty-five days touring Australia. He worked for himself, something to do with the music industry, but he didn't give too much away – he was very mysterious on that front. Although he told me he was 'proudly Pakeha', he seemed to think he knew all there was to know about being Maori.

  'The haka is too commercialised these days. It's lost its meaning and they should stop doing it at the rugby,' he said, with the authority and arrogance only a whiteman would dare assume when discussing the culture of 'the other'.

  'Hell, that's the only part of the rugby I even watch.' His views on the haka meant as much to me as a man's opinion of women's business, but I thought I might as well talk to him as practice for the weekend ahead.

  We ate our meal and continued to chat and I asked him what the highlight of his journey to Oz was. I had already clued him in on my 'ethnic extraction' and with that in mind he began: 'Well, this is probably going to upset you ...'

  It always fascinated me when someone opened their dialogue with a comment like that and then proceeded, as they had predicted, to upset me! If they already knew what the consequences of their actions would be, why did they carry on?

  He continued, 'The highlight of my trip was climbing Ayers Rock.' Of course it was. It would have been impossible for this man who knew all about Maoris not to know all about Aboriginal people too.

  'Well, I guess that's the end of our conversation then, isn't it? I don't want to begin my relaxing trip away with conflict.'

  He didn't take the hint, clearly feeling the need to justify himself, to make sure I understood why he had done it. 'I respect the religious views of others, I just don't think they should be rammed down my throat. I respect the wishes of the Aboriginal people, but they should respect mine too.' He had wished to climb 'the rock'. It had been a 'spiritual experience' for him. What he got personally from the climb was worth denying those who cherished Uluru the re
spect they deserved.