Avoiding Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  I looked at my watch: it was one pm. Somewhere in the world it was the right time to have a drink and that was good enough for me. I didn't want to look like a cheap lush, so didn't just go to the self-serve wine bar, but took a leaf out of Alice's old book – before she met Gary and could booze on – and ordered a gin'n'tonic from the nicely uniformed young man behind the bar.

  Then I slowly passed by the food counter. Cold meats, cheeses, salads, rice crackers, nuts, corn chips, and an espresso machine. I was so confused and oddly anxious, I thought I'd grab a coffee as well, even though I hadn't found a table or had a sip of my gin yet. I stood perplexed for a moment, not knowing where to stick the cup, and a middle-aged man in a navy pinstripe suit gently moved my hand and cup under the spout for the burst of hot water and steam. I liked the QANTAS Club already.

  Next I grabbed a magazine and newspaper. Anyone would've thought I'd never even flown before. I was like a child at a carnival who had to do everything at once, immediately. I found a table with four lounge chairs and only one taken.

  'Do you mind if I share?' I asked a casual-looking guy reading the entertainment pages of the day's broadsheet.

  I sipped my coffee and my gin'n'tonic – which didn't turn out to be as pleasant as having just one or the other – and pretended to read as I scanned the spacious lounge. Plasma screens with sports and the news and TV screens with flights departing, delayed, boarding and arriving. Businesspeople in suits with laptops and BlackBerries, couples going on holidays, a sports group of some description all wearing the same tracksuit, and families. Too many families. It wasn't as peaceful as I thought it would be, but I wasn't complaining. I was on my way to my new life in my new city and my new job.

  I got up and roamed the NewsLink bookstore, thinking I should read more and get my finger on the pulse. With my background in the education sector I had some idea about specific books used in the classroom, and I was aware that more and more storytellers and artists were going into schools and doing workshops these days, but I really needed a better grounding in everything from the history of the Indigenous visual arts movement to the latest books released. I'd heard of the Miles Franklin Award winner Alexis Wright, but when I found her epic novel Carpentaria I was daunted by its size. With all the policy papers I'd read of a night in my old job, I hardly ever had time to read novels, and never read anything the size of this one. As I continued to scan the shelves with Carpentaria under my arm, I wondered to myself whether Wright's book would've been on the shelf of a mainstream shop if it hadn't won the award. Or would it have been relegated to the 'Australiana' section like other books by and about Blackfellas? I made some notes to myself in my diary to be followed up when I started work.

  I went back to my table with another drink, my book, and some food, certain I was about to drop something. The same guy was still there and looked at me with sympathy as I tried to crouch and set everything down at the same time.

  'Let me help you,' he offered, taking the mags and paper from under my arm and placing them on the small, heavy table.

  'Thank you. Looks a little greedy, doesn't it?'

  'Not at all, I always have a little party for myself when I come here. This is the only place I get to read and have a quiet drink anyway, so I completely understand. My name's Mark.' He shook my hand and held it a few seconds too long to be just friendly.

  'I'm Peta,' I said quickly, and withdrew my hand. James's tears were still drying on my collar. I pushed my sunnies down and opened my magazine, trying not to notice that Mark was still staring at me.

  My flight was delayed as the weather was poor in Melbourne. I laughed to myself, knowing the girls would have gone to town with that information. I didn't care about the delay – I just had a few more drinks. The more I drank, though, the more I wanted to shove my entire fist into the lidded jar full of corn chips. And the plates were just too small to put anything of any substance onto them. They were smaller than a saucer. That would be my constructive feedback to QANTAS as a first-time visitor. Bigger jars and bigger plates for the nibblies.

  I could probably have spent the entire day in the QC – which I decided was a groovier name for the place – and just hang out and chill. I could probably meet men as well, if that were my intention. I'd already met two in the course of thirty minutes. But my thoughts were disturbed by a noise, an annoying noise – a kid, no, two kids, whining, whining, moaning, and crying. I looked around to see if it was bothering anyone else, but it didn't seem to be. I thought the QC was a place for peace, for grown-ups, for businesspeople, and policy-making departmental types like me. Not kids and certainly not spoilt kids at that. Noisy, naughty, annoying brats who whine and moan even when they are in the QC and can have all the cold meat and soft cheese they want and an endless supply of gin'n'tonic, or Australian wine, or beer. Kids are so ungrateful. Then my mobile rang. It was James.

  'It's me.' He sounded tired.

  'Hi. Where are you?'

  'In the car park.'

  'What? Why? Flat battery?'

  'Flat heart.'

  My heart sank. While I felt sorry for James and his flat heart weeping in the car park, I didn't feel at all compelled to put down my very tasty gin'n'tonic or my soft cheese and go find him.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first and final boarding call for QANTAS flight 433 to Melbourne. Your flight is now boarding through Gate 6.'

  'They're calling my flight, baby, I have to go. I'll call you tonight.'

  'I love you.' He said it with pain.

  'You too.' And I turned my phone off.

  Reality kicked in. I was on my way to Melbourne for twelve months, but I felt like a kid going on a school excursion to the zoo. I picked up my bag and book, sipped the last of my drink and made my way out of the lounge.

  ♥

  I went to grab the first of my cases off the carousel and a young guy in black jeans and jumper grabbed it for me. He then leaned over and grabbed his guitar case as well. Chivalry was alive and well in Victoria. Musos too it seemed. I'd heard there was a healthy live music scene in Melbourne and I was looking forward to checking it out as part of the new job. I was impressed with my first few minutes in my new home.

  At the taxi rank I turned on my phone. There were two messages from Alice, one from Dannie and one from Liza.

  Miss u already, how's the weather? X A

  P.S. It's gorgeous day @ Coogee, bout 2 go 4 swim. X A

  Skype me as soon as you're set up. Miss u, LIZA

  Don't light up cos ur homesick, Dannie

  It was muggy and overcast, but at least the rain had stopped. This was Melbourne summer and I was just glad that the girls weren't there to see it. I would never live it down. I sent them a text:

  Just landed, weather STUNNING, no ciggies, in touch afta shoppin, Luv ya, Px

  six

  Settling in fine, with vegan

  wine and a place that's mine

  The Rialto building was the flashest office tower I'd ever seen. We didn't have the penthouse suite, but we weren't doing too badly for Blackfellas either. My view went right along Collins Street into the city proper and I finally felt like I was making it up the ladder – only a few rungs to go.

  My first day in the office was spent meeting the other members of my team. My deputy was Sylvia, a policy development researcher who was also responsible for advising me on the Indigenous arts scene. Sylvia was about my age, with dyed jet-black hair, smoky kohl-rimmed eyes, big blood-red lips and olive skin. I wasn't sure if she was a Blackfella or not when I saw her.

  'Hi, you must be Peta, welcome.' She handed me her business card and I read it immediately.

  'Oh, Sylvia, thanks – great to meet you.'

  'Actually, it's spelt Sylvia, but it's pronounced Sylv-eye-a.'

  'Right, sorry.'

  'No dramas, everyone gets it wrong first time. It's just that the pronunciation works better in the arts world.'

  'So you're an artist, then?'

  'Yes, I'm an e
co-poet!' she declared proudly. 'I'm just working here until my first book hits the bestseller list.'

  Although I was concerned to hear she was only working in the department to pass time, I was interested in knowing more. 'Excuse my ignorance, Sylvia, I mean Sylv-eye-a, but what's eco-poetry?'

  'Eco-poets write about the natural order, or disorder, of the world. Our poetry is born out of a sense of impending disaster. It's about ecology, biology, conservation, philosophy. It's about the planet, the earth, the need for rebirth. Landfills, pulp mills, don't take pills.' She projected her voice like she was performing on stage.

  'Of course, the name's fairly self-explanatory, isn't it? Thanks. And who's your publisher?'

  'Well, my first book hasn't been published yet,' she said. 'But when it is published, I know it will sell big, and I'll be on my way to being part of the literati. No longer will Banjo Paterson and Les Murray be the only Australian poets taught in schools. It'll be Sylvia the Greek-Australian poet whose name will be on everyone's lips.'

  'Is there a big market for poetry in Australia?' I asked. I hadn't read much poetry beyond Oodgeroo Noonuccal. Alice had given me a first edition of We Are Going in hardcover. The only other hardcover books on my shelves were textbooks from university, not nearly as enjoyable to read.

  'I'm going to make it my personal mission to open your eyes and ears to the wonders of eco-poetry and the spoken word community in Melbourne, Peta.'

  'Okay, but can you refrain from using the word mission, please Sylvia? Hasn't anyone around here told you that it brings back terrible memories of mission managers and mission life for a lot of Aboriginal Australians?'

  'I'm just trying to reclaim the word is all. Like Black is a positive now and was a negative in the past.' Sylvia was confident in explaining herself.

  'Yes, I understand, but to reclaim it, wouldn't we have to use it ourselves?'

  'I guess so, good point.' She walked off, but I didn't think I'd offended her. She didn't seem the type to be overly sensitive.

  I liked Sylvia immediately; she was passionate, original, eccentric and cheeky. And so different to Alice, Liza and Dannie, who in contrast I realised were a bit conservative. I was actually looking forward to the poetry readings she had promised to take me to, and glad to know I was working with someone who liked to 'manage upwards'.

  I could handle an out-of-work eco-poet with a confused name. At least her holy grail was publishing a bestseller and not meeting men.

  ♥

  I spent the first week sleeping at my Aunt Nell's place in East Bentleigh. She had moved to Melbourne with her husband back in the sixties. They weren't married any more but unlike Mum, Aunt Nell didn't feel the need to try again, and again, and again. She was content with the six kids and the fifteen grandkids and another four on the way. It was great to be around family again and to meet more cousins. Aunt's house was always crowded, people coming and going, endless cups of tea, kids running and screaming and laughing, nonstop.

  East Bentleigh was a long way from the city and the north side, where other relations were, but Aunt said she liked being the only Blackfellas in the street.

  'I like being the only widow as well. I get a lot of attention from the ageing men, married or not. They like Joe's cooking too, especially his bush tucker biscuits.' Cousin Joe had just set up his own catering business and it was really taking off.

  'I didn't know Old Mack died and that's why you were alone all these years.' It was the first I'd heard Aunt describe herself as a widow.

  'Oh, he didn't. I just told people he died. It's much easier to be a widow than it is to try and explain to people that your fella left you.' She was matter of fact, my aunt.

  'The verbal murder. I love it. You wicked woman.' Next time someone asked me about why I moved to Melbourne and where James was, I could tell them, 'James is dead.' I would never really do that, of course – James was too much of a nice guy to verbally kill him. I would just save that line for someone else in the future.

  While it was great being around family and being loved and pampered with homemade meals, I was soon craving my own space and the coastline. With no ocean breeze or even a view of the sea to sustain me, the February heat was draining, and sharing a bathroom with my aunt, her teeth, my cousin Joe, his woman Annie and their two kids Maya and Will was just too much for me. I was used to a queen-size bed all to myself and my own bathroom and waking up naturally, not by having my eyelashes pulled at six in the morning by a toddler laughing hysterically. The sofa bed, the old crochet red, black and yellow rug thrown over me, and Aunt's cat Lola soon became all too much.

  Aunt had a computer set up in the lounge room so at least I could send the girls and James emails after work. For the first few nights it was a group message, which wasn't the most personal thing, but I didn't have much time, as Annie needed to do the admin work for Joe's business while he bathed the kids and put them to bed. It wasn't till the end of the week that I finally had the chance to write more than a couple of quick lines:

  Hello all my darling friends, I miss you guys, and life here with the rels is soooo different to my little peaceful flat on the beach in Coogee. God I miss it. Aunt's place in East Bentleigh is a long way from the rest of the family, but hell, it doesn't stop people dropping in like a trail of ants following a line of something sweet. The attraction is always Joe's creations. Everyone raves about how he's a chef on the cusp of great things with his new marketable bush food. He doesn't just cater for local Koori events, but mainstream parties and even weddings. So the house is always full of the aromas of good, home-cooked, restaurant-quality food. Even the ageing bananas in this really old bright blue fruit bowl Aunt has end up as banana bread. And not just your basic banana bread – it's always sprinkled with wattle seeds or some other bush delight. Oh, by the way, I'm getting FAT! James, you won't want to look at me, I'm telling you! I'm going to have to walk to the city every day to shake off the weight if I don't move out soon. Even Lola, Aunt's very spoiled cat, has fresh kangaroo meat every night for dinner. I'm going to start looking at rental properties on Saturday and the closest thing I'm going to get to Coogee is St Kilda, so that's where I'm going to start. Luv ya, off to bed now, but email me back soon . . . Px

  James emailed me back immediately:

  My precious babe, I miss you. I'm so glad you are safe there with your family. Joe's business sounds great; he could do our wedding one day, perhaps. I will ask around at the office tomorrow and see who's got contacts in property management in St Kilda, might help. Real estate agents can't always be trusted. Be careful. I know you're in bed now, wish I was there with you. Will call you in the morning. Love you.

  Your James

  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  PS Please don't send me group emails, I'm not one of your girlfriends.

  I thought about emailing him straight back, but that would mean commenting on the 'our wedding one day' business, and I didn't know how to approach it. Then Alice emailed me back too:

  Hey sistagirl, great to hear from you. We all miss you. I walked by myself last weekend from Coogee to Bondi because Gary was away with the boys. Liza's coming with me this weekend. It's not the same though without you. God, I miss the laughs. Your aunt's place sounds like a scream, can't wait to meet her when we visit. Look out for Acland Street, the cake shops will be problematic if you get homesick. Be strong. Love ya, x Missy

  PS James rings me every other day in case I have any more news about you than him. He is so missing you!

  PPS Don't forget to call Josie, she knows you're there already. I spoke to her yesterday.

  I was a little jealous that Liza was doing the beach walk with Alice on the weekend, and annoyed that James was butting into my search for a flat, even though it would help me. I just felt like it was his way of having some control or hand in my life down here. I tried not to dwell on it as I lay in bed thinking about the task at hand – finding a flat. If I was going to enjoy my twelve-month holiday from my normal life, from the Sydney o
ffice, from James, from the pressures of commitment, I needed to set up a strong foundation for my home life. Working life would take care of itself – it always had.