Not Meeting Mr Right (7 page)

Daniel didn't really count as a blind date, he was just a
way to test the waters, to get out there and give it a go.
The experience made it clear to me that Mickey wasn't
the best person to ask for assistance in setting up blind
dates with straight men. He just didn't know anyone
suitable. Onto Phase I, Step II: blind dates with friends
of friends.

On Saturday night, I sent an email to close friends,
giving them my list of what I was looking for in a man.

Dear so-and-so,
Do you love me? Do you want to see me happy? I know
you do, so help me find a good fella. My criteria for
Mr Right are attached.
With eternal thanks,
Alice xo

I sent it to a small but trusted group – Peta, Liza and
Dannie, of course, although they already knew what I
was up to, along with a couple of old uni friends I saw
occasionally at Cushion. I couldn't really cast the net too
wide in case Mum got wind of it. I'd never hear the end
of it. Mum still believed, like Dad, that women should
be demure and ladylike and men would eventually ask
them out. She was wrong.

Within days my friends were sending me details of
all sorts of men, telling me that I could cull them to a
short list. I didn't actually cull any, recognising that I
wasn't really in that strong a position. I'd be able to line
up a series of dates throughout the whole of November
if I wanted to. Even if I didn't find Mr Right I'd at least
be having a half-decent social life. It was summer and
nice to be out and about.

The first 'real' blind date didn't come from the spam
email I'd sent, though. Rather it was arranged by chance,
as I trudged up the stairs with Gabrielle from across the
hall, her with her washing, me with bags of groceries.
She suggested I go out with her Filipino brother-in-law
Renan. I immediately thought of great food every night;
a honeymoon in the Philippines; giving painless birth to
small children; and the stories I'd be able to tell at the next
school reunion. It was all sorted by the time we reached
the top step and she called him immediately from her
mobile. This was the quickest date I'd ever landed.

Gabrielle was married with two children and spent
her days cooking and cleaning. For her, organising my
date with Renan was something to get excited about.

'I love the thought of playing cupid for you, Alice.'
Gabrielle had never said anything, but I'm sure she'd
heard the conversations Peta and I often had as we sat
with my flat door open, doing post-mortems on our
disastrous dates and ex-boyfriends. She'd probably
heard the whole strategic planning meeting two
Saturdays before. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole
Arden Street block had heard. Next time, I thought,
I might ask her in to help. She was obviously a fast
worker, and time was of the essence now that I had a
deadline for meeting Mr Right.

***

Renan arrived promptly at eleven-thirty am the
following Saturday. He was drop-dead-make-youscream-
inside-gorgeous with dark hair, mysterious
eyes and a small, cheeky smile. He looked muscly even
under his loose white shirt. He was slightly shorter
than me, but I didn't care. 'Short men try harder!' were
Peta's words of wisdom once when a George Costanza
look-alike had asked me out and I'd declined.

'What a spunk!' I whispered across the hall to
Gabrielle as Renan walked up the stairs. 'Yeah, I married
the wrong brother,' she joked. 'Seems so – thanks!' I was
grateful for Gabrielle's choice: it left me with this hunk
for lunch. I suddenly appreciated that this was one of
the joys of being single – the excitement of going out
on first dates.

We went for yum cha in Chinatown and even
though I generally refuse to queue for anything, I wasn't
bothered at all by having to wait in line for twentyfive
minutes. The queue moved up the stairs, Renan
constantly one step above me, so the height issue
wasn't even obvious. The date was off to the perfect
start. I could see the wedding already. We could have
a Filipino-inspired menu, and Renan could have some
lifts inserted into his shiny black patent-leather wedding
shoes. Perhaps my bouquet could be orchids or lilies.
What was the native Filipino flower? I'd have to google
it at work later in the week. My mind was ticking over
and I was smiling inside and out. My dream wedding
was planning itself.

We were eventually escorted to a table up the back
of the bustling restaurant, leaving fifty people behind
us still waiting to be seated. He had chosen the most
popular yum cha restaurant in the city. Every single
table was full, and crowded with food; the conversation
chaotic.

The food tasted great but I hardly noticed as we
yarned away easily, comfortably, like soul mates: just
add water and we were an instant couple. I liked the
way Renan took charge and ordered yummy things as
the trolleys trundled back and forth. I had no idea what
was what.

'I think you'll like this dish, Alice,' he'd say as he
motioned to the waiter to put something on the table.
His confidence on the culinary front turned me on a
little. I liked the way he used my name, too.

'I make the best seafood egg rolls this side of Manila
or
Beijing, Alice. But these aren't bad.' I smiled at the
thought – my kitchen repertoire was quite bland and
very
Australian
in comparison. Yin and yang. Clearly the
feng shui was working for Renan and I. We were getting
on fantastically. Renan was an Aries, and according
to Aria, a union of a Ms Leo and a Mr Aries had great
marriage potential. He was also incredibly witty, always an
aphrodisiac. I could've jumped him there and then, until
I remembered Peta's rule: no sex on the first date – and
I'm guessing especially not in the middle of the Dragon
Castle restaurant. I had decided before the sweets trolley
arrived that I could easily fall in love with Renan.

Then we started talking about our career aspirations.
'I want to be principal of St Christina's one day,' I said,
even though I knew they'd never had a layperson in the
job in the past, and I sometimes wondered if I'd only
landed the job as department head at the age of twentyeight
because no-one else applied. The nuns were all
getting old and there'd been some talk in the staff
room that the principal's position might be opened up
in the future. It was a personal goal that I'd told very
few people, but I thought I should tell Renan; I was on
my third glass of wine and it seemed to me there was
a good chance we'd be getting married one day and
sharing
everything
.

'I could see you as principal, easy. You're a strong,
capable woman. A fantastic role model. If I had a
daughter, I'd want to send her to your school.' He had
a sparkle in his eye. 'Though if you were principal, it
would mean you probably wouldn't be able to teach,
and that would be such a loss to the students.' Clearly,
Renan was impressed by my career goals. I dare say he
may have had the future in mind as well. Why wouldn't
he? I was a bloody good catch. Strong and capable, as
he rightly pointed out.

'And what about you? What are your plans?' I was
really keen to see how we could make our careers work
together.

He dropped a bombshell: 'I've been working for years
towards being one of the world's best moonwalkers and
male hula dancers.'

I nearly choked on my dumpling. This was his
career dream? His personal goal? No, no, no! 'I'm
already in the
Guinness Book of Records
for the longest
unbroken moonwalk.' Renan sprang out of his chair
and moonwalked from one end of the restaurant to the
other, giving a fine display of his skill. How long was
it since I'd seen someone moonwalk? Twenty years? I
had thoughts of him moonwalking down the aisle with
me after we'd said our vows. I reached for the carafe of
house wine in the middle of the table.

I refilled my glass as Renan moved from Michael
Jackson to generic Polynesian. With a smile that spanned
his entire face, he began to do the hula at the table. To my
surprise, the predominantly Chinese audience started
applauding, which only encouraged Renan to shake his
thin hips even more. I thought he was never going to
stop. He only ended up back in his seat when a trolley of
chicken feet accidentally collided with his left hip. Shit!
Would our wedding waltz be a bloody hula?

I wanted to slowly disappear under the table. While
I wanted a man to be able to move in time with the
music, or at least give it a go, I definitely couldn't date
and simply would not marry a man who looked better
in a grass skirt than me. Nor would my self-esteem ever
allow me to be with a man who had thinner hips! I sadly
scratched Renan's name off my list of potentials, even
though at that stage it was the only name there. My
wedding plans came crashing round my feet.

The date ended with the promise of a hula lesson or
two whenever I had time, and I smiled to myself thinking
that lessons with Renan might actually be fun.

Gabrielle was more disappointed than I was that we
didn't have a second date, and she was quick to suggest
her cousin Ernesto as a follow-up attempt. Ernesto
couldn't dance, but had been on
Red Faces
once and
played the spoons. Gabrielle was obviously part of a
very talented family. I didn't even have to think about
that one, just lied and told her I had a few other dates
lined up and I'd call on her during the next dry spell.
I'm sure she was aware that my whole life was a dry
spell, though, and she looked hopeful that I would be
enlisting her services as cupid again shortly.

I was surprised how well I bounced back from Daniel
and Renan. I really was giving this blind dating gig a go.
So far I'd hooked up with a womaniser and had a nice
Chinese meal with an offer of free dance lessons. Going
on dates was actually entertaining. I couldn't really
complain about not having met Mr Right at this stage,
because I wasn't at all bored, or lonely. I continued
to chant my mantra on a daily basis:
I am deadly and
desirable and desperate!
Whoops!
I am deadly and
desirable and delicious!

Not long after, I went on my third blind date in two
weeks. Dannie was determined to prove Peta wrong
and find me my life-partner, so she had arranged a date
with her cousin Charlie, who liked to play pool. I'd been
known to sink a few, and Dannie thought we might
have some fun together. Charlie and I were to meet
at the Marlborough Hotel in Newtown the following
Saturday.

Just before leaving for my date, I sought Aria's
advice, and was puzzled: 'Leos won't have to travel far
from home to find love and romance today, so don't go
looking outside your own perimeter.' Did Aria mean my
physical or mental perimeter? Was inner-city Newtown
too far from home?

I met Charlie at the pub, and the first thing I noticed
was his daggy, tan, eighties-style sand-blasted leather
bomber jacket. That would have to go for a start. The
skin-tight, pale blue jeans, turned up at the cuff, with
white Dunlop Volley shoes, would be following behind
quickly. I didn't even know they still made those
shoes. Or perhaps he'd bought them with the jacket
two decades ago. Charlie also wore an akubra hat that
pushed down his dark hair, and even though he did the
gentlemanly thing and removed it when he greeted me,
I wished he hadn't. The hat-hair look didn't sit well with
the jacket and jeans.

Dannie had told me Charlie was 'cool'. She seriously
needed to get out more and see what today's fashions
were. She may have been okay with George's clothes,
but I wasn't ready to settle for a man dressed in timewarp
garb.

Bad dress sense wasn't the worst of Charlie's
problems, though. He had dreadful skin, clearly the
result of a bad bout of chicken pox as a teenager.

It's what's inside that counts, I told myself.
Our bodies
are mere shells for our souls to walk around in
would be
my mantra of the night
.
I'd read somewhere that scars
just show that you've survived something horrible, that
you're strong. Surviving chicken pox wasn't quite the
same as surviving a fire or an appendectomy, but it must
have been hard growing up with those pock marks.

I should just stop being such a lookist, I thought.
I wouldn't focus on Charlie's skin. It was the scars I
couldn't see that I really needed to worry about.

Charlie came back from the bar with two schooners.

Don't look at his skin
, I thought. 'So, did you have
trouble finding a park?' I asked. 'King Street can be a
nightmare.'

'I don't drive. I'm car-free, I like to say.'

Oh god, I was going to have play chauffeur to this
fella if we dated. That was not an attractive option at all.
I wanted to play passenger occasionally.

Charlie read my face. 'I can drive,' he said. ' I just don't
want to pollute the environment. I believe it's worth
suffering a little inconvenience to save the planet.'

He was right. I felt ashamed of my reaction. I
noticed that Charlie had a beautiful smile and dreamy
chocolate-brown eyes hidden under the rim of his hat.

***

Over the next few hours we played pool and put money
in the jukebox, both choosing some old favourites from
Blondie and ABBA. We had exactly the same taste in
music – appalling taste, Peta would say. Neither of us
knew who was at the top of the charts, and at one point
Charlie asked, 'What's an ARIA?' Peta would have been
mortified, but I really liked his unashamed pride in not
being up-with-it. We were having fun, and the time
passed easily.

I was warming to Charlie, no doubt about it. After
a few more beers, I found myself making plans. My
hairstylist could fix the hat-hair permanently, and we
could burn the hat with the jeans and jacket. The shoes
he could keep for sport if he wanted to. Dannie, Peta,
Liza and I could do a Fab Four makeover. It might even
be fun. The full transformation. Surely there'd be some
way to take care of his scars? I couldn't stop thinking
about or looking at Charlie's skin.

***

My stomach had started making noises: dinner was
well overdue. We'd spent the entire afternoon talking
and laughing, and I'd had too much to drink on an
empty stomach. 'Let's eat!' I said, and we ordered at
the bar.

Sitting across from Charlie as we ate, I imagined him
post-makeover. His scars were bad, but a dermatologist
could probably help. They can do amazing things with
lasers these days.

Suddenly Charlie wasn't looking happy.

'You've been staring at my skin all day, Alice. Is it
that much of a problem for you?'

'Have you thought about having your scars, umm,
you know?

'So my skin
is
a problem for you.'

'Not as much as your jacket,' I joked, hoping to make
light of the situation, and immediately wished I hadn't.

'I'm sorry you find my jacket and skin so problematic,
Alice.' And with that he up and left me there; drunk,
alone, disappointed in myself. I was shallow. I was a
lookist. I had hurt Charlie's feelings. For sure I would've
been hurt had someone said that to me.

I am cruel, I thought. I am not deserving of love from
anyone, not even crater-face Charlie. I am not deadly
and desirable and delicious. My new mantra became
I am dreadful! I am a lookist!

I left the bar and blind date #3 behind.

***

The next day, when I'd sobered up, I realised I'd left my
sunnies behind at the pub, so went back to get them in
the early evening. As I waited for the barman to fetch
them from the office I stood at the bar and watched a
gorgeous guy saunter across the smoke-filled room. A
handful of people were dancing to the sounds of a local
grunge band. I'm a retro chick, so the music didn't do
much for me.

'Wanna buy me a drink, babe?' Even the pathetic
opening line didn't put me off, because this guy just
made me weak, standing there in his jeans with
no cuff s, and tight black t-shirt, sixpack obvious
underneath. No hat. Doc Martens. He looked totally
shaggable. I was back to being the lookist again. In no
time at all we were slow dancing to the grunge music
I hated and I was thinking that I owed Dannie a huge
thank you. My blind date with Charlie hadn't been a
dead loss after all.

For the next eight hours we danced and drank. We
tried to talk over the live music occasionally, but it
was too loud. I didn't care. I was having a great time.
Then, as the clock was about to strike two, I sensed
that something wasn't quite right. I looked around the
room, briefly frisked myself to check I was still totally
clothed, rummaged through my bag to check my phone
and wallet and sunglasses were there, but all seemed to
be as it should be. Then it hit me. My wallet was much,
much thinner than it had been when I entered, and
he
hadn't bought one drink all night.

I wasn't impressed with either of us: him for being
such a sponge, and me for being such an idiot. I was
possibly daunting and desirable and delicious, but
definitely a loser.

'I've gotta go,' I said. 'I have to get up early and mark
essays tomorrow.' It wasn't a complete lie, I did have
some school work to do.

'No worries.' He was cool about it. Let's face it, he'd
had a good, cheap night out and managed to cop a feel
as well. 'Don't s'pose you can give me cab fare home?'
He winked and grabbed my arse as if that would seal
the deal. I was gobsmacked. I said bluntly, 'I guess I can
drop you off somewhere.'

I was shitty as hell, but I wasn't quite sure what I
was doing, and needed to buy some time to think. 'I
need to go to the loo first.' I grabbed my bag and pushed
through the crowded room as he turned to the bar to
finish his beer. The beer
I
had bought. What a tool.
When I glanced back towards the bar again he wasn't
looking in my direction, so I just walked out the front
door and escaped without notice, leaving Mr Welfare
and a good chunk of last week's wages behind.

I wrote it up in my journal when I got home: 'At least
it was a night out with straight male company.' Yeah,
but at what cost to my dignity and wallet?

Aria had been right. I shouldn't have travelled so far
from home. Somewhere between Coogee and Newtown
I'd gone from having some dignity to almost none.

***

On Monday I got a curt email from Dannie:

Alice, sometimes I think you really are sabotaging your
own happiness. There are decent men around you, kind,
caring, faithful and funny; politically and environmentally
sound. The way you treated Charlie on Saturday makes you
seem, well, a bitch. And no-one wants to date a bitch. I
know you're not
really
a bitch. But you don't even give men
a chance to get to know you properly. That, my friend, is
why you're single. And I say this out of love, you know that.
Dannie

I cringed with shame at the truth in her words. I didn't
respond and Dannie and I never spoke about Charlie
again. We actually didn't speak at all for a couple of
weeks, which was odd for us. And I felt bad. Friendships
like ours shouldn't be lost over bad skin – even if
potential husbands could be.