Not Meeting Mr Right (9 page)

Having forgiven me for the Charlie episode, and still
determined to prove Peta wrong on the whole SWOT
analysis, Dannie made a second attempt to set me
up. She invited me to a dinner party at her place with
George, another couple and a blind date for me named
Philip.

I liked Philip at first glance, although I was trying hard
not to be a lookist. His clothes were from the twentyfirst
century; he had a decent hairdo; no hat; and dress
shoes on. And his skin was flawless. He was also polite,
extending his right hand to shake mine. 'Great to meet
you, Alice. Dannie's told me a lot about you.' He had a
pleasant smile and obviously didn't smoke: his teeth
were bright white. He drove a car. I felt quite confident he
wouldn't ask me for milk money or start moonwalking in
the middle of dinner. I was glad I'd made an effort to look
good, and not only to show Dannie that I appreciated
her latest attempt to help me find Mr Right.

I was seated next to him at dinner. We had a starter
of orange and port soup. Philip complimented Dannie,
impressing me again with his manners, but then he
began rummaging furtively in his lap. I tried to look
away, but I was curious: what
was
he doing? My god!
Was he trying to hide a hard-on?

I'd never had a penis myself, so I wasn't completely
sure that what he was doing was anything out of the
ordinary. I cut him a little slack, assuming that he was
possibly horny as hell sitting next to me. I was, after all,
deadly and desirable.

We started chatting again, and soon I forgot all about
it. Dinner was lovely. Dannie had prepared a delicious
roast, something a single girl always appreciates – no
point doing a roast for one person. It was a treat to be
able to enjoy a grown-up meal.

***

'Let's have coffee and dessert in the lounge room,'
Dannie said, clearing the table and ushering us out at
the same time. It was all going smoothly, I thought,
until I noticed that Philip was standing by the door
firmly grasping his penis in his left hand. No-one else
seemed perturbed by it; they all walked ahead, but I
couldn't take my eyes off his left hand. Grasp, pinch,
pull, fiddle ... he was very busy as he made his way into
the next room. He accepted a port that George offered
him, and then stood there with a drink in one hand and
his dick in the other. Was I the only one who noticed?

I checked out the other men to see where their
hands were. Was touching one's genitals in public now
acceptable, given that research had shown that ninetyfive
per cent of men masturbated and the other five per
cent lied about it anyway? Was sex with oneself not
only the safest form of sex in the twenty-first century,
but something that was now considered an after-dinner
activity? Was it the male equivalent of a woman telling
me she had sore nipples? He's probably just adjusting
himself, I thought. Yes, that was it. Then he switched
hands: drink in the left, penis in the right. Something
was definitely wrong.

He made eye contact. 'I've really enjoyed talking
to you tonight, Alice,' he said. 'If you're free sometime
soon, I'd love to meet up again – would you mind
giving me your card?' Not having one, it was easy to
ask him for his instead, even though I had no intention
of calling him. God knows what sex would have been
like. How the hell was I going to get anything when he
was all over
himself
all the time?

I walked into the kitchen to help Dannie with
clearing up and organising dessert and handed her
Philip's card.

'I'm not calling him,' I whispered as I put some plates
in the dishwasher.

'Why not? What's wrong with
this
one? He hasn't
stopped talking to you all night. He's obviously
interested.' She was scrubbing at the baking dish in the
kitchen sink.

'There was one little thing that bothered me.'

'Only one?' She was being sarcastic, but it was a fair
question, I suppose – she knew about my long list of
expectations.

'What do you think it means when a guy touches
himself a lot?'

'Touches himself where?' she asked as she rinsed
the good crystal glasses that couldn't go into the
dishwasher.

'You know, down there.' I pointed to my groin.

'What do you mean? He exposed himself? When?
I'll kill him!' She turned off the taps and grabbed a tea
towel, violently drying her hands.

'No, calm down, he didn't do anything that dramatic.
I just noticed he touched himself ...
a lot.
It's weird.'

'It's boys, Alice, they do it all the time. Have to adjust
themselves, you know. Get short'n'curlies caught under
their bags.' Dannie was sounding like Peta and it really
didn't suit her at all.

'You're disgusting sometimes, Dannie. A simple "It's
normal" would have sufficed.' Just then, George came
in for the coffees.

'Philip suggested we all do a bridge climb sometime,
what do you reckon?'

'No way. I'm frightened of heights, but you fellas go.'
It would be difficult for Philip to grip the rail and his
dick at the same time, I thought. Nup, Mr Dick Fiddler
was not in the running at all.

Liza didn't know much about Tufu, she said, except
that he was gentle and shy and was interested in
meeting some people locally. He'd only just moved to
Coogee to play football and didn't have many friends.
She'd met him at a fundraiser organised by the ALS. He
was a friend of one of her clients: the only reason she
wasn't going out with him on a date herself. 'Conflict
of interest, Alice. But I'm happy for you to go out with
him.'He sounded perfect, too good to be true. Tufu lived
in Coogee like me; he was thirty, single, employed,
gorgeous and brown. Samoan brown. It was a little odd
that he was single; there are nine single women to every
straight bloke in Sydney, so he'd either not been looking
or not trying at all. Or perhaps he was just waiting for
Ms Right. I chose to believe the latter.

Liza had given him my number instantly, telling
him I was a Blackfella who lived round the corner and
could introduce him to some of the local Indigenous
community. He called within the week and invited me
to his 'tiny and not always tidy little flat on Beach Street'.
He had the sexiest voice I'd ever heard and I couldn't
wait to meet him. I felt like I was on a hat-trick; he was
single, he was brown, he lived almost next door. Mr
Right might also have been Mr Right-Under-My-Nose.

I rocked up at Tufu's flat at dusk, hoping he was
cooking me a Samoan feast. There was a pile of rubbish
stashed in the hallway outside his door. Empty chip
packets, pizza boxes and a pile of newspapers and
comics in the corner next to a box of empty wine bottles.
All the signs of singledom. It wasn't a very good look.
He hadn't gone to much effort to impress his potential
Ms Right. Did he need a man to take out the garbage,
just like me? Maybe he'd been too busy. I knocked on
the door.

'Hi Alice, come in.' Our eyes locked momentarily at
the threshold, then I followed him into his crowded flat.
The walls were covered in family photos and actions
shots of him playing rugby.

'Coogee Wombats,' he said, assuming I was going to
ask him the name of the team. I didn't let on that I'd
spent many of my younger days hanging out at the local
Rugby Club and knew the green and white uniform
well, even if I didn't necessarily appreciate the game.

Tufu stood there in a lava-lava, his huge, muscly
thighs hidden underneath. I looked from him standing
in front of me to the photo of him in full flight in the
green and white jersey, trying to make the link between
the two. Pacific reggae played on the small radio as I did
a very discreet scan of the room and saw his Randwick
Council shirt hanging on his bedroom doorknob. I
turned to hand him the bottle of wine I'd brought with
me and caught him checking out my cleavage. We both
instantly stepped back, trying to find a place to stand
without touching each other in the tiny space of his
flat, and he cracked a nervous smile. His shyness was
attractive.

'I haven't actually prepared anything, Alice. I thought
we could get takeaway and that way we could just relax
and talk. I hope that's okay? We can sit on the balcony,
there's a great view of the beach.' Even though I had a
good view of the beach from my own flat, it would be
different looking at it with this hunk of a man.

'That'd be lovely.'

We sat on plastic chairs and talked, with a glass of
wine each to keep our hands busy. His shyness soon
disappeared and we laughed about the backpackers we
could see skylarking on the beach. He'd had his share of
them, too, down at the Coogee Bay beer garden. They
generally stayed out of his way, though, because of his
size, no doubt.

Sitting there watching him, imagining his thighs
under the loose cotton, I couldn't believe Tufu was
single. He must have had women just sliding off him
all the time, everywhere he went. Surely the Rugby
Club would have provided a bevy of women for him
to choose from. He was just too gorgeous. But he told
me he'd never actually had a girlfriend. Was he really
waiting for Ms Right? Had someone broken his heart?
Was he perhaps really not interested in girls? Was he a
closet gay? Did he know Cliff, who only lived one beach
north? I hoped he wasn't gay; it would be a terrible
loss to the heterosexual single women's community of
Coogee. Surely he wouldn't last long in a rugby team
if he were? Ian Roberts hadn't really paved the way for
many others to come out – not yet, anyway.

By the time our delivery Indian arrived, we were
completely relaxed and swapping stories about the
Festival of Pacific Arts held in Samoa in 1996. We'd
both been there. We discovered a whole range of
coincidences and common links. He knew some of
the people I'd met there and we were sure we'd been
at the same events. Destiny was screaming at me,
'Tufu's the one'. He seemed too good to be true. The
conversation too easy. The mood too right. Had Tufu
been the one I was looking for all along? Thoughts of
an island wedding flooded my love-struck mind. I had
considered Fiji or the Cooks a little earlier, but perhaps
it was always going to be Samoa. I was already thinking
about having a family. Genetically, the Samoans were
large people. I'd be squeezing out a bruiser of a baby.
That'd hurt. But there'd be a great story in it for sure to
tell everyone at the next reunion.

'I'm really glad you're here, Alice, I've been looking
forward to meeting you since we spoke.'

'Me too!' He slid his hand on mine, sealing my future.
Sealing
our
future. I was sure of it. I looked out into the
distance as the last light of day fell on Wedding Cake
Island, the rocky outcrop just off Coogee's shoreline.
The view of it was much better when the sun came up
over the bay, but sunset on Tufu's balcony wasn't bad
either.

'I bet it's beautiful here in the morning with the sun
rising over Wedding Cake Island.' I hadn't meant to say
it out loud.

'You can find out for yourself if you like.' He leaned
in and kissed me. It was a swift move, and it was all
happening fast, but it honestly felt perfect. Suddenly
Peta appeared in my head: 'Don't do the deed on the
first date.' Tufu's hand made its way along the side of
my breast.
Don't do the deed on the first date. Don't
do the deed on the first date.
Against all my instincts, I
leaned back and took a deep breath, but I couldn't stifle
a moan of pleasure.

'Tell me what you're thinking,' Tufu whispered
in my ear, and I could hear the smile in his voice. He
knew what I was thinking. Could I admit to him that
I was contemplating ripping that lava-lava off him and
crawling over him in a frenzy of sexual need? I couldn't
say it. A woman had to have a little more mystery about
her than that.

'I was just thinking about Wedding Cake Island and
hoping I'd have a wedding cake one day.'

Hell, had I said that out loud too? Clearly I had, and
he backed right off, taking his arm from around my
shoulders. All of a sudden the shy lava-lava lad became
Jack-the-lad, all calm and collected and looking like a
real player, with a sly grin on his face.
'Really, Alice? You don't strike me as the kind of girl
to get tied up with just one bloke.' What the hell did that
mean? Was he calling me a slut? Did he mean I wasn't
marriage material? Or was this really about him? Either
way, I didn't feel at all comfortable now sitting on his
crappy plastic chairs on his tiny little balcony anymore.
All I could do was throw the same back at him.

'You don't strike me as the kind of guy who would
commit himself either.'

'I'm not. I like my life the way it is. My independence.
Not having to be responsible to one person.'

'You mean accountable.'

'I like to have variety in my life.'

'So you like to play the field. No pun intended.'

'I like to meet lots of different people.'

'You mean you're a slut?'

'That's a bit rough, isn't it?'

I knew how irrational I was being. Just because
I wanted to meet my one and only, it didn't mean
everyone else wanted to. I left before I made any more
of a fool of myself.

'Alice, it's Mum, how are you?'

'What's up, Mum?' Mum never called me just to say
hello. There was suspicion in my voice.

'Nothing. I just wanted to see if you had any time
this weekend? The son of an old friend of mine from
the Aboriginal Medical Service is moving to Sydney
and needs someone to show him round. He's single.'

'Muuuuummm ...' I whined. I didn't want her in on
my strategy. She'd only ever offered Cliff in the past,
and I wasn't interested in another gay man to dodge.

'Don't be like that, Alice, he's a nice boy. Goodlooking,
too. His name is Malcolm, and he's a project
manager with a youth service. He doesn't know anyone
here. Can't you just meet him and introduce him to
some of the young mob? He doesn't want to hang out
with an old duck like me.'

She was right, he wouldn't. Anyway, I needed to be
open to each and every opportunity. Malcolm from
Melbourne might just prove a positive experience, so I
agreed to show him around, and before long I'd started
to regard our first meeting as another blind date. It
was always possible that he was doing the same thing.
Actually, it was highly likely that he was. Men didn't
think that differently, did they?

We agreed to meet at Redfern Park during a family
day, with Koori bands providing the entertainment. I
SMS'd him when I arrived and told him to meet me at
the Koori crafts stall. Not expecting him to be there
for a few minutes, I looked at all the wares and reached
out to pick up a beaded necklace. An incredibly
handsome young guy put his hand on the same set
of beads, accidentally brushing my fingers. A shot of
electricity went up my arm and somehow hit me right
in my loins.

'I'm sorry, you have them.' I looked up into his black
eyes and suddenly knew what love at first sight was. Or
lust at first sight, anyway.

'No please, you have them – they'd look good on
you,' he said. I thought I would orgasm there and then,
with the soulful sounds of Emma Donovan singing in
the background, kids with painted faces milling around,
johnnycakes being fried nearby and Caro from Koori
Radio calling it all live to air.

'I'm Alice.' I extended my hand. I couldn't believe
I was being so forward. It wasn't my style at all, but I
couldn't let him get away.

He took my hand and shook it. 'You're not Alice
Aigner, by chance?' He'd heard of me, but how? 'What
a coincidence meeting like this. I'm Malcolm.'

'That's not coincidence, that's destiny. Fate I'd say.'

He looked at me as if to say, 'What are you on?' and
then laughed. Didn't he know that there was no such
thing as coincidence?

We hung around the stall for a while, pretending not
to check each other out. I kept my dark glasses on so I
could perv without being caught. He looked young.

'So, how old are you, Malcolm?'

'Just had my twenty-fourth birthday.'

'Blinder, I bet.' Young guys usually get trashed when
they go out, birthdays or not. Dillon was always doing
it and driving Mum to the point of despair.

'I don't drink actually.'

'Really?'

'Just trying to be healthy. Don't smoke, eat hot chips
or have carbonated drinks, either.' He was a health
nut, but I liked that. At least I'd be healthier if we got
together. 'Sounds boring to you, I suppose, but I spent
a few years running a kids' dance group in Melbourne
and I had to be fit. Cycled and kickboxed every day just
to be able to keep up with them.'

He was the most attractive man I'd ever met.
Healthy, fit, working with kids. Young. Black. In Sydney
and knowing only me!

'Your body is a temple,' he said as we sat on the
grass, half listening to Sean Choolburra crack some
jokes. Yeah, I'd be happy for my body to be your temple,
no worries, I thought to myself.

'What about you, Alice? You into the fitness kick
too?' His piercing black eyes unnerved me, his smile
made me melt.

I'd have to lie. How could I tell him I drank a litre of
gin a week? Only ate healthy meals accidentally, loved
hot chips and hadn't ridden a bike since I was eleven?

'I do my best. I'm big on the coastal walk from
Coogee to Bondi and back.' At least that wasn't a lie. I
did try my best and I did do that walk occasionally.

Malcolm was the strong but quiet type –
my
type.
I knew straight away that he was the closest thing to
my Mr Right I'd seen so far. He was four years younger
than me, but there wasn't anything about age on my list
of criteria. Anyway, his confidence and worldliness hid
any age discrepancy others may have questioned. He'd
be a great young father, have lots of energy to do sports
with the kids, and keep up with me as I reached my
sexual peak in my mid-to-late thirties. Yes, a younger
husband would be a good option.

I felt a huge relief: I had almost accomplished my
goal – and my thirtieth birthday was still more than
a year away. Of course, it might take some time for
Malcolm to recognise how right we were for each
other – women process things much faster than men.
He
would
realise it, though, eventually. A clever guy like
Malcolm would manage to figure things out himself
for sure. Or maybe he already had. I was deadly and
desirable. I could give up soft drink and chips. I'd even
been to a kickboxing class once. And he could use my
body as a temple any time.

We enjoyed the day and went to the after party
that night at the Strawberry Hills Hotel. I introduced
Malcolm to everyone I knew, and encouraged him to
exchange numbers, cards and email addresses with
them all. I wanted him to feel at home in Sydney, have a
good network of friends and acquaintances. He'd need
them for sure if he were going to stay on here after his
project was finished.

We had a great night. He got on with everyone. It
was like we'd been friends for years.

Around midnight I was ready to leave. I had a
long day of school starting early in the morning, and
teacher-parent night at the end of the day. It was time
to go home, hopefully with Malcolm on my arm. We
walked outside into the crisp midnight air, his hand in
the small of my back, gently guiding me through the
crowd. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like the next step
would be a good-night kiss. Then ...
nothing
. He hailed
a cab, opened the back door and put me in it, closed the
door and waved me off.

What had gone wrong? I tried to reassure myself:
Malcolm was a gentleman, that was all. He was well
raised and too polite to try anything sleazy when
we'd only just met, even though there'd been enough
electricity between us to light up the city. He was just
showing me respect; after all, I
was
the daughter of
'Aunty Ivy', whom his mother had always spoken so
fondly of.

***

I woke the next day expecting to hear from him. But he
didn't call that day, or the next, or the next. I reminded
myself that he was busy settling into a new city, getting
to know the ropes in his new job, and probably analysing
his new feelings for the wonderful woman he'd been
lucky enough to meet in his first week here. He was
probably a little overwhelmed by it all.

When I hadn't heard from him by the end of the
week, though, my patience and understanding started
to turn to anxiety. We both knew I was his Ms Right.
I was the love of his life. The woman who gave him
his connections in Gadigal country. The one who'd
encouraged him to swap numbers with a whole bunch
of other single Black women. Gorgeous, strong, single,
capable, single, sexy, smart, single Koori women. What
had I been thinking? He was probably calling
them
.

Just as I was about to start doing some research on
the Koori grapevine to see what he'd been up to, he
texted me, saying, 'Hello, how are you?' I'd expected
an invitation to dinner or a movie or
something
– anything. Still, I saw his communication as an
invitation to make contact, so I texted back suggesting
he call me if he had some time and wanted to catch up.

A week later the phone finally rang and we went out for
dinner, at my suggestion. We strolled along Crown Street
before deciding on a small but atmospheric Nepalese
restaurant. We ate, we laughed, and he said I looked
gorgeous and that it was lovely to see me. We drank
copious amounts of wine – or I did, anyway – and then,
as the night drew to a close, I panicked. What next?

'Would you like me to drop you home, Alice?'

'That'd be great, thanks.'

Naturally I assumed he expected to come in. I was
getting that loving feeling as we drove to Coogee and all
I could think about was his young, rock-hard body. He
pulled up right outside the building in a spot invisibly
marked 'Al and Mal'.

'Would you like to come up for a herbal tea? I've
got sencha, green, fruit?' I'd stocked up because I knew
Malcolm was a health freak. He turned the motor off
and we walked upstairs.

He took himself on a tour of the flat at my insistence,
then came and stood near me as I prepared the tea. I
realised, too late, that all my lists were still on the fridge.
Shit
. I panicked. I'd have to kiss him. His eyes would
at least be shut then, and I could probably manoeuvre
him back out into the lounge room.

I had no choice but to glide in slowly, hoping that
it would look like it was partly his idea. However it
looked, it happened: his arms moved around my waist
and our mouths connected.

The kiss was nice, easy, warm. Malcolm definitely
responded – but after we'd pulled away from each
other, he looked at his watch.

'I've got an early start, Alice, better be going.'

I was confused. He was, after all, a bloke. He was
young and fit. Surely he was horny
. I
was, whether he'd
been instructed to call Mum 'Aunty' or not.

Fair enough, though. I didn't want him to have to
eat and run, so to speak. At least we were on our way
to greater things, and I assumed we'd catch up where
we left off soon enough. The anxiety was gone. We
were now a couple – though we'd take things slowly, of
course. We could discuss Malcolm's permanent move
to Sydney in the near future. My thirtieth birthday was
eighteen months off, so we had plenty of time.

***

I thought he'd call the next morning – but he didn't.
I sent him a couple of text messages – nothing. I left
a message on his voicemail – nothing. What could
possibly have gone wrong? I needed to confer with
Dillon. He was the same age as Malcolm, so perhaps he
could tell me.

***

Dillon sat on my lounge, a pizza box in his lap and a juice
on the coffee table in front of him. Like Malcolm, Dillon
didn't drink fizzy drinks. It was good thing to see young
men being health conscious. I handed him a serviette.

'There's some ice-cream in the freezer too, if you
like.' I was sweetening him up for the big discussion.
This was an old, familiar pattern.

'So, what's up this time? Who is he? Or should I say
who
isn't
he?' Dillon knew what was going on.

'His name's Malcolm, he's Mum's friend's son. He's
lovely and we get on really well, and I think he's perfect
and he doesn't drink soft drink either, like you, and he's
gorgeous, and he's Black and we'd be perfect together
if he gave it a chance, and, well ... he's a bit younger
than me.' I knew Dillon would have an issue with the
age thing. He'd think I was a cradle-snatcher.

He put his pizza down. 'How much younger?' he
said sternly, wiped his mouth and took a swig of juice.

'Four years. And I think it bothers him. He hasn't
called me for two weeks. Maybe he's worried about the
age difference?'

'Al, I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's a bloke's
fantasy to be with – learn from – an older woman.
Personally, I'd rather that the older woman they were
fantasising about wasn't you, but it's your life.'

'So you don't think it's the age thing, then?'

'Has he mentioned anything about age since you've
been seeing him?'

'Well, no.'

'Okay, I'm sure it's not an age thing. Let's back up a
bit. When's the last time you heard from this guy?'

'He sent a text—'

Dillon cut me right off.

'Stop right there. Text messages don't count. When's
the last time he
called
you?'

'Oh, he didn't really call much – generally SMS'd.'

'So, he didn't want to actually
speak
to you, or hear
your voice, then?'

'Do you have to put it like that?' I was a little hurt by
Dillon's immediate and adamant response.

'How long have you been dating this dude anyway?'

'A couple of months,' I said, 'but we're not really
dating as such.' I had to lie about how long I'd known
Malcolm because I knew Dillon would think I was an
idiot putting so much emotional energy and time – his
and mine – into a brief fantasy. 'Why?'

'I'm just trying to work out why he disappeared so
fast if you were so right for each other. How often did
he
text
you?'

'Well, he always responded to my messages almost
immediately.'

'So
you
initiated every communication?'

'Well, as the older of the two, I kind of took charge',
I explained, knowing I sounded pathetic. I kept going
before Dillon could say anything. 'Doesn't it count that he
replied immediately? Surely that counts for something?'

'No
,
Alice.
You
were telling him he was on
your
mind,
but he never demonstrated the same about you, did
he? He just responded politely to your communication.
Seriously, if a man is really into a woman, he'll call her
regularly to hear her voice, not just send the odd text
every fortnight.' He was making sense but I didn't want
to hear it.