Less Than Perfect (10 page)

I take a deep breath, pick up the phone and get on with the rest of my calls. I'm still on the phone, getting nowhere, when Nicola comes around. She sits on the edge of my desk while she waits for me to finish.

‘Selling millions?' she enquires with raised, perfectly plucked eyebrows.

‘I wish.'

‘I'm having a rather extraordinary quiet spell. Want to grab some lunch?'

‘Yeah, let's.' I stand up, grateful to leave my desk behind after a fruitless morning. ‘Want to come for lunch, Zoe?' Zoe glances up with faraway eyes, smiles and shakes her head. She's obviously in the middle of something important.

It's sunny outside, though maybe not for long because clouds are gathering around the small pocket of blue that's left in the sky. Nicola slides her large designer sunglasses down over her
eyes. With her black trousers and shirt and hair and dazzling jewellery, she looks more like a movie star than a floor manager who's often too busy to break for lunch and has to make do with eating her clients' leftovers.

‘Where to?' she asks.

I suggest a popular café on Degraves Street. We sit outside. Nicola orders a schnitzel and I get a salad.

‘I don't know how you survive on that rabbit food,' she comments disparagingly.

I shrug. ‘It's healthy.'

‘It's not as if you need to lose weight. If you were any thinner you'd disappear!'

Nicola doesn't know that there was a time in my early teens when I
was
thin enough to virtually disappear, and I hated myself enough to want to. But that was a long time ago and my eating, my health and my self-esteem are more or less under control now. I'm slim, not thin – it's an important distinction but to explain this to Nicola would only draw more attention to my weight.

‘Hey, did the guy from Saturday night call you?' Nicola asks.

We met Luke and his friends in a bar on Saturday night. He was a surfer, lithe and a few years younger than me, and that's about all I can remember – I can barely picture his face.

‘No.'

‘Still, it's only Monday now.'

‘I don't think he'll call,' I say dismissively.

I've had many relationships over the last ten years, all of them short-lived. I've discovered the hard way that what I had with Josh was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. At the beginning I would
approach each fledgling relationship hopefully, optimistically, only to feel deflated when it became obvious there was no chemistry, or some physical, intellectual or personality flaw that simply couldn't be overcome. These days I've developed a more cynical view. Luke is just another name, another face if I can manage to remember it. If he calls, he calls. If he doesn't call, then it's no big deal. I don't put a lot of thought into who I date; the men are often shallow, conceited, disloyal, and I don't really care. My standards lowered when finally, after dozens of disastrous dates and disappointments, I realised the truth: that love is a fluke. What if Josh hadn't come to my party that night? What if he hadn't cornered Liam into an introduction? Who would have guessed at the outset that we would click so perfectly? Yes, for love to happen once is a fluke; for it to happen twice must be virtually impossible. Holding out for it, hoping against hope, is stupid.

Nicola is just as cynical. She goes through men at a rate of knots, discarding them well before they have the opportunity to discard her. I don't know if Nicola has ever had a significant relationship, if she has ever imagined herself to be in love. Maybe she's living it up here in order to get over someone special back in London. Nicola doesn't say much about her old life and neither do I. Our friendship is based strictly in the present, which seems to suit her every bit as much as it does me.

The waitress brings our food. Nicola's schnitzel looks delicious and I wish it was on my plate instead of the bland salad I have to pretend to be enthusiastic about. My eyes sweep across the café, the tables filled with a cross-section of Melbourne's population, smiling, laughing, gathered together for
the purpose of eating good food. It's hard to be on the sidelines, on the outer, unable to fully enjoy what brings such happiness to so many people.

My phone begins to ring in my bag. I fish it out and check the number. ‘It's Derek. Sorry, Nic, I have to take this one.' I shoot her a quick, apologetic smile. ‘Hello, Derek. How are you?'

He launches straight in. ‘I've been through the proposal. It isn't quite there in some respects …'

‘Tell me where I need to do more work.'

‘You haven't demonstrated the capacity of your interstate offices – we have significant staff numbers in Perth and Brisbane and we need to be certain your branches in those cities can adequately cater for our staff.'

‘Is there anything else I need to address?' I ask calmly.

He pauses for effect. ‘Well, of course, the pricing isn't satisfactory …'

‘Let's sort out the capacity plan first – then we can meet later in the week to discuss price. In fact, maybe we should lock in a time now.' I'm determined not to let this week finish as inconclusively as the last one.

‘Friday. Dinner suits better than lunch.'

‘Great. I'll make a reservation.'

I put my phone back in my bag, and take a bite of the uninspiring salad before joking to Nicola, ‘Well, at least one man has called me today to make a date!'

Back in the office, I get down to work. If Derek wants a capacity plan, then that's what he'll get: the mother of all capacity plans. Page upon page on each interstate branch, broken down by rooms and weeks and people. For good measure, I add phone
and data lines, printers, projectors, even flipcharts. I call staff members in the other branches to check my facts and tweak the spreadsheet to reflect their advice. Then I print out my masterpiece, proofread every word and adjust the font and the colour scheme. I email it to Derek, including details of our dinner reservation in the text of the message.

The rest of the week slips by in a whirl of meetings, client lunches and the usual trivial dramas on the training floor. Finally Derek sends a message to indicate he's satisfied with the capacity plan and now it's all down to price, the simplest and yet the most contentious component of the deal. It's so close now that I can imagine the flourish of his signature on the contract and the thrill as I watch him sign.

At five thirty on Friday I begin to pack up for the weekend.

Zoe takes off her headphones to say goodbye. ‘Good luck with Derek tonight.' She winks at me, revealing a peculiar blend of purple and green shadow on her eyelid.

‘Thanks.'

‘And have a nice, relaxing,
rejuvenating
weekend!'

‘You too, Zoe.'

It's another balmy evening and I carry my jacket over my arm for the short walk to the restaurant. Located at the end of Flinders Lane, it's one of Melbourne's most exclusive; Derek wouldn't expect any less. A few of the tables are occupied with early diners, their every need being catered to by a swarm of waiting staff, many of whom are superfluous until the peak-time kicks in.

Derek is sitting on one of the plush couches in the bar area, his bottle of beer missing a few mouthfuls.

‘You're early,' I say brightly as I sit down across from him.

‘So are you,' he replies with a slight smile.

A waiter appears by my side.

‘I'll have a vodka and Diet Coke.' My order taken, I turn my attention back to Derek. ‘How was your day?'

‘Okay.' He's always like this at the start: stiff and difficult to engage.

‘Anything planned for the weekend?'

‘Might take the bike for a run …' Derek's bike is only a few weeks old and is his favourite toy.

‘What make is it again?' I ask with feigned interest.

‘BMW K1200.' At last there's a hint of animation in his voice. ‘Zero to one hundred in 2.9 seconds – an instant adrenalin hit.'

‘I'll take your word for it.' I smile.

‘Ever been for a ride?'

‘No.'

‘You're missing out.'

‘If you say so, but I'm happier with the push-pedal variety.'

Last Christmas Jeanie and I bought bikes; the idea came from Jeanie who, a week or two before Christmas, had suddenly realised that she'd never owned a brand-new bike, one that was not handed down, scratched or otherwise defaced by her older sisters, one that had a working set of brakes, not to mention gears. I was instantly taken with the idea and in the new year we'd gone bike shopping. On weekends and some evenings after work during January, Jeanie and I could be found gliding along the foreshore's cycle paths, doing the odd
wheelie and sprint-finish. Though the honeymoon period has worn off by now, I still ride my bike most weekends, which happens to be a lot more often than Jeanie rides hers. We keep the bikes in the apartment's carport, in lieu of the car neither of us possesses.

The waiter arrives with my drink and I sip it, trying to think of something to say. It's too soon to talk about what we're here to discuss.

‘Where do you usually take the bike?'

‘Up into the hills, or out to Torquay or Bells if the weather conforms.'

Derek warms to the topic and the conversation lasts until we're transferred to the dining area, where the wine, food and the comings and goings of the waiter make any subsequent gaps in conversation virtually unnoticeable.

We finish our mains as the restaurant becomes frantically busy. The waiter hovers, whisking our plates away as soon as they are emptied. ‘Dessert? Tea or coffee?' His tone suggests that he would rather we leave and free up the table.

Derek clearly doesn't appreciate being hurried. ‘Dessert, Caitlin?'

‘No, thanks. I'll have tea, though – Irish Breakfast, please.'

Derek orders another beer and the waiter leaves, not bothering to mask his displeasure.

‘So, Derek,' I say, and lean forward a little. ‘We'd better talk business before we find ourselves out on the street.'

‘Yes.' His nod is almost imperceptible.

‘You're happy with the capacity plan and everything else now?'

‘Yes.'

Our eyes meet and suddenly we've reached it: the point at which we connect. At this mellow stage of the evening, he's more amenable, even slightly attractive. His ego is bearable, his looks darker, sexier. Our differences are hazed over by alcohol and the background atmosphere.

‘So, we both know it's down to price,' I say in a low voice.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.'

‘I've already given you a fifteen per cent discount …'

‘I want twenty-five.'

‘You know I can't go that far.'

‘It's what I want, what I
expect
for an order this size.'

‘Maybe I can meet you in the middle.' We stare at each other, our eyes flirting, taunting. The air crackles between us.

The waiter returns with our drinks, his outstretched arm sliding between us, severing the connection. By the time he finishes arranging my cup, strainer, teapot and milk jug, the moment is lost. My offer to meet Derek halfway is out there, unanswered, and I wish fervently that I could take it back and reissue it later, at a time when we can't be interrupted.

I sip my tea and Derek his beer. I can feel him slipping away from me. He's not even looking at me now. What can I do to reel him back?

‘Take me for a ride,' I blurt out.

‘What?'

‘Take me for a ride on the bike.'

‘Right now?'

‘Take me home. Friday night is shocking for taxis.'

He knows what I'm up to, that I'll ultimately do anything to
get this deal over the line. I think he knows too that I'm quite scared at the thought of getting on his bike, that I'm making this suggestion purely to reforge a connection, and he's impressed by the extent of my determination.

‘Okay.' He grins. ‘You're on.'

I slide the helmet over my head and straddle the seat. ‘Why doesn't it have a face shield?'

‘Because those things can crack your neck,' he says, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Ready?'

I put my feet on the pegs. ‘What do I hold onto?'

‘Me.'

I rest my arms on the cool bulky leather of his jacket.

‘Lean with the bike,' he instructs. ‘Look over my shoulder. Go with the corners.'

He puts on his own helmet and cranks up the engine. I tighten my grip.

‘Okay back there?'

‘Slightly petrified,' I'm only half joking, ‘but okay other than that.'

‘Don't you trust me?'

‘No.'

He laughs and takes off with an arrogant burst of speed. I squeeze my eyes shut. My ears fill with the guttural noise of the engine and my nose with the smell of leather and rubber and exhaust fumes. Wind rushes against my neck leaving the rest of my head, cocooned under the helmet, longing for its cool touch. The bike's acceleration lasts only a few seconds. I warily
open my eyes and immediately see the reason why he's slowed down: there's a corner coming up. I lean with him and the bike. For a few seconds the ground is dangerously close, and then we straighten.

At some point, my fear dissolves and exhilaration takes its place. Derek, the bike and I are the only things in focus. We're real and surging next to the blurry cars and streetlights. I feel part of the bike, part of him, the flowing road, the enveloping night. We're like scissors, cutting our way out of the city: Spring Street, Wellington Parade, Jolimont Road, then Fitzroy Street, the last stretch, the smell of sea in the air. Derek increases our speed again and I hold on tighter, my fingers biting into the leather of his jacket. I will him to go even faster and, for a few moments, he does. It feels extraordinary, like we're skimming the surface of the road, about to take flight into the night.

But all too soon the race from the city to the bay is over, and we're dropping speed, becoming ordinary again. The road feels solid once more, the streetlights separate and distinct rather than bleeding lines of light. Derek turns into the Esplanade and I automatically lean to take the corner. It happens in slow motion, every second an eternity in itself. The realisation that something is wrong, that the bike isn't coming back up as it should. The screech of tyres, skidding at a precarious angle to the road, Derek swearing and pressing harder on the brakes. The bike jerking and wobbling as he tries to reassert balance, and a moment when it seems as though he might succeed. But then a thud as we hit something – a kerb. I'm thrown from my seat. For a few moments I'm airborne, and then I land on the concrete, dumped unceremoniously, face down.