Less Than Perfect (19 page)

The conversation is at its end. We've both kept our distance. Nothing worthwhile has been shared, other than Maeve's crazy notion of doing law.

‘I wish you'd call Dad,' she says suddenly.

I don't answer.

‘He'd love to hear from you.'

This is why emails work better: the messages are warm and chatty without any agonising pauses or last-minute pleas on my father's behalf.

‘Well, thanks for calling,' I say, feeling like I've failed but at a loss as to how I could have managed the conversation differently.

‘And thanks again for the necklace,' Maeve replies softly and hangs up.

Though it's early, not yet nine o'clock, I start to get ready for bed. In the bathroom mirror I examine my not-pretty-enough face. Then I turn to the left to reveal the angry flesh on my arm and hip. The GP said I'd be left with some minor scarring. Is this what life is about? A collection of scars? Fresh shiny scars alongside aged dull ones, new scars layered over old ones in particularly painful spots. Never knowing if the blemish will eventually disappear, or if it's there for keeps.

I walk around the apartment, turning off the lights and checking the doors. Jeanie's in Asia, first China then onto India and Singapore, the trip ending with a quick stop in Sydney to see her family. She's not due back in Melbourne for at least another week.

Satisfied that everything's secure, I climb into bed. Sleep quickly overcomes me. My dreams are absurd. Maeve's in Australia, in St Kilda, wearing her school uniform and her hair in pigtails as she drinks beer in the Elephant.

‘You need to grow up!' I tell her firmly.

Maeve looks put out. ‘I
am
grown up,' she declares, twirling a pigtail around her finger. ‘Anyway, what have you got against me doing law?'

Matthew walks in before I can answer and all I can think
about is how to avoid introducing him to Maeve and, as a direct consequence, my past. At the last moment, just before he sees me, he becomes embroiled in a brawl. Suddenly he's rolling on the ground, knocking over tables of drinks and smashing stools. I wonder idly if he'll lose his hat again. Maeve watches the fight for a few moments before turning back to me, her eyes glassy and unfocused, and asking once again what I have against law. I'm torn between a long-overdue intervention in her life and a fear for Matthew who is still rolling on the ground, and who I now know isn't as tough as his size would suggest.

The dream ends without me telling Maeve that it isn't law in itself that I have a problem with, more that she seems to be frozen at a certain stage in time, unable to mature past the schoolgirl she was when the bomb shattered all our lives.

The rain hangs around for the rest of the week, the trams overcrowded and running behind time. The city is drenched, footpaths splotched with enormous puddles, water rushing down gutters, disappearing into roaring drains. I'm wearing a trench coat with a wide belt tied tightly at my waist. Rain lashes the hand I'm using to hold the umbrella, trickling inside my sleeve, leaving a cold, shivery trail along the skin on the underside of my arm, rather like the effect of an unpleasant memory.

‘Your aura is different today,' Zoe greets me.

‘Even wetter than yesterday?' I suggest wryly, removing my sodden coat and hanging it on the coat stand in the corner.

‘Auras don't get wet, silly.' She tilts her head as she looks me up and down. ‘No, it has a tinge of anticipation, I would say.'

I feel a blush spreading across my face. I'm annoyed at both
my transparency to Zoe and the ridiculous fluttering that's been going on in my stomach since Matthew texted late last night.

Roster sorted out at last. Are you free on Sunday? Sorry for texting so late. Hope I didn't wake you up. Will call tomorrow.

He did, in fact, wake me up, and I felt a strange sense of fulfilment as I read his message, as though something that had been missing from my day had finally happened and thus made it complete. I seem to have very quickly got to a stage where I need to hear from him, in some way or another, every day of the week. This excites and worries me in equal measure.

‘Enough about auras!' I say to Zoe in a mock businesslike tone. ‘Don't you have any work to do?'

She lowers her voice. ‘Just between you and me, I don't have that much work at all. I'm trying hard but nobody's biting.'

Zoe's phone rings and she answers it, her confession left out there unanalysed. It combines with what Tanya and Jarrod intimated about the economy and leaves me with a sudden feeling of panic about Zoe's job and my own.

I open my inbox and deal with what's new. I type one-line replies, accept meeting invitations and process some minor orders. As I'm working, an email comes through from Jarrod:
US market fallen by another five points overnight. Financial sector impacted the most.

I stop what I'm doing and log onto the internet where I find a more comprehensive account of this latest hit to the US market. I read that America is getting deeper and deeper into recession, that every day more jobs are being lost and more companies are folding. The banks were giving credit too cheaply and easily and now they're flailing, hands raised, begging to be rescued, to be bought out.

I stare at the article, mulling over its key points: recession, panic, cutbacks,
takeovers and acquisitions
. For every company that's bought out, there's the company taking it over, and for every takeover there are training requirements, as the acquiring company seeks to integrate the acquisition into their ‘superior' way of doing things.

My mobile rings mid-morning and my heartrate increases when I see Matthew's name on the caller ID.

‘Hi, Caitlin.' His voice is becoming familiar to me: quiet, polite, a little shy but still commanding in its own way. An image of his face swims into my mind, the glitter of his eyes, the movement of his mouth as he smiles. ‘How's your day going?'

‘Okayish.'

‘Are you busy? Should I call back later?'

That would mean more waiting. ‘No – I can have a quick chat now.'

‘Great. So, about Sunday …'

‘Yes, I'm free.' Somewhere along the line, amid all the texts and phone calls and an awful lot of daydreaming about that kiss, of sorts, under the shelter, I seem to have completely abandoned my resolve not to see him again.

We agree to meet at noon outside the Pavilion. Good. It'll be broad daylight; no darkness, alcohol or stormy weather to conjure up false chemistry. This date will surely put an end to the silly butterflies I've had all week.

I spend the rest of the morning on the internet, researching the financial institutions that have been affected in the US and their ties to Australia. Then I look at the local retail and investment banks and mortgage lenders. Despite the turmoil
in the overseas markets, the impact in Australia appears to be somewhat contained. But how long can we remain relatively immune? Is this slowdown of recent weeks a warning of worse things to come? And – putting on my sales hat again – who will be the winners and losers if a serious recession befalls this side of the world?

Saturday passes with the usual fare: a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the apartment, shopping for groceries, preceded by the routine wake-up call from my mother.

‘Mum, has Maeve said anything to you about doing law?' I ask carefully.

‘No. Why?'

‘I was talking to her during the week and she mentioned something.'

‘It's the first I've heard of it!' Mum is clearly surprised.

‘We can't let her start another degree, Mum. Another three or four years of studying – it's ridiculous!'

‘Well, I don't know …'

‘She's twenty-seven and she's never had a proper job.'

‘It's not as though she's been idle, Caitlin.' Mum's protective instincts are roused. ‘She's been studying, learning …'

‘And now it's high time for her to stop
learning
and start
doing
. She's already dangerously overqualified. Employers will be daunted by her. And she doesn't have any practical skills. You need to talk to her, to explain this.'

Mum is silent as she processes what I'm saying. I let the silence continue.

‘I'll ask your father to talk to her,' she says eventually. ‘He knows more than me about being overqualified – if there is such a thing.'

This is not turning out how I planned. ‘Dad will only lecture her …'

‘Maeve listens to your father. They get on quite well.'

I haven't seen them together in years, so I'm unable to refute this. ‘Okay,' I say, though it's not okay at all. I'm uneasy leaving this matter in my father's hands. He does not have a good track record in this area.

That evening I meet Nicola for a drink. She's still being rather coy about Mr Slick, whom she insists I call David. I know he phoned during the week and that they've been on another date. Judging by the frequent beeps emitting from her phone, and her smile as she reads the messages, things are progressing nicely.

For my part, I don't mention Matthew at all, but even though we both keep a lot to ourselves, it's still an enjoyable evening. As usual when I'm with Nicola, I end up having more drinks than I should. I get home after midnight, feeling fuzzy around the edges, and fall into bed.

I wake at dawn the next morning, my head woolly and my mouth dry, not quite sure what day of the week it is. Once I establish it's Sunday, I ease back into sleep and don't wake again until ten, feeling much better. My phone rings and I reach out to pick it up from the bedside unit.

‘Hi, Caitlin.' It's Matthew.

‘Hi,' I reply hesitantly. Is this another last-minute cancellation?

‘You sound sleepy.'

‘I only woke up a few minutes ago.' Sitting up in the bed I draw my knees in towards my chin. ‘I should point out that I'm not usually this lazy.'

He laughs and then, in a more serious tone, adds, ‘Hey, I have a little problem with later …'

‘What?' I ask warily.

‘I have my nephew with me today. It wasn't planned, obviously, just one of those things I couldn't avoid. Anyway, if you're not allergic to children, I thought we could still meet. But I perfectly understand if you'd rather give it a miss.'

‘He's four, isn't he?' I'm so looking forward to seeing Matthew that he could tell me he had to mind an axe-murderer for the day and I still wouldn't be deterred.

‘Yeah, but he acts like he's been around before!'

‘What's his name?'

‘Ben. He's a good kid. It's completely up to you, though.'

‘Let's go ahead.' I smile into the phone. ‘We can always abort if it's a disaster.'

Outside the day is sunny; the rain has finally gone, leaving everything looking cleaner and greener in its wake. The crowds around St Kilda are smiling and upbeat, grateful that summer isn't over after all. Matthew and Ben are waiting. Ben is taller than I expected, with tousled brown hair and big, serious eyes.

‘What age are you?' he asks by way of greeting.

‘Me?' I feel myself go red. A four-year-old is making me blush! ‘I'm twenty-nine.'

‘Uncle Matt is thirty-one.'

I glance at Matthew, who shrugs sheepishly. He's wearing a soft blue T-shirt, almost the same colour as his jeans. Blue is his colour, I decide. It enhances his eyes, his tan. It's part of the reason why he looks so good in uniform.

‘Where's your mum and dad?' Ben looks past me with a puzzled expression on his pale face, as if he can't believe I've been let out on my own.

‘In Ireland.'

‘Where's that?'

‘It's a wee country on the other side of the world.'

His eyes widen. ‘And you're here all on your own? Without your mum and dad?'

‘Well, yes,' I reply disconcertedly.

‘My mum's asleep. She's having a bad day. She –'

Matthew steps in and diverts the conversation, taking Ben's hand. ‘What do you think, buddy, time for an ice cream?'

Ben doesn't need to be asked twice. ‘Chocolate!'

Matthew shakes his head. ‘Nice try but too rich for a young bloke like you. Vanilla or strawberry?'

‘Strawberry.'

‘Caitlin?' Matthew turns to look at me. ‘Ice cream?'

‘Chocolate?' I joke.

‘It'll make you sick!' he says in mock warning.

‘I'll pass, so.'

‘Sure?'

‘Yes – I don't actually eat ice cream.'

Matthew joins the queue at the kiosk and Ben resumes question time. ‘You really don't eat ice cream?'

‘No.'

‘
Really?
'

I shake my head.

‘Why?'

‘It's too sugary for me.'

Without missing a beat, he changes tack. ‘Where's your house?'

‘Not far from here. Actually, it's not a house, it's an apartment.'

‘Me and Mum are in an apartment.' His tone is solemn. ‘Dad's in another apartment.'

‘Oh.'

‘Does your dad live somewhere different to your mum?'

‘Well, yes, he does.'

He nods wisely. ‘Some families are like that, aren't they?'

‘Yes. Yes, they are.'

Matthew comes back with two ice creams. I smile to myself as I recall Nic's first date with David, and how huffy she got when I teased her about it. Hopefully the two of them won't get it into their heads to go for an ice cream at the beach today – if Nic met me right now, she'd have a field day in revenge.

‘Ben asks lots of questions,' I say
sotto voce
as we stroll towards the beach.

‘Yeah, he does. He's had a lot of change in his young life, and questions seem to help him measure things and normalise what he's going through.'

‘I've gathered his parents are separated.'