Avoiding Mr Right (23 page)

'Of course, of course, I completely understand. Nice
meeting you.'

As she walked off the race began and the crowd went
crazy. The boys and Sylvia started hollering. Alice and
Dannie were jumping as high as their heels would allow
them on the grass, and Josie was standing next to me trying
to read the numbers on all her tickets and the numbers on
the horses at the same time. She'd had too many already.

'And coming round the bend is Chaotic Camilla followed
closely by Chuck's Revenge, but closing in on both of them
is Piccaninny.'

'Did he just say Piccaninny?' I asked angrily.

'I thought he said Truganini,' Josie slurred.

'Don't be ridiculous – it's the Melbourne Cup, not the
Tasmanian Cup.'

'And Royal Rudd looks like he has taken out the honours
today, ladies and gentleman, followed closely by Green
Principles and Democratic Desires. As soon as Howard's
End crosses the line, we'll have the photo finish to confirm
the placings.'

Some people were cheering and hugging each other,
while others were throwing the losing tickets on the
ground. The Rachel fan appeared again and said, 'I just
wanted to say what an honour it was to watch the Melbourne
Cup with Rachel Berger,' and shook my hand earnestly.
When she walked off I felt incredibly guilty and said to
Josie, 'I have to tell her, I can't let her think I'm Rachel
Berger.'

'You can't tell her now – she'll feel like a fool and you'll
look like an utter bitch.'

'But I am a bitch.'

'Yes you are, but we like you. Let's go home. I've had
enough, and it looks like you have too,' Josie said, linking
arms with me in an attempt to keep us both balanced.

'Are you hitting on me?'

'No, I don't sleep with drunk women, it's highly
unattractive.'

'So I'm a bitch
and
unattractive.'

'I don't know why you're worried about trying to be
celibate or faithful or whatever it is you reckon you're
doing. You're such hard work I reckon most men would
give up on you pretty quickly anyway.'

♥

Shelley was still out partying when I got home, but there
was a note stuck to the fridge:

Cousin Joe dropped in some croc-cakes. They're for the first
drunken dame to find them. Hope you backed a winner!
Shelley xxx

As the first drunken dame home I had the croc-cakes for
dinner. Microwaving bush tucker was a bit sacrilegious
but it didn't stop me doing it, or enjoying Joe's gift.

After eating I ran a hot bath, lit some candles and soaked
my weary feet, unused to standing in expensive high shoes
for any length of time. My calves were burning too, and by
eight pm the hangover had begun to set in.

While I soaked and listened to the sounds of Sharnee
Fenwick singing 'Kiss That Boy', I thought about how
nice it would be to kiss a boy right then, but I suddenly
remembered what Josie had said about me being hard work,
and started to think that perhaps no-one would ever want
to kiss me again. Did James think I was hard work or high
maintenance? Was that why he hadn't come down this
weekend? Maybe I
was
hard work. I didn't think so, but I
hadn't heard from Mike for some weeks, either, so perhaps
I was too much hard work even as a friend.

I lay there with my eyes closed and thought that
perhaps I needed to make more of an effort. Since moving
to Melbourne I'd become stressed, uptight and lost my
sense of fun. Back at home I'd been a party girl without a
care in the world, an easygoing, reliable friend. I made an
effort to channel the old Peta, and sent James a text:

Hi darl, did u hava win 2day. R U free 4 yarn? Px

I waited for ten minutes and there was no response, which
was unlike James, so I called and got his voicemail. I didn't
leave a message – I didn't want to seem too desperate and I
was convinced he'd hear a slur in my words, which wouldn't
impress him.

I sent a text to Mike next, just for the sake of it:

Happy Melbin Cup. Did u hava win? Peta

He texted back immediately:

Back at ya. No gamblin means no losin. On duty, call u 2moro?

I liked Mike's mantra about no losing. I sent a simple text
back:

Good motto. And OK.

When I went to bed that night, James still hadn't responded
to my message.

Mike called as promised and we met that afternoon at
the NGV. It was a work day, but I'd decided to take the
afternoon off and call it professional development: it was
one of the perks of the job. As I walked down Collins Street
I just couldn't figure Mike out. He was a cop with terrible
pick-up lines, but he had a sense of culture too. There he
was taking me to the Guggenheim exhibit and I hadn't
even mentioned that I wanted to see it.

I saw Mike standing at the information desk before he
caught a glimpse of me. He had a proud stance about him,
even when he wasn't in uniform.

'Hi there, babycakes,' he said, planting a kiss on my
cheek.

'Peta will suffice, Constable Care.'

'Oh, let's be formal then. Here's your ticket, Ms Tully.'
He handed me my ticket and led me towards the gallery
space.

'But—'

'But nothing, I think a friend can shout a friend to
an exhibition.' He winked at me and I didn't have the heart
to tell him I could get free entry because of my job.

As I walked through the collection I found it increasingly
difficult to justify the money spent on some aspects
of the arts. One 'Untitled' piece was simply yellow and
green fluorescent lights. Eight orange cubes stacked on and
around each other were also 'Untitled'.

'I've got a title for them,' Mike said, looking at the
cubes.

'Me too.'

'
Eight Cubes
,' we both said simultaneously and roared
with laughter until the security guard started to make his
way over to us.

The portable wooden shed sitting on a platform and titled
Floating Room
was better than any Blackfella demountable
I'd ever seen, while
Pink Corner Piece
, with two pieces of
pink elastic cord stretched across a corner of the room,
had us both asking the question, 'Why?' It was obvious
that Mike and I had the same opinion of some objects in
the collection. It was fine for Mike as a policeman, but for
someone working in arts policy it was a bit of a concern.

'I'm over this, you hungry?' Mike asked, looking me
straight in the eye and rubbing his belly.

'Me too, and yes I am.'

'Right, I've got it covered – my car's parked in the
Botanical Gardens.' He ushered me out with his hand just
under my elbow, like he was protecting me.

Mike had a canary-yellow Ford Festiva that made me
laugh out loud.

'What? You don't like my little tulip? I love this car,
so don't make fun of it.' He ran his hand along the length
of it as if stroking a prized racehorse.

'It's just that it's not the kind of car I expected the tall,
rugged policeman would drive is all.'

'Like I said, I love this car. It reminds me of my
grandmother, she liked tulips. Now, I've packed us a
picnic.' And he opened the boot to a picnic basket with
breadsticks and utensils and an esky with cheeses, cold
meats and light beers.

'Wow! You're so organised – I'm impressed.'

'Thanks – again, growing up with two sisters trained me
well.'

We sat and ate the food Mike had prepared, both
hungry from looking at artwork we didn't understand.
The afternoon sun was hot and I could feel sweat beading
on my brow; not even the beer could cool me down. Mike
took his shirt off and lay down next to me on the picnic
rug. I immediately noticed a scar on his left shoulder.

'It's a bullet wound,' he said, as if he knew what I was
wondering.

'Shit.'

'Oh, it's nothing, no real damage. A bank hold-up gone
wrong is all.' He was blasé about it.

'Does it hurt?'

'Nah, it's from five years ago. Don't really think about it
any more. And you shouldn't either.'

'I don't think I could date a guy who was at risk of
being shot every day.'

'Lucky we're "just friends", then.' He did the quotation
signs with his fingers. 'Anyway, I've only been hurt twice
on the job in five years. Once was this bullet, which didn't
do any real damage, and the other was walking into a
spider web that went in my eye and caused an infection. I
had more time off work for the spider web incident than
the bloody bullet. Most days it's just a few tumbles. The
bad stuff is rare – that's why you see it on the news.'

'Okay, if you say so.'

'I should drive you home, I'm on night shift tonight.
Come on, sweet pea.'

'Can you not call me sweet pea, please? I really hate it.'

'Why?'

'I just don't like it. That's all.'

'You're a strange one, but I like you, babycakes.'

'No flowers or vegetables or other foods, okay? And
especially not foods as fattening as cake! Peta will do fine.'

He laughed as he offered me a hand to help me off the
ground.

♥

I thought about Mike too much that night and the
thoughts became torturous. Was there a chance that I
was just being love fickle because Mike was available and
clearly dug me?

The problem doing my head and heart in was that I
was starting to like Mike, but I knew it simply couldn't go
anywhere. I was in a relationship with James and would
be going home soon. And at the end of the day Mike was
still a cop, I was still a Blackfella. But at least I didn't feel
that he was too cute for me. Not like the drummer. Mike
had a different kind of look. He was a nice guy: casual and
sexy rather than cute. I didn't think he'd be surrounded by
bikini models or groupies. And he wasn't too laid-back or
too cool either, he was completely the opposite. Right in
your face Mike, with those ridiculously funny pick-up lines,
who called when he said he would. Reliable Mike, that's
who he was.

Mike called me twice the next day but I just let it go to
voicemail. I was behaving appallingly, like a bastard guy,
but even though I beat myself up for not taking his calls
I didn't do anything to remedy the situation. What could I
do anyway?

He didn't call me the next day, or the next day. A week
passed and we hadn't spoken.

Then my period was late. I counted back to the last
time I'd seen James and realised that I hadn't had sex since
August. I'd had a period since so it was unlikely I was
pregnant, but it wasn't impossible, and I started to think
for the first time about children. The last time I'd checked
I didn't want kids, but spending time with Maya and Will,
I'd started wondering if it just might actually be nice to
have a baby. Anyway, kids would look after me when I
got old.

I still wasn't convinced about marriage, but if I had
kids I'd want to be married. Truth be known I had gained
some
inspiration from Alice's parents. I knew that a family
structure was what kids needed. But with my genes, I'd
end up a single mother on a bloody pension for sure, even
though I'd never had a handout in my life. I decided it
was pointless thinking about being pregnant, but for some
reason convinced myself I was having cravings. That was
one advantage of being pregnant, anyway: you could eat
anything you wanted for nine months and not feel guilty.

I took myself and my imaginary cravings to Greasy
Joe's down at St Kilda and sat outside. I knew it wasn't
morning sickness I felt – just a hangover from the two
bottles of wine Shelley and I polished off watching videos
the night before. I was tempted by everything on the menu,
but ordered the 'World Famous Fat Bastard Burger' with
triple cheese, triple beef and triple bacon. As I bit into it I
imagined Sylvia totally freaking out at all the animals I was
consuming with every chew. There was music blaring and it
hurt my head, but I didn't say anything as I'd already been
warned in the menu: 'If the music is too loud . . . tough!'

I chewed slowly and watched a dog lapping water from
a bowl at its owner's feet. I still couldn't understand why
or how dogs had become part of Australian eating-out
etiquette. I heard screams from the roller-coaster at Luna
Park, and the caw-cawing of seagulls. I saw the street sign
to Thomas's gallery and my heart sunk a little. I'd really
stuffed up over the past nine months. Technically I'd been
celibate, but James would be devastated if he knew how
much time I'd spent with other men. I was starting to feel
guilty about everything, even the massive burger I'd just
ordered.

I looked at my phone and felt sick, not from my
hangover but from guilt about James, about how I hadn't
missed him enough, how I'd spent too much time with
other guys, about how I couldn't even bring myself to call
him then. I needed sympathy, but I knew I couldn't ask for
it from him. He'd only be annoyed that I had a hangover
anyway.

I couldn't finish the burger and hardly touched the fries
because I felt so queasy. Walking out into the morning
glare, I hoped that no-one I knew would see me and that
Josie wasn't on duty. I didn't have it in me to talk to anyone.
I needed to go back to bed.

My head hit the pillow and I didn't move. My shoes
were still on but I didn't have the energy or inclination to
take them off. If Shelley were home I'd call out, but I didn't
even feel like I could speak.

As soon as I closed my eyes I found myself on a
Continental airline flight leaving Tullamarine. I'm not even
sure Continental exists any more, and I really want to be
on QANTAS so I can use the QC and cos they have a
really good safety record, but here I am on this American
carrier and the staff are all lovely, but I don't have the energy
to astral travel this morning, and at how many weeks are
you allowed to fly anyway when you're pregnant? I'm not
sure and there's no-one to ask, really, because they're too
busy pointing out exits and oxygen masks and handing
out colouring books. I like flying Continental better than
Virgin.

My flight takes me to Vegas and I'm excited about the
casinos even though I've never been a gambler. I remember
Mike's text on Melbourne Cup day –
no gambling, no losing
– but before I have time to consider the evils of betting
on anything I'm playing blackjack at Caesar's Palace and
I'm in a red sparkling dress like they wear in the movies.
I'm decked out in so much jewellery I'm wondering why
I'm even trying to win money because I look rich enough
not to need any more, and I don't even know how to play
blackjack as I've only ever played snap and go fish with
Maya and Will. I don't know which cards I should keep
and which cards I should fold, and I'm not even sure what
folding cards means, apart from the obvious. And then
there's a man next to me and it's a young Robert Redford
and I'm thinking,
Don't bother making an indecent proposal
to me, cos I'm celibate
.

'You are my good-luck charm,' he says in his sexy voice,
and I just say 'okay'.

A woman comes around and offers free cocktails, and
I'm thinking,
Wow, free drinks, a gorgeous dress and Robert
Redford, I hope I never wake up
. This is the perfect dream.

Robert wins a lot of chips, which reminds me I'm hungry,
but we don't have time for food, and my tight sparkly dress
won't allow it anyway. He places his soft hand in the small
of my back and leads me to a lift and to one of the three
thousand rooms in the hotel. Will it be Roman, Centurion,
Forum, Palace or Augustus, I wonder? But my chastity belt
tightens under the dress and I take his hand off me. I can't
do the deed with Robert, even though he looks as sexy as he
did in
The Way We Were
decades ago.

I walk off, not really knowing where I'm going, and I
follow two characters who look like Caesar and Cleopatra
and we're entering some Roman-style pools where goddesses
and gods are handing out frozen grapes to cool people
down. I don't take one. I don't want brain freeze as it might
force me to wake up and I'm enjoying this trip into Roman
history in Nevada.

'Oh, you southern girls are full of virtue, aren't you,'
Robert whispers in my ear from behind, as though I'm
from a plantation in Mississippi or something.

'Why yes, sir, I do believe we are,' I say in the best
southern belle accent I can muster. 'But you do realise that
when I said I was from the south, I meant south of the
equator.'

'Yes,' he says, leading me out of the front doors of the
casino and into a stretch Hummer, which is not as elegant
as I am, but it is the modern-day expression of manliness
in America and I know that's why he has it.

We tour Las Vegas Boulevard and I am in awe of the
lights, the people, the colour, the carnival atmosphere
of it all. I almost need sunglasses it's so bright. We pass
Treasure Island and Circus Circus and we turn around and
come past Harrah's, Flamingo, Ballys and MGM Grand –
and it is grand, so grand I can't believe the size of everything
and wonder how in the middle of the desert all this building
goes on. Robert slides his hand up the split in the side of my
dress and splits it some more. I don't care, because I don't
even know where the dress came from. I couldn't see it in
Melbourne – or Sydney for that matter. Maybe it would
make it on
Dancing with the Stars
. He kisses my neck and
I am weak with desire at the thought of the Great Gatsby
fondling me.

I see a drive-through wedding service chapel ahead and
laugh.

'Should we?' he asks, jokingly, seriously.

'Oh yes, with Elvis too, please.' And I am laughing,
jokingly, seriously. And the driver is listening to everything
and is laughing too, jokingly, seriously, and drives us
through the wedding tunnel, which has a starlit ceiling
painted with cherubs. One of the cherubs whispers to me,
'Are you sure?'

'Why not?' I whisper back, and he fires an arrow through
a heart for me and my astral husband.

We say 'I do!' as the car moves on and the glass window
between us and the driver slowly hits the roof of the car.
I don't know how old Robert is but it's clear that he has
decades of experience of making love as he manoeuvres me
expertly in the back of the car and without removing anything but my knickers we are moving in time to Marvin
Gaye's 'Sexual Healing' and even though it's completely
corny I don't care because it's so long since I've been
touched, but he is in demand and has to be somewhere else,
so we find the nearest drive-through divorce and we both
laugh at the mockery Vegas has made of marriage.

Robert gets out at the Luxor, which is the shape of a
huge pyramid. He has a charity dinner to go to, and I'm not
invited. Another bride-to-be no doubt awaits him there.
He tells the driver to take me wherever I want to go.

'I'd like to go to a show, please,' I say.

'Yes, ma'am,' my driver responds. And he takes me to
the Las Vegas Hilton and I'm sitting there waiting for
Barry Manilow to take the stage. Of all the gin joints in
Vegas he brings me to this one, and it's perfect. Alice would
love this place, she's always had appalling taste in music,
but in my dreams it doesn't matter, no-one judges anyone.
I'm having the time of my life, and I'm still glowing from
the taste of Robert back in the car. And I know this is
something I could
never
tell anyone back in Melbourne,
where live music is at the country's best.

I've forgotten my five-minute husband already and I've
left my knickers in the car, but I'm by myself and having a
great time, until a photographer approaches me.

'Would you like a photo with your boyfriend when he
comes back from the bar?' she asks, hoping for a sale.

'I'm here by myself,' I say without hesitation.

'Okay then,' she says, and walks off.

'Hang on,' I sing out, pissed off. 'Can't I have a photo
by myself?' I feel like telling her that I have a boyfriend
when I'm awake and anyhow, I've just had sex with Robert
Redford in the back of a Hummer and divorced him
straight after. And I want to tell her how rude I think she
is to suggest that it would only be a meaningful photo if I
had a partner in there with me, and anyway, what if I was
a lesbian? I could just as easily have had a girlfriend at the
bar. She shouldn't be so presumptuous. But I don't say any
of it, just tell myself in my head, until she says, 'Okay, if
you want one,' like it's a really bizarre request I've made,
and no-one
ever
asks for a photo by themselves.

'Don't bother,' I say as I raise my gin'n'tonic cocktail to
my lips and look up to see Barry walking towards my table
singing 'Can't Smile Without You'. He stretches out to take
my hand and suddenly we are flying together, leaving Las
Vegas. I look down and it's just one bright light, and my
mind's eye sees Al Gore crying over the amount of energy it
must take to light up the city in the desert, because I'm sure
no-one is using any energy-saving light globes.

Barry is serenading me as we leave Nevada and he hasn't
once asked my name, but instead starts singing 'Mandy' as
if it were written for me, and when I frown, he lunges into
'Copacabana' and I have to tell him my name isn't Lola
either, and I'm not a showgirl, but I look at my dress and
can see his confusion.

Barry takes me to Los Angeles and leaves me on a street
corner all alone in my red sequinned dress and he astral
travels off, singing to no-one but himself about writing
songs that make the whole world sing, and I think that
it's time to wake up, but then I bump into a guy who looks
just like Mike, but he tells me to call him Monday, and just
like Barry I start belting out a tune myself, 'I Don't Like
Mondays', but Monday's never heard of the Boomtown
Rats so he doesn't get the joke.

'My name's Peta,' I say.

'I thought all you Ossies were called Bruce and Sheila.
And that you all have pet kangaroos.'

'Most Ossies are, but I'm Aboriginal, so we're really just
sis and cuz. And we eat kangaroos.'

Mike-Monday takes me to Disneyland and we visit
Fantasyland, Tomorrow Land and Critter Country, but I
really want to go on the cups and saucers. That's what I've
seen on telly all my life and even as a grown-up it's the main
attraction.

'That's the Mad Tea Party,' Mike-Monday tells me.

I meet Mickey Mouse and nearly wet myself with
excitement, then I go on the Matterhorn and the Bobsleds
and my sled flies off the tracks and astral flings me across
the USA to New York City and the Metropolitan Museum
and New York cabs and Broadway and giant slices of pizza
and Central Park and the Rockefeller Center.

I feel like I'm in every American movie and cop show
and sitcom that I've ever watched. I go to Central Perk Cafe
and see Monica, Chandler, Joey and Phoebe, but where's
Ross and Rachel? I want to go to the Nazi Soup Kitchen
and see Jerry, Elaine and Kramer, but I go to Katz's Deli
instead so I can say 'I'll have what she's having!' and have a
mock orgasm like Meg Ryan did in
When Harry Met Sally
.

I'm walking around Soho and the Diamond district and
I can see why some women want to get engaged – the rings
are beautiful – but I still don't want to get married and even
in my dream I know I'm on a public servant's wage and can't
afford a rock, so I just accept I'll never have one.

Someone on a street corner gives me some roasted
walnuts and an American Express card, which I think is
a particularly kind and humanitarian gesture, even for the
Americans, who are still bombing the shit out of Iraq. But
I take both and consider that I will at least do something
positive with the Amex. And I do. I go shopping on 5th,
6th and 7th avenues. I buy boots and bags and clothes
and I have big cardboard shopping bags with tissue paper
sticking out slung on my shoulders and look like all the
other shoppers travelling down the street.