Less Than Perfect (12 page)

Jeanie is the Australian equivalent of my childhood friend Mandy. She too comes from a big, noisy family where lots of small things went unnoticed but the big picture turned out remarkably okay. Jeanie candidly describes a house where the
radio and TV were kept on all day to drown out the constant squabbling among the eight children, all girls. Disputes often degenerated into fisticuffs, hair yanking and name calling, escalating within minutes, finished and forgotten about just as quickly. Her childhood has given her the perfect grounding for her career. She's unapologetic but never arrogant, calls things as they are and deals with conflict head on, accepting it as part and parcel of life.

I met Jeanie over five years ago when we were both working in the IT industry and I was allocated the workstation next to hers. Our friendship grew from chats over the dividing partition, shared outrage at our impossible quotas, lunch-hour shopping sprees and lots of after-work drinks. Sitting next to Jeanie was not peaceful: she liked to work with the radio on, humming along to the songs and occasionally answering back to the DJ. She never attempted to moderate her voice when she spoke on the phone. Even her typing was noisy!

We worked together for a year before Jeanie moved on to another job. I moved on, too, a few months later. We stayed friends, though, and continued to meet as often as we could after work or on weekends, some nights staying at each other's apartments and bemoaning our respective flatmates until it finally occurred to us that we should get a place together.

I yawn and stretch, the deep ache in my left arm serving as an unnecessary reminder of last night's events. Pulling back the covers, my limbs feel heavy and stiff as I get out of bed. I slip on a warm dressing gown, the material too thick for the time of year but my body yearning for extra padding and comfort.

Jeanie's in the kitchen, standing over the toaster, dressed in
a black singlet and grey three-quarter-length pants. Her flaxen hair falls smoothly to her shoulders, and her pale face widens into a grin.

‘Top of the mornin'!' she says in a terrible put-on Irish accent.

‘G'day,' I reply in an Australian accent that's just as bad.

We kiss and hug, Jeanie's fingers inadvertently knocking against my sore arm.

‘Ouch!'

She pulls back. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's a long, ugly story.' I sigh. ‘Is the kettle warm?'

‘Sit. I'll make you one.' Jeanie flicks on the kettle and while it hisses and whistles, takes a cup from the cupboard above. ‘What's happened? Have you injured yourself?'

I suck in my breath before admitting, ‘I came off Derek's bike.'

‘Jesus!' A teabag suspended in one hand, Jeanie turns around to give me her full attention. ‘When did that happen?'

‘Last night.'

‘And you didn't wake me?'

‘I just wanted to sleep when I got home – I couldn't face anyone.' I grin weakly. ‘Not even you.'

‘Have you seen a doctor?'

‘I was taken to hospital in an ambulance.'

Jeanie absorbs this for a moment. ‘So going by the fact they sent you home, the injuries aren't serious?'

‘No. Just sore.'

‘How about Derek?'

‘He came off worse than me. Last I heard he needs a skin graft on his knee …' I finish the rest of the sentence on a sigh. ‘And he's in trouble with the police, not to mention his girlfriend.'

Jeanie's thin blonde eyebrows move upwards, the closest she'll come to being judgmental. ‘The
police
?'

‘He'd had a few drinks.'

‘Oh, Caitlin.'

‘I know. I was stupid.' I immediately recall the police officer's disapproving blue eyes.

‘But why?'

It's a perfectly valid question. The only pity is that my answer is so inadequate.

‘We were haggling over a discount and I couldn't quite close it out. I very mistakenly thought the bike ride would seal it.'

‘And, of course, walking away wasn't an option …' Jeanie's smile softens her tone of voice. She turns back to the counter and pours boiling water into the cup then puts the cup in front of me. ‘Here you are, black and tasteless.'

I laugh. One of my favourite stories about Jeanie's family is to do with tea. Her mother always had a pot of tea on the boil, copious quantities of milk and sugar already added, which all the children drank, never questioning the mix. As a young teenager, Jeanie went to a friend's house and was offered tea. Asked how she ‘took' it, she was at a loss but eventually, through trial and error, she established that she liked her tea with gallons of milk and three sugars, the closest taste she could get to the ‘all-in-thepot' brew her mother used to make at home.

‘So what's the problem with Derek's girlfriend?' Jeanie asks, chewing her toast, surely on the cold side by now.

‘Well, he had another girl on the back of his bike – me.'

‘Is that a crime?'

‘She'd know that he'd been flirting …'

‘Were you?'

‘We always do.'

‘I see.'

Jeanie leaves it at that. She doesn't overanalyse or seek out drama. The bike accident has happened, it's unfortunate, but life goes on. I'm instantly reminded of Mandy, who used to be just as matter-of-fact, and her family every bit as big and exuberant as Jeanie's – until one of them was lost.

Jeanie turns up the volume of the radio. ‘I like this song,' she says and begins to sing along, her words not quite matching those of the singer.

Sun streams in the window and my face begins to glow from its warmth and from the effects of the hot tea and my heavy dressing gown. The kitchen is cosy and homely and nothing like the deafeningly silent place it is when Jeanie's not around. I'm glad my friend is back, for however long.

I call Derek a few times over the weekend but his phone rings through to voicemail. I don't leave a message; what I have to say can't be summed up in one or two sentences. I spend a lot of time in bed, resting, reading, and dreading Monday. I rehearse what I'll say to Jarrod, trying to anticipate how the conversation might go, visualising his angriest expression and searching for the right words to soften it. It doesn't help that the biweekly sales meeting is on first thing and Jarrod, along with everyone else, will expect a full update on Telelink.

On Monday I wake to a bright, blue-skyed morning, a good omen I hope. I get out of bed earlier than usual, expecting that my morning routine will take a little longer. My body is stiff and sore and would like a few more days in bed but the rest of me is ready to get the confrontation with Jarrod over and done with,
to suffer the inevitable reprimand and then get on with doing whatever is necessary to save the deal.

I wash at the basin, my limbs clumsy and uncoordinated, but my biggest challenge, I quickly find out, is finding something to wear. I pluck a black A-line skirt from my wardrobe, slip it on and begin to search for a top. I try on a few things, fling them across the bed when it becomes apparent they won't work, and yell out for Jeanie's help.

‘Nice look,' she comments dryly when she sees me in my bra and skirt.

‘Nothing fits over the bandage. Do you have anything?'

‘Let's take a look.'

I follow Jeanie to her room, hopeful even though I'm a few sizes smaller and so clothes swapping has never really worked for us before. Like mine, Jeanie's bedroom is a reflection of her upbringing: chaotic. Clothes are strewn across the bed and chair, and shoes are scattered on the floor, presenting a safety hazard that I must negotiate my way through. The laundry hamper overflows onto the floor and the bed is made in such a half-hearted manner that just looking at it gives me the urge to straighten the pillows and quilt.

Ten minutes later, I'm down to two choices: a silver ABBA-style top that's too long in the sleeve and looks more appropriate for a disco than the office, and a white frilly blouse that only someone with Jeanie's unflappable personality could pull off. I decide that the frilly blouse is the lesser of two evils. Substituting my usual heels for black flats, I move as fast as I can out the door and down the stairs. My legs are stiff and the ten-minute walk to the tram takes closer to twenty. A tram hurtles into view and
I breathe a sigh of relief, smiling as the queue shuffles forward a few anticipatory steps. But when I go to get my ticket the smile freezes on my face: in my haste to get out the door, I picked up the wrong handbag.

When I finally get to the office I'm over an hour late. The meeting has already broken up and the sales team, including Jarrod, are back at their desks and perfectly positioned to witness precisely how late I am. I put my bag on the floor – the correct bag, the one that cost me precious time in retracing my steps to the apartment and then back to the tram stop again. I can't tell Jarrod that I'm late because of my handbag; he'll blow a fuse even before I tell him about Friday night.

I flick the switch on my PC, mentally preparing myself while I wait for it to start up. I'll go in there, I resolve, and take it on the chin. I'll agree with everything Jarrod throws at me, be contrite in the extreme, and then I'll set about doing what I can to redeem the situation.

Zoe pops up on the other side of the partition. ‘You didn't miss much at the meeting.'

‘Good.'

‘Jarrod does not have a happy aura today.'

Zoe is rather fascinated with auras. She's been to aura-reading retreats and workshops and finesses her skills on unsuspecting colleagues. From what I gather, auras vary in colour and structure, and reflect one's true nature. But rather confusingly, they can change with time, sometimes very quickly, and thus indicate mood. Given that I can usually read Jarrod's mood
directly from his face, I'm not convinced of the need to analyse his aura.

Still, I play along. ‘And what colour is Jarrod's aura today?'

‘Predominantly black. A sure sign of anger.'

I pull a face. ‘I expect his aura will be a lot blacker after I see him.'

Jarrod's door is ajar and he's frowning at his screen, typing with two fingers. I knock, take his glance as an invitation to come in, and shut the door behind me.

‘I'm sorry about this morning,' I begin, joining my hands as I walk towards him. ‘I have an excuse – but you're not going to like it.'

He says nothing. Jarrod isn't one to prompt, at least not with words; the expression on his face is quite sufficient.

‘I was in an accident on Friday night – with Derek Jones from Telelink.'

He's shocked, so shocked that his frown momentarily clears. ‘
What?
'

‘We were in a motorbike accident. Derek was taking me home. We came off the bike.'

Jarrod pushes back his seat from his desk and looks me up and down. ‘Were you hurt?'

‘We were able to walk away. But we both have cuts. I believe that he might need a skin graft.'

He nods slowly, ominously. ‘Friday night? You met him for dinner, didn't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Had you been drinking?'

‘Not a lot.' I sigh. ‘But, yes, we'd both been drinking.'

Fury rushes to fill the blankness on his face. ‘Fuck it, Caitlin. What were you thinking?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘He's a
client.
You knowingly put yourself and him in danger!'

‘All I can say in my defence is that he was close,
so close
to committing …I thought the ride would seal it …'

It
had
been close. There could have been an order on the fax machine this morning. Jarrod could be slapping me on the back right now.

‘That's the problem with you, Caitlin – you don't know where to draw the line.'

‘I –'

‘You didn't need to be on the bike. If he was going to crash, you didn't need to be there!'

‘Yes, but –'

‘You don't know how to hold back, do you? Wine them, dine them, get them drunk – you don't seem to know any other way to do business!'

Despite my earlier resolve to take his chiding with good grace, my temper stirs. ‘I do what it takes, Jarrod. Sometimes it involves pushing boundaries –'

‘Boundaries? You don't know the fucking meaning of boundaries! That's why you'll never go any further in your career, why you'll never become a manager.'

That's unfair, very unfair, and I have to bite down on my lip so that I don't retaliate.

‘I don't want you to have any further contact with Telelink or Derek Jones. I will handle the client from today.'

I gasp, the sheer injustice making tears sting my eyes. I've done all
the ground work, all the
hard
work, to get to this point and now Jarrod is going to swan in at the eleventh hour and take credit for it all.

‘And you can consider this a verbal warning. If you ever blur the lines between business and personal again, you can go and look for a job elsewhere.'

I bite down harder on my lip. Part of me wants to tell him exactly what he can do with his job – and with himself for that matter. But another part, the part that's my father's daughter, knows that I'm getting exactly what I deserve.
An action can be judged by its consequences
, my father would say self-righteously. My actions were unquestionably out of order and the consequence is that my job and everything I've worked so hard to achieve over the last four years is now in jeopardy.

I nod to show him that I understand the warning and then I back out of the room, appropriately chastened. It's my deepest fear, losing my job, a paranoia that goes all the way back to Liam, aimless and chronically bored as he mooched about the house; unworthy and useless, at least in our father's eyes. I can think of nothing,
nothing
worse than losing my job, but nobody on this side of the world, least of all Jarrod, could begin to understand my fear, where it originates from or how deep it goes.