Less Than Perfect (15 page)

An attractive girl walks in with her friends and Luke openly looks her up and down, his mouth curling in appreciation. On another night I might not have cared, but tonight I do. I'm not pretty enough or interesting enough for Luke. Really, it's better to be bored than to sit here feeling so utterly inadequate.

I gulp some of my drink and stand up to leave. ‘This wasn't such a good idea.'

Luke looks momentarily confused. ‘You're going?'

‘Yes, yes, I am.'

He moves his shoulders up and down in a shrug that's both offhand and insulting. He clearly couldn't care less if I leave now or later. He wouldn't have cared if I hadn't turned up at all tonight. But, in fairness, I more or less knew this from the outset.

I push my way towards the exit and pause outside the pub, the cool breeze from the bay chilling the skin on my arms.

‘Hey, Caitlin.'

I look around to find myself the focus of blue eyes that seem strangely familiar. The face beyond them also looks familiar, albeit somewhat out of context. It's the sergeant, Matthew. He's not in uniform, and this is what threw me.

‘Oh, it's you – again!'

He grins a little self-consciously. ‘Well, St Kilda's a relatively small place.'

I take a moment to readjust to this disconcertingly casual version of him. He's wearing a white shirt, loose over faded jeans. The shirt accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, so wide and muscled that he looks like he belongs on the back line of a rugby team. His hair is cut too short and his eyes glitter against the tan of his skin. He seems even taller than I remembered, six foot three or four, yet, stripped of the authority that comes with his uniform, there's something oddly vulnerable about him standing with his hands sunk into the pockets of his jeans and that hint of self-consciousness in his expression.

‘Getting some fresh air?' he asks.

‘No, going home.'

‘Seems a bit early for that.'

‘I had a date that went wrong.' He looks immediately
concerned and I feel compelled to reassure him. ‘It was just a bad case of incompatibility, that's all.'

There's an awkward silence, into which I should say goodbye and go not-so-merrily on my way. Instead I scan the vicinity, looking for someone I have so far failed to notice that Matthew might be here with. ‘You're on your own?'

‘I have some friends who went in ahead of me.'

‘Police officers?'

‘Yes,' he answers with a sheepish smile. ‘Off duty, though. Like me.'

A pause follows. It's less awkward than the one before.

‘Have you always worked in the St Kilda area?' I ask.

‘No, only in the last six months.'

‘Where were you before then?' I seem to be unable to look away from his eyes, and I can feel my face heating up in response.

‘My home town, Deniliquin.'

I've heard of Deniliquin; it's located somewhere between Melbourne and Sydney, though I'm unsure which state it falls into, Victoria or New South Wales.

‘Ah, a country boy.'

‘And you?'

‘I've been in St Kilda, or at least the general area, for the last seven years. Before that I frittered away a few years in Sydney and Brisbane.'

‘And before that?'

‘Ireland.'

His mouth lifts in another smile. ‘Well, that's quite obvious. I meant what part of Ireland.'

I feel the usual twinge this question evokes. ‘The North.'

‘Belfast?'

‘No. A small town inland from Belfast.' The twinge deepens before it eases, and suddenly I feel silly standing here, chatting to this virtual stranger. ‘Well, I'd better get going. I guess I'll see you around.'

Matthew surprises me by putting his hand on my arm, preventing me from moving away. ‘Caitlin, wait. Do you want to have a drink before you go home?'

I look back at him, confused.

‘I mean, we don't have to go in here.' He indicates the doorway behind my back. ‘We can go somewhere else if you like.'

I feel so bemused that I can't begin to formulate an answer. As the silence grows, I can't help but notice a deeper colour creep across his face. He's embarrassed, sorry that he asked and put us both in this excruciatingly awkward situation. This knowledge, that I've managed to embarrass him, throws me even further off kilter.

‘Thanks for asking,' I eventually manage, ‘but I think I'll just go home.'

I walk away, along the street and towards home, my arms hugged around my body, keeping out the cold breeze, and keeping in my conflicting emotions. I should have answered him more quickly; it would have been much less embarrassing if I hadn't hesitated for so long. In my defence, I didn't see it coming: it doesn't seem that long since he was glowering at me and calling me stupid for getting on the back of Derek's bike.

I make it all the way home and into bed before I acknowledge there was a split second when I actually considered it: having a drink with Matthew Blake. I was right to turn him down,
though. He's nice, really nice in fact, but he's not my type. He's a police officer, and for some reason I can't quite pin down, this bothers me.

I chew the top of my pen as I read the newspaper article. The headline is inconspicuous, the font small and narrow as though the journalist wasn't confident enough to make a bolder statement:
Net Banc circling Metro.

Both Net Banc and Metro have refused to comment on a possible acquisition and the article lacks hard evidence. Still, the journalist, Joe McFaddon, has regular pieces in the business section and they're usually well researched and written. My instincts tell me that Joe is onto something with this alleged acquisition; he obviously doesn't have all the facts but I'm sure that he's sniffing in the right direction. I flick through my filing cabinet, searching for the client questionnaire form I used last time I called Harry Dixon. I locate it and laugh to myself when I see
CRANKY BASTARD
written after his name. Dialling the number, I mentally brace myself for another curt reception.

‘Harry Dixon.'

‘Hello, Harry, this is Caitlin O'Reilly from Learning Space.'

‘Where?'

‘Learning Space,' I say pleasantly. ‘We provide training –'

‘We do our own training!'

‘Yes, I know. But I've just read the article in
The Age
about Metro –'

‘Net Banc will not comment on that article.'

‘Yes, of course,' I say, keeping my tone light. ‘I'm not looking
for a comment. I just wanted to let you know that if something does happen, Learning Space may be able to –'

‘As I said, I have no comment!' he roars and crashes down the phone.

Rubbing my ear, I put the receiver back in its cradle and neatly print
VERY
before
CRANKY BASTARD
. Then I cut out the newspaper article and attach it to the back of the form with a paperclip. After returning everything to the filing cabinet, I make a diary note to send Harry some marketing material in a week's time. By then he will have hopefully forgotten this last conversation and realised that any acquisition will involve significant systems change and training.

With nothing else of interest in the newspaper, I once again find myself at a loose end. It's at least an hour before I can legitimately go to lunch, and another six hours before I can call the working week over. I hate clock-watching like this. For the want of something to do, I go on the internet and google Deniliquin. The town is in New South Wales, three hours' drive from Melbourne and eight from Sydney, set on the fringes of the Riverine Plain and a vast redgum forest. The tourism website describes the area as ‘an oasis of green', a haven for fishermen, kayakers, bird-watchers and bushwalkers. It looks like Matthew grew up in a nice place.

Next, before I can question my motives too closely, I google Matthew himself. The results line up one after the other on my screen.

Sergeant Matthew Blake praises rescue efforts.

Sergeant Blake of St Kilda Police says bail decision will be appealed.

Local sergeant warns of crackdown on antisocial behaviour.

Apparently, and quite understandably given his position in the community, Matthew is someone journalists seek out when they want a comment, and a considered opinion. He probably stands in front of the police station looking solemn and righteous in the same way my father used to stand in front of the university when he was being interviewed by the media.

This is what bothered me about Matthew last night, though at the time I couldn't pinpoint my reservations. Now, thanks to Google, I can.

The Mitre Tavern is our local, and Learning Space people congregate there most nights of the week, not just Fridays. I like the Mitre; it reminds me of the old traditional pubs at home: nooks and crannies, rustic tables and chairs, quirky artefacts on the walls and behind the bar, a certain smell that I like to think of as the scent of history. In the alleyway outside there's a beer garden and in summer people prefer it to the dim interior – pavers under their feet, the open sky overhead. This is where I go with Nicola when my terminally long working week is finally over.

‘Here.' Nicola slips a drink into my right hand, even though the glass I'm holding in my left is still three-quarters full.

I regard the drink suspiciously. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?'

She screws up her face. ‘Trying to get myself drunk.' Apparently it's been a hard week on the training floor.

‘Well, no need to take me down with you.' I laugh. Truth be told, I already feel quite tipsy.

I throw back the old drink and set down the empty glass on a nearby table. Once my hand is free, I turn my wrist to glance at my watch: 8 pm. A waitress passes by, plates lined along her forearm, steam rising from them, the smell of grilled steak and hot chips whetting my usually erratic appetite.

‘Should we get something to eat?'

‘Let's hold off until it's quieter.' Nicola twirls the stem of her glass, her eyes sweeping across the crowd.

‘See anything of interest?'

‘Maybe. Left wall. Halfway down. The one with the black hair.'

I follow her gaze. The man in question has slicked-back dark hair, an arrogant set to his face and glinting cufflinks on his designer shirt. ‘He looks like an investment banker. Just your type.' Nicola's taste in men runs to smooth, handsome, rich and, more by consequence than design, shallow.

‘He's seen you staring,' she hisses.

I grin unrepentantly. ‘Well, at least now you're on his radar.'

‘Face this way,' she instructs urgently, moving so that he's no longer in her direct line of vision.

I turn sideways with a long-suffering sigh, my view now truncated by the back wall. My eyes swoop upwards. The sky is murky, dusk smudging the brightness from the blue that was there the last time I looked. Noise bubbles around me: conversation, laughter, clinking glasses, the rumbling of a truck going down Collins Street. I raise my glass, still looking up at the sky, and drink until the ice rushes forward to kiss my lips.

‘This is going to be my last,' I slur to Nicola.

‘Don't be so boring – it's still early.'

I wag my finger. ‘You are a bad, bad influence.' A little unsteady on my feet, I go inside and add my body to those pressed around the bar, waiting for service.

I come back outside to find that Mr Slick has made his move on Nicola.

‘I'm David,' he introduces himself to me with a confident, practised smile.

‘Caitlin,' I return.

Like Nicola he has glossy hair and tanned skin; they could be brother and sister.

‘So, you work with Nicola?'

‘Yes, I'm in sales. What about you?'

He mentions an investment bank on William Street, confirming my earlier guess. His friends, still huddled by the wall, obviously hail from the same industry.

Nicola nudges me. ‘Checking out his friends?' she asks in a stage whisper.

‘Not really.'

‘Come on …'

‘No, seriously not interested.' I sip my drink and realise I'm quite full up. ‘Think I'll go home.'

‘Hey, don't leave.' Nicola looks distressed.

I smile to indicate that I'm not leaving because I feel like a spare wheel; I actually
want
to go home. ‘Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

I make my way down the alleyway, the voices and music fading behind me. My head is swimming nicely, my feet blurred as one goes in front of the other. I'm drunk. I should have eaten. Bloody Nicola! I always have too much to drink when I'm out
with her. My father would call her an ‘unsuitable friend'. I burst into a fit of giggles.

Emerging onto Collins Street, I look up and down in search of a taxi. Seeing one in the distance I raise my hand. Fortunately, it stops. ‘St Kilda,' I say as I slide in the back. The driver nods and glides away from the kerb.

My handbag sits uncomfortably on my knees. I move it to the seat, next to my thigh. My eyes keep darting back and forth to it. Finally, I give in to the urge to extract my phone, along with the card,
his
card: Sergeant M. Blake. Before I can think twice, I dial the number on it.

He answers on the first ring, his voice at once hesitant and authoritative. ‘Hello.'

I could pass this off as an act of spontaneity, fuelled by too many drinks on an empty stomach. But the truth is that he's been on my mind all day. The sergeant: crisp uniform, bulging forearms and that cool blue stare. Then his alter ego, Matthew: faded jeans, hands in his pockets, disarmingly shy. Despite what Google revealed about certain, disturbingly familiar aspects of his job, I still can't seem to dismiss him from my thoughts.

‘Hi, Matthew. It's Caitlin.'

His voice becomes wary. ‘Hello, Caitlin.'

There's a pause. A long pause.