Less Than Perfect (21 page)

‘I should go …' I feel a little wobbly on my feet. ‘That meeting in the morning …'

He also gets to his feet. ‘Yes, I should be going too. I'll call you tomorrow.'

‘Okay. Good luck with the boy. I hope he comes through the surgery okay.'

His face clouds over. ‘I think the best I can hope for is to catch the kids who did it to him.'

He leans his head down for one last kiss, a stand-up variety, definitely not as good as the sit-down ones, but still very nice all the same, and then says goodnight.

When I get inside, the light on the phone is flashing. I warily press the button, but it isn't my father after all. It's Jeanie, sounding vexed.

‘Caitlin, Jeanie here. I've been calling all evening. Why don't you ever answer the bloody phone? Anyway, I've lost my mobile, but wanted to let you know I'll be home on Friday. I'll see you then.'

I'm sorry now that I didn't pick up the phone when it rang before I went out. Poor Jeanie! All those contact details lost with her phone. On the positive side, she'll be back soon. This trip seems to have gone on forever, and a lot has happened since she went away. For one thing, Matthew Blake has happened.

I climb into bed and my thoughts revert to Matthew, which is becoming somewhat of a bedtime habit. My lips curve in an involuntary smile as I relive the feeling of his mouth moving over
mine, his hands gathering up my hair, the words and glances and details that made up the evening. His list of attributes is growing steadily: handsome, strong, well-mannered, good with kids, excellent taste in films, brilliant kisser.

If Matthew has a major personality flaw, it has yet to reveal itself. Even his profession, initially a sticking point, seems to matter less and less. He doesn't preach, lay down rules or force his opinions on others; in fact, now that I know him better, I can safely say that he isn't of the same ilk as my father at all.

David is late. Nearly twenty minutes so. Still, when he eventually turns up at the bistro where we arranged to meet, he seems genuinely apologetic.

‘Sorry,' he says, scraping out a seat and sitting down. ‘I had a meeting that went over.'

‘Oh well, at least you're here now.' I smile, pretending not to mind.

He raises his hand, signalling to the waiting staff that he's arrived and expects immediate service. I notice his cufflinks, mini clocks that seem, from my quick glance, to keep the correct time.

‘No chance of losing time with those.'

He smiles. ‘Unfortunately not!'

The waiter comes promptly. David orders a latte and I ask for a long black. Then David clasps his hands and leans forward in his seat. ‘Well, Caitlin, what's this all about?'

‘I'm hoping you can help me second guess the effects of the GFC on the Australian financial sector.'

He raises his eyebrows. ‘That's a tall order.'

‘Isn't that what you guys do every day? Make educated guesses?'

‘Usually about other industries, not our own!'

‘What's so hard about your own?'

‘It's harder to predict. And there's this scary phenomenon called the self-fulfilling prophecy.'

‘That's if you say something will happen, the market blindly believes it and involuntarily makes it happen?'

‘That's right.'

‘Well, just between us, and not for the market's ears,' I slip my notebook across the table, ‘I have a list of financial institutions here, and I'm trying to determine who's the strongest, the most likely to acquire – that's assuming there are acquisitions to be made.'

David glances down at the notebook, then back up at me. ‘Can I ask why you care?'

I shrug. ‘Because acquisitions, at the end of the day, mean training.'

‘I see.' He lifts the notebook and studies it closely, then quickly reels off a number of organisations missing from the list. By the time his latte arrives, he's slashing lines across the page, drawing arrows up and down and generally rearranging the list to his satisfaction.

I peer across at his handiwork, trying to read it upside down. ‘So you think Chambers is strong?'

‘Chambers is rock solid. They'll cut back but they'll never go down.'

‘And Net Banc?'

‘Net Banc is carnivorous – they like to eat other banks. In times like this, all the smaller institutions will be potential fodder.'

Suddenly David startles, checks his watch and exclaims that he has to be somewhere else. He returns the notebook to me, slips his Cartier pen back into his shirt pocket and drains his latte.

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘That was really informative.'

‘My pleasure.'

He walks away, his dark skin and hair striking against the white of his shirt, his stride that of a man who knows exactly where he's going, albeit a little late. I'm beginning to understand what Nicola finds attractive about him.

Jeanie returns late on Friday. Her keys jangle in the lock, her suitcase lands with a thud on the floor and the door bangs shut behind her.

‘Hi, stranger.' I stand up from the sofa where I've been watching TV.

‘Hellooooo,' she replies, elongating the word until it descends into a sigh. ‘What a week!'

‘Did you find your phone?'

‘No.' She sighs again and moves away from the doorway and further into the room. ‘Didn't think you'd be home.'

‘I had a few drinks with Nic after work, but left early to be part of your welcome-home committee.'

‘Some committee!'

‘Want a drink?'

Jeanie flops down on the couch. ‘I think it might be a matter of
need
rather than
want.
'

I go to the fridge and extract a bottle of beer, using the hem of my T-shirt to twist off the lid. ‘Here.' I hand it to her. ‘Anything
else madam would like? Vegemite sandwich? Cheese and crackers? Or perhaps a bar of chocolate?'

Jeanie slugs the beer. ‘No, thanks. This is all that's required.'

I return to the kitchen to fix my own drink: the usual vodka and Diet Coke, the only variant being the number of ice cubes. Holding the glass in my hand, I curl up on the sofa across from Jeanie. ‘Other than the missing phone, how was the trip?'

‘Harder than usual. Complex problem and, worse, complex personalities.' Jeanie takes another long drink, the bottle in her hand already half-empty. ‘How about you? Anything new?'

Matthew Blake is new – and complex too, at least in how he makes me feel. ‘Nothing much. Only that Nic has a new boyfriend.'

Jeanie raises her eyebrows. ‘Her usual type?'

I nod. ‘Investment banker, slick from head to toe …'

We all have types. Jeanie's is rough and ready, men who talk and laugh in loud voices, a line of dirt under their fingernails evidencing an honest day's work. My type is, or at least was, surfy and irreverent; men who flaunt the sea and any kind of authority. Matthew's nothing like my usual type, but I'm not ready to dissect this deviation and so I continue to talk about David instead.

‘He seems okay, though,' I say. ‘I met him yesterday for a coffee.'

Jeanie cocks her head. ‘You did? Why?'

‘I wanted to pick his brains about the economy,' I reply with a shrug. ‘Have
you
noticed the slowdown?'

‘It's impossible not to notice.' Jeanie rubs her forehead as if struck with a sudden headache. ‘When business slows, people
look around for reasons: systems, processes, any recent changes to how things are done. That's what made this last job so difficult. The general manager would not accept that the drop in online orders was only partly due to the glitch in the system.' She puts down her empty bottle and stands up, her arms extended above her in a long stretch. ‘Geez, I'm whacked. All I want to do is go to bed. I'll move my suitcase in the morning, okay?'

‘No worries. 'Night, Jeanie.'

The apartment descends into quiet, though the empty bottle on the coffee table and the abandoned suitcase at the door promise that the silence will only last the night.

‘Take the bean bag and cradle it in the palm of your hand. With your elbows close to your sides and your arms extended at about waist height, toss the ball repeatedly from one hand to the other. Each throw should peak at about eye level, with the throw coming from slightly towards the centre of the body and the catch slightly towards the outside.'

As instructed, I throw my red bean bag with one hand and catch it jerkily in the other.

Nicola, throwing and catching adeptly, rolls her eyes. ‘I thought this was a business skills development class, not a crash course for clowns!'

Jarrod overhears, as Nicola intended him to. ‘This … is to … show us … how learning new skills … can be … fun …' He says through gritted teeth, his expression not conveying the fun he's supposed to be experiencing.

The instructor joins in on the conversation. ‘Juggling is not only fun, it's good for stress relief, problem solving and developing a flexible attitude to work and life in general. It also teaches us how to handle failure – there will be times when you drop the balls in front of an audience and you have to learn how to handle it!'

‘Speaking of balls, why are we using bean bags?' Nicola asks.

‘Because balls roll when you drop them,' he replies dryly, ‘which can be very irritating when you're learning.'

As though on cue, I drop my bean bag. Nicola sniggers and I elbow her in the ribs. She bellows in pretend pain but still doesn't lose her rhythm: it's already obvious that she will be the star pupil today.

The instructor stands behind me and takes my hands in his to demonstrate. ‘As you make each catch, let the ball fall into your hand, cushioning its landing, and in the same circular motion send it on its way again. It's important to get this technique right, as it's the same technique that's used for three, four or however many balls you juggle.'

After a few more minutes of practice, we progress to step two of the lesson which involves adding a second bean bag, green this time.

‘Using the same technique we learned in step one, throw one of the balls to the other hand. Now, this is the tricky bit: the hand the ball is heading towards is already occupied, so before we make the catch we must make space for it! Here's how it's done. At the point when the first ball reaches its peak and starts its descent, throw the second ball just inside the arc of the first one. You should find that the balls land in your hands one after the other and that they have exchanged places.'

Everyone has a go and red and green bean bags shower the ground amid much laughter.

‘It's very important that you throw
both
balls to the same height – this is the most common error.'

Nicola executes it perfectly, a smug grin on her face.

‘Have you done this before?' I ask suspiciously.

‘No. I'm just good with my hands.'

‘Show-off!'

Zoe is the next to get it right and eventually the whole group has it mastered, even Jarrod – everyone except me. The instructor patiently repeats the steps, telling me that the most important thing is to relax and not to panic so much when the balls are in the air. But no matter how hard I try, my timing isn't right and the most I can manage are a few erratic exchanges before one or both bean bags plop to the ground. The instructor has no choice but to leave me behind as he moves to the next stage of the lesson.

‘Now, let's try juggling three balls …'

I continue with two balls while the rest of the group practises with three. ‘I guess there's a hopeless case in every class,' I say conversationally to the instructor.

‘
Everyone
can juggle,' he assures me, his tone distinctly condescending. ‘And once you learn this skill you'll also gain the confidence to try other things you thought beyond you.'

Behind his back Nicola sticks out her tongue at me and I feel like giving her another elbow in the ribs. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind inflicting some pain on the patronising instructor too!

I'm relieved when the juggling session is over and we sit back at our desks to learn about some
real
business skills.

I meet Matthew after work and we get takeaway to eat at his house. I'm nervous at the thought of seeing where and how he lives, but excited too. His house is in Elwood, a three-bedroom Edwardian cottage on a street with a friendly feel to it. I'm immediately impressed with the leadlight windows, parquetry floors and high ceilings.

‘This is beautiful,' I exclaim as he shows me around. ‘It's got such character.'

Matthew smiles shyly. ‘Well, the kitchen and bathrooms need updating and the walls could do with a lick of paint, but other than that it's great.'

I look out the kitchen window into the dusk and onto the compact, well-maintained back garden. ‘Do you own it?'

‘No – I rent along with two mates from work. But when I buy a house, hopefully in the next year or so, I want something exactly like this.'

After the tour, we sit outside on the terracotta-tiled patio where he sets us up for dinner, fetching two bottles of ice-cold beer. A citronella lamp flickers on the small wrought-iron table as the last of the daylight eases from the sky.

‘That teenage boy who was attacked – how is he doing now?' I ask.

Matthew's face tightens. ‘He had the clot removed along with some of his skull to relieve the pressure. The swelling on his brain is still very prominent and he's in a critical condition.'

I raise my beer bottle to my lips and take a small sip. It's been a long time since I last drank beer. It tastes nice, simple and refreshing, rather like how it feels to be here with Matthew at his house. ‘And any luck with finding out who did it?'

‘We have some CCTV footage but it's not very good quality. We put a plea for witnesses to come forward in last Thursday's
Leader
and again today.'