Ten Dates, Page 2

  My mouth pops open and I stand alone and in shock. A million lights and shiny faces bear witness to my confusion.

  My mind stumbles around inside my head, tripping over information, as I try to put together a drunken jigsaw that is damaged and incomplete.

  I'm certain Chris didn't just propose because he's still standing on two feet, smiling at me, while he tries to pull the cork from the champagne that is squeezed between his knees.

  I'm not engaged.

  I'm sure I’m not.

  I didn't say yes to anything.

  The crowd applauds voraciously as they cheer on the splashing of the astronomically expensive champers. The one Chris insisted I stop and buy on the way here.

  He told me that I would want a glass.

  I don't just want a glass, I need the bottle and a straw right now.

  It dawns on me, as Chris manically chokes the bottle to the delight of the chuckling and jeering crowd, we're not engaged.

  We're not engaged AND he's just about to spill MY expensive bottle of champagne.

  Anger lights a fuse in my soul and humiliation prepares me for battle.

  I have nothing left to lose.

  New York?

  I lunge towards him.

  The cork finally fires, and as if the bottle is a weapon, there's a boom as it backfires.

  Chris stumbles back as the cork shoots out, horizontally across the stage, straight towards me like a heat-seeking missile. It's too fast. I don't have time to leap out of the way or to seek cover and protect myself.

  As the missile trajectory fires the cork into my eye, I'm toppled like Jenga. I stagger. One. Two. Three steps. I'm blind from the cork but in my remaining good eye, I see the cake.

  As if a near-death experience, time slows and I'm able to admire the cake with its beautiful white lace edging. I silently congratulate Melinda on her good taste as I close in on the table that supports this sweet thing of beauty. Then, unable to brace myself or prevent what I realise is an uncontrollable destiny, I fall and my arms, which have not received the memo, windmill as they futilely try to halt my decent.

  I'm floored by the events of this evening.

  There is egg on my face, and flour, frosting, and a hint of bitter dark chocolate, if I’m not mistaken. In addition, as if to add sour grapes to the wounds of my ego, I am soaked to my knickers in six-hundred-pound champagne, as Big Ben chimes in the New Year.

  Chapter 2

  "JOAN, LET ME IN." CHRIS hammers on the door to my ground floor apartment that I now wish was at the top of a skyscraper.

  I'm not letting him in.

  Last night, after Melinda snatched what was left of the champagne from Chris, she and Mikey took me home and we spent the night drinking while they picked cake frosting from my hair.

  My mind is a bit foggy. I can’t clearly remember everything that happened after I got home last night, but—lucky for me—there’s a technological footprint clearly charting my behaviour.

  I have four texts on my phone from Chris apologising. Stating that he now realises that he may have been 'insensitive' dropping the Big Apple bomb on the stage and that he understands how much I will miss him while he is away. He has even forgiven me for hitting him with the mic stand.

  My replies were brief. The first reads: You fucking fuck! The rest are even worse.

  Then there was the video Mikey emailed me: Me trying to climb through the foyer window of my building and landing on my head.

  "Please, babe. Take the dead bolt off and let me in. Let's talk about this," he calls through the door.

  If I were not one hundred percent certain standing up would unleash a tsunami of vomit, I would so get up, take the styling wand from the dresser next to my bed, and go jam it into his eye.

  Oh my God, my eye!

  I cup the socket of my eye as a flashback involving a cork missile replays in my head. Heat flushes my cheeks and I leap to my feet to look at my face in the mirror above my dresser.

  My eye is swollen and almost shut. Red and purplish bruising marks the spot where the cork unapologetically punched me in my face.

  I'm awash with humiliation and anger at Chris. My hands ball at my sides and I stomp to the door. I fling it open, not caring that I'm only wearing last night’s black lace underwear that I chose in readiness to start our engagement with a bang.

  Now, well now, I'm ready to lose the last of my dignity and scream at Chris to get his things and go, and never dare to return.

  With the door wide open, my hands meet my hips in defiance. However, the doorway is empty. I wonder if I imagined Chris's ramblings. I step outside of the door to check, my fists still curled into hammers ready to attack. My anger is a bomb ready for detonation. I glare up the hallway, pissed at his retreat.

  "Chris?" I angrily yell to the empty corridor that’s lined by the eight red doors that match mine.

  Realising that he has already left, I turn to head back inside my apartment when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  "Hi, neighbour. Is this yours...?” A gravelly, male voice that I do not recognise purrs.

  I swivel my body and gawk up at the dark haired, chiselled face towering at least a foot above my own. He's dressed in dark jeans and a fitted shirt and, fuck me, if that isn't the sexiest damned stubble and just-been-screwed hair I’ve ever seen.

  My mouth swings open, unprepared for this vision of hotness. His mouth opens too.

  Suddenly, I feel self-conscious and naked.

  Shit – I’m naked!

  Bolstered by my embarrassment, anger spits like lava from my pores and I aim my glare in a new direction.

  "Can I help you? What? You never seen a woman in her underwear in a hallway before?"

  I don’t wait for his answer. I take three steps and storm into my apartment. I’m about to slam my door in his ungrateful, square-jawed, too-handsome face when he jars the door with his foot and pushes his index finger forward into the gap. Dangled from his finger is one lowly black, sling-backed shoe. I recognise it from the Christmas sale in Topshop. A shoe that deserves the look of spite I'm piercing it with now because I know that traitorous bitch pinched my toes and offered zero support during my time of need.

  His dark eyes demand my attention. I stare up at them, marvelling in the arch of his brow and decide I must deny all knowledge of the shoe.

  "Actually, I found this in the foyer and I wondered if it was yours?" His mouth curves up into a grin.

  "No. Nothing to do with me!" I lie as my mind wanders back to the incriminating video Mikey sent me this morning.

  The main door to our building had stuck. It's not the first time I've had to climb through the window of the foyer. Chris used to push me up to climb through it regularly.

  I die a little inside at the thought that this mountain of a man may have witnessed my second humiliation of the night. I dismiss the thought. My neighbour looks like he is only just coming home, probably from an all-night shag-fest.

  I fan myself a little as heat rises within me. He interrupts my indecent thoughts.

  "Really? I wondered if the cold had made the door stick. You’re the only neighbour I’ve noticed who might wear such a shoe, and I thought I’d best return it, Cinders." His tone is cocky. He damn well knows it’s my shoe and, even though I’m very cross with it right now, I have a matching one in my apartment that will be sad and lonely without it. Therefore, I do what any shoe loving embarrassed fool would do, I snatch the shoe with my left hand and slam the door with my right.

  I hear a shocked intake of breath and lean up to watch him swipe his dark hair across his head from the safety of the peephole. He shakes his head and calls to me from the other side of my door.

  "Very mature, number four," he says, pursing his swollen lips in judgment.

  "Yeah, well it's a little late in life for you to be doing the walk of shame, number two!"

  "It’s number six, actually, Four," he calls back.

  "Yeah, well Six, your fly is undone." It is a cheap shot,
I know. Nonetheless, when he lifts his shirt to reveal his tight, tanned abs as he checks his crotch, the reward is priceless.

  He grins upwards, his eyes dark in their gaze and a naughty expression closes in on the peephole. "You enjoy a peep show, huh, Four? Duly-noted." Six taps his nose and he cockily heads to the door next to mine.

  My cheeks are on fire as I clutch my shoe to my chest, then realising it has frosting caked to its heel, I throw that traitorous bitch on the floor and head back to bed. It may be New Year's Day, a time for new beginnings and all that crap, but I am going to hug my pillow. I grab a bowl from the kitchen as I pass, just in case I need to throw up.

  This year can kiss my ass.

  "OOH. THAT LOOKS NASTY. You sure you don't have a concussion?" Melinda asks as she passes me the gravy boat.

  "Why does Joanie have a boo-boo?" Tegan rubs her own eye as she asks me about my bruise.

  "Joanie just needs to figure out how to walk properly in her shoes and how to dodge stray missiles. Eat up your greens," Melinda instructs her seven-year-old daughter.

  "Joanie may not have dodged the cork, but she definitely dodged a bullet." Mikey laughs as he pushes Melinda's lumpy mashed potatoes around the plate.

  It's New Year's Day and Melinda has gone all out to cook a nice dinner for me, Mikey and her four adorable kids. Melinda’s husband, who works in banking, was called away on business right after Christmas lunch. To be honest, I’m a bit confused as to what the emergency might have been, but because Mikey and I both know this fact won’t have escaped Melinda, we don’t bring up his absence.

  We help Melinda bathe and put the kids to bed, and then we settle back on the settee with a glass of wine. It doesn't take long before Mikey raises my recent disaster.

  "So, have you seen Cautious Chris yet?" Mikey sniggers.

  I explain the disaster that was this morning, leaving out my encounter with Six. If they knew about that, there would be a whole lot more teasing.

  "Shouldn't I be devastated?” I ask them. “He announces that he's going to New York for six months, and now that I’ve processed it, I feel relieved. How can I be disappointed that he didn't propose, yet relieved that I don’t have to spend another six months with him? It’s as if I've been desperately clinging to a relationship that's doomed because I’ve been convinced it's my last shot at happiness.”

  I drink more wine, not because it helps with my confusion, clearly it doesn’t, but because I’m not sure I’m ready to face the reality of my confession. However, reality is a sneaky bitch and my realisation causes me to blurt, “I’m old and past it, and I’m terrified that if I don't settle down soon I'll be a miserable old spinster right up until I die, old, and wrinkly, and old, and alone." I dramatically throw my hands in the air, spilling some wine on my jeans, emphasising my point.

  Mikey thinks this is hilarious and spits a little of his wine out to prove it.

  "You're not that old and you're gorgeous. Chris wasn't the only person to see that and he won't be the last. Come-on Joanie, Chris was a calamity. He’s done you a favour, and if you don't meet anyone, you can always rely on me. I'll make sure your cats get re-homed when you die."

  "I don't have any cats," I tell him, pointing my finger.

  "Not yet you don't. But, you'll probably want to get some if you're to look the part."

  "Mikey, I'm only six months older than you!" I say incredulously. "Where's your happily ever after, huh?"

  "I get laid five times a week, sweetie. It's not me we need to be worried about."

  Melinda casts a measuring glance at both of us.

  "I'm not worried. At least I wasn't until you started talking about cats. Oh my God, you think that don't you? You think I'll die alone."

  The wine has worked its evil magic and I start to feel loose-tongued and emotional.

  "Both of you pack it in," Melinda says sternly, as if she is talking to her kids. "The way I see it, you should have dumped Chris way back. Like when he bought you that awful watch.” I glance down at the Chinese lettering on the clock face that is always a beat behind. “In fact, Joanie, you should have dumped him way before that. Like when you had your tonsils out and he went skiing with his mates instead of taking care of you. You’ve been hanging onto the wrong guy, sweetie, and you are worth so much more. Have you even officially broken up with him yet?" Melinda asks.

  I look sheepishly at the cheap watch that is suddenly burning a rash on my wrist. I tug and pull at it and then shove it in the pocket of my jeans.

  “What? So, everyone knew Chris was wrong for me, apart from me?” Why am I only just coming to this conclusion when in fact he has been a self-centred dick for a long time? I shake my head. I'm so stupid.

  "Ha! You didn't dump him yet. Joanie, what the fuck..."

  Mikey finds this hilarious.

  "I haven't seen him yet," I say in my defence. It's the best excuse I have, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know the real reason. "I don't want to be alone again," I admit.

  Mikey's arm snakes around my waist, and Melinda is out of her seat and cradling my head as she shushes my sobs.

  "I don't even know how to date. These days it's all plenty of frogs and I don’t want to kiss any more toads. I'll tell him tomorrow," I say, nodding my head, my mind made up. "There's plenty more frogs to kiss, right?"

  "Honey, there's plenty of fucking men out there. I'll even let you have the straight ones..." Mikey tells me.

  “Joanie. Before Chris, you spent all your time picking faults in guys, looking for reasons not to date them: their shoes were too square, their hair was too short, their jeans were too baggy...”

  “Ooh. What about the one whose ears were too pointy,” Mikey interrupts Melinda with a giggle and she nods.

  “You found Chris. He looked good enough on the outside, your parents loved him, and that was it. You settled,” Melinda explains, and I find myself nodding. “You’re too picky. You need to let yourself go and just live in the moment. What will be will be.”

  “Um, Melinda, I hate to tell you this, but you are the most tightly-strung woman I know. Where on earth does this new mantra come from?” I ask.

  “Never you mind. I’m right,” Melinda replies, reverting back to the Melinda I’m most familiar with. “You just need to get back out there and you’ll find ‘the one’ in no time.”

  "Thank you." I sob and snot into Mikey's pink Armani shirt. When he notices, he holds me at arms length and announces, "Fuck it. Let's get you shit-faced!"

  AFTER QUITE A BIT MORE wine, mostly shared between Mikey and I, I pay a visit to the little girl’s room and announce that I’m going to walk home. Melinda and Mikey are in fits of laughter about something, and I’m glad the mood has exponentially lightened since my mini breakdown. Melinda wants to order me a taxi, but I insist that the walk will do me good; it’s only a five-minute walk, anyway.

  As I approach my 1920s, Art Deco style apartment block, I’m relieved to see the foyer light has been left on. The lighting is limited up our driveway, which can make the stiff lock of the front door even more difficult to navigate.

  Then I notice something unusual.

  A dark silhouette paces back and forth, beneath the blinking strip light. I am about to slow down, to assess whether it is an axe murderer or a neighbour, when the figure turns and glares right at me.

  I'm too close to the entrance to hide, so I casually proceed with caution. As I near, the door flings open and Chris grabs me by the arms and yanks me inside. The action causes me to stumble.

  "Where the hell have you been? I came by earlier and I've been phoning you. Why haven't you been answering?" Chris yells.

  I shake him off, and being a little drunk, I yell, "Get your hands off me. Don't you dare ever touch me again! We are through. Do you hear me? Through." I swing my arms back so he can’t reach my hands.

  "I'm sorry Joan. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I was waiting to hear about my Visa and I was worried you would jinx everything. We can make it work. I
know we can." Chris starts moving towards me again. With every step he takes forward I take two back.

  Suddenly he repulses me and I can't see anything that’s attractive about him.

  Then I notice his suitcase on the floor behind him. "Did you go into my apartment?" I yell, furious at the intrusion.

  "I needed my stuff. My laptop and my passport. I fly to New York tomorrow. I wanted to say goodbye."

  "That's it," I spit. The alcohol is making me giddy, but I don't care. The thought of him in my space makes me want to hurt him.

  "Get out!"

  "You're upset. I understand now, I should have told you. Baby, I'll give you some time to get used to the idea and I'll call you. You'll see it was worth it."

  He walks towards me and holds out his lips as if to kiss me goodbye. I give him a two handed shove. This is my closure and Chris deserves my wrathful beating. I'm amazed he still doesn't even seem aware of how appallingly he has treated me.

  "Don't call me and don't message me. I hope your dick falls off!"

  The word dick echoes through the hallway as if to taunt me. My hands are shaking and I have to clench to hold them still.

  I'm about to continue to lash him with my anger when I'm interrupted by a gruff, masculine voice. "Is everything okay? Four, are you all right? I heard the yelling all the way from my apartment."

  I follow the voice along the carpeted foyer all the way to Six, who only has a white bath towel wrapped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his hair and roll over his pectoral muscles. They continue a path down his concrete abs pooling in his tiny circular navel.

  Six clears his throat, and my eyes shoot to his. At his raised eyebrow, I close my mouth, and then look back at Chris, whose mouth is also open.

  "Of course, I'm fine. He was just going." I shove my thumb in Chris's direction and glare from him to the door.

  "You heard the lady." Six cocks his head towards the door, then pulls his towel a little tighter.

  Chris raises his hands in defeat and makes a show of pulling the handle of his wheeled suitcase up, to show his intent to leave.