Three’s a Crowd (20 page)

Lexie shrugged. She didn't want to talk about Christmas beetles, she wanted to talk about Tom.

‘Maybe it's because of global warming,' he went on. ‘Someone should look into that, write a paper. “Global Warming and the Demise of the Christmas Beetle”. That'd get people's attention.'

Lexie was getting frustrated with the beetle talk.

‘As I was saying –'

‘I'm not going to ask Tom down to the pub, Lex,' Scott said plainly. ‘It'd be weird.'

‘Then get a six-pack and go and knock on his door.'

‘Lexie,' he groaned.

‘What's wrong with that?'

‘I've never done it before.'

‘You've never had a beer with Tom?' she rebuked, eyebrows raised.

‘Of course I have, with other people around, in a group situation,' said Scott. ‘Not just me and him. We wouldn't have anything to talk about.'

‘You could ask him about Annie.'

‘Christ, Lexie, blokes don't do that.'

‘You spend time with Martin alone.'

‘'Cause Marty's a massive foodie, that's all we talk about. I wouldn't ask him how it's going with Catherine. I don't want to know, quite frankly,' he added.

Lexie was shaking her head. ‘I don't get it. How can you spend so much time with someone and not talk about anything personal?'

‘You don't get it because you're a woman,' he said. ‘You could stand for five minutes on a bus stop with someone you'd never clapped eyes on before and know everything about them before the bus pulled up.'

‘You act like there's something wrong with that,' Lexie said airily. ‘It's actually a good thing, Scott, probably why women live longer. I know I'm going to bring Riley up to be different. To be able to share his feelings, and to listen.'

Just then Mia's voice rang out in the twilight. ‘Ryee, Ryee!'

She was running after him, her little legs unable to keep up while he skipped and hopped and bolted out of her reach.

‘Stop Ryee! Yissen me, Ryee!'

Scott grinned. ‘Good luck with that.'

At ten minutes past eight, Rachel walked in through the doors of
sandbar
, which was so hip it didn't need a capital letter. Catherine said she should aim to be just a little late, she definitely did not
want to be the one sitting there waiting for him. But, she reminded her, a little late was probably what Rachel considered on time . . .

‘. . . so scrap that idea. Try to be on time, what you would consider to be on time.'

‘I'm hanging up now,' Rachel had said into the phone.

‘Wait on, what are you wearing?'

She sighed. She was going to have to admit she had given the issue more consideration than usual. She had even gone shopping. Practically unheard of.

‘I bought a new top.'

‘Well, well,' remarked Catherine. ‘Someone's going to a lot of trouble.'

‘Shut up.'

‘So what's it like?'

‘It's green . . . ish. With a kind of pattern.'

‘But what style?'

‘I don't know, little sleeves, v-neck, the sales girl said it was very “in”.'

‘Of course she's going to tell you that,' said Catherine. ‘More important is whether it suits you, Rachel, whether it has the right cut for your particular figure faults. Why didn't you ask me to come shopping with you?'

Because Catherine was the worst person in the world to go shopping with; she wanted to dress Rachel like an uptown lawyer, which suited neither her taste nor her budget. More than once shopping with Catherine she had ended up buying expensive clothes she had never worn.

But Rachel didn't say any of that. She just said, ‘Because I'm the worst person in the world to go shopping with, I know it, and there's no need to put anyone else through the ordeal.'

‘Where did you buy it?' Catherine continued the inquisition.

‘I don't know. From a shop.'

‘Well, I didn't think it was from a roadside stand, though I wouldn't put it past you. Was the “shop” in Westfield at Bondi Junction?'

‘Yep.'

‘Well it's probably okay then.'

‘Thanks for your blessing, but actually I am quite happy with it; it doesn't make me look fat, and I think the colour suits me.'

‘Does it show some cleavage?'

‘I don't have any cleavage, Catherine.'

‘Oh, you do too. Wear a push-up bra.'

‘Like I'd have a push-up bra.'

‘I bought you one last birthday,' she said flatly.

‘Oh.' Whoops.

‘I can see that gift was appreciated,' Catherine harrumphed. ‘Try it, you won't regret it.'

But standing here now, inside the entrance of
sandbar
, Rachel was very much beginning to regret it: not just the push-up bra, but the money she'd wasted on the top, and the whole thing. A rowdy group burst through the door behind her, sweeping her further into the room, into the midst of what seemed like acres of brown skin and bleached hair, very short skirts and even shorter shorts showing off long legs, flat bellies and lots of tattoos. She didn't belong here. Wasn't the whole point of internet dating that you could avoid pick-up places like this?

‘Rachel?'

Her stomach clenched. The voice was right behind her. She turned around slowly. It was him all right.

‘Phil?' she smiled awkwardly.

‘I saw you walk in,' he said. ‘You're even prettier in person.'

Yeah right. Well he was shorter in person, but she probably shouldn't say that.

‘I managed to get us a table,' he said. ‘This way.' She followed him to the far side of the room, weaving around all the taut, tanned, tattooed bodies. He looked his age, and he was dressed a little on the conservative side. What made him choose this place? They arrived at an empty table in the corner.

‘Can I get you a drink?' he asked.

She noticed a half-full glass of beer on the table and remembered one of the ‘first date' tips she'd read on the Rendezvous website.
Don't let him buy all the drinks, in fact, buy your own drinks if you feel at all uncomfortable or uncertain. And while we're on the subject of alcohol, take it easy
.

‘You've already got a drink,' said Rachel. ‘So I'll get this one myself.'

They were lining up three deep at the bar, but Rachel didn't
mind the wait. Give her a chance to gather, regroup, catch her breath . . .

What was wrong with her? Nothing had even happened. God, she was such a coward. Or was she? Wasn't it just the whole setup? It was so artificial. He seemed all right, but how could she really know? This was so much worse than a first date – all the nerves and anxiety, without the initial spark of attraction that had made it seem like a good idea at the time. Instead, you just had all the discomfort of a first date while you were trying to see if there was a spark. It was the wrong way around.

If she could have made a run for it, she would have. But she had to fulfil her part of the deal. She'd entered into a social contract right there, in black and white, on her computer screen, when she agreed to at least meet the man. Rachel wondered if there was a minimum-time clause?

All too soon she was sitting opposite him, nursing her drink, smiling awkwardly as they made their way through the standard repertoire of small talk. How was your Christmas and New Year? Did you have far to come? How did you get here? Traffic? Weather . . .

Shit. Now what?

‘So, have you been on Rendezvous long?' Phil asked.

‘No, that was my first time when you made contact. You're my first date,' she added chirpily.

‘Ah . . . well.' He was nodding, like that meant something.

‘So how about you?' Rachel asked. ‘How long have you been doing this internet dating thing?'

‘Oh, a while,' he nodded again. He nodded a lot, didn't say much though. And he seemed like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Was this the persona he was trying to cultivate? If so, it did nothing for Rachel. She preferred someone a little more upbeat, who could have a laugh at themselves, not take things quite so seriously.

Hmm, maybe she did have a shopping list after all.

‘I'm trying to find my way, you know?' Phil was saying. ‘Life takes us along unexpected paths, we don't always end up where we thought we would.'

‘But don't you think that's half the fun?' said Rachel, trying
to lift the mood. ‘It's one of the things I liked most about travelling . . . not having a plan, going where the road takes you.'

‘What I was trying to say,' Phil resumed, as though her input was merely an interruption, ‘is that with all the best intentions, things just don't always go the way you'd hoped.'

What was he going on about?

‘I loved my wife very much when I married her.'

Here we go.

‘And in my heart of hearts, I intended to be with her till death us do part.' He paused. ‘But is it right to bury all feeling, all desire, all longing to stick to some antiquated rules about what is right?'

Rachel shrugged.

‘We didn't have sex very often.'

And she didn't want to know that!

‘Now we don't at all.'

‘Pardon? Aren't you separated?'

‘Well, yeah, but when you live in the same house –'

‘I'm sorry,' Rachel had to interrupt. ‘You still live with your ex wife?'

‘It's the simplest thing for now, till I figure out what to do. Don't want to upset the applecart before it's absolutely necessary.'

What did that mean?

‘You don't have children, do you?' Rachel thought she should check.

He shook his head. ‘No, but I hope to one day. Very important to me. Not so much to the wife.'

‘You mean your ex wife, don't you?'

‘Well, we haven't made any legal moves,' he explained. ‘Just emotional ones.'

Cripes.

‘We've been moving away from each other for a long time, making our own lives.'

‘So she knows you're on an internet dating site?' said Rachel.

He hesitated. ‘Not as such.'

What the hell did that mean?

‘Do you know where the ladies' is?' Rachel asked suddenly.

‘Oh . . . probably near the men's, I suppose, you have to go up the stairs at the back.'

As Rachel got to her feet, so did he. ‘I'll get you a drink while you're gone. Was that Chardonnay?'

She wanted to say No! I don't want you to get me a drink, I don't want to sit here any longer and listen to your crap. And I certainly don't want to see you again. Ever.

But all she said was ‘Yeah.' Even though it wasn't Chardonnay.

The bathroom was sufficiently far away to give her time to think up a strategy. It was also mercifully empty. Rachel supposed it was still relatively early: the toilets didn't begin to get overcrowded and overwrought till later in the night. She stood at the basins, staring at herself in the mirror. Why couldn't she just be a grown-up and go back to the table and calmly say that it was nice to meet him but she didn't see this going any further. But the idea was anathema to her. This was why she'd ended up married to Sean; she'd never been good at confronting difficult or awkward situations, she'd never learned how. But this guy was a creep; he was basically either looking for a mistress, or for a leg-up out of an unhappy marriage, too gutless to actually leave and risk being on his own. Yet she was the one standing here feeling anxious and awkward and cornered. She should have organised some kind of bail-out plan with the girls – a phone call at a designated time, a secret code, the pretext of some kind of emergency that would require her to leave at once. That was gutless too, and besides, Catherine probably wouldn't have played along, she'd expect her to deal with it, one way or another. Rachel glanced at her watch – how much longer would be considered reasonable? Perhaps just one more drink would do it?

She touched up her lipgloss and flicked back her hair, before taking a deep breath and walking sedately to the door. As she opened it, she saw an incredibly familiar back heading into the men's room opposite.

‘Tom!' she cried.

He spun around. ‘Rach, hey,' he grinned widely, coming towards her. ‘Fancy meeting you here.'

She felt so incredibly relieved she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. ‘I'm so glad to see you, Tom, you have no idea.'

‘What's up?' he said, pulling back to look at her.

She released him then. ‘I'm on this stupid internet date –'

‘What are you doing dating over the internet?' he frowned.

‘It was Catherine's idea,' she dismissed.

‘That'd be right.' He rolled his eyes. ‘You let her push you around too much, Rach, you've got to stand up to her sometimes.'

‘Fine, but that's not going to help me right now,' said Rachel. ‘This guy's a creep, he's married –'

‘Why did you accept a date with a married man?'

‘I didn't know, obviously!' she insisted. ‘He's just gradually let it unfold that he's only “emotionally” separated from his wife. They still live together, and she has no idea that he's internet dating.'

Tom was shaking his head. ‘Dickhead.'

‘I don't know what to do.'

‘Tell him you're not interested in dating someone who's married. It's pretty simple. You do have the moral high ground.'

She bit her lip. ‘I know, I should be able to do that, but I'm hopeless at confrontation.'

‘So nothing's changed, eh?'

She gave him a lame look. ‘Thing is, I don't know anything about this guy, he might get weird, he might follow me after I leave . . . I don't know.'

‘Exactly,' Tom agreed. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, my girl. Internet dating,' he shook his head. ‘Would you like me to help?'