Less Than Perfect Read online

  ‘Not very – we were taking a corner.’

  ‘How far were you thrown?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few metres.’

  ‘Five? Ten?’

  ‘Three or four, maybe.’

  ‘You weren’t wearing any protective clothing?’

  I look across at Derek, who doesn’t seem inclined to answer any of the paramedic’s questions. He stares angrily back at me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘The bike ride wasn’t planned.’

  The woman grimaces. ‘Those kinds of rides are usually the ones that end up like this.’

  She’s young and attractive. The man, who’s treating Derek, is equally good-looking. They look like part of a TV cast rather than real-life paramedics.

  Gently, she peels back the fabric from my upper arm.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you. These abrasions are quite deep. They need to be looked at by a doctor.’

  ‘I have to go to hospital?’

  ‘Accident and Emergency. I’ll give you some pain relief now. It’s going to hurt when the shock wears off.’

  I nod. It’s already hurting, stabs of pain that have ripple effects in other parts of my body.

  ‘Do you have any allergies?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you taking any other medication?’

  I hesitate and glance at Derek again. ‘No.’

  Through the open doors of the ambulance, I’m aware of the police officers talking to the witnesses and examining the bike. One of the officers comes to the door. He stares at me, his eyes blue and piercing beneath the peak of his hat. ‘Everything okay in here?’

  The male paramedic replies, ‘Yes. We don’t think we need collars – no spine or neck injuries as far as we can tell. But both have deep abrasions that may need grafting.’

  Grafting? Does he mean Derek or me? Suddenly I feel quite queasy and I clamp my hand over my mouth.

  ‘Are you okay?’ It’s the officer. He’s looking at me as though he can see straight through me.

  I nod, breathing deeply until the nausea subsides.

  The officer gives me another long stare before flicking his eyes to Derek. ‘You were the rider of the bike?’

  ‘Yes,’ Derek says abruptly.

  ‘Were you drinking tonight?’

  ‘I had one or two beers.’

  ‘Was it one or two?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Some wine with dinner.’

  ‘How many glasses?’

  ‘Two.’

  The officer’s jaw clenches in irritation. ‘You know, the risks of motorbike riding are high enough without adding alcohol to the mix.’

  Derek doesn’t answer.

  ‘You’re bloody lucky that your injuries aren’t worse.’

  Derek’s eye twitches, his only reaction.

  ‘The hospital will take a blood sample. I’ll speak with both of you later.’

  The officer leaves, the ambulance doors shut, and I’m left alone with Derek. His face is grey, his mouth twisted in a grimace, pain evidently wrestling with anger. He refuses to meet my eyes and it’s clear he holds me fully responsible for the situation we’re in.

  Accident and Emergency is in the throes of its Friday night chaos, complete with screaming fevered toddlers, volatile drunks, teenagers with homemade slings and a stressed triage nurse. We wait while everyone is dealt with in order of priority. I glance intermittently at Derek. It feels as though the silence between us is becoming more unbreachable by the minute. I chew on my lip, praying that Derek will realise that it’s extremely childish and unfair of him to blame it all on me. Maybe he’ll be more reasonable when he’s had time to calm down. Maybe he’ll feel better, more objective, by Monday.

  We wait for close to an hour and then our names are called, Derek’s first, mine a few minutes later. We’re allocated cubicles on opposite sides of the large treatment room, putting an end to any further opportunity to make amends.

  Another wait follows, twenty minutes, before the curtains are swiped back.

  ‘Well, who do I have here?’ asks an accented voice.

  ‘This is Caitlin,’ a nurse replies from behind me. ‘She came off a motorbike tonight.’

  ‘Ah! She was with the other fellow, was she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The doctor looks at me. He’s Indian with caramel skin and dark, assessing eyes. ‘Well, Caitlin, I would like to know everything that happened,’ he says in a bouncy voice. ‘How fast you were travelling, how far you were thrown, if you were able to get up straightaway …’

  I relay the same details I told the paramedic in the ambulance. While I speak, he examines my cuts, his eyes close to the torn skin.

  ‘You are lucky, Caitlin. It is only the superficial layer that is gone. There is no tissue or muscle damage, unlike your friend.’

  ‘You mean Derek?’

  ‘Yes.’ His dark eyes flick up to my face. ‘He will need some grafts on his knee. The nurse will clean and dress your cuts now and you’ll need to visit your GP to have the wounds checked and the dressing changed in a couple of days. I’ll give you a script for antibiotics to prevent infection …’ He straightens and throws me another assessing look. ‘And maybe you will think twice before getting on a motorbike again without appropriate protective clothing!’

  I nod, tears clogging my throat.

  The nurse begins to clean the wounds, flushing them with water and then dabbing gently, staining the white gauze with blood and dirt and specks of gravel. ‘The police want to talk to you,’ she says sympathetically. ‘I told the officer to wait until I’m finished.’ She’s a few years younger than me and looks as though she knows what it’s like to have a fun night end in disaster. ‘What a spunk, though!’

  ‘Who?’ I flinch as she uses a brush to remove some stubborn flecks of gravel.

  ‘The officer.’ She grins. ‘Makes it almost worth it.’

  I don’t agreee and can’t summon even the slightest smile in return.

  She bandages my arm and hip with layers of crêpe and stands back to admire her handiwork. ‘Okay, you’re done! I’ll send him in.’ She smiles, a soft caring smile, the sort a mother would give. ‘Good luck.’

  The police officer is the same one who talked to us earlier. Up close, he’s big, very big, tall and substantial, and I can feel myself shrinking in his presence, becoming even more insignificant than I am. He has his hat off, revealing his features in full: mid-brown hair cut uncompromisingly short, blue eyes set into the deep tan of his face, a symmetrically square jaw which, I already know, clenches when he’s annoyed.

  ‘The nurse says you’re good to go home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Sergeant Blake.’ He slips a hand into his shirt pocket to extract a card. ‘My contact details are here. Now, I need a statement on what happened tonight.’

  I take the card from his outstretched hand and hold it without looking at it. His pen is already poised, waiting to make a formal record of everything I’ve done wrong. I begin to speak, my voice subdued. Once again, I repeat the details of what happened. Some of it he takes down, some not.

  ‘Did you know he’d been drinking?’

  I nod.

  ‘Do you know how dangerous motorcycles are? How many fatalities?’

  Again, I nod.

  He stares down at me, scorn swimming in his blue eyes. ‘Pretty stupid thing to do, wasn’t it? Getting on the back when you knew the driver had been drinking?’

  He’s being deliberately provocative, making sure that I’ve learned my lesson. There’s nothing I can say in my defence. I’ve been incredibly stupid, and as a result I’ve put the proposal and all my hard work in jeopardy. Please God, don’t let five million dollars have just slid through my fingers!

  ‘Yes,’ I answer him in a small voice. ‘It was stupid of me, and clearly the wrong thing to do.’

  *

  It’s after midnight when I get home.
I flick on the lights and immediately see Jeanie’s plastic futuristic-looking suitcase standing in the hallway. My flatmate is home, for at least a few days until she’s required to dash off to the next trouble spot. I’m glad to see the suitcase. I don’t want to talk to her right now – I feel too vulnerable and tired – but it’s good to know she’ll be here in the morning, nursing a coffee and a grin and ready to listen.

  I head for the kitchen and gulp a glass of water at the sink. Still thirsty, I down another glass before swaying to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. My bedroom is as neat and tidy as always, testament in itself to my upbringing. Methodically, I move cushions from the bed to the armchair where they’ll spend the night. Then I coax my limbs into a short, sleeveless nightdress. Sitting on the side of the bed, I’m at last able to give my body what it needs. I wince at the sting of the needle: I’ve hit a bad spot. Still, I welcome the added pain. I’m in control of it. And it’s utterly deserved.

  Turning off the bedside lamp, I slip gratefully under the covers and fall asleep within minutes.

  The next morning I wake to the sound of a poorly tuned radio and Jeanie’s singing. I smile sleepily; there’s never any mistaking that Jeanie’s home – if the radio or telly aren’t blaring, then she’s usually yakking on the phone or banging and clattering in the kitchen. The noise and bustle that follows her around only seem to accentuate her calm and collected personality.

  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.

  Chapter 13

  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.