‘You no good with a drill, then?’ he asked finally. ‘Cos I think it’s going to be your only option.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m more likely to drill the cat than the wall.’
‘I could give you a hand, maybe,’ he offered. ‘I’m quite good at that stuff. If you live around here?’
‘Oh, um, thanks,’ I said. I could feel myself blushing again, and my awareness of it only made me blush even more. ‘That’s really nice of you, but . . . I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
Anthony shrugged and smiled again, but I was desperate to escape the moment, so I dropped the package I was currently holding into my basket – it was, unfortunately, the deluxe model – and ran for the tills. ‘You, um, have a good day!’ I offered over my shoulder as I escaped. I did not look back. I was hating myself for running away even before I had realised that was what I was doing.
I was still single, after all. Being normally constituted, I was also gagging for my romantic life to begin and, at thirty-three years old, this was indisputably overdue. But Dad’s illness had punched a hole in all our lives. For the longest time, everything had been put on hold and, in my case, this included being able to cope with the complication of a man in my life or indeed developing any sense of self-confidence that would enable me to chat one up. Sometimes I even feared that my childhood had somehow left me broken, and that I’d never be able to have a meaningful relationship. Anyway, the moment had begun to feel excruciating and I had run. It was pathetic, I knew it, but it hadn’t felt like a choice.
Once outside, I began to chide myself, muttering, ‘Stupid, stupid woman!’ as I marched through the drizzle towards the bus stop, yet by the time I got home with my pointless purchase – even if I’d known how to drill holes in the wall tiles, I didn’t have a drill – objectivity was setting in. Anthony had been out of my league anyway. There was no way that an athletic, red-headed alpha male in an expensive suit would be interested in little old me, so why worry about it? Oh, he’d flirted with me all right, but men like that will flirt with anything in a skirt, just to prove that they can. I knew from experience that the story would have ended at the precise moment Anthony felt he’d succeeded, at the exact moment I’d succumbed to his indisputable charm.
I don’t think I’m being falsely modest here, either. I’m just being honest and objective by stating that I’m a very ordinary woman. I know that’s an unfashionable thing to say these days; I know we’re supposed to big up just how unique and fabulous we all are, but I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to admit that I’m nothing special.
I’m a small woman, a smidgin under five feet tall, and of average intellect. I did neither well nor particularly badly at school and my parents were neither rich nor poor. My hair isn’t bombshell blonde nor sultry black but brown (‘mousy’ is the technical term, I believe), and it’s neither straight nor frizzy but a special kind of wavy that looks unkempt in virtually all circumstances. My eyes are a not unpleasant aqueous colour that can look blue, or green, or grey, depending on the weather and what I’m wearing. Anyway, you get the picture: I’m pretty unexceptional and I’ve known that for as long as I can remember.
Viking descendants like Anthony, on the other hand, are exceptional, so it didn’t seem to take a genius to work out that he was not destined for me.
The tall, square-shouldered, beautifully dressed men might eye up women like me occasionally – for kicks, or out of habit. But the women they date – even more so the women they marry – are, and always have been, those same girls we both envied and hated at school: the ones with the tiny waists and the perfectly aligned teeth; the ones whose fathers bought them cars for their eighteenth birthdays. In short, men like Anthony choose the same girls, the ones who always got picked first for netball practice back in the day. And there’s no point complaining about it because that’s just how life is.
The next time I saw Anthony was outside the cinema ten days later.
I was queuing with my friend Sheena, a cheeky nurse from work who I got on really well with. We were waiting to see a film with Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman. It was an icy-cold January day, but for the time being the forecast rain remained thankfully absent.
‘How’s the bog roll holder?’ a voice asked, and I turned to see Anthony standing on the pavement beside me. He was wearing pointy, shiny shoes and a full-length woollen overcoat, the kind of thing American lawyers wear in films.
‘Oh, hello!’ I said, flushing with my habitual embarrassment.
‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Did you get it done?’
‘It’s, um, still in the box,’ I admitted.
Sheena was looking at me questioningly, silently waiting to be introduced, so I sent her a complex stare that was supposed to communicate the fact that I’d explain everything later.
But Sheena had no intention of being left out. ‘Hello, I’m Sheena,’ she said, fluttering her lashes, despite the fact that she’d been in a relationship with her partner for almost a decade.
Anthony dragged his attention from me and shook her hand briefly, then glanced in my direction again. ‘You should have let me fix it for you,’ he said. ‘I did offer.’
‘Are you coming to see Australia with us?’ Sheena asked, pouting slightly and subtly pushing one hip out. Her flirting was starting to annoy me.
‘Um?’ Anthony said. ‘Oh, no! No, I
