Searching for Perfection

"It's frustrating. Bridget feels chained to her desk sometimes and under-appreciated."

"Must be hard for someone so active?" Rob adds. "She's a long way from the AIS now."

Judith gives a questioning look. "AIS?"

"Australian Institute of Sport," I say. "Bridget earned a scholarship there when she was in her late teens."

"I don't know why Ricky's so modest about Bridget's achievement," Rob says. "She was Hockeyroo, played for Australia!"

Again, Judith isn't quite sure, asking, "Hockeyroo?"

"The Australian women's field hockey team," I answer. "Um, Bridget was selected for the team back when she was a teenager. She played for a couple of years, but, ahh, a few reoccurring injuries kept her sidelined."

Kept her from selection for both the Commonwealth and Olympic Games. Bridget wouldn't want me to tell, because it's her story and she doesn't like to tell it.

"It was all before she met me," I add.

With a slight chuckle, Rob says, "She finished in Canberra and came home to Brissy, took one look at Rick at a party and they lived happily ever after. Weird though, because she's such a hottie and he's clearly a nottie."

"Ha!" I laugh, seeing the twinkle in Rob's eye, failing to think of a comeback that wouldn't jeopardise his new relationship with Judith.

"Aww, come on," Judith says, "Rick's a good looking fellow, and the way he and Bridget slow-danced at Erica's wedding after all the energetic swing dancers was so cute to watch."

"If I recall rightly," Rob says with a grin, "I think there was even kissing involved."

Judith smiles. "There totally was, you two were cuter than Erica and Theo by then, but don't tell them I said so!"

"Jesus, I doubt it." I don't like all this talk of me and Bridget, so change the topic. "But you two were having a grand old pash when you met up just now. So, tell me, this is...exciting!"

Rob and Judith look to one another, both grinning. They're in love, I can see it. I love it. Truly. They turn to me and Judith says, "I know Robbie's a bit of a bad boy, but I'm a sucker for bad boys."

I laugh and Rob snorts. "Bad boy! Where do you get this impression, Jude?"

"Your ex, for one."

"Ah," Rob nods with a frown, and he looks at me. "Fuck Ruby's a piece of work. She met Jude recently when she brought the boys over."

"Don't listen to Ruby," I tell Judith, who nods at my advice. "Rob's not perfect, but of course Ruby is biased."

"What'd'you mean I'm not perfect," Rob says, grinning, giving me a little kick under the table.

"Meh," I grin and wink, "No one's perfect, dude, least of all you."

"Don't worry, Robbie," Judith replies, "I've told you I've figured Ruby out pretty quickly. I know you're not perfect, Hun, but like I said, I like bad boys."

Rob gives her a grin. "Don't be too disappointed this weekend when I turn into a cuddly teddy bear rather than a bad boy."

Bunging on an extra cutsey voice, Judith says, "You already are my cuddly honey bear."

"Ah, Jesus Christ you two make me sick," I laugh. They laugh, share a kiss, then Judith offers to buy a third round of drinks. I should say no...but I don't. Rob offers to help her, which she refuses, and he watches her walk through the lunch throng to the bar, making me smile now. "This is great, Rob. Judith's great, I'm happy for you mate."

"Thanks, mate, I knew you would be."

"So, you two going away this weekend?"

He gives me a sly look. "Booked an Airbnb down the coast near Byron. Driving down first thing in the morning, and the way Jude is, I can't see us doing much outside the bedroom. Between you and me, she's insatiable."

"Lucky you!" I give him a wink. "I hope you've packed your Viagra, mate?"

He laughs. "Don't you worry about me, old mate, I'm as vigorous as ever. I tell you what though, it's more than sex between us, and I know you're one of the few blokes I can talk to who'd understand. It's not like it was with Ruby, and if it weren't for me boys, who you know I love more than anything, I sometimes think I should've walked away from Ruby before things became serious between us."

"Dude, you've gotta stop looking backwards. Look to the future. Judith's great. Just don't screw it up."

"You know me," he says, almost with a sigh, "I've screwed every relationship I've been in. But this is different. She's the one, man. I know it."

I raise my eyebrows, having never heard Rob speak this way, not even about Ruby in their early days. I can't help smiling. "Mate, I am so happy for you."

"Yeah, thanks, mate." There's a moment of silence between us, the voices of twenty or more conversations around us combining into a cacophony of sound. Rob breaks the silence, saying, "You and Bridge doing anything this weekend?"

"Kids sport in the morning," I say, nodding. "Then we're heading up Mapleton way to Bridget's Aunty and Uncle's fiftieth wedding anniversary celebrations."

Rob lets out a whistle. "Fiftieth anniversary! What is it, gold or silver or something?"

"Gold, mate."

"Jesus." He folds his arms and chuckles. "I reckon it'll be you and Bridge one day, mark my words. If anyone's gonna make it, it's you two."

"Anything's possible, mate," I say, suddenly thinking, unsolicited doubts creeping in for whatever reasons they do. So many of my friends parting ways with their partners, other's expressing dissatisfaction with their relationships. And Rob here, in the early days of love with Judith, kissing and loving and wanting to spend whole weekends in bed together.

But we all start out this way with our new loves, kissing and loving and yearning for one another's company...

"What's that look for, mate?" Rob asks.

Shaking my head, I answer, "Nothing, really. I was thinking how nice it is to see you enthusiastic about a relationship. It's been a while."

He gives me a grin. "Yeah, I'm stoked, ay. Didn't think it would happen again, and suddenly it happened. It's good to be active in the bedroom again, too."

Chuckling, I say, "Active in the bedroom is code for sleeping, right?"

He also chuckles. "Surely you're getting more than just sleep in the bedroom, old mate? The way you two were dancing at Erica's wedding reception the other month, I imagine you and Bridge are pretty active in the bedroom, if you know what I mean."

"I hope you're not trying to imagine it," I jest, thinking, You'd be surprised to learn the night of Erica's wedding was the last time Bridget and I had sex, but I'm not telling him or anyone.

Rob's still grinning and says, "Look at your face, mate, I knew it. You and Bridge, solid as a fuckin' slab of granite."

"Are you bragging about your hard slab again," Judith says, slowly placing our drinks on the table.

"Sorry, Princess," Rob says, his voice genuinely apologetic, "I should be paying more attention and helped you carry those."

"I'm perfectly capable," she replies, pushing his hand away. "But you can help me later when we get back to your place and also down the coast tomorrow."

We laugh, clink glasses, drinking and talking into the warm afternoon.

~0~

Drinking three pints was a mistake. I'm here, finally back in the office at two in the arvo, sitting at my desk regretting the beers and parmi I'd consumed. But it was great to catch up with Rob, and Judith was an amazing surprise. I'm so happy for them and can't wait to tell Bridget. For now though, I guess there's work to be done.

But I can hardly keep my eyes open and think I might put my head down on my desk, except the glazed office walls mean everyone can see me...

"Knock, knock." It's Amanda, saying knock, knock rather than knocking. At least she announces her arrival at my tiny office rather than some colleagues who barge in and start talking at me. Perhaps I should close my door sometimes.

Looking up, I say, "Hey, Mandy, what's up."

She stops, considering me for a moment, then whispers, "You have ketchup and cheese on your shirt."

Looking down I discover I do indeed have a small dollop of melted cheese and parmigiana sauce clinging to my middle buttons against blue cotton. My shirt stretches there, and I think of my lunch and drinks, and fuck me I'm bloated and tired.

"Rick?" Amanda's voice is almost a whisper, and when I look into her eyes I can see sympathy, or perhaps surprise. Or is it disgust?

"Amanda, I'm sorry, I drank a few too many beers with my friend at lunch. I'm a little...you know."

The look on her face is priceless, but what can I say, she's actually a great boss and a genuine friend, proving this now, saying, "I was going to ask you'd read over a draft policy document for next week, but I'm going to give you the afternoon off. You deserve it. Go home and freshen up, okay?"

Closing my eyes, I feel my face burning. "Give me an hour, I have some things to attend to. I'll grab a coffee and can read your document."

"No, I think you've definitely earned the afternoon off."

"Thanks, Mandy."

"Don't mention it."

One thing I can say for sure is I'm glad Amanda's not frowning.

~0~

Falling asleep on the bus and missing my stop was pretty fucked. I punished myself by alighting four kilometres past my home, walking all the way back. Thank the local council for their grotty bunker-like public dunny at the park along the way, otherwise I think I'd've pissed me pants.

But now I'm home, crashing onto the couch, not wanting to get up. But the dogs are scratching at the back door, whining a little, and the place's a fuckin' mess, mostly Jordan's and the dog's toys, and there's dog hair everywhere. Bridget and little Bridget, aka Ebony, would not be pleased, neat freaks they can be.

Yet even my spotlessly tidy girls think hair ties and bobby pins are free range in this house, and going by the amount of the little elastic and plastic bastards and pins I find around the place I'd say this is true. And now Jordan's grown his hair he's even getting in on the act, using hair ties too and I'm sure some of these are his.

Seriously, fellas, grow your hair as long as you like, I mean I did when I was a young surfie teenager, but what's with fucking man buns? Don't tie your hair into man buns, just fucking don't.

Right, vacuum time, filling its bin and filter with dog hair and the hair ties and bobby pins I'd missed during my not-so-thorough search.

"Okay, puppies," I say to excited Arrow and Peggy after I've tidied their mess, "This house isn't so messy now and please don't shed anymore. Thanks."

They appear to smile, wagging their tails in response, Peggy cocking her head in an especially cute pose. I stand aside and they're past me, through the back door into the house to shed hair all over the place. Oh and look, a massive stinking turd at the edge of the paved courtyard where it meets the lawn. Great, it's Peg's I bet. Arrow has his toilet spot in the corner of the garden beds, which he uses religiously. Whatever, I'll search and clean them all up.

At quarter-to-four I imagine Bridget should be home with the kids any moment. I feel like shit and look like shit and smell like shit, so jump in the shower and wash the shitiness away. I'm long sober too, the kip on the bus and forty minute walk helping, plus a big glass of water, and soon I'm dressed again, the dogs running to the front door, tails wagging, excited voices on the other side, the door opening and the kids and dogs are greeting one another, Bridget standing behind them, catching my eye.

And damn her smile is the most beautiful smile in this whole wide world, like she's genuinely happy to see me, and she says, "An early mark! It's a miracle!" Not even with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

I can't help the sheepish grin forming on my lips, my secret shame of being sent home for having a few too many drinks at lunch burning on my conscience. Before I answer, the kids finally notice me, both yelling, "Daddy!" and surging forward, Jordan saying, "We're going to the park, you can play soccer with me!"

Giving my kids a cuddle, which is more a case of them trying to crash tackle me to the floor, I note Bridget is carrying several shopping bags through the front door while two dogs vie for her attention and pats. "Here, my love, I'll give you a hand."

"I've got it, Honey," she replies, because of course she does.

We do the things, Bridget taking the grocery shopping to the kitchen, me helping her put the items away, the kids pestering their mother to go to the park like she promised. I feel a million times better than when I took the bus home, and walked the four kays after missing my stop, but I still feel heavy and generally yuk. Bridget, however, looks tired and harassed, despite her smiles and cheerful attitude. After all these years together I know her ways, I can see little cues of irritation, nothing too overt, but she tells the kids to find things to do while she's busy sorting the shopping, and she's lining the produce up in the fridge and cupboards with ruler-like precision, everything looking neat and perfect. Maybe not so perfect to her though, because cans and bottles need to line up with their labels facing front. Catching her eyes, I say, "I'll take them to the park if you want a break."

"Oh, we can all go when we're done here," she says, matter of fact. "Ebb wants to do some drag and elimination drills."

"Great, I'll kick the ball around with Jordan."

Jordan and I harness the dogs while Bridget changes into her sports active wear, then she and Ebony appear with their hockey sticks, where Ebony wants to run to the park, but Jordan doesn't. The girls take Peggy and run off down the footpath, while Arrow pulls on his lead until he realises he's not the spring chicken he once was when he'd run with both Bridget and me.

Yep, you heard correctly, I used to run with Bridget and Arrow. Don't look so surprised, because I'm sure I've mentioned I used to run. Now days I think both Arrow and I would have simultaneous heart attacks if we tried to keep up with Bridget.

We arrive at the park, the very same park with the grotty toilet block on my walk of shame earlier, saving me from bladder agony and further embarrassment. Despite the filthy but silent witness to my poor decisions, the park's quite nice and the playing field grass is well mown and maintained, ringed by lemon-scented gums, jacarandas and ponciana trees, with park benches in their shade.

There's a synthetic cricket pitch in the centre of the playing field which makes an excellent surface for Bridget and Ebony to practice hockey drills, which they're already at, while Peggy is at the end of her lead, wanting to be involved, but Bridget's placed our dog stake to keep her out of reach of the pitch.

Good old Arrow's stuffed by now, and he lays near the sideline while I kick the ball to Jordan and he starts dribbling it towards me, taking it around me and kicking it through the goal posts with an exaggerated cheer. When he runs to fetch the ball I watch Bridget and Ebony do their thing, wielding hockey sticks and ball like extensions of their arms.

I feel pride. Great pride. Look at Bridget, my wife, my beautiful talented wife. And Ebony, our beautiful talented daughter, dragging the ball around her mother like a pro, but I'm sure Bridget's letting her get past because this is training. No need to go hard on the kid, she's only nine. But she's talented like her mum and I bet Bridget was running these same drills when she was nine, dragging the ball back and forth, smooth and fast as you like. I can hear Bridget saying something to Ebony, it sounds like encouragement, and they're both smiling, hockey sticks held high at one point in some triumphant gesture, my girls in their element. This is so good to watch.

My legs almost buckle with stinging impact, and it takes me a second to realise it's the soccer ball slamming into me behind the knee, and Jordan calls out, "Come on, Daddy, focus!"

"Okay, mate," I say, turning to him, kicking the ball more than dribbling, charging towards him now, "Let's go, see what you've got."

Jordan has quite a lot, as it turns out, charging in and taking the ball from me, then spinning about and booting a goal. To be fair I never played much soccer, being more a Rugby League kind of guy, which is the game we mostly played as kids. Played League all the time back in school and then on weekends into my mid-twenties, but you wouldn't know it now, because after running around with Jordan for more than a few minutes I am absolutely shattered and consider collapsing next to Arrow over there near the sideline.

"I have to take a break, mate," I tell my son. He looks disappointed, and I'll be honest, so am I. I'm bloody unfit, ay. Like, over five or six years ago I regularly ran many kilometres while pushing Jordan in his stroller, and now, I can hardly run the soccer ball around the penalty square in front of the goals without running out of breath.

Walking with Arrow to the sideline, I sit on a bench under the trees, Arrow flopping at my feet while I watch Jordan set up his multi-coloured plastic cones to dribble the ball around. I note Ebony's on her own now, and some goddess is walking towards me, a dog at her side, but I can't make their features out because the sun is low behind them, making me squint.

"Oh, it's you," I say, smiling.

"Did Jordy wear you out, old man?"

"What's this old man business? I've only got five years on you."

Now Bridget's out of line with the sun and I can see her face, and she smiles. "But you're streaking ahead from me."

"Probably the only thing I'm ahead of you in," I mutter.

She sits to my left, Peggy coming over for pats. "Jordan's doing well with his dribbling drills. Nice to see him self-motivated for once."

"Gets it from you, of course."

"You say that like it's a bad thing?"

I can hear it in Bridget's voice, the slightest hint of hurt, and I know she genuinely thinks the meaning of my words were meant as a sarcastic barb, something she does for some reason I can never fathom apart from the fact I'm often sarcastic. I suppose I can see how my words sometimes sound flippant but they weren't meant to hurt, and in fact, they were a genuine compliment. "Not at all, Bridge. Our kids get so much prowess and dedication to training from you. Like, I love it. I really do."

Bridget gives a slight chuckle and I know she knows she'd over reacted and is probably mentally chastising herself. Only slightly, it's all good, where this is us, not our first misunderstanding and it definitely won't be our last. "I think Ebb's way ahead of where I was at her age."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I do. Why are you surprised?"

"I don't know, because, like, you're a superstar."

"Pfft," Bridget snorts. "I'm no superstar. She will be, though. All ways searching for perfection and getting frustrated if she makes a little mistake, then repeating her drills till she can do it twenty times without fault. We have to somehow teach her to..."

I wait a moment, letting Bridget continue, watching our daughter drag the ball between her feet, flicking the hockey stick side to side, quick as a flash. Bridget doesn't continue and I ask, "Teach her to, what? Lighten up?"

Bridget's looking at me now, I can tell because she's shifted in my periphery, where she's reaching up to remove her hair tie, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. "She takes hockey so seriously."

"Because you took it seriously?" I quickly add, "And I don't mean too seriously in a bad way. She wants to be like you."

"She's never seen me play at an elite level. Only photos. And I've never pushed her like Dad pushed me. Drilling like she does is something she initiated, not me."

"I've never seen you play at an elite level either, except the videos, which she's also seen, and she's seen your old Hockeyroos uniform, and she knows you played at the highest level. You inspire her, Bridge. It's great, you inspire her like a mum should."