No Gary, No!
My sunglasses are dark, my manner ambiguous. My target is a middle-aged man sitting alone, uneasy in his seat, glancing at his watch and jiggling his leg. The air of expectation surrounding him suggests love or money – internet dating or gambling. Either way, the stakes are high. But after five minutes, half a coffee and no arrivals, I’m thinking I should have chosen the frazzled mother and sulky teen on table five, who are engaged in a mutual whinge-fest. I like to listen, to other people’s conversations.
In the past week, I’ve heard a teenage girl sob over a broken heart, a little boy tell his littler friend about monsters lurking beneath our feet, and a young man ponder why his girlfriend insists on a mid-love-making cigarette. I get these stories for free – every single day.
My target makes a sudden move; he’s spotted his guest and now I have too: she’s his age but cooler, more confident. She knows how to wear a scarf and she’s strutting purposefully towards us. ‘Hello, Gary,’ she says, in such clipped formal tones that I have to stop myself adopting a grade-five voice, hitting Gary on the arm and smirking, ‘Woohoo, who’s in tuh-rubble?’
Gary leans forward to kiss her on the cheek but she buries herself in the menu, leaving him awkwardly balanced over the table. He doesn’t call her by name but, as she is clearly Not Happy, I name her Jan.
Too formal for a married couple, too stilted to be siblings – perhaps colleagues or, could I be so lucky, former lovers?
‘How’s work?’ Gary’s mock-jolly voice has me cringing. The waiter arrives and, instead of answering, Jan orders a short black. She cuts to the chase. ‘What do you want, Gary?’
His leg starts jiggling again and I hold my breath as he blurts out, ‘Can’t we just forget everything and start again?’ Gary relaxes in his chair, pleased with himself.
Jan doesn’t agree. ‘We should talk about the elephant in the room.’ For one tense moment, I worry that she is referring to me and my keen interest in their conversation. I expertly feign lack of interest by sending myself a text message and then smiling indulgently at my own blank SMS. But they haven’t noticed me.
Jan is calm and reasonable. ‘You’ve been part of my life for twenty years; I don’t want that to change. But I can’t pretend nothing happened.’
This is Gary’s opening, a chance to put his case forward, apologise and save the relationship. But my years of eavesdropping tell me that Gary isn’t skilled in the art of awkward conversation. He tries a different approach. ‘What’s the point of talking? It’s not going to change what happened.’
Gary’s blunder sets the entrepreneurial side of my brain buzzing with possibilities. In the emotional sea that is male–female relationships, Gary is clearly rudderless. And he’s surely not the only one. I’ll set myself up as a life coach; I’ll call myself the GirlWhisperer and help fools like Gary navigate their way through these rocky waters. I’ll kit Gary out with an earpiece, secrete myself in a nearby shadowy alcove and feed him his lines: ‘Doing great, Gary – asking about work – perfect. Getting angry – not good, backpedal. Just say, “I’m sorry.” Again – with more conviction. One more time – with eye contact, conviction in the voice and “sorry”.’
But Gary’s huffiness has pushed Jan back into defensive mode. ‘Why did you want to meet if you have nothing to say?’
Still stumped for words, he reaches over and pats her cheek. She pulls back, clearly annoyed. I imagine Gary sitting across from me in the GirlWhisperer office. We will watch the scene in playback on my laptop and I will say, ‘See here, Gary; when you stroke Jan’s cheek, she might find that gesture a little patronising.’ But Gary doesn’t have the GirlWhisperer earpiece or the benefit of slow-motion replay. Judging from his silence and stiff body language, at this point, Gary’s got nothing.
Jan says, ‘I’m sorry, Gaz, I can’t do this.’ She picks up her handbag. ‘I really want us to stay friends.’ She places some money on the table. ‘But if we can’t have an honest discussion ...’ she pushes back her chair, ‘… then I don’t see the point.’ And she stands, and turns and walks away.
Gary shuffles in his seat – he didn’t know what to say; now he doesn’t know what to do. But there’s hope – a special deal at GirlWhisperer today, first session free.
Jan’s almost at the corner; in a moment, she’ll turn and be lost in the lunchtime crowd.
‘Gary,’ I say. He isn’t surprised that a complete stranger knows his name. I take off my sunglasses, make eye contact and offer my advice: ‘Chase her!’
And he does.
Caitlin Crowley is a Melbourne-based writer.
Back
