Avoiding Mr Right Read Online Free PDF

walked away.
    I made my way down the concourse and up the
escalators to the QANTAS Club, and suddenly I felt
excited again. Going to the QANTAS Club was what all
the bourgeois Blacks were doing these days. I'd even heard
that a handful belonged to the so-called secret 'Chairman's
Club' as well. I didn't expect I'd ever be part of that, but
I was certainly looking forward to the bar and to chilling
out in peace before future flights. Work had made me a
corporate member because of the travel I'd be doing. I
showed my card and boarding pass and sauntered in like it
was somewhere I was meant to be.
    I looked at my watch: it was one pm. Somewhere in the
world it was the right time to have a drink and that was
good enough for me. I didn't want to look like a cheap lush,
so didn't just go to the self-serve wine bar, but took a leaf
out of Alice's old book – before she met Gary and could
booze on – and ordered a gin'n'tonic from the nicely
uniformed young man behind the bar.
    Then I slowly passed by the food counter. Cold meats,
cheeses, salads, rice crackers, nuts, corn chips, and an
espresso machine. I was so confused and oddly anxious,
I thought I'd grab a coffee as well, even though I hadn't
found a table or had a sip of my gin yet. I stood perplexed
for a moment, not knowing where to stick the cup, and a
middle-aged man in a navy pinstripe suit gently moved my
hand and cup under the spout for the burst of hot water and
steam. I liked the QANTAS Club already.
    Next I grabbed a magazine and newspaper. Anyone
would've thought I'd never even flown before. I was like
a child at a carnival who had to do everything at once,
immediately. I found a table with four lounge chairs and
only one taken.
    'Do you mind if I share?' I asked a casual-looking guy
reading the entertainment pages of the day's broadsheet.
    I sipped my coffee and my gin'n'tonic – which didn't turn
out to be as pleasant as having just one or the other – and
pretended to read as I scanned the spacious lounge. Plasma
screens with sports and the news and TV screens with flights
departing, delayed, boarding and arriving. Businesspeople
in suits with laptops and BlackBerries, couples going on
holidays, a sports group of some description all wearing
the same tracksuit, and families. Too many families. It
wasn't as peaceful as I thought it would be, but I wasn't
complaining. I was on my way to my new life in my new
city and my new job.
    I got up and roamed the NewsLink bookstore, thinking
I should read more and get my finger on the pulse. With
my background in the education sector I had some idea
about specific books used in the classroom, and I was
aware that more and more storytellers and artists were
going into schools and doing workshops these days, but
I really needed a better grounding in everything from
the history of the Indigenous visual arts movement to
the latest books released. I'd heard of the Miles Franklin
Award winner Alexis Wright, but when I found her epic
novel Carpentaria I was daunted by its size. With all the
policy papers I'd read of a night in my old job, I hardly
ever had time to read novels, and never read anything the
size of this one. As I continued to scan the shelves with Carpentaria under my arm, I wondered to myself whether
Wright's book would've been on the shelf of a mainstream
shop if it hadn't won the award. Or would it have been
relegated to the 'Australiana' section like other books by
and about Blackfellas? I made some notes to myself in my
diary to be followed up when I started work.
    I went back to my table with another drink, my book,
and some food, certain I was about to drop something. The
same guy was still there and looked at me with sympathy
as I tried to crouch and set everything down at the same
time.
    'Let me help you,' he offered, taking the mags and
paper from under my arm and placing them on the small,
heavy table.
    'Thank you. Looks a little greedy,