Page 1 of What Did I Miss?

The day after Makayla’s divorce is official, she points to a stranger at the bar and says, ‘That’s the guy I want to go home with.’

Might as well start single life with a bang.

His shirt is hospital-white clean, and she finds herself wondering which laundry detergent he uses.

Not that she’s going to ask. It’s a good indicator of hygiene, that’s all.

He mustn’t have herpes or whatever diseases are going around these days.

Why is it wrinkle-free? Is he domesticated or does he still live with his parents?

Stop overthinking this.

Across the table sits her self-appointed wing-woman, Cece.

Having recently stopped breastfeeding, Cece is gulping shiraz like it’s water.

She checks her phone every few minutes for updates on her thirteen-month-old.

Months are important, apparently. Makayla holds her tongue.

Things between them will be better once Cece returns to work at Goldbrooke Secondary College next week.

They’ll fall into their usual rhythm in no time. Hopefully.

Cece coming out with her tonight is a promising start.

Like Makayla could stop her. As soon as she mentioned her plan to celebrate her newfound freedom with a one-night stand, Cece changed out of a smock dress with daisies and into one with polka dots – her version of fancy.

She also googled swish city venues with overpriced drinks to deter ‘weirdos’ and ‘scumbags’.

That’s how they ended up in an underground room packed with more concrete than a Doomsday bunker.

Glints of gold ricochet off low-hanging light fixtures, and the space is decked out with emerald-green velvet stools that feel as plush as they look.

Patrons order chardonnay instead of ‘chardy’ and greet each other with air kisses.

Makayla normally wouldn’t be caught dead in a wanky place like this.

Which means it’s perfect for picking up someone she’ll never see again.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Cece squints through her clear-framed glasses.

‘Absolutely.’ Makayla swallows a pretentious cider and her nerves.

‘It’s not too late to change your mind. The other week I watched a documentary about a woman who went on a date and disappeared for ten years. Turns out she was locked in a basement. What if you get abducted? I’ll never forgive myself.’

‘No one in Australia has a basement. Things like that only happen in the States.’ Makayla checks that she packed her Rexona to use as a pepper spray. If that doesn’t slow him down, she’ll whack him with her bag. ‘Besides, I need to tick something off my list.’

She glances at the napkin they scribbled on earlier. Amid fits of giggles, they compiled a list of the fundamental experiences Makayla missed out on in her early twenties. That’s what she gets for marrying her high-school dud.

‘I don’t expect you to go through with it,’ Cece says. ‘Isn’t it too soon? Why don’t you come home with me and we’ll watch The Princess Diaries ?’

‘I’m about to turn thirty, and I’ve only been with one man.

’ Makayla’s index finger shoots up. ‘One! Everyone goes on and on about these so-called orgasms. Waz couldn’t find his way around my body with a map.

I bet that guy doesn’t need directions.’ The handsome stranger’s ability to match his tan belt and shoes puts him miles ahead of Warren.

‘How do you know he’s single?’ Cece whispers, like they’re on a stakeout.

‘Because he gave me the look when he walked past.’

Cece winces. Fair enough. What would Makayla know? She started dating her ex-husband when they were sixteen. As far as she’s aware, no one has looked at her since. Will they start now? Makayla peeks over her shoulder in case someone else has caught his eye. There’s nothing but empty chairs.

‘I want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.’ Cece uses her annoying responsible adult voice. What happened to the hype girl who insisted she add pole dancing to the list?

‘You don’t know what it’s like to be stuck in a relationship with regrets,’ Makayla argues. ‘You already knew who you were when you met Jimmy. It’s time for me to find out what I’ve been missing, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to straddle that stud over there. Are you with me or not?’

‘In that case, I fully support your sweaty endeavours.’ Unable to switch off from mum mode, Cece adds, ‘Please be safe.’

Makayla stands, and her legs wobble like a Jenga tower.

She tousles her fringe and frees the strands of chocolate-brown hair trapped under her leather jacket.

It’s real leather, not that she’d admit that to anyone.

Her guilt is eased by the knowledge that it’s a family heirloom.

Well, sort of. It was her aunt’s. Quinn bought it after leaving her deadbeat partner as a symbolic pat on the back.

When Makayla and Warren separated, she gave it to Makayla, who wears it like a badge of honour.

It doesn’t hurt that she looks badass in it.

She smooths down her satin dress nervously, feeling strange to be wearing something other than her usual ripped jeans.

She’s not conforming to the ridiculous idea that women need to be feminine to appear attractive.

It’s merely a practical choice – a dress will provide easy access in case she has a quickie in the bathroom.

Then at least she’ll be home early enough to rewatch a few episodes of Dexter before bed.

Sliding in beside him at the marble-top bar, she sneaks a glance and is struck by his well-groomed beard. All Warren could grow was bumfluff.

She takes a breath and immediately inhales his wood-burning scent, which does absolutely nothing to stop her thighs shaking.

Is it cologne or does he have a fireplace they can have tantric sex in front of?

Not that she knows what that is exactly, or if she’s flexible enough to do it. Should she add it to her list?

A bartender places three beers down without spilling a drop before moving on to the next order. The way they shake and pour like it’s a choreographed dance, they’d probably take offence at being called a mere bartender. Maybe ‘mixologist’ is a better term.

When the guy (the one she has to sleep with) stretches his fingers around the pints to return to his mates, Makayla’s stomach somersaults. Say something – anything.

‘Parma or parmi?’ she squeaks.

‘Excuse me?’

A nervous chuckle escapes Makayla as his gaze lands on her.

A normal person would’ve said hello. Not Makayla. Nope, she had to bring up crumbed chicken.

It’s her colleague’s fault. Yesterday, in the South Wing staffroom, they had a heated discussion about the correct way to shorten ‘parmigiana’. Great, I’m never getting laid.

‘Don’t worry. Enjoy your ni—’ She curses her strappy heels for slowing her getaway.

‘Parma!’

The response draws curious glances from a nearby group of women in glitzy outfits, who frankly gawk at the hotness of the guy.

Turning around, Makayla finds him smiling at her with his powder-blue eyes. It isn’t the look he gave her earlier. This is the kind of look you give a baby turtle that’s stuck on its back.

‘Cats or dogs?’ He tilts his head, inviting her to return.

Does he feel sorry for her, or is he also as bad as she is at this whole flirting thing?

She inches back towards the bar, placing one careful foot in front of the other so she doesn’t look like a toddler trotting around in Mummy’s stilettos. Her pinched toes crave the comfort of Doc Martens.

‘That’s easy, dogs. Cats are evil.’

He laughs. It’s light, yet genuine. Already she wants to hear it again.

She’s seen enough ‘love yourself first’ social media posts to know she really shouldn’t care what he thinks about her.

But she does. And she really doesn’t want him to see her as the quirky lady who surveys strangers about pub meals or takes cheap shots at pets.

Makayla wants him to picture her naked. Especially now that she’s had laser hair removal. It’s like a slip ’n slide down there.

With that in mind, she asks, ‘On top or underneath?’, raising her eyebrows to make it clear she isn’t referring to bunk beds. Immediately, she regrets going there so soon. How forward is too forward?

‘I’d like to stare up at those hazel eyes.’

Is he an optometrist, or is she in? Either way, the attention to detail is refreshing.

Warren would have said her eyes were brown.

He didn’t notice things like that. Christ, he didn’t even comment when she returned from the hairdresser with wispy bangs.

And if he had, it wouldn’t have made her tingle in places that have cobwebs.

Removing his keys from his pocket, BMW keyring on full display ( show-off ), he asks, ‘My place or yours?’

Doing it in a bed instead of up against a hand-dryer sounds more appealing.

But there’s no way she’s going to risk him spending the night and snoring like a wildebeest. Not a chance.

They’ll go back to his, and before they arrive, she’ll ask him if he has a basement.

If he does, she’s willing to commando roll out of a moving vehicle.

‘Yours.’ Pre-empting the next question, she presses a finger to his lips. ‘No names.’

The No Regrets List

In no particular order:

Get a tattoo

Have a one-night stand ?

Take a pole dancing class

Try out a new hairstyle

Travel

Have a holiday hook-up

Meet someone on a dating app

Speak in another language

Attend a speed dating session

Buy lingerie

Climb the career ladder

Go skinny dipping

‘Not really,’ Makayla responds when someone asks if she did anything exciting during term one break.

Standing at the sticky bench of the staffroom, she swirls a cup of instant coffee.

It’s bitter and crappy like Jeffrey, the smarmy principal who won’t let them get a pod machine.

‘We don’t have the budget for such luxuries,’ he had the gall to say, leaning back in his cushy office chair that still smelled of new leather.

Makayla releases a heavy sigh. Monday morning briefings are going to suck without Cece.

An art teacher, Cece is returning tomorrow as one of the lucky part-timers.

Last year, Jeffrey denied Makayla’s request to drop to four days a week.

She couldn’t tell him why she needed respite, and besides, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

At Goldbrooke Secondary College, you can only reduce your days if you’ve expelled a watermelon-sized human from your body and have the stretch marks to prove it.

Makayla swats the notion away before it can settle and focuses instead on the multiple orgasms she hadn’t known she could have.

Her mind keeps drifting back to the stranger from the bar who asked her what she liked.

She didn’t know at first. How could she, when she’d starfished her way through marriage?

It wasn’t long before she found her voice though, and told him to get on his knees and put his tongue to good use.

He did. Right there at the front door of his inner-city apartment.

At one point, Makayla thought she was levitating.

‘What are you smiling about?’ Rongo’s words cut through the haze. His high pitch doesn’t match the burly frame he squeezes into an endless wardrobe of polo tops. An ex-pat from New Zealand, his pronunciation of ‘six’ sends his maths students into hysterics.

Makayla shrugs off the question and follows him over to the table at the back where they always sit.

They’re surrounded by sullen faces, all dreading another long term that three months per year of holidays can’t make up for.

It’s highly unlikely anyone else here almost broke a headboard on Saturday night.

She’s pretty sure Agnes, a pint-sized woman in her sixties who dresses her cocker spaniels like babies, didn’t scream, ‘Harder!’ while an obedient hunk banged her from behind.

No way. Makayla is sure she’s the only person in this room who had a spicy hook-up, and she can’t wait for it to happen again.

Soon. Not with the same guy; there’ll be no repeats. Anonymous is the way to go.

Jeffrey clears his throat as he points to the agenda scribbled on a whiteboard. The sleek navy suit isn’t fooling anyone; he’s the most useless principal they’ve ever had.

‘Settle down, people. We’ve got a lot to get through.’ He sweeps a hand through his jet-black hair, which is gelled to his head like a Lego character.

Jeffrey starts with proposed curriculum changes, which are met with unsubtle groans.

Every few years, the education department mandates changes that do nothing but increase teachers’ workload.

They spruik it to the masses with buzzwords like ‘pedagogical innovation’.

Everyone knows they’re just old programs repackaged – everyone except new graduates, who don’t understand why the dinosaurs won’t embrace change.

Makayla admires their delusional optimism. Her own is a faint memory.

Jeffrey does his standard two-beat cough to silence the grumbles. ‘As some of you know, Paul will be away for a while.’

Rongo nods at Makayla to confirm the question she’s telepathically asking. Paul’s not chasing the sun, he’s on stress leave. The annual body count is at four, and it’s only April.

‘The good news is we have a graduate who’ll be filling in.’

Good for who? Not Makayla. On top of teaching sport, she’s also the year ten coordinator.

She’ll have to hit pause on her own career aspirations to hand-hold this grad as they get their head around the syllabus and behaviour management.

By recess, there’ll be a line of students at her door because the newcomer can’t control a classroom.

If they keep hiring the young ones just to save a few dollars, she’ll be the one on stress leave next.

‘Ahh, here he is now.’

Everyone sits upright, craning their necks like meerkats to get a glimpse of the newbie.

But instead of an acne-prone twenty-two-year-old, a fully grown man wearing tailored slacks waltzes in. The skinny tie telegraphs his plan to climb the ladder to an ergonomic seat at the top. However, the cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves tells everyone he’s approachable.

Makayla would know. She approached him at the bar two nights ago.