About Love, In Theory
When 24-year-old lawyer Romy learns that she is at her ‘optimal stopping point’ (the mathematically designated point at which one should select the next ‘best person’ who comes along in order to have the best chance at happily ever after), she knows it’s time to get serious about her love life.
Ruthlessly rational, with a belief in data over destiny, Romy knows that reliability and consistency are dependable options, while passion and lust are transitory and only bring pain and disillusionment.
That’s why sensible Hans the engineer is the right choice, as opposed to graphic designer James who exhibits the kind of behaviour that has got her into trouble before. Isn’t he?
The twenty-first century may have brought technological advances in how we communicate, but this warm and funny novel shows us that the search for love is as fraught as ever.
Contents
Cover
About Love, In Theory
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
About the author
Copyright
For Jonathon
1
‘Romy, we need to talk strategy.’ My mum shakes out the weekend Lifestyle section and peers at me officiously over tortoiseshell spectacles.
We’re out on the patio of my parents’ house in Wollstonecraft, a leafy suburb on Sydney’s lower North Shore, under a canopy of ornamental grapevines. The table is laid with a happy spread of freshly brewed coffee and buttery Bourke Street Bakery pastries. Sunshine streams through the leaves overhead, and a cool breeze rustles our newspapers. It’s one of those impossibly crisp Sydney spring mornings.
‘Strategy?’ I say warily. ‘Is this about the flash mob you’re trying to orchestrate for Siobhan’s wedding? I told you, not everyone loves a surprise musical number . . .’
‘No, no, dating strategy. Here, did you see this article about optimal stopping theory? It’s by a Sydney Uni mathematics professor. “The Maths of Finding the Perfect Partner”. Listen.’ She clears her throat and begins to read aloud: ‘Optimal stopping theory deals with the problem of choosing a time to take a particular action in order to maximise the probability of an expected reward. Applied to dating, it indicates that one should reject the first 37 per cent of partners they are destined to date, and choose the next person who comes along who is better than anyone they have dated before. This “37 per cent rule” gives one the best possible chance of ending up with Mr or Ms Right – also about a 37 per cent chance.’
‘Huh.’ I’m intrigued by the idea, but suspicious of the determined gleam in my mum’s eyes. ‘And you thought of me because . . . ?’
Mum cocks her head. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves, Romy. Your love life has been catatonic for the last two years. You need to think seriously about resuscitating it.’ She’s never been one to mince her words.
‘Okay, ouch.’ She does, however, have a point. ‘So, this theory . . . ?’
She scans on. ‘It significantly increases your odds of ending up with the perfect partner. Without it, a person destined to date eleven people in their lifetime would have a 9 per cent chance of choosing the best one. Using optimal stopping theory, the odds are bumped up to 37 per cent. Of course, it has its pitfalls. Your high-school sweetheart might be your ideal partner, and by rejecting them along with the first 37 per cent of suitors, you’ll never find anyone better, leaving you to grow old and die alone . . .’
‘Or,’ I grasp the reasoning, ‘you could be super unlucky and date duds for 37 per cent of your dating life. And then end up settling for the first marginally less terrible person you meet after that.’
‘Exactly,’ says Mum. ‘But as this article points out, it’s a neat solution that balances the risk of stopping too soon against the risk of stopping too late.’
My dad, who has been quietly perusing an article about asparagus crop yield, looks up. ‘That sounds right up Romy’s alley.’ I’m surprised by his earnest weigh-in. He usually avoids all serious discussion, and when pressed, deflects with a joke. ‘Well, doesn’t it?’ he adds, noticing the look on my face. ‘You’re always looking for a good theory to live by. You taught yourself to be an early riser, did that productivity thing with the tomato timer during HSC, went through that irritable phase when you were intermittently fasting, had to ask us for extra linen after you KonMari-ed your place . . .’
‘Which is why I think this could work for you,’ says Mum, waving the newspaper at me. ‘Let me crunch the numbers. We don’t know how many people you might date in your lifetime, so we work from your expected dating life. You started dating at eighteen and you hope to settle down by, what . . . twenty-eight?’
‘Whoa, steady on.’ I hold up my hands defensively. ‘Obviously it’d be nice to find someone, but I don’t know if I’m ready to settle down so soon.’
‘So soon? Your dad and I were married by the time we were twenty-three, and had you by twenty-eight.’
I roll my eyes at her. ‘Say thirty. At the earliest.’
‘Okay, well,’ she taps away at her iPhone calculator. ‘Thirty-seven per cent of twelve years is four-and-a-half years . . . plus eighteen . . . Your optimal stopping point is twenty-two-and-a-half years old.’
I wince. That ship set sail long ago. ‘Say I settle down by thirty-five. I might want to work in London for a few years, anyway. Maybe spend some time in Paris. Attend Le Cordon Bleu.’
Mum sighs, then plugs in the numbers. ‘In that case, your optimal stopping point is just after twenty-four years old. As in, now.’ A note of anxiety flickers through my chest.
Dad steeples his fingers. ‘Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that, for the best chance at happily ever after, Romy needs to choose the next guy who comes along who’s better than all the morons she’s dated in the past?’
Mum shoots him a reproachful look. We all know my dating history is less than ideal; ‘morons’ seems unnecessarily pointed.
‘Sorry, is that too harsh?’ He falters for a moment, realising he’s struck a nerve. ‘In any case, not a terribly high bar, Romy. And no time to waste.’
I feel the heat rise in my face. ‘Look, I’m on board with the probabilities. But there’s not a lot I can do about it, is there? Finding a life partner isn’t like buying a fridge. You can’t just compare the reviews then order one with next-day delivery. It’s a matter of luck, not science.’
Mum clucks her tongue with exasperation. ‘But you can do more than incidental socialisation, Romy. Put out your social mistletoe, be proactive. Your dad and I just worry sometimes that you’ll end up one of those typical corporate lawyers. Desk-bound. Depressed. Driven to drink. Not making time to meet anyone new; caught in a cycle of increasing workaholism to compensate for your lack of social life . . .’
‘Bit of a gross stereotype,’ I mutter. She’s not wrong – there are p
lenty of those sorts around my office – but the lecture is beginning to grate.
‘Am I being unfair?’ she says. ‘I know we’re in completely different industries, but at least dental clinics close by 6 pm. Sometimes if I call you after dinner, you’re still in the office . . .’
Dad cuts in. ‘I think what your mum is trying to say is that we want you to be happy. We don’t want you to wake up one day, suddenly middle-aged and alone and miserable, feeling like it’s too late to turn things around.’
Mum nods. ‘Of course we want you to be happy. You’re our only child. That’s all we want.’
I sigh. I know they mean well, and that their constant advice (well, Mum’s advice and Dad’s wisecracks) is their way of showing love. They’ve never been ones for words of affirmation, or physical affection; this is their version of a warm embrace.
I try to recall the last date I went on and draw a blank. A year, year and a half ago? That uncomfortable coffee date that I thought was part of a mentoring program? Maybe a sloppy, best-forgotten hook-up since then? I meet my parents’ gaze. ‘I guess I could try a bit harder,’ I concede. ‘I’ve been really focused on work since I started at the firm, but I’m starting to get the hang of things.’ Their expressions shift from unified concern to hope. ‘And I really do want to find someone.’
I pick up my phone and check my Facebook events. ‘Look, perfect – Quinn is having a housewarming tonight. I RSVPed “maybe” so she definitely doesn’t expect me to come, but I’ll make an appearance. Maybe meet some new people.’
‘Good girl,’ says Mum. ‘Though maybe don’t wear your hair like that. Can you push it back, make it a little less . . . limp?’ I tuck my hair, which I’ve long accepted has the immutable texture of dry straw, behind my ears.
‘And don’t drink too much,’ says Dad. ‘You don’t want a sore head tomorrow. Eat a cheese sandwich before you go, to line your stomach.’
That evening, back at my terrace in Glebe, I assemble a quick dinner of tuna, microwave rice and canned kidney beans. I add a few cubes of cheddar to the childish mishmash. Lining my stomach – Dad would approve.
My housemate Anna sails into the kitchen and grabs a banana.
‘Any plans tonight?’ she asks brightly.
‘I’m going to a housewarming in Paddington – an old friend from law school. You want to join?’ I ask hopefully. I won’t know that many people at the party, and it would be nice to have a wingwoman-slash-security blanket. I know it’s a long shot, though; unlike me, Anna always has a packed social calendar. And, tellingly, she’s already dressed up in a midnight-blue velvet skater dress and leather jacket.
‘Sorry, no can do. I’m on my way to a gig at the Enmore,’ she says with a cheekload of banana pulp. ‘And I’m already so late. Have fun!’
I eat on the front balcony, feet propped up on the iron lacework, overlooking the tree-lined street below. The sun is just beginning to sink below the horizon, setting the cloud-streaked sky aglow and washing everything a brilliant orange. I already feel inclined to bail on the housewarming. Quinn’s friends are mainly the high-profile crowd from law school; the LawSoc representatives and campus socialites who arrived in their pre-existing North Shore private school friendship groups and consolidated their social clout from there. I’ve never been close to any of them; I spent the first year of university as a fresh transplant from Newcastle, obsessed with trying to fit in at college; the second year a complete mess; and the rest of the time on the fringes, having missed the formative friendship years. But Quinn and I ended up in a study group in final year, bonded over the horror of closed-book exams, and have been on friendly terms ever since.
You can’t bail, I chide myself. My parents are right; I do need to make more of an effort to socialise. I’m not going to meet anyone sitting around alone on a Saturday night, let alone The One – who, according to optimal stopping theory, will be the next guy I meet who is better than anyone I’ve dated before.
I message one of my closest friends from college and now work, Paloma, to see if she’ll come tonight (also a ‘maybe’ on Facebook). She managed to straddle the college–law school divide much more successfully than me, and is far better friends with tonight’s crowd.
Committed to going regardless, I plug my phone into my speakers, scroll through to some classic gee-up music, and select ‘Mr Brightside’. I channel Cameron Diaz in The Holiday, singing tunelessly along, and think what it would be like to have Nancy Meyers script my life.
I throw open my wardrobe and take stock. It’s crammed with monochrome corporate attire; mainly stretch pencil dresses that don’t require ironing, and suits that visit the drycleaner less frequently than I’d care to admit. My selection of casual clothing has, over the last couple of years, dwindled down to a few pairs of skinny jeans, Breton tops and plain cotton tees. Yikes. After a fruitless rummage through the drawers and a melodramatic ‘I have nothing to wear’ moment, I settle on a black silk tank top and black jeans. I try to convince myself it’s Scandi chic, not funereal. I line my eyes with Clinique Black Diamond, coat my lashes with mascara, and attempt to fluff up my hair. Feeling daring in the way one usually only does when spurred on by wine or beauty Vlogger tutorials, I inexpertly apply some plum lipstick and pout into the mirror. I promptly wipe it off, knowing that if I wear it out of the house I’ll spend the night running my tongue over my teeth like a cartoon hyena.
Paloma messages: Yep. Out now, but will see you there a bit later.
The front door to Quinn’s gentrified Paddington terrace is ajar, which, ruling out a break and enter, can only be a sign of a good party. I follow the heavy bass strains and breadcrumbs of booming laughter down the hallway and through to the open kitchen–living space. The lights are dim and a crowd of about forty people spills out the French doors into the paved terrace garden. I’m acutely aware that the baby agave I’m cradling – a gift for Quinn – is out of place; this is less a low-key nibbles and drinks affair than a rager loosely masquerading as a housewarming. I should have known; Quinn moved into this place over three months ago. And she’s not known for doing anything low-key.
After surveying the crowd of unfamiliar faces, I spy a guy I went to university with. I head over in the slightly-too-eager way of someone whose only alternative is to pull out their phone and tap away self-consciously. Martin Bannerman, junior lawyer at Hopewell Grant, is thrusting his drink into a small knot of people and boasting about his regular 2 am ‘Suits life’ clock-offs. ‘Thank god for the twenty-four-hour staffed espresso bar,’ he drawls. ‘And readily available blow.’ His audience guffaws appreciatively. I’m not sure I’ll have much to contribute to this conversation, given the closest I’ve come to doing drugs is popping beta-blockers before my high-school flute solos. Not that I rule out substance abuse entirely. In fact, sizing up this group, I decide a stiff drink is well in order.
‘Romy!’ I’m saved by Quinn, who wobbles over to me, arms thrown wide like a showgirl. Glazed with shimmery make-up, she’s wearing a ruffled playsuit that barely covers her butt cheeks, and studded heels that would look trashy if you didn’t know they were Valentino. She lunges at me and plants messy kisses on my cheeks, almost grazing my lips in the process.
‘So glad you could make it!’ she coos. ‘Oh, and you brought a plant! For the house? You are too cute.’ She makes no attempt to take it from me.
‘This is an incredible place, Quinn,’ I say sincerely.
‘Thanks babe! Tony and Sharon helped out with the deposit, of course –’ (I assume that Tony and Sharon are her long-suffering parents) ‘– but it’s so good to have a foothold in the crazy Sydney property market. And a chance to get everyone together, more importantly!’ She winks and pulls me over to the kitchen bench, where she busies herself fixing a couple of drinks at a gin-to-tonic ratio that would knock out even the steeliest of grannies. ‘I think you’ve got some catching up to do!’
From the way she spills gin all over the marble countertop, it’s clear that I do.
I take a long sip of the bitter concoction, which helps.
I decide to duck into the front room to shuck the housewarming gift and my jacket which, judging by Quinn’s skimpy playsuit and all the toned and tanned skin on show in the living room, is also grossly out of place.
As I walk down the hall, a guy rounding the corner barrels into me. ‘Shit! Sorry!’ he exclaims, lightly grasping my arm to steady me and stop my drink from sloshing everywhere.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, awkwardly wiping a G&T rivulet from my wrist onto my top. ‘No, really.’ I look up and reassure him with a smile. He has a nice face – a broad smile, high cheekbones dusted with freckles, and large hazel eyes. Kind eyes, Mum would say. Good limbal rings, Dad would say.
‘What’s with the plant?’ he asks.
‘It’s an agave pup. A housewarming gift.’
‘A pup?’
‘Yes, you know . . . an offshoot. I’m just looking for a place to put it. There’s so much booze flying around that if I leave it back there, it’ll probably end up drinking its body weight in tequila.’
‘Well, we certainly can’t make a cannibal of the pup,’ he says. ‘Here . . .’ He leads me over to a tall bookshelf bedecked with glass bowls, takes the agave from me and places it carefully inside the largest one. ‘Instant terrarium.’
‘Thanks.’ I shrug off my jacket, discreetly wiping the few remaining drips from my hand, and toss it onto the couch.
‘James,’ he says, extending his hand.
‘Romy.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Beautiful name. Is it short for anything?’
‘Nope. Just Romy. My mum named me after Romy Schneider, the Viennese actress?’ I pause; no flicker of recognition. ‘She played the Young Empress Sissi. Died tragically young at the age of forty-three, not long after her third marriage fell apart and her son was killed in an accident. She had such a torrid life, which I suppose we don’t usually expect of beautiful people . . . not that that’s what my mum was going for; I think she just thought she was a great actress . . .’ I realise that I’m rambling, which I do when I’m nervous or trying too hard to be engaging. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because a few years after I was born, Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion came out, so now people just associate my name with a metallic rayon-clad Lisa Kudrow. Or was it Mira Sorvino? I can never remember which is which . . .’ I can almost see these film references skating over his head.
Love, in Theory Page 1
