I try to keep my expression from glazing over. Eventually, when he stops to draw breath and take another gulp of beer, I throw him a wildcard question. Anything to get off this homebrew track. ‘So, do you think you would have been friends with your parents when they were your age?’
His brow furrows. ‘I don’t think so. See, they grew up in Sheffield, England. I grew up here, so we probably wouldn’t have met.’ I study his face and realise he’s being absolutely earnest.
‘Um, okay, your turn to ask me something,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. I hate to resort to parlour game artifice, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the one-way questioning.
‘Oh, sure,’ he says. He thinks for a moment. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’
I’m almost embarrassed to answer. I didn’t know that adults had favourite colours; that they needed to resort to such a lame personality crutch. ‘Pink?’ I suggest. ‘I guess the drip feed of social conditioning worked on me – too many Mattel ads during childhood.’ I know it’s too much, but I’m desperate to at least give the impression of conversation.
‘If you could pick three people to have to dinner, who would you choose?’ I ask him.
‘Jamie Oliver, to do dinner. Nigella to do dessert. And for the entertainment . . .’ He toys with a cardboard coaster, turning it over and over in his hands, hemming and hawing to a painful degree.
‘Mindy Kaling?’ I suggest. ‘Amy Schumer? Gad Elmaleh? Hannah Gadsby? Kristen Wiig?’ I rattle off a list of suggestions. With each one, his brows knit further, until I trail off feebly.
‘Okay, next question,’ he says. ‘Pizza or pasta?’
I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. ‘Um, pizza. Can’t go past a thin-crust margherita.’ I look down at my empty glass. ‘Do you want another drink?’ I hope desperately that he’ll say no and that I can treat the remaining quarter of his beer as sand in the hourglass of the date. He nods and drains his glass.
‘Same again?’ I ask, standing up.
‘Nah, I’ll have a Negroni, thanks. Like I said, this just pales in comparison to my homebrew. I think the difference is that you have so much more creative licence as a home-brewer, you know? Oh man, I’ve got to tell you about this apricot blonde ale I made the other day; not too sweet, not too tart . . . I’ll talk you through it when you get back . . .’
It’s almost 10 pm when I arrive home to a brightly lit house. Anna is in the living room, watching a David Attenborough documentary and eating artichokes out of a jar.
‘You’re home already?’ she says incredulously. ‘I thought you had a date tonight?’
I throw my bag on the floor and flump down beside her on the couch. ‘I did.’ I press my fingers to my temples, which are throbbing.
‘Oof, was it awful?’
I struggle to put the experience into words. ‘Not awful, just . . . dull. We met up at Gimlet on York Street, had a drink, made tooth-extraction style conversation for a bit. I felt like I was a Family Feud host, debasing myself with increasingly dumb questions and manic excitement, trying to pretend that we were having a good time . . . and in response he tried to guess the most banal, highest-polling one-word answer to every question I asked.’
She screws up her face. ‘Ooh, I hate that.’ I know her sympathy is real. Since breaking up with her boyfriend, Steve, almost a year ago, Anna has had her own share of bad dates.
‘Yeah, I don’t know what was worse – that, or when he started talking about his homebrew. I heard way too much about yeast management.’
‘Ugh. So you didn’t hook up with him then?’
I laugh. ‘Not a chance. There was zero attraction.’
She clucks sympathetically. ‘Oh well, you win some, you lose some. You’ve got another date tomorrow night though, don’t you?’
‘Yep, fingers crossed it’s a step up.’
4
It’s finally Friday evening, the end of a gruelling week. I’ve made it down to Circular Quay and am hovering outside Hacienda Bar, a hotel bar set high above the crawl of tourists and shabby, neon-lit cafés. At least in the shadow of last night’s lacklustre date, my nerves haven’t bothered to resurface.
I push open the heavy glass door and take a moment to appreciate my surrounds. A stretch of floor-to-ceiling windows showcases the stunning harbour; the arc of the bridge lit up against the darkening sky, the water glittering with reflections of the cityscape. The bar décor is suitably grand. Polished surfaces, pastel lounge furniture and lush greenery gives the feeling of a luxe 1950s Miami hotel. The Ronettes croon softly through speakers, mingling with the chink of ice and crystal glasses, and the chatter of the after-work crowd.
Looking around at the fresh blowouts and slinky dresses, I silently thank myself for remembering to swap my low wedges for high heels. I’m not exactly trendy in my black pencil dress, but at least I’m not too obviously a sore thumb.
I spy Tom, Tinder date number two, over by the far window, reclining in a botanical print chair, half-drained glass of amber liquid already in hand. He’d mentioned being an investment banker in his Tinder bio, and he has that look, albeit the casual Friday version – perfectly coiffed brown hair, white linen shirt and dusky blue chinos cuffed to reveal leather boat shoes. He has an arresting combination of green eyes and tanned skin. My heart skips in my chest – it’s terrible the effect that beauty has on supposedly rational people.
He looks up from his phone as I walk over, tucks it away and stands to greet me. ‘Romy, pleasure to meet you. It’s an unusual name you’ve got there, isn’t it?’
‘You don’t meet too many others.’ I smile.
‘No. No you don’t,’ he says, looking me up and down. A little too much emphasis on each word, the gaze a little too lingering. My skin prickles.
As we sit down, he says, ‘I have to say, you’re gorgeous. And you’ve got a really nice figure.’ He looks at me expectantly. Internally, I recoil. I’m not a fan of throwaway lines, of empty compliments intended to invite either gratitude or reciprocal flattery. But I have no comfortable way to respond. ‘Thanks,’ I say flatly.
I reach for the drinks menu, but he stops me with a press of his hand to my wrist and suggests that we order a bottle of red. ‘Sure,’ I say, and he pulls a waiter over with a beckoning finger.
After a swirl and a sip of the 2016 Tolpuddle pinot noir, Tom declares it almost perfect, but a few degrees too warm. He sends it back to be chilled, remarking conspiratorially that most people have no idea how to serve or drink wine. ‘Well, we can’t all be connoisseurs,’ I say, soured with embarrassment. I wonder how much spit will come back with the bottle.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. Maybe it’ll get better.
Tom tells me about his job at a tier 1 investment bank, which he was hooked up with by one of his father’s schoolmates. ‘It’s pretty full on,’ he says, glancing down at his stately brushed-steel TAG Heuer. ‘You’re lucky you could steal me away for a few hours.’
He tells me about his plan to retire into politics – ‘You know, when I eventually get bored with the investment banking game.’ About his place in Point Piper. How he thinks Sydney is the best city in the world, except in mid-winter, when he prefers anywhere in France or Italy. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I think my family might be there now . . . Lake Como maybe? Eating into my inheritance.’ My stomach clenches and I feel myself withdrawing.
As Tom prates on, the wine drains, and so does my patience. I take control of the bottle, refilling our glasses heavy-handedly. Despite intimating that he might need to return to work, Tom seems to have settled in for the night.
He tells me about his family’s love of sailing, how they spend almost every weekend out on their boat. How in summer, there’s nothing better than kicking back on deck, surrounded by clear blue water, and cracking open a beer. Or, on some occasions, champagne and oysters.
He asks me if I like sailing. I tell him that aside from one or two school camps, I’ve never done it. But that
I like the idea of it; being in the elements, feeling only the wind, waves, salt spray.
‘And champagne and oysters?’
‘Champagne – yes. Oysters – I like the taste, but I find them awful to swallow. Goop in a shell – whoever thought that was a good idea?’
‘Oh, so you don’t like to swallow?’ He winks at me.
I stare at him, not quite believing the dive this conversation has taken. I wonder if it’s too early to abandon the date.
‘Not even a smile!’ he reacts. ‘Did you go to an all-girls’ school or something?’
I lie and say no. I don’t want to confirm what I know he’s assuming – that I don’t find him hilarious or roguish because I’m repressed.
By the dregs of the bottle of wine, he’s rattling off his life goals and informing me that he’s ‘the kind of guy who knows what he wants and goes after it’.
‘I’m like a shark, you know. I never stop swimming.’
‘You know that’s a myth, right? That sharks need to keep swimming or they’ll die,’ I say, now thoroughly annoyed. ‘It’s only the ones whose muscles aren’t strong enough to actively pump water – obligate ram breathers – that have to swim near constantly to get enough oxygen. But even they take the occasional break.’
Tom looks at me curiously and then announces, as if having divined some insight, ‘You’re hard work, you know.’ He seems to think I’m pushing back because I like him. That I’m trying to flirt with him. But really, I’m just fed up. Fed up with this date, and with the prospect of an endless string of others like it.
Outside the bar, we establish that we’re going in opposite directions. ‘I had a great time tonight,’ he says, touching my arm.
‘Mmm, it was fun,’ I offer noncommittally. I hope he doesn’t try to set up another date now. I’d much rather deal with it by text later. At least the Quay is busy, and a beefcake of a security guard is not three paces away, so there’s no question of a kiss.
Under the sickening yellow glow of the streetlamps, Tom goes in for a peck on the cheek, just as I reach out my arm for a half-hearted hug. We both see it happening and try to change course, but it’s too late; slowly and forcefully, like glaciers, our noses collide. We recoil, I apologise awkwardly, and he brushes it off with a clipped laugh.
I wish him a good night and turn abruptly to walk back into the city, feeling nothing but a ghostly numbness.
On the train north to my parents’ place the next morning, my phone buzzes with a message from Tom. Great to meet you last night. Dinner sometime next week? I instinctively baulk, and switch off my phone. I settle back against the carpeted seat, trying not to think about how many heads have rested there before mine, and start mentally constructing a response. I want to hit the right notes – to be clear but not rude, sensitive but not patronising. A perfectly proportioned compliment sandwich with a filling of rejection. I sigh and shake my head. Why is it that, no matter how string-free the date or how patently unreciprocated the enthusiasm, the turndown is always so fraught?
When I finally arrive at my parents’ place, I still haven’t settled on a reply. I shelve it – a quandary for later. I wander around the side of the house and unlatch the gate; it’s not yet midday and the sun is still low in the sky, so I suspect my parents will be in the garden.
Sure enough, I spot Mum in the middle of a vegetable bed, examining the tattered leaves of her kale plants. This must be the ‘brassica massacre’ she was telling me about the other day; the work of some dastardly white cabbage butterflies. Dad emerges from the house wearing a polo shirt buttoned up to his neck and Harry Highpants shorts, ferrying a thermos of tea to Mum, which she plants absentmindedly in a row of lettuces.
I call out to them.
‘Romy!’ Dad exclaims. ‘Just in time to help with some weeding.’
‘Sorry, I forgot my trowel.’
‘How was your date the other night?’ Mum asks, standing up and brushing herself off.
‘I actually had a couple of dates this week. Different guys. Different kinds of wrong.’
‘Come and tell us about it,’ she says. Dad immediately excuses himself, citing an ‘out of control’ front lawn that requires attention. I know he cares about my personal life, but he’s not comfortable discussing the intimate details. He leaves that to Mum, who will give him the bare-bones version later.
We settle down at the table under the grapevines. ‘So?’ Mum says expectantly.
I regale her with an account of dull as dirt Max and slimy Tom. ‘So yeah, the search continues,’ I sum up.
‘Wait, you’re not going to see Max again? But he sounds alright. And he’s an accountant. That’s such a good, steady job.’
‘Not an accountant, in an accounting role,’ I correct her.
‘You should give him another chance,’ she says resolutely.
‘I gave him a chance. We didn’t hit it off. That’s not the point of dating, even taking into account optimal stopping theory. You’re not supposed to settle for the first person you go out with in two years.’
She stares at me. ‘So what is the point, then? To keep going on first dates until you meet someone who sets your soul on fire?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe. Max’s homebrew chat was definitely not a fire starter. Pretty sure he needs a fellow hophead.’
Mum admonishes me with a shake of her head. ‘It doesn’t work that way, Romy. Life’s not set to an Alan Menken score. You have to spend more time with people to get to know them. Give them a few dates, maybe even more.’ She hesitates for a moment, as if unsure about whether to go on. ‘You know, when your dad first asked me out, I wasn’t interested in him romantically.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’ve heard their love story a few times before, and it’s always involved a fairytale meet-cute.
She shrugs. ‘I just thought he seemed like a nice person – studious, well-mannered, a bit of a dork. Always in that striped polo shirt. And I needed a date for our end-of-semester class party. So we went out. And then we kept going out. There was no spark; no all-consuming “I can’t breathe without you” passion. But we found that we had common values and goals, and we committed to a life together.’
I shield my eyes from the sun and try to wrap my head around what she’s telling me. My parents aren’t affectionate people – I rarely see them kiss or embrace – but I always assumed there was some deep undercurrent of romance in their relationship. And that, at least at one point, they were obsessed with each other.
‘So do you . . . love each other?’
‘Of course we do. That’s why I’m telling you this. So you understand that not all great relationships start out with an intense fire. Sometimes you have to warm up to people, and if the important things are there, you can grow together.’
I lean back and sit with my thoughts for a bit. It’s a lot to process. I’ve always seen my parents’ relationship as a model partnership; two people bumping along happily, showing each other care and consideration and enjoying a fulfilling life together, even if much of it seems to revolve around waging wars on various garden pests. And now I know that it wasn’t built on chemistry.
For a moment, I regret being so dismissive of Max. Is it possible I could grow to enjoy his company? But almost as soon as I turn my mind to the prospect of hanging out with him again, I recall the annoying way he drove us into conversational cul-de-sacs, and monologued about his homebrew. And then, when I pushed him to tell me about his other interests, told stories about the interesting things his friends had done as if, by transference, I would endow him with the personality traits of someone who had done stand-up on a cruise ship, or written a music blog, or travelled through China alone for four months. Nope, no matter how much time I gave myself to warm up to him, I couldn’t imagine that timeline ending happily.
I spend the rest of the day out on the terrace, reading and avoiding gardening duties, and when evening nears, take little convincing to stay the night. My mum’s cooking, a glass of room-temperature red a
nd curling up on the couch to watch a home improvement show sounds like the perfect chaser to a stressful week.
Halfway through the inevitable drywall disaster, my parents are predictably asleep; their La-Z-Boys in full recline. I switch off the TV and slink to the guest room to call Cameron. My mum’s comments about my dating approach are still playing on my mind, and I’m curious to hear his take.
He answers on the first ring. ‘Romy, what’s up?’
‘I just called to chat. Are you busy?’
I hear some rustling and footsteps, then a door click shut. ‘Nope. Louis and I are having a quiet one in. Well, we were, until this contestant on a MasterChef rerun made what he claimed was a traditional tarte Tatin; now Louis is just hurling abuse at the TV. Please, keep talking.’
I tell him about the previous two nights’ dates.
‘That guy Tom actually mentioned his inheritance? What a lowlife,’ says Cameron.
‘Right? The reddest of flags. But that’s where I’m having trouble; with my instinct to not see either of them again. You know I’m starting to date because I’m serious about finding someone . . .’
‘Yeah, what you were saying at lunch the other day; you’re at your optimal stopping point. Makes sense to me.’
‘Right, but now I’m struggling to figure out how to know if these guys would be better than anyone I’ve dated before. How many dates does it take to figure that out? My mum was lecturing me about writing people off too quickly . . .’
‘Romy, you spent what, a few hours with each of these guys? That’s more than enough time to make a reasonable call about whether or not you want to see them again.’
I dither, still thinking about my mum’s words.
‘Look,’ says Cameron. ‘You’ve got the world of Sydney guys at your fingertips, you’re a busy person, and you want the next guy to be The One. So you can use heuristics to rule out the non-starters, and move on.’
Love, in Theory Page 4
