‘Huh?’
‘Heuristics; mental shortcuts. You know, making an educated guess based on the information you have rather than wasting time trying to glean all the facts.’
‘Okaaay,’ I say slowly, trying to grasp his point. ‘So one bad date, I can nix them. And when I meet the right guy, I’ll just know?’
‘Well, I don’t think you should use heuristics to positively select your life partner,’ Cameron says. I can almost hear his brow furrowing. ‘I guess some people do – “love at first sight” or whatever – but that’s risky. Obviously a person’s whole character isn’t revealed in the space of a few hours. Also, people tend to get waylaid by easily accessible information like physical attractiveness – which, by the way, we judge in less than thirteen milliseconds.’
‘Okay, but I’m not that shallow. I always go for personality over looks.’
‘You might think so, but we’re all biased. We all fall into the trap of assuming that beauty equals goodness. Studies have repeatedly shown that we tend to assign positive personality traits to hot people – we believe they’re smarter, friendlier, funnier and more interesting than their homely counterparts.’
I mull this over. Tom was objectively very attractive. But then he’d opened his mouth, and I’d been repulsed. Clearly looks couldn’t dupe me for that long. But then, someone like James, for example – how much of a positive impression should I ascribe to his height and good physique and nice smile? I shake my head ruefully. ‘So I can or I can’t trust my instincts?’
‘Trust a first impression if it’s negative. You can write someone off if they’re rude to the waiter, or make a sexist joke, or if they show up late and don’t apologise profusely.’
‘And if there are no obvious deal breakers?’
‘Then give the guy a chance, like your mum said. Maybe after a few weeks or months you’ll know if they’re better than anyone you’ve dated before.’
I find myself nodding. Cameron is always a good sounding board.
‘Thanks, Cam. Hey, when did you know Louis was The One?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t believe in “The One”. But probably around the two-month mark, I thought, “This is really going to be something”. And it’s been pretty blissful ever since. Irrational anger about non-traditional French pastries aside . . .’
5
I’m halfway through a bowl of oatmeal the next morning when my mum slides a book across the table. I pick it up and examine the cherry-red cover: Chemistry: The Art and Science of Romance.
‘I almost forgot to give this to you,’ she says. ‘I ordered it on Alexandra’s recommendation after reading that optimal stopping point article. Apparently she’s worked with some of the academics discussed in it.’
‘Hey, that’s cool.’ Alexandra is my mum’s younger sister, a neuroscientist who now lives in London. She’s cut from the same cloth as my mum – sharp and analytical – but has a cool factor that my mum lacks (perhaps attributable to their twelve-year age gap). Before she left Sydney for London a decade ago, Alexandra was my go-to for advice about friends, boys, school and fashion; a proxy older sister.
I skim the back cover. The book promises to track through scientific theories to reveal the truth of why and how we fall in love. ‘This looks really good.’
‘Great! I’m glad you’re receptive,’ Mum says brightly. ‘I also looked up this Life Lessons course we could attend together – it’s this adult education organisation that runs seminars on everything from how to choose a job you love to how to have better conversations. They’re running one about intelligent dating next week.’
I shoot her a warning look. ‘One step at a time,’ I say, tucking the book under my arm.
I decide to spend my Sunday afternoon at a café in Newtown, perusing the book in peace. I take a bus to King Street, which is bustling with people. A frequent visitor to the long stretch of hipster cafés, dingy bars, trendy clothing boutiques and Thai restaurants that I swear have used up every Thai pun in existence (‘Hold Me Closer Thai-ny Dancer’ being a particular favourite of mine), I’m accustomed to the hum of Newtown’s wacky denizens.
Within minutes of getting off the bus, I pass a one-man band, a young guy in a skeleton morph suit, and an elderly lady with a violet rinse to match her pastel Juicy Couture tracksuit, walking three ferrets. The furry sausages squirm and tumble about the pavement, causing passers-by to skip around them, though none bat an eyelid.
My destination, and something of a weekend haunt, is a raw food café called The Lemon Pip, which does delectable cakes without flour or anything you’d assume is required to make a cake palatable, and allows students and aspiring screenwriters to set up shop for as long as they care to eke out their matcha lattes.
I order an overpriced turmeric coconut milk tea and ensconce myself in a window booth. I’ve just opened the book when there’s a rap at the window. I startle and look up. James waves to me through the glass. My heart does a little two-step, which I’m annoyed about. Not every interaction with another human needs to be momentous, I chide myself. I watch James fumble to chain his bike up against a signpost, and then he comes in.
‘James!’ I feel a blush creep across my cheeks (a curse I’ve had since I was a child), and hope he doesn’t notice.
‘Romy. I knew I recognised that face. Nice to see you again.’
‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve just been at the Carriageworks markets, helping a mate who has a stall there. Hectic morning. What are you up to?’
‘Nothing much. Just reading.’ I shut the book quickly, keeping its cover face down, and place my elbow deliberately on top. If only I’d thought to cover it with a different book jacket. ‘Are you in a rush?’ I motion at the empty seat opposite, inviting him to join me. It’s disconcerting to be seated, gazing up at all six-foot-something of him.
‘Not at all.’ He slides into the booth. ‘What book?’
‘Just something a friend recommended,’ I say vaguely. I feel my cheeks grow warmer, and hope he doesn’t ask for more details. ‘So what does your friend sell at Carriageworks?’ I ask quickly.
‘Smoked and cured meats, mainly. Here –’ He digs around in his Herschel backpack and extracts a vacuum-sealed package of pastrami. The label is a cool old-timey design – ‘The Big Smoke’ emblazoned across an ink rendering of a young guy wearing a butcher’s apron, arms crossed and covered with tattoos. James explains that he designed the label, and that it’s a vaguely accurate depiction of his mate Chris.
‘Wow, a step up from the Twiggy sticks of my youth. So is this the kind of stuff you usually do as a graphic designer? Labels, product packaging?’
‘It’s some of what I do,’ he says, ‘but I’m into all kinds of image-making, really. I get bored if I do the same thing over and over. I started out designing book covers, but found I was doing a lot of my own projects on the side – illustration, mural work, digital design. So then I moved to a full-service creative agency to try to get my hands on different kinds of work, which lasted all of two months . . .’
‘How come?’
He shrugs. ‘The work was interesting, but I got fed up with the corporate side of things – having to get everything approved, constant meetings with clients and suits, being cooped up in a concrete box . . . absolute hell. So I quit.’
An image of my own charcoal-clad office swims into view. ‘Just like that?’
‘Yep. And now I freelance. Only way to do it.’
‘Isn’t that stressful?’ I ask. The thought alone sends a flutter of anxiety through my chest. I can’t imagine not knowing when and from where my next task, and pay cheque, is coming.
‘Better than being a corporate drone,’ he says. The comment stings.
My reaction must be visible, because he backpedals. ‘I didn’t mean you,’ he says, not quite convincingly.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘I mean, yeah, I work in an office. I follow the rules, do t
he timesheets, wear the suit.’ There’s no point getting defensive about it, I decide. We are clearly just on different wavelengths. ‘And to be fair, I’d probably find any work set-up stressful. Honestly, I spend most of my time at work feeling like a baby bird – wings flapping desperately, squalling for help.’
‘Well that sounds incredibly unhealthy,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you quit?’
I suppress a laugh. ‘Not sure quitting’s the answer. And anyway, I’m not even two years in. I’m sure it’ll get easier. Maybe one day I’ll graduate from baby bird to swan – feet scrabbling like eggbeaters under the water, but gliding serenely across the surface. Making everything seem effortless, at least.’
His expression tells me he’s not buying it. ‘Is that really the best you can hope for?’
I take a long sip of tea, unsure how to answer his question. Or if it’s even a question.
I reach for something else to say. ‘So tell me what it’s like to be a designer. It’s such an intimidating concept, creativity.’
James shakes his head, as if he hears this sentiment all the time. ‘It’s really not. We’ve got this strange idea about creativity – that it’s all about inspiration striking. The exclusive playground of mad, drug-tripping geniuses. But really it’s just about putting disparate ideas together in a new way. You can train yourself to do it. And as for inspiration, you just have to expose yourself to as much as possible – chase things that interest you.’
‘Sure,’ I say, ‘but that willingness to play and experiment – you’ve got to have that innate personality type, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe,’ he says slowly. ‘I mean, yeah, I guess some people are just closed-minded. Like some of my clients. You give them a reference image and ask them to imagine it in a different colour, they freak out.’ He says it jokingly, but I feel a flicker of sympathy for these faceless clients. They’re probably just suits on a deadline, answering to a higher-up; a feeling I’m very familiar with.
‘So where do you seek out your inspiration?’ I ask.
James pushes back his floppy fringe. ‘Honestly, it’s a lot of googling and YouTube spirals. But in general, from the work of the greats and contemporaries. Rodrigo Corral, Sagmeister, the people behind those iconic New York Times Magazine covers. I do a lot of photography, and I’m a sucker for galleries. I went to the Yayoi Kusama exhibition at the MCA a few weeks ago, which was insanely awesome. Did you catch it?’
‘No, I just missed it.’ I’d intended to get to the exhibition, making a mental note every time I glimpsed a billboard or bus shelter advert showing the Priestess of Polka Dots against a field of luminous spotted pumpkins, but somehow, the exhibition’s final days had skated by. ‘I need to be better about making time to do cultural stuff.’
‘Well, if you ever need a gallery buddy, I’m around,’ he says.
We’re interrupted by a circling waitress, who flashes James a winning smile and asks if he wants to order anything. I notice that she hasn’t bothered to approach the two other occupied tables, both of which look ready to order. James glances down at his watch and announces apologetically that he has to get going.
He turns to me. ‘Hey, if you want to check out the Frida Kahlo exhibition that’s opening in a couple of weeks, let me know.’
‘That’d be cool,’ I murmur. He motions for my phone, plugs in his number, then scoots out of the booth and is off with a cheery wave.
I arrive at work on Monday at a respectable 8.30 am. I have just sat down and brought my takeaway coffee to my lips for the first glorious sip when my desk phone emits a shrill ring and lights up with Graeme’s extension. I startle, and burn my tongue.
Summoned, I grab a notepad and pen and hustle to Graeme’s office. On the way, I pass Barbara, who gives me a sympathetic smile.
Graeme launches straight in. ‘Big hotel management company just sent through a query. They just found out that their CEO, who everyone thought was a stand-up guy, is having an affair with a lower-ranked employee. I think she’s in HR or accounts or something. They hired a private investigator and got photographic evidence of the affair.’ He tosses a sheaf of printouts at me; a series of photos taken through a window. They’re slightly blurred and dim, but I can nevertheless make out an older man – tall, solidly built, salt and pepper hair – and a much younger woman, with a shapely figure and a tumble of blonde extensions. They’re standing in a kitchen; first clinking wine glasses, then drinking, then entwined in a passionate embrace. I feel slightly nauseated – it’s too hackneyed for words.
‘Definitely not his wife, I’m told,’ says Graeme. ‘Anyway, they want to terminate his employment – they’re pretty adamant about that – so we need to do an advice about the lawfulness of termination, and whether and how they can use the photographs. I have a feeling that disclosing these photographs, maybe even getting them in the first place, contravenes the Privacy Act, but check that. And see if you can find any cases about termination of employment for sleeping with a colleague. There must be a full body of case law.’ He glances at the photos and homes in on the woman’s curves. ‘No pun intended,’ he adds.
I cringe, but at an expectant look from Graeme, turn on my heel and head back to my office to get started.
Cameron, Paloma and I escape for lunch around 2 pm. The steps leading up to our building have cleared, and we find a space free of pigeon poo and discarded bento boxes to plant ourselves.
Today, it’s Cameron’s turn to be in therapy. It takes a while to wheedle it out of him (he’s more the ‘fume silently’ type), but we can tell by his stormy expression that he’s had a terrible morning. Eventually he gives in.
‘Nine months! I’ve been working for Mark for nine months and he still treats me like shit!’ Mark Whalen is his partner, a terrifying man in his early fifties who would make Miranda Priestly quake in her Prada boots.
‘What was it this time?’ Paloma asks, her voice flooded with anticipatory sympathy.
‘Well, yesterday we had a “pens down” on Project Titanium. I’d been working madly on our evidence folders. He left at 8 pm, but told me to stay in case we needed to keep working; if the settlement negotiations didn’t pan out. No thanks for coming in on a Sunday. I was here until midnight, just waiting around. He never emailed or called to let me know if the matter had settled, and eventually I just thought “screw it” and left. He strode in this morning, didn’t say a word to me. I found out from Dan, who’s not even on the matter, that the settlement was confirmed last night.’
Paloma and I cluck commiseratingly.
‘And then I drafted an email for him this morning and made one typo – admittedly a stupid one – and he screamed at me and asked if English was my second language.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Right?! I mean, I’m not asking for the world here. I don’t expect him to say good morning to me, or even call me by name – “Grad!” is fine – but I’m sick of being treated like pond scum.’
I feel awful for Cameron. He’s certainly got the raw end of the deal when it comes to partners. Paloma’s partner, Deanne, is the ideal; searingly brilliant, kind, and a champion for her juniors. Even Graeme is fairly good to work for. He makes the odd unsavoury comment, but I put that down to a lack of social filter rather than anything more insidious.
‘Cam, don’t you think it’s time to go to HR about this?’ says Paloma. ‘You could move to a different team.’
‘Or get Mark fired,’ I say. ‘I mean, this is abusive conduct.’
Cameron gives a hollow little laugh. ‘You guys are killing me with your idealism. You think HR is going to give two hoots about me? Mark’s a big earner; there’s a reason they call him The Whaler. No way the firm would ever let him go, or even formally investigate him. No, they put me in the team because someone has to be there, and it’s understood that if I do my time, I’ll get to settle wherever I want.’
‘Is it really worth it?’ Paloma asks.
Cameron sighs. ‘I don’t have a choice. If I c
ome forward, what do you think will happen? HR will probably put me through conflict management training. Or offer me free off-site counselling sessions.’ Paloma and I look at each other. We can’t discount this possibility. We’ve known a few people who have been harassed in the profession; some who’ve come forward, some who haven’t. The few that did were generally labelled ‘difficult’ or ‘snowflakes’ or ‘unlikely to make it in the big leagues’; they suffered for it, while their harassers carried on pretty much consequence-free.
‘Even if you can stand it, what about the next person?’ I say gently. ‘Maybe there’s some value in putting it on the record, even if it’s just to add to the pile of complaints so that eventually, HR can’t ignore it?’
Cameron looks down at the steps and sweeps away some invisible crumbs. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says, unconvincingly. Paloma and I share another glance. We can tell there’s no point pushing. Sighing, I force him to take half my panini and Paloma proffers up her iced coffee; paltry comfort offerings.
‘So what’s everyone up to this week?’ Cameron asks, forcing a normal tone. ‘Outside of this place?’
‘Well, tonight I’m having drinks with Carl,’ Paloma says, inspecting her glossy shellacked nails. She looks up as if daring us to say something. Cameron and I roll our eyes but don’t comment. Another conversation that we’ve had before.
‘Wednesday, Tinder date,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure about it; he was very quick on the draw. We started chatting yesterday evening and within a couple of messages he’d asked me out.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ says Paloma. ‘Shows that he’s keen. And confident.’
‘Or that he’s not discerning. Or he ran out of chat after a day. Or he’s just after a one-night stand.’ Two Tinder dates down and I’m already jaded.
‘Okay, but don’t conjure up red flags,’ says Cameron. ‘At least reserve judgement until you meet him.’ He looks at me sternly. ‘Promise?’
‘Okay,’ I relent with a smile. ‘Promise.’
Love, in Theory Page 5
