‘A tentacle?’ I have an immediate vision of Hans as Octodad, the videogame octopus pretending to be a normal human man, struggling to complete basic household chores with his eight unwieldy arms.
‘How would you say that? Testing the ground?’
‘Sure, or the waters.’ I smile. ‘With a tentacle or not.’
‘And you?’
‘Also not a risk-taker.’ My heart balloons with happiness as I casually confirm our compatibility. I regard Hans, good-natured and sensible, and marvel at the thought that this could be it. Is it possible that, so quickly and by such chance, I’ve found someone who meets my three traits? Three traits and more, I correct myself. He’s smart and interesting, and, it has to be said, very attractive; towering even when perched on a bar stool, the low light accentuating the strong angles of his face.
I catch myself. ‘Um, I guess my experiment this year is . . . dating. I’ve been single for such a long time and, honestly, over the past couple of years I haven’t really made time to meet new people outside of work. But I decided to put myself out there and, well, here we are.’ I feel my cheeks pinken; the soft blush of pleasure.
‘So you’re dating a lot, then?’ His tone is nonchalant, but his eyes are fixed upon me, and I can tell the question is loaded.
‘No, not a lot. I’ve been on a handful of dates, no second dates . . . until now.’ I realise how ‘experimental dating’ must sound. ‘I’m not dating for the sake of it,’ I explain. ‘Or for a fling. I’m looking for something . . . real.’
His face breaks into a smile. ‘That’s good to know.’
By the time we’ve finished our second drink, we’re almost the last patrons. A lone barman wipes down the counter and stacks away glasses; he avoids eye contact but is clearly hoping we’ll leave. I have a delicious feeling, one I haven’t had in a long time, of wanting to stall. To prolong the evening, and to cosset the butterflies in my stomach, which are beginning to flit with anticipation. We linger over the puddling ice in our glasses until it becomes apparent that the bar is being kept open for us.
‘We should make tracks,’ I say.
‘Make tracks?’
‘Get going.’ I smile.
We settle our tab, gather our things and walk out into the night. The moon is bright and full; the streetlights pale by comparison. We start to wander back to the main road, but then Hans pauses under a dark canopy of trees. The city feels abandoned; only a distant murmur of traffic, not a soul in sight. Hans takes my hand. My breath catches, and before my thoughts can rearrange themselves, he stoops down and kisses me. It’s tender, searching. He tastes like bitter orange. I kiss him back, pressing my hands against his chest. The world swirls and melts away.
11
‘Marge, the rains are here!’ Graeme hollers, referencing the classic McCain TV ad where the juicy pitter patter of corn juice on the iron roof is mistaken for the end of the drought.
I look up from the contract I’m reviewing (so far, I’ve picked up the typos ‘staff carppark’ and ‘pubic restrooms’ and had to call the client to authorise the changes – we’re both embarrassed) and feel the dread start to set in. I can sense a storm brewing.
‘Big potential injunction matter!’ Graeme hurtles into my office, almost bouncing with glee. I try to ignore the fact that his shirt is buttoned askew – not just one but two buttons off – and grab a notepad as he starts to relay the telephone conversation he just had with the managing director of software company PortCiel.
He tells me that the company’s senior project manager recently resigned, and started working for PortCiel’s direct competitor, WRX. This is in breach of the restraint of trade clause in his contract, which restricts him from working for a competitor for twelve months after leaving. PortCiel now want an injunction to enforce that restraint.
‘Injunctions are notoriously difficult to get,’ says Graeme, ‘because the law is loath to put any fetters on a person’s liberty by preventing them from working. The starting point is that the restrictive covenant is void unless the former employer can prove that it’s reasonably necessary to protect their legitimate business interests – trade secrets, confidential information, customer connections, that kind of thing.’
‘Okay,’ I nod along, scribbling everything down.
‘And there’s a snag,’ says Graeme, ‘which is that PortCiel didn’t bring this to our attention straight away. It’s been more than a week since they found out that Warren jumped ship to WRX.’ He huffs in vexation. ‘Not ideal. It doesn’t exactly create an impression of a company desperate to preserve its legitimate business interests.’
‘Why did they wait?’ I ask.
Graeme explains. ‘Brian, the MD, seemed genuinely baffled; I think he’s only just accepted what’s happened. On the call he kept saying that Warren was like a son to him; that he’d been working at the company for almost ten years, and that the company put a lot of faith in him. Apparently, they were grooming him to take on the vice MD role. Brian kept repeating that phrase, “like a son to me”, and wondering if maybe it was all a misunderstanding.’
My heart goes out to Brian. He almost sounds like a jilted lover. A long-term relationship, misaligned expectations, one party with a wandering eye wooed by a more attractive offer.
‘That must be upsetting,’ I say. I wonder if there were any warning signs, if Brian could have foreseen the betrayal if only he’d been paying closer attention.
Graeme rolls his eyes. ‘Of course it’s a blow. But I don’t know why Brian’s so surprised. What, a supposedly loyal employee turning out to be a self-interested rat, ultimately concerned with their own career advancement? Nothing new there; that’s human nature.’
There’s a brief pause, then Graeme snaps out of his rant. ‘Right, no time to waste.’ He directs me to draft letters to WRX putting them on notice of the restraint clause, and to Warren reminding him of his contractual obligation and seeking an undertaking that he will abide by it.
Later in the day, we’re sent a link to a secure online fileshare giving us access to all of Warren’s work emails. It’s unlikely that Warren will provide the undertaking that he’ll stop working at WRX, so Graeme is keen to start gathering evidence in case we need to approach the court for an injunction. My task is to review all 25,000 of his emails and identify any evidence of him sharing confidential material, attempting to solicit co-workers, or being generally perfidious.
As I sift through what are mostly boring workflow and meeting updates, a picture of Warren starts to emerge. At first, I struggle to understand why Brian is so infatuated with him – his emails are delegation central. Even for a senior project manager, there is a lot of direct forwarding of requests to others in the organisation, with no niceties, just barking demands for the deliverables. I notice that the executive team is only cc’ed on emails where Warren is claiming (sole) credit for meeting project deadlines.
But – I keep scrolling through – I have to admit, Warren does seem fun. He’s clicked ‘attending’ on every social invite. His emails are littered with receipts for bizarre things – gorillagrams, a onesie patterned with pictures of his face, a burrito-by-drone delivery. He organised a Tough Mudder group called the ‘NavyCiels’, though I see that he also palmed that one off eventually (‘Emilia, mind taking the reins on this one? You’re so good at the nitty-gritty, you’ll be much better at arranging training sessions than me.’). He’s also in something called the Micromort Club with a couple of guys outside of work, getting pumped for a base jump (‘430 micromorts, lads!’). I scan through the chain; it looks like Kevin pulled out (‘Natasha said I have to wait until the kids are 18, at least’), but Warren and the other guy are set to go ahead. I google ‘micromort’ and discover it’s a unit of risk defined as a one in a million chance of death. Charming.
I marvel at how Warren’s personal emails are almost a ticklist for high novelty-seeking behaviour. Spontaneous and exciting? This guy sent no fewer than 173 emails calling for beers on random week
nights, each at a different location. High openness? Yep, he shaved half his beard to draw attention to deforestation. Low conscientiousness? Yep, the delegation emails roll on. At the ‘Intelligent Dating’ course, Marisa had mentioned that high novelty-seekers are at increased risk of substance abuse, fiery reactions to conflict and violent behaviour. I don’t know about the latter behaviours, but I did see at least one MDMA reference in Warren’s emails.
I shake my head. The perplexing thing is not why Warren left, but how he managed to stay at PortCiel for ten years.
The next day, around midday, I’m summoned into Graeme’s office for an impromptu teleconference with Brian, the PortCiel MD. Brian, it seems, has just telephoned Warren. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ Brian says. ‘I just had to know why he left, if there was any chance of him coming back. I offered him a raise, the reserved car spot he always wanted . . .’
‘And what did he say?’ Graeme asks impatiently.
‘He said no. He didn’t say why, just that he isn’t coming back. And that he won’t be signing the undertaking. He’s not even going to collect his Monstera. I thought he loved that thing.’
‘Well, we assumed he wouldn’t sign,’ says Graeme. ‘Injunction it is, provided we can produce some evidence of him stealing confidential information.’
Brian’s shallow breathing stops, and he takes on a hardened tone. ‘Look, I still don’t understand why we need to gather that kind of evidence. The restraint clause is in the contract. Warren agreed not to work for a competitor for twelve months after leaving. His signature’s there, plain and simple. That’s obviously why legal put the clause in the contract in the first place, to prevent this kind of thing from happening.’
Graeme explains the legal position again, and I think how inadequate a solution the proposed litigation is for what Brian really wants – Warren never to have left at all, or maybe, closure. It seems to me that this is all going to play out like acrimonious divorce proceedings, and I’m starting to doubt that it’ll bring Brian any peace.
Later in the day, I get a call from the forensic IT specialist who has been analysing Warren’s work laptop. He tells me that they’re unable to determine which, if any, files were removed by flash drive, but that they’ve uncovered a number of hidden folders in Warren’s email inbox.
When I hang up the phone, I’m bristling with anticipation. I counsel myself not to expect too much – surely there’s a limit to what could be revealed by these emails. Unless Warren’s move was a long-hatched, completely diabolical plan designed to bring down PortCiel, potentially implicating multiple employees . . .
I log in to the fileshare and open the first hidden folder, titled ‘Project Lightning’. I’m momentarily confused. All the emails are from the same two addresses – [email protected] and [email protected]. Skimming through, it seems that the first address belongs to a woman from Graham, Texas. There’s talk of her ranch, horseback riding and handling steers. The emails from the second address appear to be from a Miami college student. Her emails are filled with prattle about dorm raids and sorority parties. Both sets of emails veer into intimate territory, and both are written atrociously – riddled with misspellings and clunky turns of phrase. Within the first few emails I read: ‘I have in my heart so much lustings and desire you’ and ‘I could hardly compress my need my you super man.’ I cringe, and feel the heat rise in my cheeks.
A quick Google search confirms that Crystelle Howard is an extra-marital affair website, whose slogan is ‘The thrill of the unchaste’. For a not insubstantial monthly fee, it guarantees that its members will connect with someone on the site. Recently, the company came under fire after a hacker revealed that the site is about 90 per cent men and 10 per cent women, and a former employee came forward and claimed to have set up and sent messages from thousands of fake female profiles.
I check the forensic IT report, which notes that the emails in this folder originate from an IP address in Shanghai. I imagine some pimply teenager wearing Coke bottle glasses and munching on cuttlefish crackers, listlessly plugging soft-core porn phrases into Google translate and pulling images of off-duty Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders to send to suckers around the world. Though even that is probably attaching too much humanity to the whole operation. More likely that Warren was just interacting with bots for – I scroll through the folder – almost two years.
I open a new webpage and Google Image search Warren’s full name, eager to put a face to his emails. The first few images are professional headshots; a dark-haired, square-jawed man in his late thirties. He looks clever, pleasant . . . normal. Halfway down the page I find a picture from a Northern Beaches primary school newsletter; Warren with his wife, Alyssa, and their two young daughters.
A queasy feeling leaches into my stomach, and I quickly shut the page. I can’t imagine how ruinous and humiliating it would be, to find out that my husband was cheating on me with a couple of cliché half-women from an extra-marital affair website. My past heartbreaks were devastating in their own ways; I assume all heartbreaks are. But at least all that was dashed for me were childish imaginings of a possible future – fuzzy projections of a wedding, house, family holidays – so far off that I would never have openly admitted to them. Not a real marriage and a real family, years of memories and identity.
I shake my head and slump down in my chair, utterly deflated. Poor Alyssa. I guess it just goes to show that you can marry someone – a fun, gregarious guy with a great job and a great jawline, the picture of a ‘perfect’ husband – only to have the relationship crumble around you, eroded by the rot of lies.
Graeme bursts into my office, scaring the computer mouse out of my hand. He waves a letter at me. ‘Warren and his lawyers are total bulldogs. Look at this – all our assertions: denied, rejected, vehemently denied! Oh, we’re going to have a fight about this in court all right!’
I smile at him weakly. I know I’m supposed to get excited about the prospect of litigation, and mounting billables, but all I feel is apprehension. Graeme chuckles. ‘This is going to be a big one for you, Romy. The other grads will be wetting themselves with jealousy.’
12
Mid-week, Paloma, Cameron and I receive a message from Mara, inviting us to drinks in the city on Friday after work. We’re immediately curious; Mara has never corralled the troops or organised anything, not even her own birthday parties.
Do you think there’s something in this? Cameron asks Paloma and me over Lync, the firm’s internal instant messenger. Mara launching her wrapping paper business? Angus opening his own restaurant?
Surely not, Paloma types back. I doubt Mara’s got that thing off the ground yet, and you’d wait until the restaurant was open and do it there, wouldn’t you?
Well, whatever it is, we’d better not miss it, I say. Mara organising something – it must be a big deal.
By the time the week wraps up, we’re still guessing. ‘Maybe Angus has finally got rid of his beard,’ I suggest as we near the venue, The Barber Shop on York Street. It’s a vintage barber by day, hip cocktail bar by night. ‘Mara’s always saying it’s the only thing she’d change about him, and that she’ll celebrate the day he shaves it off.’
We traipse through the shop, past the white-tiled walls, leather swivel chairs and wooden-framed mirrors to the steel door at the back. Heaving it open, we reveal a surprisingly large and crowded space, dimly lit but for the illuminated shelves upon shelves of premium gin.
We spy Mara at a reserved plot of sofas and armchairs near the bar. She’s seated like a queen on a green velvet sofa, holding court. I immediately feel drab in my monotone workwear; she’s in a wrap-around silk dress splashed with exotic birds, gilded bamboo hoops skimming her shoulders. As she lifts her hand to wave us over it catches the flickering candle light, and glints.
‘Is that . . .?’ says Cameron, clearly catching sight of the same sparkle.
‘I’m engaged!’ Mara exclaims as we approach, thrusting her hand in our faces. We see it
now – a sizeable diamond on her finger.
‘Oh my gosh, congratulations!’ we react in unison. I reach for Mara’s hand; it’s Tiffany & Co ad perfection. ‘This is so beautiful,’ I breathe, excitement and some other emotion I can’t quite pinpoint – envy? trepidation? – blossoming in my chest. Mara beams, her cheeks flushed with elation, and I pull her into a tight hug. ‘I am so happy for you,’ I say.
‘Um, where’s Angus?’ asks Paloma. As if on cue, he appears with a fresh round of drinks. We bombard him with congratulations and Cameron slaps him heartily on the back. Angus looks down at the floor, clearly pleased but a bit embarrassed by all the attention.
‘So how did it happen?’ I ask. ‘When did it happen?’ asks Paloma. ‘Was it a surprise? Something foodie?’ guesses Cameron.
‘It happened last weekend,’ says Mara, taking charge. ‘On our five-year anniversary. We were at Sails on Lavender Bay – where we had our first date – and during entrée, they brought over this plate of baby calamari. Written in marinara sauce were the words, “Will you cala-marry me?” Angus got down on one knee, and I just started crying. It was so beautiful, and unexpected. I mean, we’d talked about it, but I didn’t think he’d propose then and there . . .’
‘Calamari?’ queries Paloma.
‘I mean, there’s a whole story behind that,’ says Angus. ‘It goes back to when we were on our first overseas trip together, in Spain –’
‘Mara!’ Angus is interrupted by another group of their friends arriving. They immediately spot the engagement ring, which sets off more squeals of delight, hugs and vigorous hand-shaking.
‘So when do you guys think you’ll get married?’ one of the newly arrived girls asks when everyone has found a seat and a drink.
‘Within the next six months,’ Mara says confidently.
I accidentally inhale some champagne. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything short of a year, eighteen months at least.
Love, in Theory Page 10
