‘How are you going to pull that off?’ I notice that the girl asking the question is sporting an engagement ring, and wedding band, of her own. ‘You know most venues book up at least a year in advance, right? And finding a dress! Some boutiques won’t even take an appointment if it’s not at least six to eight months out from the big day.’
Mara and Angus share an amused look. ‘Nina, chill,’ says Mara. ‘We’re not into all that stuff. We’re just going to have a backyard wedding, at my parents’ place in Turramurra.’
‘I’ll shamelessly call on my catering connections,’ says Angus.
‘. . . and I’m happy with a dress off the rack. Actually, I’m thinking a jumpsuit. Maybe something with lace, or a halter . . . or bell sleeves . . .’
Mara breaks off her musing as someone behind us catches her eye. ‘James!’ she calls out cheerily, and waves him over.
I turn to see him striding towards us, looking relaxed and casual in what I can only assume is a Creative uniform of fitted black t-shirt and black jeans. Our eyes meet and he smiles, lifting his chin in a silent hello.
Mara greets him with a peck on the cheek and introduces him to Angus. ‘This is my fiancé, Angus. Angus, this is James – the one who showed me around the Marrickville studios.’ She smiles. ‘You guys are going to get along so well.’
‘Wait, newly affianced?’ asks James.
‘Yep, that’s why we’re celebrating tonight.’
‘Wow. Congratulations,’ he says, with genuine excitement and warmth. ‘That’s amazing news.’ He hugs Mara and shakes Angus’s hand again, and they fill him in on the details.
‘We’re thinking about getting tattoos instead of wedding bands,’ Mara tosses out, as James finds a spot on the sofa beside Paloma.
‘Yeah? That’s cool,’ says James, at the same time as Paloma reacts with a bald, ‘Wait, really?’
Cameron elbows her. ‘Hey, come on,’ he says under his breath. ‘I know you love to give your two cents’ worth, but maybe this isn’t the time.’
Paloma bites her lip, looking slightly chastened. She glances back at Mara and Angus, who are deep in discussion with James about Sydney’s best tattoo artists. ‘I’m just trying to be a voice of reason,’ she whispers. ‘Is it really a good idea to permanently mark your body, when there’s a perfectly fine – I mean, still kind of weird, but fine – tradition of exchanging metal bands?’
Cameron shrugs. ‘To each their own. If it makes them happy . . .’
‘Yeah, but what if it doesn’t work out?’ she says. ‘It’s hard enough dividing assets and severing ties. At least you can shift a ring on eBay. Or, like, chuck it off a bridge in a dramatic, symbolic moment.’ My thoughts flit to Warren and his wife, Alyssa. To all the records and whispers of affairs that cross my desk in the strange context of employment law. But one glance at Mara and Angus is enough to dispel these thoughts.
I flick at Paloma’s leg. ‘Hey, there’s always that risk. But this is Mara and Angus we’re talking about.’
‘Yeah,’ adds Cameron. ‘Basically the closest thing to a golden couple we know.’
Paloma looks as if she’s going to retort, but thinks better of it, and focuses instead on draining her champagne.
It’s funny how talk of marriage can be such a trigger, I think as I follow suit. I feel happy for Mara and Angus, enjoying their moment, basking in love, and yet, the evening has brought out some feeling of disquiet in me.
We chat over a few more rounds of drinks, a Groundhog Day feeling emerging as each new person arrives, reacts to Mara and Angus’s news and is treated to the proposal story, before Paloma announces apologetically that she’s spent.
‘Let’s walk to Martin Place,’ she says, snapping her purse shut and standing up. I check my phone – it’s just after 10 pm. I steal a glance at James, now locked in conversation with Angus and some of his friends. I would have liked to talk to him tonight – it feels strange not to, given our budding friendship. For a moment I consider staying on, but Paloma coughs impatiently, and Cameron and I are jolted to join her.
We say our goodbyes, Mara blows us a kiss and waves us off, and with that, the night is over.
Walking towards Town Hall in the cold, I think about Hans. I have a good feeling about him, two dates in, but the comparison of timelines with Mara and Angus is stark. This must be why I’m feeling rattled by the engagement news – all that’s running through my brain right now is a hypothetical slideshow of the dozens of dates and drinks and conversations and misunderstandings and make-ups and moments of clarity that need to occur before I can comfortably declare that Hans is it, The One, if indeed that’s where it’s headed.
‘Are you okay?’ Cameron calls back to me, slowing down. Somehow I’ve managed to fall a few paces behind them.
‘Yeah, all good,’ I say, as I jog up to fall in step with them. ‘I’m just processing the engagement news. Obviously I’m over the moon for them, but I can’t help but feel . . .’
‘Envious?’ Cameron suggests.
I scrunch up my face. ‘Ugh, probably, yes. I know that’s terrible, but I can’t help it. I mean, Mara and Angus are so lucky. To have happened upon each other so young, to not have to worry about actively searching for their life partner . . .’ I look to Cameron for commiseration, then stop myself with a chuckle. ‘Oh wait, you don’t know what that’s like, Mr Teenage Meet-cute.’
‘I was twenty when I met Louis,’ Cameron corrects with an angelic smile.
‘It’s not just envy, though,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit of stress. The engagement is a reminder that I need to make my next relationship count. And that it’s not just about finding someone to date at the right time in your life, using heuristics to winnow out the duds; it’s about figuring the person out, confirming that they’ve got the right traits, which can take ages. Look at Mara and Angus – they’ve been together for five years. That’s a lifetime.’
Cameron laughs. ‘A lifetime? I mean, sure, if you’re a hamster.’
A thought occurs to me. Could there be a way to expedite this whole optimal stopping point process? ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘As a matter of theory, do you think it’s possible to date multiple people at once?’
‘What, polyamory?’
Paloma perks up. ‘Who’s polyamorous?’
‘Not polyamory,’ I clarify. ‘Just, dating non-exclusively for a bit until you know which person to choose. Hedging your bets, saving time by starting a few parallel timelines at once. Can that work?’
‘Nope,’ says Cameron matter-of-factly. ‘The brain can’t process that volume of intimacy. Or at least,’ he pauses to appraise me, ‘yours can’t. You know, Dunbar number and all.’
Paloma and I give him a quizzical look. He lets out an exasperated sigh, as undergrad anthropologists are wont to, before launching into an explanation. ‘Dunbar proposed this cascading set of numbers that refers to how many stable relationships humans can maintain at any one time based on the size of their neocortex. Most people can handle about one hundred and fifty people in their social group. Of these, fifty would be good friends, the kind you’d invite to a barbecue, and of those fifty, fifteen would be close friends, the kind you could share most things with. The smallest circle is your five closest relationships – best friends which often includes family members.’
‘Huh.’ I wasn’t expecting such an academic answer to my question.
Cameron’s voice drops and gains conviction. ‘So in your inner circle, you’ve got your parents, Paloma, and me, leaving space for one other person.’ He pauses to let the point sink in. ‘One person, not multiple.’
‘Yeah,’ says Paloma. ‘I’m no anthropologist,’ – Cameron elbows her in the ribs – ‘but even I can tell you that you can’t handle more than one romantic relationship. It’s like when parents have a second kid on the way, and they tell their firstborn that it’s not going to make any difference – that love is not a pie that can be divided. That’s bullshit. It’s not about emotional capacity being infinite, i
t’s about time and attention being finite.’ She shrugs. ‘And you’re a busy person.’
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘I mean, that is the most impressive thing about those men who have second families in another city, isn’t it – the time management skills.’
Inwardly, I sigh. I guess there is no shortcut.
‘Hey,’ says Cameron gently, ‘don’t let it stress you. You’ve got your plan, and more importantly, you’ve met Hans, who sounds really promising. There’s no race to get a ring on your finger.’
I squeeze his arm gratefully. ‘Thanks, Cam. I know. I’m excited about Hans. I’ll just focus on that, and see how it plays out.’
13
On Saturday, Hans invites me to dinner at a tapas place in Surry Hills – because, he says over text, you seem to adore the food in Spain. I realise that on our first date I probably spoke with greater zeal about patatas bravas than my own family. This is true, I text back.
Ensconced at a little wooden table in the fairy light-strung patio, we order a carafe of wine and a smattering of my favourites from the menu. Red ribbons of jamon, queso de cabra con mermelada – rounds of goat cheese baked in a nest of tomato jam – beef cheeks in sticky Pedro Ximénez glaze, and grilled padrón peppers.
I tell Hans about my attempt to order a breakfast of toast with jam in Seville – ‘tostada con jam, por favor’ – and being served a huge ham sandwich. ‘I clarified that I’d asked for jam, and the waiter insisted that the shaved leg ham was jam. Then he asked me if I’d wanted jam Serrano, and I realised that he’d taken my request for “jam” as an Anglo shortening of “jamon”. Embarrassing, but delicious.’
Hans laughs, but queries why I didn’t use a translation app in Spain. ‘I can recommend you one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, nibbling on a pepper. ‘Maybe that’s half the fun. Though I do use translation apps when absolutely necessary. Like when I got conjunctivitis and needed to get some eye drops from the pharmacy – if you’re wondering, it’s “la conjuntivitis”. Also when I needed to figure out why Madrid had so many ferret shops showing up on Google Maps. Turns out “La Ferreteria” are actually hardware stores.’
We talk about our travels through Spain, France, Italy, Greece. My list is much shorter than his, but my enthusiasm in recalling the delights of Europe much more fervent.
I tell him about my experience of Rome. ‘I’m not sure if it was full-blown Stendhal Syndrome, but when I saw the Bernini sculptures at the Borghese I just about lost it; heart palpitations, dizziness, absolute rapture. What kind of magic is that to make marble look like flesh and fabric and laurel leaves?’
Hans’s brows knit. ‘What is this Stendhal Syndrome?’
‘It’s a psychosomatic disorder,’ I explain. ‘Where a person experiences rapid heartbeat, confusion, even fainting or hallucinations when they’re exposed to something of extreme beauty or personal significance. Usually great art. It’s named after the nineteenth-century French novelist Stendhal, who wrote about this ecstatic experience he had when visiting Florence.’
Hans looks dubious. ‘Is it a real medical disorder?’
‘Well, apparently the staff at Florence’s Santa Maria Nuova hospital are used to dealing with tourists suffering from these symptoms – usually after they’ve seen the statue of David or visited the Uffizi Gallery.’ I nab a couple more peppers. ‘Though I suspect Stendhal was just more emotionally charged than the average person. Writing about the afternoons he spent strolling with his sweetheart, he said, Whenever I gave my arm to Leanore, I always felt I was about to fall, and I had to think how to walk.’ I smile wistfully, my heart swelling, irrationally, with envy. ‘I guess that’s one way to be in love.’
Hans nods slowly, and generously tops up my wine glass. ‘Europe is filled with beauty. But after a while, all galleries and churches start to look the same.’ There’s no arrogance to his tone, just a certain matter-of-factness. He explains, ‘I went on school trips to countries around Germany from a young age, on language exchange to France, holidays with my parents to Spain – it’s a recipe for lifelong cathedral fatigue.’
I shake my head, trying to imagine how anyone could ever get bored with such sights. ‘Whereas I grew up on a diet of books and movies like Madeline, Grimm Brothers fairytales, Amélie, Funny Face – I thought Paris was the most romantic place in the world. I still do, even after having my ankle mauled by a rabid dog at Jardin du Luxembourg. And realising that the locals don’t spend their days discussing Proust and Sartre and French cinema. Now, if only I had more than four weeks’ annual leave, and unlimited funds . . .’ I sigh dreamily. ‘But you must feel the same, right? I mean, isn’t that why you’re here in Australia, because you want to see the world?’
He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I guess. But also, I heard good things about the quality of life in Australia. So I’m here to figure out if I want to settle here permanently.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘I like travelling, of course, but I don’t have some intense desire to travel.’
I study his face and realise he’s being sincere. ‘Okay, so not quite wanderlust. Wander-like, maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ he chuckles.
Somewhere around my third glass of wine, we get onto the topic of dating in Germany versus Australia. ‘Germans don’t do dating the way Americans and Australians seem to understand it,’ Hans explains. ‘We don’t even have a German word for it. Either you’re in a relationship, or you’re not. And when you’re interested in someone, or in a relationship with them, you don’t go out and date other people.’
My brow crinkles. ‘I don’t get it. I mean, I understand only seeing one person at a time,’ – I think guiltily about my multiple partner musings the other night, and feel relieved that Cameron and Paloma were there to set me straight – ‘but if you don’t go out on dates as such, how do you know if you want to be in a relationship with someone?’
‘Relationships are formed out of pre-existing friendships. Most people I know met their partner in school, at university, in the workplace, or in a sports team or local group. Or were introduced by mutual friends.’
‘So the notion of picking someone up at a bar, maybe falling into bed with them, going out a few times . . .’
‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘Definitely not normal. Unlike in Australia, where you seem to date to find the one you like, in Germany, you date the one you like.’ He ponders for a moment. ‘Maybe this has to do with the way Germans talk and interact in general. You have to have a reason to start talking to someone. We don’t have a word for “small talk”, and you wouldn’t just walk up to a stranger and ask, “How are you?” or offer to buy them a drink or tell them they’re beautiful.’
‘Interesting,’ I muse. ‘But where do dating apps figure in? They’re not exactly akin to meeting on a mixed netball team.’
‘Well, I suppose they blur the line a bit. When you connect with someone on Tinder, and when you first meet them, you don’t know. But I think you can get an idea pretty quickly if you want to be in a relationship with someone.’ He smiles gently at me.
I feel heat prickle at my face, and a flutter in my chest. I don’t know if he means that he’s decided about me; after all, it’s only date number three. But I like the sound of his upfront approach to dating. And I like the way he’s looking at me.
I ask about his relationship history, and he tells me that at Cambridge, he dated an English girl from his college. ‘It didn’t work out in the end, because we were at very different stages of life, but, you know, it was a good experience. And it ended amicably.’
‘And are you still friends with your ex-girlfriends?’ I ask curiously. As someone who’s only ever had bad break-ups, and who has desperately avoided ever seeing or speaking to her exes again, I’m always intrigued by people who manage to remain friends with theirs.
‘Not really,’ he says. ‘Maybe we exchange birthday messages, but that’s about it. I respect the girls I’ve dated, and wish them well, but I don’t need more friends. And i
t seems to me to be a bit artificial – to try to repackage romantic feelings as platonic, at least without a long breathing period.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe it works for other people. Not in my experience.’
He asks about my past relationships, and I give him a vague run-down, wanting to reciprocate his openness, but not wanting to dredge up anything too heavy. ‘Let’s just say there’s no cordial exchange of birthday messages. But,’ I add, trying to sound sanguine, ‘that was all a long time ago. Not something I dwell on.’
When the night simmers to a close, Hans asks me if I want to come back to his place in Pyrmont. I dither. It’s not as though I didn’t expect it, but this thing with him, this relationship (if that’s what it is) still feels too new. And sex would surely just cloud my judgement . . .
‘It’s okay, Romy,’ Hans says, placing his hands on my shoulders to hold me at arms’ length, and looking reassuringly into my eyes. ‘There’s no pressure.’ He pulls me close and kisses me gently, his lips firm and warm. ‘I’ll walk you to your bus stop, and I’ll see you again soon.’
When I get home, I’m still glowing from the date, infused with excitement and delight. Every time I see Hans it just seems to confirm that he’s exactly the kind of person I’m looking for. And three dates is a significant milestone for me.
‘Romy, is that you?’ Anna calls out. ‘Can I borrow your liquid eyeliner?’
I find her in the bathroom, pots and palettes of make-up everywhere.
‘You’re going out now?’ I ask. ‘I’m headed to bed.’ I shouldn’t be surprised; our social calendars are rarely in sync.
‘The club doesn’t open for another hour,’ she says, adding some tiny glitter stars to the corners of her eyes. ‘How’s this for me being ahead of the game, for once?’
I rummage around in my make-up drawer, extract my eyeliner and hand it to her.
‘I just had a really good date,’ I tell her. ‘My third date, actually, with that guy I was telling you about, Hans.’
Love, in Theory Page 11
