‘Third date?’ She looks at me, her face breaking into a chuffed grin. ‘Big deal for you. That’s great. But . . . you didn’t want to bring him over, or go over to his?’ She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
I laugh. ‘I’m taking things slow. I think this could really be something, and I just want to be . . . sure.’
‘Good for you,’ she says, her voice tinged with admiration. ‘You have so much self-control. When I meet someone I’m into – well, I can’t hold out for three dates. The sexual tension would kill me.’
After I’ve seen Anna off in all her glittery glory, I flop down on my bed, my post-date glow fading. I know that chemistry isn’t key, that I should be pursuing traits rather than attraction, but Anna’s words have thrown me a bit. What does it mean that I’m not desperate to sleep with Hans? And when, if ever, will my feelings for him blossom into something more ardent?
My gaze falls on the book my mum gave me, which is sitting on my nightstand. Chemistry: The Art and Science of Romance. I pick it up and rifle through the contents page for something, anything, useful. One chapter title catches my eye: ‘The Danger of Mistaking the Spark for the Substance’. I flip through the pages.
‘So often we err in mistaking the spark for the substance,’ I read. ‘We mistake falling in love with being in love, and infatuation with the feelings needed to sustain a long-term relationship. It’s easy to see why. Most of us know the rapturous feeling of falling in love: the moment another person begins to take on special significance, and becomes the focal point of your world; when thoughts of them occupy your mind – a song on the radio reminds you of them, you wonder what they’re doing right now; and when you begin to focus on their most trifling aspects – his winning smile, her adorable pointy knees – and magnify them, convincing yourself that even their flaws are winsome and unique. Psychologist Erich Fromm described the “miracle of sudden intimacy”; the moment when two strangers suddenly let the wall between them fall down, and feel close. This “moment of oneness”, he wrote, is one of the most thrilling experiences life can offer.’
The miracle of sudden intimacy – I know that feeling, I realise. Though it was years ago, I can remember with absolute clarity being in Adam’s college room one evening, losing myself in the molten dark of his eyes, slowly undressing for him, and giving myself over to him. Skin on skin, feeling that there was magic in the air. And with Jackson, years later. Cocooned in his bed, lying nose to nose, sharing the same breath and thinking that no two people could ever have been so connected.
‘As anthropologist Helen Fisher points out, romantic love has all the hallmarks of addiction; lovers crave emotional and physical connection, feel a rush of elation when thinking about their beloved, and experience intensifying obsession which can lead them to do inappropriate or ill-advised things to impress or keep seeing their beloved. Indeed, when neuroscientists Andreas Bartels and Semir Zeki compared the brains of loved-up persons shown pictures of their partner with those of addicts who had just injected drugs, they found that many of the same clusters in the brain’s reward system were stimulated.’
Leading them to do inappropriate or ill-advised things – surely following Adam around like a puppy, hanging off his every word and being blind to his flirtations with other girls falls into that category, I think ruefully. As does rearranging my life around Jackson’s unpredictable schedule, continuing to show up no matter how many plans he cancelled.
‘It is understandable that, having found this spark and experienced this infatuation, people in love seek to cement these sensations – by defining the relationship, moving in together, walking down the aisle. But this euphoria cannot last forever. Psychologist Dorothy Tennov measured the duration of romantic love from the moment of infatuation to when subjects felt “neutrality” towards their partner. She found that this length of time tends to be between about eighteen months and three years. Another study of serotonin activity in the blood, led by Dr Donatella Marazziti, indicates that the obsessive preoccupation that people have with their partner during the early stages of love lasts between twelve and eighteen months. The danger, then, is building a future on romantic feelings that are doomed to fade . . .’
I’m surprised. Eighteen months? To move from rapture to neutrality? Then again, it took Adam and Jackson less time to become disenchanted with me. And eighteen months is about the point when the passion began to fade between Anna and Steve (which unfortunately I could monitor quite acutely, given the very thin walls in our place), eventually leading to their break-up.
Okay, I think, so this chapter affirms the danger of relying on the spark, but what does this mean for people who make sensible relationship choices, based on substance? I flip to the next chapter: ‘Cultivating Love’.
‘Love is an art and a practice, and not something that occurs to us by virtue of happening upon the perfect person. Having found a person well enough suited to us (noting that the “perfect person”, who is compatible with us in every possible way, simply does not exist), what matters is the act of cultivating love. The first step, falling in love, is the easy part – as simple, perhaps, as asking each other a set of thirty-six progressively personal questions and staring into one another’s eyes for four minutes. Mandy Len Catron wrote in her famous New York Times Modern Love piece that undertaking this experiment, based on a study by psychologist Arthur Aron and others, caused her to realise that love is much more pliable than we assume it to be; it is entirely possible to engender the feelings of trust and intimacy that lead to love.’
I find myself nodding. This seems to support what my mum and Mara have said: that lukewarm feelings can blossom into love. I just need to spend more time with Hans; allow myself to be more vulnerable, do some more eye-gazing, be more intimate with him, and those strong feelings will develop.
‘The next step – being and staying in love – is, most agree, the difficult part. On the one hand, numerous studies have shown that repeated exposure to virtually anything we encounter increases our propensity to like it. This is true of particular foods, music, art, our surroundings and people. This may explain the prevalence of workplace romances, and say something about the success rate of arranged marriages. On the other hand, when something displeases us, repeated exposure can amplify our negative feelings (which may play some part in explaining why most violent crime is committed by persons known to the victims rather than by strangers). This suggests that, in order to make a relationship work, both people must be willing to accommodate each other, and try to focus on each other’s good points.’
This just affirms the importance of picking good traits, I think. Of focusing on compatibility and liking, making sure you have a solid foundation for a long-term, loving relationship. And then putting in the effort to make it work.
I think about calling my mum to talk through my thoughts. I check the time; it’s way too late. Instead, I type out a WhatsApp message to Alexandra.
Thanks for the book recommendation! I’m finding it super useful. I got a bit depressed by the part about infatuation leading people astray, but my hope was restored when I read that love can be cultivated with a bit of intention. You know anyone who’s put these theories to work?
She responds immediately. Glad you’re finding it useful. Your mum mentioned that you were thinking of adopting a more scientific approach to romance – girl after my own heart! And yes, totally, some of my single girlfriends have read it and embraced the thinking. I would too if I was keen on a relationship right now. Alexandra was married once, back when she lived in Sydney, but as far as I know, she’s been staunchly single since. She told me once that she prefers to focus on her work, has no desire to have kids, and that a partner is not a priority for her.
We message back and forth a bit, and I tell her about my nascent relationship with Hans.
Well he sounds like he checks all the boxes, she types. And you’re into him?
It’s a strange question, I think, given that I’ve just set out what I like
about him.
She keeps typing: You’ve kissed him? Slept with him? Am I allowed to ask these questions? Don’t tell your mum I’m being so nosy!
We’ve kissed. Haven’t slept with him yet. It’s surprisingly easy to reveal these details over text.
Well, a good first kiss is important, she types. Did you see that stat in the book: something like 65% of people have ended a budding romance after a first kiss. You’re obviously on the right track if you’ve passed that milestone.
How many people end things after bad sex? I ask.
Haha, I don’t think there were any stats about that. But I think it’s good to hold off for a while on the sex front. You’ve probably read or already know that sex promotes dopamine activity, and causes an increase in oxytocin and vasopressin, which are hormones linked with feelings of attachment. We talk about those chemicals tipping people over the threshold into falling in love . . . good to be sure about the guy first. I smile ruefully, wondering what degree of my feelings for my ex-boyfriends was attributable to sex.
Thanks for the advice, Alexandra. Wish we could do this in person.
Me too, Romy. But you can hit me up anytime. Shame that I won’t see you for a while – I won’t be back in Aus for Christmas this year. But I’m planning a trip back mid-next year. Will be so nice to see you, and maybe your boyfriend (!) then.
14
The next week at work is frantic. As expected, Warren’s deadline to return the signed undertaking to abide by the non-compete clause sails by without a peep from him or his lawyer. Of course. It would have been too much to hope that he’d fold. Having been instructed by the PortCiel directors to forge ahead, injunction preparation is now in full force, leaving little time for anything outside of work. I resort to messaging Hans, promising to see him soon.
Graeme and I spend days putting together evidence for our approach to the court. I get the job of interviewing Brian to draft an affidavit that sets out the background to the matter, and identifies what protectable business interests Warren’s defection will jeopardise. It’s a slow and painful process. On the phone one morning, Brian vacillates between lucidly explaining the PortCiel structure and products, and helplessly bewailing the circumstances of Warren’s departure. ‘I’m just . . . dumbfounded,’ he says for the umpteenth time. ‘My buddy at B-Ware told me that Warren was in talks with WRX for months. He was cosying up to them while we were actively implementing his fast-track to Vice MD. Not to mention his ten-year PortCiel anniversary. We organised this fancy lunch for him at Quay, gifted him a bottle of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich . . .’
‘I’m so sorry, Brian,’ I say. ‘Do you want to take a breather? We don’t have to do this all now.’ As I say this, Graeme bustles past my office tapping his watch theatrically. He’s been pushing me to get the affidavit finalised, and refuses to understand why it’s taking so long.
Brian sighs. ‘Romy, I know I haven’t made this easy for you and Graeme. I’m sorry I’ve been slow to make decisions and get things moving. If I’m honest, this whole thing has shaken my world a bit. It’s almost as bad as when my wife announced that she was leaving me.’
My heart lurches again. Misery upon misery. Can this litigation really be healthy for Brian? But it’s not my place to say, and anyway, the die has been cast. WRX has engaged top-tier legal representation, determined to fight the restraint. In turn, we have briefed Senior Counsel. Everyone is armed and ready to go.
‘Don’t apologise, Brian,’ I say, unsure what the situation calls for. ‘Let’s just focus on building a persuasive case and securing that injunction.’
I don’t have time for lunch or coffee breaks, so Cameron, Paloma and I resort to messaging each other over Lync. Cameron, it seems, is not doing so well. Mark just threw an egg salad sandwich at the window because we lost a client, he types one day. Luckily I was out of the splatter zone. And the next: Mark just informed me that if I were any less intelligent I’d need to be watered twice a day. I shudder at every report, but he resists our urges to go to HR. They’ll probably just tell me to fetch him a less messy lunch next time. I mean, egg salad, what was I thinking?
Paloma, meanwhile, tells us that she and Miles have started to hang out. But it’s all very casual.
I feel so distant from them. I wish that I could console Cameron and hear about Paloma’s new romance in person. But work demands my attention, and it’s all I can do to offer hastily typed responses.
The weekend, at least, brings some respite. I see my parents on Saturday morning, before I’m due to meet Hans for a walk at Balmoral.
‘He sounds great, Romy,’ Mum says after I’ve brought them up to speed. ‘Exactly the kind of guy I imagined you with. You’ll have to invite him around sometime.’
‘All in good time,’ I say. ‘It’s definitely too early to meet the parents . . . I don’t want to scare him off.’
‘Oh, ha ha,’ Mum says, rolling her eyes. She can’t even pretend to be annoyed though; she’s too delighted that I’ve met someone.
‘Make sure you give us some warning though,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll consult the old joke book – I’m sure there are some good ones about Germans I can add to the repertoire.’
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. ‘My point exactly.’
‘So you said you had a crazy week at work?’ Mum says.
‘Yeah . . .’ I sigh, and tell them all about the injunction madness.
‘And how’s that boss of yours treating you?’ Dad asks.
I shrug. ‘Graeme’s Graeme. He’s no more annoying than usual. Although he has started using this terrible catchphrase. Whenever he realises a case has no reasonable prospects, he’ll tell the client it’s “doomed to fail”. But lately he’s started abbreviating it, so we’ll be in a client meeting and he’ll lean in close and say, “DTF mate, DTF,” which of course means something entirely different. It’s so awkward. I suppose I should bring it to his attention.’
My parents just blink. ‘What’s DTF?’ Dad asks. I shouldn’t be surprised at his obliviousness. This is a man who once messaged LOL to a family friend whose cat had been run over, thinking it meant lots of love.
‘Um, you can look it up on UrbanDictionary.’
Mum is already on her phone. ‘Down to what? Surely nobody speaks like that these days. And he says this in front of you? Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?’
‘No. I mean, yes, on his behalf – I get intense vicarious embarrassment. Hans gave me this great German word for it the other day, fremdschämen. But Graeme doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just clueless. Trust me,’ I add, ‘I lucked out getting him as a boss.’ I consider telling them about Cameron’s plight for contrast, but decide against it. It would just worry them.
The next week, the first in December, Birchstone McCauliffe undergoes a festive transformation. Wreaths fashioned from silver birch branches (a nod to our firm’s emblem) and clusters of silver baubles are strung about every pillar. Herds of glittery plastic reindeer are installed on every floor, and fishbowls filled with peppermint candies materialise in the kitchens. A towering, snow-white Christmas tree is erected in the building’s lobby; though tricked out with plastic crystals rather than Swarovski, it rivals the QVB tree. A string quartet, ignominiously garbed in angel outfits, is recruited to play carols in the entrance for two hours each morning.
The firm Christmas party takes place on the Friday evening at The Ivy, the glamorous dining and entertainment complex that is the mainstay of high-end corporate events. Though we all received the annual email reminder that the Christmas party is a work event and a high standard of behaviour is expected, it’s generally understood that this is a time to play hard. Indeed, the hijinks of Christmas parties past have become the stuff of legend. Graeme is yet to live down the time he let a senior associate shave a lightning bolt into his back hair, and it’s rumoured that the managing partner ended up in the Martin Place fountain a few years back.
I arrive at The Ivy along with a group of girls from my floor. W
e ascend the grand staircase and let out a sincere murmur of appreciation as we enter the ballroom, which has been transformed into a luxe winter wonderland. Crystal snowflakes hang from the chandeliers, coruscating in the pale blue light. Towering vases filled with frosted silver ferns and tiny fairy lights sit atop the tables. Abstract ice sculptures gleam from marble plinths, and scenes from classic holiday films are projected onto the walls. A DJ plays a techno mash-up of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Jingle Bell Rock’.
I survey the outfits on display. The junior girls all look incredible, wearing fitted white dresses and figure-hugging silver jumpsuits adorned with enormous feathery angel wings, tulle skirts and intricate headpieces strewn with tiny LED lights. Their faces are professionally made up, silvery and ethereal, encrusted with glitter and pearls. I feel immediately self-conscious in my plain cotton dress and flimsy wire halo headband. At least the guys are in less elaborate costumes. Most wear pale, cuffed chinos and open-necked white shirts with tiny but distinctive embroidered ponies – most likely their weekend sailing outfits. The self-proclaimed ‘edgy’ guys have added linen blazers, fat moustaches and baggies of white powder to their ensembles – a coterie of Pablo Escobars.
A couple of glasses of champagne in, the music stops and the jingling of sleighbells fills the air. The chatter dies down as the ballroom doors swing open and the managing partner appears, dressed as Santa Claus in a silver suit trimmed with white fur and standing on a sleigh drawn by a herd of unhappy-looking summer clerks wearing antlers and bells around their necks. I forget myself for a moment; it’s just too bizarre a sight. The clerks haul the sleigh through the parting crowds to the centre of the room, and with a regal wave, the managing partner descends onto the stage like a Roman emperor.
‘Welcome, Birchstone McCauliffe, to our infamous end of year event,’ he booms. ‘I’m glad to see that you’ve taken the White Christmas theme to heart in your incredible costumes . . . but not on the diversity front!’ He nods to one of the partners, the head of diversity and inclusion; another older, very white male. I cringe.
Love, in Theory Page 12
