I suppress a laugh. ‘Paloma, it’s hard enough finding someone I’m compatible with personality-wise. I’ve told you about the three traits I’m looking for. I’m not going to privilege sexual chemistry over someone being agreeable, low novelty-seeking and emotionally stable.’
‘Well, maybe you should think about it,’ she says. ‘Haven’t you ever listened to Savage Lovecast? Dan Savage addressing people’s sex and relationship quandaries. I swear every call starts with, “Hi Dan, my partner and I have the most amazing relationship. He/She is so kind and supportive and loving, blah blah blah . . . but there’s this one thing.” And the “one thing” is always sexual incompatibility – some need or desire or kink one of them has that the other isn’t meeting – and this “one thing” is threatening to blow up their relationship or destroy the caller’s sanity.’
‘Well . . .’
‘So you say the sexual aspect of a relationship isn’t a priority, but it should be. You can go outside your relationship for certain things – emotional support, good conversation, a hiking buddy – but unless you’re okay with an open relationship, which I’m guessing you aren’t, you’re stuck sleeping with one person for the rest of your life –’
‘Paloma,’ I cut her off, ‘I don’t need the lecture.’ I silently rebuke myself for calling her in the first place. Of course she was going to fixate on this. ‘I get what you’re saying, but it’s premature –’
‘Well that’s a problem,’ she says.
I ignore the innuendo. ‘– because it was the first time. And anyway, if we’re talking about what makes someone good in bed, it’s agreeableness – someone who wants to please their partner. I think in the long run Hans and I will be just fine.’
‘Okay,’ she says, sounding unconvinced. ‘I mean, personally, I’d prefer someone novelty-seeking in the bedroom, or whatever the trait is, but I guess we all want different things.’
16
The next weekend, I’ve arranged to meet James at a gallery in Surry Hills. One of his friends has put on an exhibition; a kind of ‘Museum of Broken Relationships’ installation called, cryptically, ‘It’s Not You’.
I miss my bus and arrive a few minutes late, to see James already waiting outside the gallery on Crown Street. Leaning casually against the shopfront in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, he looks like James Dean, but brighter-eyed, sunnier. James Franco playing James Dean, perhaps. He’s chatting to a slender girl with a perky ponytail and an apron who’s clearing coffee cups from the sidewalk tables next door. As I start to cross the street, I see her balance her tray on one hip, take out her phone and, by the looks of it, enter his details.
James smiles as I approach and languidly pushes himself upright. He greets me with a hug, and pulls two tickets from his pocket.
‘Were you chatting up that waitress?’ I ask, amused.
‘Chatting to,’ he says. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Sure. What do I owe you for the ticket?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He waves me away. ‘I got them free. I think Marcus was just glad to get some people through the exhibition. I don’t think the turnout’s been that great.’
‘Shouldn’t we pay, then?’ I say. ‘I feel bad.’
‘Don’t stress,’ he says. ‘I’ll shout him a beer next time I see him.’
Despite its small, nondescript entrance, the gallery is surprisingly cavernous. The exhibition space snakes behind a partition in the front room into two more large rooms, with lofty ceilings and bright white walls.
We wander about the glass display cases of relationship remnants in the front room – a toy pony collection, a metal spork engraved with ‘give peas a chance’, a matching set of leather collars with tags reading ‘Clementine’ and ‘Ferdinand’ (For them or their pets? we wonder), a tattered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a dress made of grommeted playing cards and binder rings (An ‘anything but clothes’ party?).
In the next room, there are letters – reams and reams of letters – ticket stubs and event invitations, handwritten notes and torn journal entries; somehow arranged in a frozen avalanche of paper that cascades from ceiling to floor. Jars of Jordan almonds, whitened with age. A Moroccan wedding blanket stained with red wine. Converse sneakers covered in texta scrawls. A set of three huge gold photo frames chalked with ‘For Sale’ and increasingly slashed prices. A quote in flickering neon: Kissing: you’d be a fool to do it.
The third room is dominated by a delicate wire trellis arch, covered in scraps of lace and silk underwear that flutter under the strong gusts of the aircon like erotic wisteria. I wonder how the artist went about sourcing items for this panty pergola. Who would give up or be so careless with their Araks or Kiki de Montparnasse?
I try to imagine the stories behind the other bits and bobs dotted around the room. A woodchuck mascot head – a grand gesture proposal gone awry? A silver necklace with a tiny glittering amethyst – too painful to keep, not worth melting down?
‘Some of this stuff is so tragic,’ I whisper to James, who is examining a pineapple-shaped fern planter. The lack of description gives everything a portentous air, the objects standing as enigmatic symbols of great and lost loves.
‘I know,’ he murmurs back, ‘it’s like the visual art equivalent of Hemingway’s six-word story.’
Suddenly hit with a blast of cold air from the aircon, we shift, and keep moving around the room.
‘What’s your weirdest broken relationship remnant?’ I ask him, curious.
‘An ink drawing of an otter and a minnow,’ he says. Then, by way of explanation, ‘She was an illustrator.’
‘Why didn’t it work out?’
He hesitates. ‘We just . . . weren’t good for each other. I think it was because we both wanted the artist’s lifestyle. She’d float around in these heron-printed silk kimonos, fingers always stained with ink, creating these incredible drawings of gumnut babies and mischievous moon rocks but would never, I don’t know, eat a balanced meal, charge her phone, pay her bills. And I wasn’t much better – I’d get stuck into whatever project I was working on, and barely meet my uni and work deadlines.’ He sighs. ‘She was beautiful and intelligent and bubbling with creativity, everything I wanted –’ his breath catches, ‘– but between the two of us, we never got shit done.’
‘I see.’ I assume that he’s the otter; he has that cheeky, gambolling litheness to him. I wonder about this fey minnow, about what kind of girl could affect James so.
‘And since then?’ I ask, not quite able to keep myself from prying.
‘Since then – what was that, a couple of years ago – I haven’t had any serious relationships. Honestly, I don’t think I’m cut out for it. I mean, I date, and if it turns into something, fine, but my relationships tend to burn bright then fizzle.’
‘Maybe you’re chasing the wrong thing,’ I suggest lightly. ‘I mean, if you did want something serious . . .’
‘What, you’re psychoanalysing me now? You think I should write up a girlfriend checklist?’ He raises an eyebrow, a wry smile playing about his lips.
I check myself, chagrined. ‘No, sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. Just because I’ve got my ideas about relationships doesn’t mean I should force them on other people. I’m sorry.’
‘Hey, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘I’m interested in your approach. I mean, I think we’re diametrically opposed on this one, but it’s interesting to talk about. You think the search for love is a rational exercise, right?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘I mean, there’s no denying the power of an initial spark, and infatuation – you know, when you meet someone and you just . . . click. But sometimes that just obscures the fact that two people aren’t right for each other. I definitely don’t think chemistry is a necessary foundation for a relationship. In fact, I think you can probably grow to love anyone.’
A greasy-haired guy with a honey-pot belly far too prominent for his age saunters past us, stops at the panty trellis and scoff
s loudly. ‘God this city’s filled with skanks,’ he proclaims to no-one in particular.
James looks at me pointedly.
‘Okay, almost anyone,’ I concede.
‘I very much doubt that,’ James says. ‘Sure, you can develop a connection with anyone, and come to care about them, but the all-consuming, soul-exposing passion and devotion that people spend their lives searching for, that has inspired so many love songs and stories . . .’ He gestures at the wall, which is covered with records arranged like fish scales – everything from ‘I Will Always Love You’ and ‘Unchained Melody’ to ‘I Go to Rio’ – ‘It’s not just a case of throwing two people together and, hey presto, love will blossom.’
‘But this is exactly my point,’ I counter, gesturing at the records. ‘The universality of love. The fact that there is this plethora of love-inspired art and music suggests that it’s entirely commonplace. Pedestrian, even. So many people think they’ve found their soulmate, but if there really was only one person for everyone, chances are no-one would ever claim to be in love.’
We find ourselves back at the entrance to the gallery. A waifish young woman sporting the art-world look of short severe fringe, black tunic and Swedish Hasbeens holds up a Fujifilm Instax camera and asks whether she can take our picture.
‘For the artist’s next exhibition,’ she explains.
‘Sure,’ we say.
She steps back and, before we can think about what we look like, snaps a photo.
We wait for a couple of minutes as the film develops. She shows us the picture – James and me standing side by side, arms not quite touching, a sliver of light streaking like a lightning bolt between us. Both of our faces are arranged in slightly weird expressions; a flicker of something strange captured.
Outside, James suggests that we get a coffee, so we head across the street to a little Italian café. It’s an old-school joint, decked out with black and white chequered tiles, a long wooden counter, burgundy leather booths and no doubt slightly sticky laminated menus. Cosy and classic; the kind of place that wouldn’t survive if opened today.
‘So, how do you grow to love anyone?’ James asks me when we’re finally sitting down. The café owner, an older Italian man, is tinkering away behind the counter at the shiny Lavazza machine; the rich, nutty aroma of freshly ground coffee fills the air.
I shrug. ‘I think for most people, it’s just a matter of proximity. And who they’re forced to spend time with. Like, have you ever noticed how many actors get together after filming together?’ I tick them off on my fingers. ‘Brad and Angelina after Mr and Mrs Smith, Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan after Step Up, Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher after That ’70s Show, with the Demi decade in the interim, Alexis Bledel and Milo Ventimiglia . . . those kids from The First Time . . .’ I could go on; it’s a surprisingly easy game. James is nodding; whether impressed or taken aback, I can’t quite tell.
‘It’s almost inevitable, isn’t it?’ I sum up. ‘How could you not get together after spending so much time with someone and acting out intimate scenes? At some point, that must blend into genuine feelings.’ Something occurs to me. ‘So really, it’s kind of ridiculous the way magazines hype up stories about celebrity couples who met on set. Unless there’s some barrier, like one or both already being spoken for, surely it’s to be expected. Who and Us Weekly should have headlines like “Shocking development – so-and-so didn’t get together while filming this Nicholas Sparks movie”.’
Our coffees arrive, bitter caramelly perfection. ‘This girl is a talker,’ the café owner says, gesturing towards me as he places the cups down in front of us. Taken aback, my mouth twitches into a grim half-smile. ‘Sure is,’ says James, winking at me.
‘So,’ James says, once the café owner has retreated beyond eavesdropping distance, ‘two questions. Firstly, where are you getting these films from? Do you spend a lot of time on budget overseas airlines, or do you just watch whatever gets less than 50 per cent on Rotten Tomatoes?’
I laugh. ‘What can I say? I’m a lowbrow girl.’
‘Second,’ he continues, ‘if your theory is on the money, does that mean you’ve fallen for everyone you’ve spent a lot of time with in close quarters?’
‘No. But,’ I qualify before he can relish a victory, ‘my job doesn’t require me to spend a lot of time staring into my co-workers’ eyes and pretending to like them. In fact, the opposite is encouraged. And, okay, there is another criterion to my theory, which is that you do have to have some baseline of compatibility. On-screen couples are pre-filtered for hotness and occasionally age; for me, it’s the three traits I told you about the other day.’
‘Don’t you think that’s expecting too little of people?’ says James. ‘To look for baseline compatibility? To assume there’s no-one out there who’s perfect for you– no-one you could like, and have chemistry with, without having to work at it?’
I shrug. It doesn’t seem like either of us will be persuaded. ‘Those are just the stats. But hey,’ I try to inject some lightness into the conversation, ‘I’m the one who grew up on a diet of terrible rom-coms. If anyone’s got their expectations set unrealistically high, it’s me. I’ve had my eyes peeled for Simba in human form since I was eight.’
He looks at me intently. ‘It’s just . . . you’re a pretty great person, Romy. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you. To flip the script on advice-giving, let me say that I don’t think you should settle for some boring, sensible dude just because he looks good on paper.’
I feel myself colour. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to bring up the fact that I’m dating someone. And now, I’m cornered. It would be weird not to mention Hans, but it’s hardly fair to classify him as ‘some boring, sensible dude’. I struggle with how to phrase it; how to sound casual yet do Hans justice. ‘Well, actually, I am dating someone now. His name is Hans. He is good on paper, and in person, and I don’t feel at all like I’m settling.’
‘Um, way to bury the lede,’ says James with a little surprised laugh. He studies my face. ‘But that’s great. Good for you.’
I have dinner with Anna that night, curled up on the couch with takeaway pizza, half watching Home Alone. It’s the perfect Christmas movie, and we’ve each seen it a dozen times already.
‘So I went to this cool exhibition today,’ I tell her. ‘Composed of all these broken relationship artefacts.’
‘Ooh, that sounds great,’ she says. ‘Kind of a weird date though . . . bit ominous. What did Hans think of it?’
‘Oh, I didn’t go with Hans. I went with this guy James,’ I say. She looks at me, eyebrow raised. ‘A friend,’ I add.
‘Why haven’t I heard about this friend?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘We only started hanging out a little while ago.’
‘And does he know about Hans?’
‘Well, he does now. I told him today.’
‘How did he take that?’
I shrug. ‘It’s fine. I’m sure it doesn’t matter one way or another to him.’
‘Well, does Hans know about this James?’
I narrow my eyes, trying to think if I’ve mentioned him. ‘No, I don’t think so . . .’
‘So?’ Anna looks at me like a primary school teacher trying to get a struggling student to put two and two together.
‘So nothing,’ I say firmly. I can tell from her dubious expression that she doesn’t believe me. ‘I will mention James to Hans at some point. It just hasn’t come up. And I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing going on. I’m not saying I didn’t find James attractive when I first met him, but he’s not the kind of guy I’d ever want to date. I mean, he’s a lot of fun, but he’s also flighty, arrogant, he cycles through girls – he managed to pick up a waitress as I was crossing the street to meet him today – and he’s a self-professed “non-relationship” guy.’
‘Okay,’ says Anna through a mouthful of pizza. ‘Well, feel free to pass on my number.’
I turn to
look at her. ‘What?’ She shrugs. ‘He sounds like fun. And I’m not interested in a relationship, either.’
‘Really?’ I say, as much out of genuine surprise as in an attempt to dodge the matchmaking request. I know Anna has been dating casually since she and Steve broke up, but I figured that eventually she’d want something more serious.
‘Yeah. I mean, you saw how dysfunctional things were between me and Steve towards the end. We couldn’t have a conversation without biting each other’s head off, and everything felt like a chore.’ I nod. There were times the house had felt frosty with their hostility.
‘Well, I like being single. One-night stands and casual flings are fun; you get the sexy frisson, the feeling of being alive, and none of the domestic drudgery.’
‘Well, when you put it like that,’ I say. I reach for another slice of pizza.
‘Speaking of the downsides of relationships,’ she says, ‘are they still taking donations for that art exhibit? I’ve got a whole bunch of crap Steve gave me that I need to get rid of. Number one, that cheesy necklace engraved with the geographic coordinates of our first date.’
‘Aw, you used to think that was so sweet.’
‘Ha,’ she says. ‘How things change. Such a thin line between love and hate.’
When Macaulay Culkin has been reunited with his family and Anna and I have cleaned up our pizza boxes, I give Hans a call.
‘Hey, do you have Christmas plans?’
‘No . . . well there’s some expat lunch, but I’m undecided,’ he says. ‘Everyone’s so keen for shrimp on the barbecue, but I’m pretty sure no-one knows how to operate a barbecue . . . could be a recipe for disaster.’
‘Do you want to come for Christmas at my parents’ place? I know it might be too soon to meet the parents, and the extended family, but it could be fun. And it would be so nice to spend Christmas with you . . .’ How’s that for a new level of intimacy, I think.
‘That sounds great,’ he says. ‘And I’d like to meet your parents. Don’t worry, I’m great with parents.’
Love, in Theory Page 14
