I chuckle. ‘I swear everyone thinks they’re good with parents. But I’m just warning you, my mum and dad are a bit . . . intense and odd, respectively.’
‘Yeah?’ queries Hans. ‘Any tips?’
‘Well, my mum doesn’t respond well to flattery, so definitely don’t tell her you think we could be sisters, or that you can see where I get my good looks from – I don’t know why that always works in the movies. And my dad isn’t into sports or current affairs chit chat, so don’t bother with that. Do you have any esoteric gardening knowledge?’
Hans just laughs. ‘First Australian Christmas combined with meeting my girlfriend’s family – this will be fun.’
17
In typical Sydney fashion, Christmas Day is gloriously warm. Hans and I arrive at my parents’ place at midday, plate of lebkuchen in hand. I’m already slightly sticky in my linen dress; I can feel the sweat beading on my back – part humidity, part nerves. I hope that everyone gets along. An entire afternoon together under the sun, with alcohol in the mix, will either end in everyone warming to each other, or in disaster. I remember one Christmas featuring a full-blown screaming match between my aunt and uncle over a pointed remark about a second helping of pudding, and another where my cousin and his girlfriend left abruptly, both in tears.
‘Romy! Hans!’ My parents greet us at the door, all smiles. Dad greets Hans with a firm handshake, and Mum immediately begins to fawn over him. ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you,’ she gushes. ‘Ever since Romy first mentioned you we’ve been badgering her for an introduction.’ She leans in towards Hans and whispers to him conspiratorially. ‘And anyone Romy chooses to spend time with over eating wasabi peas in the dark has got to be keeper.’
I shoot her a look. I was so preoccupied with whether they’d all get on that I forgot to worry about another ever-present peril; my parents’ tendency to embarrass me.
They usher us through the house and into the garden, where the rest of the Christmas guests are already mingling and picking at the hors d’oeuvres; prosciutto-wrapped melon, parmesan twists and tiny parcels of baby bocconcini, basil and cherry tomato. It’s a one-sided family affair this year; Dad’s two older sisters, Sophie and Caro, my uncles and three cousins. I greet them all with slightly stilted hugs – it’s been a full year since I’ve seen any of them – and introduce Hans to everyone.
‘So how did you two meet?’ Caro asks, waving a piece of melon and her long red nails at us.
I glance at Hans, wondering if he has any hang-up about how we met. ‘On Tinder,’ he says without hesitation.
‘What’s that?’ She leans in. ‘Nintendo?’
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Caro is neither hard of hearing nor that out of touch; my cousins Siobhan and Brendan are both in their twenties.
‘No, Tinder. It’s a dating app,’ I say patiently.
‘Oh, okay,’ she says, raising her eyebrows dramatically. ‘I guess it’s difficult for some people to meet the normal way. You always were a bit of a wallflower, weren’t you, Romy?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘You haven’t met Siobhan’s fiancé Peter yet, have you? Shame he couldn’t join us today.’ She pulls my cousin Siobhan, a strawberry-blonde, apple-cheeked girl a couple of years older than me, over to us. ‘I was just telling Romy and Hank here –’
‘Hans,’ I correct her. I’m swiftly remembering why we only ever invite my dad’s family over once a year.
‘– about Peter. He and Siobhan met in London a couple of years ago on one of those bus tours,’ she tells us. ‘Proof that it’s still possible to meet your soulmate in real life!’
Siobhan beams at us. ‘Two people from Newcastle on the same Topdeck tour. Seriously, what are the chances?’
Hans furrows his brow. ‘I would have thought the chance would be quite high. Aren’t those tours mainly full of Australians? I never met any Europeans who did them . . .’
I stifle a laugh. Sometimes I think Hans’s matter-of-factness deserves its own show.
‘Anyway,’ says Caro, ‘we’re very excited for their wedding.’
‘The theme is “My Other Half”,’ Siobhan volunteers. ‘So we’re going to do everything in two-tone: chequered dance floor; half dark chocolate, half white chocolate macarons; marbled cake . . .’ A lot of amusing visuals occur to me, but none that I think Siobhan would appreciate, so I keep my mouth closed, and listen to her warble on. Eventually, I manage to excuse myself to go and help out in the kitchen. I leave Hans with my Uncle Paul, Caro’s less strident other half.
Soon, the table is heaving with food – a plump turkey, sage and chorizo stuffing, duck-fat potatoes, a spiced glazed ham, mango and avocado salads and huge tiger prawns. Dad discards his MasterChef apron, Mum plants gravy boats and glass dishes of cranberry sauce along the table, and they invite us to sit down to eat.
‘This looks incredible,’ says Hans appreciatively. ‘All the classics, with an Australian touch.’
‘Thanks Hans,’ says Mum. ‘You know, I’d actually prefer to go a bit more summery – it really is too hot for a roast – but ever since Romy was a kid she’s insisted that we do the traditional Christmas fare. She just loved those American Christmas movies, and somehow, this is the spread we’ve ended up with.’
‘Yes, it’s only recently that we stopped doing a sweet potato and marshmallow bake,’ Dad chimes in. ‘The distinction between Thanksgiving and Christmas being lost on younger Romy . . .’
‘And we still trim the tree with popcorn garlands,’ says Mum. ‘To indulge this one.’ She pinches my cheek in an overt display of affection. Either the cranberry punch is spiked or she’s in an exceptionally good mood.
‘The trick with that, Hans,’ says Dad, ‘is to blast the popcorn with polyurethane varnish spray before you string it up. Otherwise you’re just running a buffet for rodents.’
‘I see,’ says Hans. He looks at me sideways for a cue as to how to react. I squeeze his knee under the table and mutter under my breath, ‘He’s only half joking.’ Hans smiles and squeezes my leg back. ‘Sounds like a sensible approach,’ he says to my dad.
A few glasses of wine in, my Uncle Paul addresses Hans across the table.
‘Hans, your English is very good.’ He speaks slowly, over-enunciating each word.
I cringe. ‘Pretty sure most Germans speak better English than us, Uncle Paul. You know, they actually learn English grammar? Whereas someone asked me the other day about modal verbs and I had no clue.’
‘But there are a lot of common English words I don’t know,’ Hans says charitably. He turns to me. ‘You and I have had some funny mistranslations . . .’
He turns back to address the table. ‘For example, I kept thinking Romy was talking about avocados. Because I know that you shorten it to “avo”. But turns out when she says “arvo”, she actually means afternoon.’ He shakes his head. ‘So confusing. Same as “cuppa”. I thought she meant copper.’
‘It’s the idioms that’ll get you,’ I say. I tell them about the time I said I was going to ‘hit the hay’; Hans found this hilarious, and mimed hitting a haybale. ‘And then there’s me with German idioms . . .’ I smile, thinking about just a few nights ago when Hans told me I was the ‘yellow from the egg’. In theory, it was no stranger than being deemed the apple of his eye or the bee’s knees, but I’d delighted at the novelty of the compliment.
‘My friend Brian dated this Spanish girl a little while ago,’ pipes up my cousin Ethan, a lanky nineteen-year-old, over a mound of potatoes. ‘They were texting late at night and he said “I’m tired”, but instead of “estoy cansado” he mistakenly wrote “estoy casado”. Never heard from her again.’
We give him querying looks.
‘Estoy casado – I’m married,’ he clarifies. ‘But I don’t think it was going that well anyway. She’d said “te quiero” to him, which he took to mean “I love you”, but we figured out later that she was probably saying that she liked him as a friend.’
C
aro shakes her head, her glass of wine threatening to spill everywhere. ‘Well that’s just silly, isn’t it? You date someone you don’t share a common language with, of course things will get lost in translation.’ I look down at my plate, wondering if I should retort or bite my tongue. Is this going to blow up into the heated argument I feared?
Mum cuts in. ‘That’s true, but don’t you think that every relationship, every conversation, involves feats of translation?’
Caro, unused to being challenged, tries to stare her down. Mum continues, ‘I mean, there’s a big gap between our private thoughts and intentions and public words and actions. I think that’s what intimacy is – learning the landscape of that divide. It’s not insuperable, and sometimes it’s worth putting in the effort to try to understand another person.’ She smiles sweetly at Caro. ‘Not always, but sometimes.’
‘Dessert, anyone?’ Dad calls out across the table.
Later in the day, once the relatives have left and we’re cleaning up, we get a call from Alexandra. Mum puts her on speaker as we stack the dishwasher.
‘Merry Christmas from Paris!’ Alexandra says. ‘I’m staying with a friend in the Marais – such a gorgeous area, but you couldn’t swing a cat in this apartment. We offered to host a Christmas dinner, but I’m not sure if we’ll be able to fit anything in the oven. Maybe a quail . . .’
We tell her about our Christmas lunch with my dad’s side of the family. She laughs. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen Caro and Paul in years. I forgot how charming they are. How did Hans go with them? Wait, is he there?’
‘Yes, but not in the kitchen – he’s outside with Dad. Um, I think it went well?’
‘Hans is great,’ says Mum. ‘And he handled the extended family just fine.’
‘And you were nice to him?’ Alexandra asks.
‘Of course.’
‘And he’s good enough for our Romy?’
Mum looks at me, a happy smile breaking across her face. ‘From what I can tell, yes. Romy chose well.’
In the evening, after a second serving of pudding, Hans and I head back across the bridge. Full and sleepy, I rest my head on Hans’s shoulder, enjoying the gentle rocking of the train. It’s a peaceful atmosphere; but for one man quietly slumbering in the corner, we’re the only ones in the carriage.
‘Thanks for coming today,’ I murmur, eyelids half-closed.
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he says. ‘Your parents were so welcoming. Your dad is a really funny man . . .’
‘Don’t tell him that,’ I say. ‘It’ll just encourage him.’
‘. . . and your mum is so interesting. I didn’t want to say anything, after your instructions about what I should and shouldn’t say when I met them, but you and your mum are so alike. Very –’
‘Relentless?’
‘Smart. Logical.’
I smile sleepily. He kisses the top of my head, and encases my hand in his. I squeeze his fingers, and let my eyes flutter to a close.
Hans and I spend most of the nebulous time between Christmas and New Year together, days blending together in an easy, golden haze. We laze about at Blackwattle Bay, reading under the dappled leaves of the ancient fig trees; brave the crowds and scorching sun at Bondi and Coogee; and hang out at his apartment, cooking, watching the sunsets, and spending a lot of time in his bed. We attend a New Year’s Eve party at the Kirribilli apartment of one of his work friends and, at midnight, kiss under blossoming technicolour fireworks. It’s my first ever New Year’s kiss, and as I draw back from Hans and gaze into his eyes, the crackling lights and pyrotechnic haze dissipating in the distance, I’m filled with happiness and hope for the year ahead.
I wake one Sunday morning tangled in dove grey sheets and wrapped around Hans. The sun peeks shyly through the shades, scattering the bed with slivers of golden light. I extricate my arm from beneath Hans’s side – it’s numb from his weight and embossed with sheet creases – and scooch out of bed, leaving him to slumber away peacefully.
Massaging my forearm to get the feeling back into it, I wander into the living room, throw open the balcony windows and embrace the day – chilled morning air, lemon yellow sun, a couple of warbling birds and the distant hum of traffic.
I take out my phone and scroll through Broadsheet for something to fill the day, and when Hans eventually saunters out, showered and dressed, I announce that we’re going to the Surry Hills Festival.
‘Sounds great,’ he says, rolling up his shirtsleeves.
‘You’ll be the preppiest one there,’ I tease. He’s wearing chinos, brogues and a collared gingham shirt – to be fair, his usual weekend attire.
A look of mild annoyance crosses his face. ‘Is that a problem, to look preppy?’
‘No, no,’ I reassure him, a little taken aback by his reaction. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. You look great, as always. Whereas me – I need a shower. I’ll be quick.’
The festival is at Shannon Reserve, the grassy park on Crown Street. We arrive around midday to find the festival in full swing, spilling out of the park and into the surrounding area, which is strewn with balloons and banners. The brick patio at the south end of the park is set up with dozens of market stalls, selling cheap summery dresses and costume jewellery, scented candles and dog clothes. At the grassy north end, a large bandstand has been set up. What looks to be a twee indie pop band – a couple of girls in floral rompers and cat-eye glasses, a couple of guys with coathanger shoulders and skinny corduroys – is setting up, fussing about with microphone stands, a drum kit and an aquamarine electric guitar. A decent-sized crowd of people, mainly twenty-somethings, is sprawled on the patchy grass, drinking beer and sunning long, tanned limbs.
We amble through the clothing stalls in search of a drink.
‘So many markets this weekend, and yet I still haven’t seen the old guy selling lip balm in walnut shells,’ I muse.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, it’s just a staple of Australian markets.’
‘Huh. In Germany, we just have a lot of wooden clocks, and gingerbread. And Wurst, always Wurst.’
‘Here,’ I point out a stall selling kransky and loaded fries. ‘You can feel right at home.’
As we spot the bar, the band begins to play. It’s a sweet yet fierce sound, somewhere between bubblegum and garage rock.
I count out change for overpriced beers, and accept the giant plastic cups, warm foam dribbling down the backs of my hands. I carefully pass one to Hans, lick the beer from my wrist, and scan the grass for somewhere to sit. Everywhere is a sea of people.
We wander a little further in, closer to the stage and the crashing waves of music. I step gingerly, careful not to trip over stray feet and splayed hands, still scanning. And then I see him.
Adam. Ex-boyfriend Adam. Charming, roguish, joke-cracking, life of the party, first real boyfriend, first real heartbreak Adam.
He’s sitting on the grass about five paces away, angled slightly away from me, surrounded by a raucous group. There must be ten of them – the guys all in Clubmasters and v-necks, the girls in high-waisted denim cut-offs and tops cropped enough to reveal the curve of bottom ribs. I recognise them instantly as his college group, though it’s been more than five years since I’ve seen any of them.
And she’s right there, sitting beside him. Shirin. Unmistakeable, with her perfect nutmeg brown skin and long dark hair straight out of a Pantene ad. Her arm is draped over his thigh. She’s talking to one of her girlfriends, while he’s holding court with the rest of the group, punctuating some story with a thrust of his drink, inviting hearty laughs.
Instinctively, I whirl around, half knocking into Hans.
‘Whoa!’ he says, catching me with his forearm, careful not to spill his drink.
‘We have to go. Now.’ My heart is thudding insistently in my chest. It’s as if I’ve been plunged underwater; everything has been switched to mute, and all I can hear is blood pounding in my ears.
Hans frowns, forehead creasing. ‘We just g
ot here,’ he points out, as if to a child.
‘I know, it’s just . . .’ I take a breath and try to steady my voice. ‘I’ve just seen someone I know who I really don’t want to see. An ex-boyfriend. Can we please just go?’ I know I’m being slightly ridiculous, slightly hysterical, but I don’t care. All I can think is that I need to leave now, before Adam or Shirin or any of their cronies spots me.
Too late.
‘Hey, isn’t that the chick you used to date?’ It comes wafting from behind me, belligerent and impossible to ignore.
Slowly, I turn back around, already feeling my face colour.
The whole group is staring at me.
My stomach drops like a Coke can in a vending machine.
‘Yeah,’ Adam says vaguely, not quite making eye contact. ‘A million years ago.’
Shirin cocks her head. She is exactly as I remember; eyebrows aggressively arched and lips in a deliberate pout. She gives me a sarcastic wave.
There’s a hostile tension in the air – they’re all still seated, the whole stupid group of them, and there’s no invitation to come closer, or to say hi. Adam is the first to turn away, with a short, cold laugh.
I manage a tight grimace, then turn, grab Hans by the arm and start heading in the opposite direction. My face is beet red, and I can feel tiny hot tears pricking my eyes.
‘What, where are we going?’
‘We’re leaving.’
‘Can we at least finish our beer?’ he asks. ‘Look, we’ll find somewhere to sit down . . .’
I glare at him. ‘Yeah, no.’
‘Yes?’
‘No.’ I shake my head in frustration and pick up my pace. I momentarily forgot how my Aussie manner of assenting or dissenting is apt to confuse him, though I’ve explained the meaning of ‘Yeah, no’ (no), ‘No, yeah’ (yes), and ‘Yeah, no, yeah’ (yes).
‘Ugh, why don’t you just say what you mean?’ says Hans, patently annoyed. He shakes his arm free of my grip, eyes narrowed.
Love, in Theory Page 15
