We’re now at the entrance to the park, well out of view of Adam’s group. People are streaming in, jostling past us.
‘Look, I don’t want to stay. Can we please just go and get lunch somewhere else?’ My panic has subsided, leaving only a leaden ache in the pit of my stomach.
‘Fine.’ His face is impassive.
We walk in silence out onto Crown Street, past the local guides waving flyers and free drink coupons at us, past the displays of festivities.
We find a café a few blocks down the street – a busy little vegan joint – and claim the last table under the striped awning. I plop down on an uncomfortable, slightly-too-small stool, and scan the menu, avoiding Hans’s eyes.
When I glance up, Hans is staring at me. ‘I still don’t understand why we had to leave,’ he says pointedly. ‘Just because you saw an ex-boyfriend. What, a two-second encounter ruins the entire festival?’
I screw up my face, feeling embarrassed and at a loss for words. How can I even begin to explain how that relationship has affected me? ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I haven’t spoken to him since he dumped me. He’s still with the girl he dumped me for – she was there too – and I just really didn’t want to see them. And then, you saw how they were when they spotted me . . .’ My face colours again as I relive the moment. Like I was a curiosity; some small, gross blemish on his dating history.
I think about Adam’s faraway look, Shirin’s sarcastic wave, and cringe as I imagine what would have followed – Shirin laughing and making some nasty comment about me to her friends, Adam shaking his head in embarrassment and saying, ‘God, I don’t even know what I was thinking. I was probably high that entire semester.’ All of a sudden I’m that nerdy girl from Newcastle again, privately destroyed and publicly humiliated by a popular guy and girl who actually make sense as a couple.
Hans’s brows furrow further and I can tell he doesn’t understand. That he thinks I’m overreacting.
‘Never mind, let’s not talk about it,’ I say. I bury my face in the menu again. ‘What do you reckon watermelon bacon is?’
We plough through lunch barely speaking. Hans discovers that hipster sauerkraut is a far cry from authentic German kraut, I discover that dehydrated fruit is no substitute for salted pork strips, and we don’t say much about anything, each lost in our own thoughts. I wonder why Hans seems so perplexed by my reaction – maybe his break-ups have all been amicable, but surely he understands that some cuts run deeper. Am I being unfair, expecting him to understand my feelings?
Afterwards, we settle the bill, gather our things and head back into the city. Hans half-heartedly asks if I still want to stay over, and I beg off, citing a whole lot of life admin.
‘I’ll see you during the week,’ I say, barely brushing his lips with mine.
18
As soon as I arrive on Monday morning, Graeme streaks out of his office like a terrier and grabs me by the arm. ‘You know we’re in court for our injunction matter in three days’ time, right?’
I wriggle my arm, trying to dislodge him. ‘Yes Graeme, I know,’ I say patiently. I’d put it in his calendar weeks ago. ‘All our material’s in order. We’ve filed and served our submissions. And I’ve prepared multiple bundles of everything.’
‘What about the court book?’ he barks, eyes wide.
‘Um . . . what now?’ My heart lurches.
‘We’ve got to put together bound copies of all the evidence in the case, plus objections, plus chronology. It’s in the Practice Note, and the Judge’s Associate emailed me last week confirming that we’d file and serve copies today. How do you not know this?’
A hot, sick feeling grows in my stomach – humiliation and fear. How did I not check the Court Practice Note? Graeme blinks at me expectantly and I’m overtaken by anger. Graeme is the apparently experienced practitioner. I’m the grad who’s never been involved in an actual trial before. Why didn’t he give me a heads-up about this?
Graeme loosens his grip on my arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘You can have all the resources you need. I’ll call for some paralegals.’
‘Graeme,’ I say, trying not to visibly gnash my teeth, ‘we have three parties’ evidence and material. Our stuff alone is four folders’ worth. We’ll have to prepare a chronology, scan and collate the other side’s material, arrange printing – and you know Printroom has a minimum turnaround of half a day. I don’t think it can be done by COB.’
‘COB? Better make it 3.30, so you can run it up to the court.’
He nods definitively, his own anxiety obviously relieved, and trots back into his office. I have a crazy impulse to run behind him and shove him forward, out his office window. I imagine the thwump of his fat body hitting the window pane, the explosion of glass, and him falling, falling . . . but instead, I suppress a stress burp and run into my office to get to work.
By 1 pm I’m scrabbling around on all fours, trying desperately to collate folders from stacks of documents that litter my office floor. My eyes are bleary, my body courses with adrenaline, and I’m trying to channel my self-loathing and the resentment I feel towards Graeme into the task at hand, which I have mere hours to complete. I understand that, in theory, no one will die if I don’t get the court book done on time, but I also know that I will have to answer to Graeme, Counsel and the court. It’s not exactly consequence-free.
I take a minute to telephone the paralegals to see how they’re going. I’ve tasked them with printing and organising a tranche of spreadsheets. My call goes unanswered for five rings, then through to a PA on the paralegal floor.
‘Ella and Henry have gone to lunch. They should be back in about an hour,’ he says.
I feel the tears prick my eyes, and the rage boil up in my chest like heartburn. You get paid by the hour. You work part-time. Did you not see the despair in my eyes when I was manically instructing you this morning? Did I not expressly say the matter was urgent? I don’t stop to think if I’m being reasonable or not. The stress has overwhelmed me. I drop back to the floor and resume my task, slicing my palm on a piece of paper as I do so. The thin cut immediately blooms with blood.
Fuck, I think, as a couple of dark red drops splash onto the document. Can I still use that copy?
Grabbing a couple of tissues to stem the bleeding, I reach up to my computer and scroll through my files for the scanned page to reprint. I can’t seem to find it. It feels like I’m moving through water, every task made monumentally difficult through the haze of stress.
‘Romy –’ Graeme pops his head around my door. ‘Pens down.’
‘What?’ I startle. ‘Sorry, pardon?’
Graeme’s face is impassive. ‘Pens down, stop what you’re doing. We’re settling.’
It’s like he’s speaking gibberish. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Yesterday Brian agreed to extend another settlement offer – significantly lower damages payment than our original offer, and only three months’ restraint. I just got a call from WRX’s lawyers – they’ve accepted. I haven’t got confirmation from Warren’s lawyers yet, but WRX is obviously calling the shots.’
‘So . . . it’s done?’ I look around at the bombsite that is my office.
‘Yes, it’s all over. Annoying for us because we won’t be able to charge them for all the trial prep and hearing days, but it’s a good result for our client. So you can stop all this –’ he gestures around my office ‘– and draft a deed of settlement.’
My heart rate has slowed and my stomach has unclenched. My knees crumple beneath me. I’m overwhelmed with relief at not having to pull off this court book miracle. And yet, there’s a niggle of confusion.
‘But we did all this work,’ I say to Graeme. ‘And the employment contract, the law . . . the restraint clause is there in black and white. And if WRX is footing the bill, then Warren’s basically getting away scot-free. With a nice little vacation that WRX will probably pay for as well.’
Graeme shrugs. ‘You can’t always tie everything up in
a neat little bow. The “just” outcome isn’t always possible, or worth it. We did our job. The client got some protection for its interests – three months’ restraint and a chunk of change is nothing to sniff at; and, more importantly, they’ve sent a message to all their employees that they won’t roll over if there’s a breach of employment contract. As for the rest of it, PortCiel decided to make the settlement offer because they judged that going to trial wasn’t necessarily worth the risk of losing. Or the drain on time and resources.’
I nod, slowly.
As Graeme goes to walk away, he adds, ‘Apparently Brian called Warren to wish him well in the new job. I guess he decided that holding a grudge isn’t worth it either.’
I haul myself back up to my computer. Not for the first time, I wonder what I’m even doing at Birchstone McCauliffe. Graeme might think we’ve helped our client, but it doesn’t seem that way to me – we didn’t enforce the contractual restraint, we didn’t broker a deal with a brilliant legal argument and, as it turns out, Brian found the salve to his Warren woes without us. Is this why I joined the firm? To do what feels like the most stressful form of administration, with no clear end goal?
Paloma and Cameron respond to my desperate plea for a coffee break, and meet me on the steps mid-afternoon.
‘Did you just go to the gym?’ Paloma asks. She stares pointedly at my hair, which I can feel is still dank with sweat.
‘No.’ I collapse onto the steps, almost losing the lid of my coffee cup. ‘This is just what work does to me. I was madly putting together the court book for that injunction when we settled, at the eleventh hour.’ I lean back, feeling the juts of concrete in my spine. I’m so spent that I could almost fall asleep.
‘Standard litigation,’ Paloma says.
‘Um, standard any team,’ Cameron clarifies. ‘Corporate’s not any better.’
‘It just feels like such wasted effort,’ I say. ‘All I have to show for this case is an office full of printouts and a fear that if I keep doing this, I’ll turn into Graeme – someone who sees clients in terms of billables, and colleagues as resources.’ I bury my head in my hands, feeling a flush of shame as I remember my reaction to Ella and Henry taking a lunchbreak.
Cameron prises my fingers off my face. ‘Well, look, at least it’s over now.’
‘Til next time,’ I say darkly.
‘We just have to do our time,’ he says. ‘There’ll be bad days, but all we have to do is get through these grad rotations, and it’ll all work out.’
‘And this is coming from Cameron,’ Paloma reminds me.
I emit a small moan, my last spell of self-pity, then push myself upright. ‘Okay, I’m done. Let’s just start by getting through the week, right? Only four days to go . . . then the weekend!’
Paloma chuckles gently, and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘Hold on, don’t get too excited. You know we have to go shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses with Mara this weekend, right? Now that’s going to be an absolute nightmare – your injunction traumas won’t come close. We’ll waste our entire Saturday choosing between the pink and lilac versions of those heinous jersey gowns that you’re supposed to be able to wear 101 ways but end up wearing one way, and never again . . .’
‘You guys are bridesmaids?’ asks Cameron, echoing my confusion.
‘Yeah, a foil balloon asked me this morning,’ Paloma deadpans. She turns to me. ‘There’s one down in reception for you.’
‘I’ve never been a bridesmaid before,’ I say, feeling chuffed. ‘This is exciting. And honestly, a bit surprising . . .’ Though we’ve been good friends for years, it hadn’t occurred to me that Mara would include me in her bridal party; that she counted me among her closest friends.
‘Being a bridesmaid,’ says Paloma, ‘is the worst form of torture known to man – sorry, woman. Guys don’t have to deal with this crap. All groomsmen have to do is hire a suit and take a shower.’
‘You can say no, you know,’ says Cameron. ‘And maybe you should, if you’re going to be this unsupportive?’
Paloma rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not being unsupportive. I totally support Mara and Angus’s relationship. I just don’t understand the institution of marriage, or the point of weddings. We already know they’re committed to each other, why do they need to formalise it with a bizarre ceremony?’
‘Is “bizarre” the right word?’ I ask.
‘How would you describe it?’ says Paloma. ‘Two people promising to be together until they die, the whole thing officiated by some random empowered by the church or state, a dress symbolising virginity even though we all know that horse has bolted, a face covering traditionally intended to frighten away evil spirits, a supporting cast in matching uniforms whose sole purpose is to make the bride look better by comparison. . . so many ridiculous trappings.’
‘You could say that of any celebration,’ counters Cameron. ‘Like, why blow out tiny fire sticks on a frosted baked good while people sing an annoying song to you, to mark each passing year since you were born? That’s just what humans do – create rituals to give significance to moments in life.’
‘Yeah, but most celebrations don’t cost an average of $65K,’ says Paloma.
Cameron shrugs. ‘I think it’s nice. Of all the things you could choose to make a big deal about, surely finding your soulmate is up there.’
‘Thinking you’ve found your soulmate,’ Paloma corrects.
We look at her. ‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘Mara and Angus have as much a chance as anyone of having a marriage that lasts – probably more. But that still puts them at, what, a 50 per cent, maybe 60 per cent chance of being together forever? I just think it’s a bit much to go through all the rigmarole of a wedding when there’s a sizeable chance that the thing you’re celebrating – a lifelong commitment – won’t eventuate. Why can’t they just be together, committed to trying their best, and enjoy that, for as long as it lasts?’
I feel like I’m harbouring a secret. I know that Mara made a calculated choice to date Angus, based on his good traits and an understanding of what is truly important to her in a relationship. Perhaps if Paloma was privy to their love story, if she knew it wasn’t just some hopeful shot in the dark, she wouldn’t be so cynical. But it’s not my story to share.
‘I’m with Cameron on this one,’ I say. ‘They each found the person they want to spend the rest of their life with. I’ll stand beside Mara, wearing whatever questionable pastel dress she wants me in, to celebrate that.’
Back at my desk, ‘Will You Be My Bridesmaid?’ balloon in hand, I grab my phone and message Mara to thank her and to confirm Saturday dress shopping plans. Thinking about the rest of my weekend, I scroll idly down my messages, and stop when I get to James. Our last message exchange was weeks ago, before Christmas. Just thinking about James brings a smile to my face – he’s always good for an interesting conversation, a different perspective from my other friends. With all the time I’ve been spending with Hans, and the busyness of work, we haven’t been in touch for a while. I message him a casual, How’s tricks? Want to grab a coffee or something soon? then try to focus on the template deed blinking on my computer screen. About an hour later, James replies, suggesting we meet up for breakfast at the Marrickville markets on Sunday morning. I quickly send a thumbs up, then return to my computer screen, feeling lighter already.
19
‘I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised by Mara’s choice of dress shops,’ says Paloma, as she pops her collar and folds her arms around herself.
We’re waiting outside the Zimmermann outlet in Rosebery; a sleek boutique in a leafy but otherwise nondescript industrial street. We stand under a concrete eave, stealing glances at the sky, which is heavy with fat grey rainclouds. Behind us, a colourful display of dresses hangs suspended on metal cables. Across the way is a similarly elegant Camilla & Marc outlet. It’s all metal, glass, blond wood floors and swathes of gorgeous gowns and tailored jackets.
‘Good, isn’t it,’ I agree, scannin
g the street for any sign of the bride-to-be. ‘I don’t see a single blush-coloured jersey number; they’re outlets, so hopefully we won’t break the bank; and we’ve only got two stores to look at, so there won’t be any paradox of choice dramas today.’
‘Yup, we can get in and get out. Maybe find a new bikini while I’m at it.’
I raise an eyebrow at her.
‘What?’ she says. ‘You can’t visit the Zimmermann outlet and not get new swimmers. It’s sacrilege.’
‘Actually,’ I reconsider my attempt to keep Paloma in line, ‘Mara probably won’t even care. I told you she was going to be a low-maintenance bride.’
Mara arrives a few minutes later, looking characteristically gorgeous but distracted. She spends a good minute hunting around the back of her Uber for her phone before realising it’s in her bag. She’s accompanied by her cousin Alice, who we’ve met a few times before.
‘Hi Paloma, Romy – oh my gosh, it’s been ages! So good to see you girls!’ Alice squeals, embracing each of us in turn. ‘This is so exciting, isn’t it? I’ve just been chewing Mara’s ear off – I have this amazing list of vendors from when I planned my wedding. Good thing the Matron of Honour can impart some wisdom!’
I smile politely. I can’t imagine how Alice and Paloma are going to get along today – Alice’s breathy excitement will be like a red rag to Paloma’s impatience.
‘So, what are we looking for today?’ Paloma asks Mara, helping her with her jumble of belongings. ‘Do you have your dress yet?’
‘Nope,’ says Mara, pushing open the glass door and leading us inside. ‘Let’s just see what we come across.’
Alice immediately pulls Mara over to a rack of lilac silk-satin numbers – the most classic ‘bridal’ rack in the store – while Paloma gravitates over to a fitted black crepe dress with gold embellishments. ‘I could totally wear this again, as a wedding guest,’ she says. ‘Which is going to be my yardstick today for whether or not we should get it as a bridesmaid’s dress.’
Love, in Theory Page 16
