‘How many more weddings do you have lined up in the near future?’
Paloma shrugs. ‘I’m a realist. This is just the beginning of the wave. Don’t you have some mathematical formula that tells you as much?’
Before I can respond, Mara and Alice corner us with an armful of dresses. ‘First round!’ Alice enthuses. She seems to speak with multiple exclamation marks – as Terry Pratchett would say, the sure sign of a diseased mind.
The first dress we try on is a luscious midnight blue halter that ties in a gigantic bow at the neck. On Mara’s count, Paloma, Alice and I simultaneously pull back the change room curtains – the classic filmic shopping montage – for Mara, seated on a velvet cube, to inspect.
I tug down the waist, trying to smooth out the top where it billows over my chest. ‘If we go for this one, I think I’d have to get it altered,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah, it doesn’t look great on Romy.’ Alice crinkles up her nose. ‘And it’s kind of plain, don’t you think? Navy blue – too common, and also not very wedding-y.’
Paloma fusses with the beribboned neck. ‘Nup, this one gives me showpony vibes.’
Mara takes a couple of photos, then shoos us back into the change rooms. ‘Next.’
‘So, how’s the wedding planning going?’ I call out to Mara as I shimmy out of the navy silk.
‘Pretty good so far,’ she says brightly. ‘From what Alice tells me, wedding planning is supposed to consume at least eighteen months of your life, but having it at my parents’ place removes a lot of the stress. I’ve got flowers sorted, Angus is obviously planning the food . . . so besides dresses and music, I don’t think there’s that much left to organise.’
‘Well –’ Alice interjects, but Mara ploughs on. ‘The only thing that’s causing me grief is the invitations. I designed them online, ordered them – cost a bomb – and when they arrived I discovered they’d misprinted Angus’s name on every single one. They left the “g” out, which wasn’t ideal . . . Anyway, after a bunch of fights – they said I hadn’t proofed them properly – they’re finally redoing them. So hopefully they arrive soon.’
We try on a frothy floral concoction next, with tiers of gathered silk and a complicated system of straps. I actually think it looks quite good, though I’m not sure my arms are in the right holes.
‘Too busy,’ declares Mara.
‘It’s a bit Laura Ashley pirate,’ says Alice.
‘I’m getting woodland schoolmarm,’ says Paloma. They exchange a nod of mutual respect.
I retreat back into the change room for Round 3.
‘So who are you bringing to the wedding, Romy?’ asks Alice through the dividing curtain. ‘My husband Matt’s a groomsman – he and Angus are super tight.’
‘Oh, I’m bringing my boyfriend.’ I stumble over the word; I’m still not used to saying it, and I get a little thrill from how it sounds. ‘Hans.’
‘Ooh, how long have you guys been together?’
‘Not that long,’ I say. ‘A couple of months.’
‘But it’s serious, obviously.’ I baulk at her blunt tone.
‘Um, yes, it is.’
‘That’s good,’ she says, sweetness returning to her voice. ‘I warned Mara against handing out plus ones willy-nilly, but she wouldn’t listen. I mean, it doesn’t matter so much outside the bridal party, but you don’t want your wedding photos filled with randoms – just whomever people happened to be dating at that time – right?’
‘Um, I guess not.’ I have no opinion on the politics of wedding dates, but Alice has clearly put a lot of thought into the matter.
I carefully zip the back of Mara’s next pick, a white silk dress. It has a plunging front, some kind of boning in the bodice, and a draped mid-length skirt. It looks very . . . pristine.
‘What about you, Paloma?’ Alice calls out. ‘Who are you bringing?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Paloma says loftily. ‘I’ve got a couple of guys in rotation. We’ll see who’s flavour of the month in May.’
Alice is stunned into silence. I hold back a laugh. I’m fairly sure she’s bringing Miles, though I haven’t checked in with her about how that’s all going. I make a mental note to do so.
‘Right, I’m ready,’ says Paloma. We pull back the curtains to display the white silk dresses for Mara.
‘We look . . . bridal,’ Paloma says, glancing up the line at us.
Mara clasps her hands together rapturously. ‘No, this is it! This is exactly what I envisioned.’
Paloma stares at her. ‘Moonie mass wedding?’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll wear something extra so I stand out. I love this look – white is so tasteful, so aesthetic.’
‘I guess it is very Middleton-esque,’ says Alice, checking out her rear in the mirror.
‘Perfect.’ Mara nods. For someone normally so vague, she is being surprisingly decisive. ‘Now, I wonder if I can get Angus in a white suit? Anyway, while we’re here I might have a look for a dress or something for the rehearsal dinner. Can you guys sort those out?’ She waves her hand at us and wanders off to look at more dresses.
Paloma tries to engage me with a pointed look. I shrug. ‘I like the dress. Probably won’t wear it again, but as far as bridesmaid’s dresses go, it’s not bad at all.’
Paloma sighs. ‘How am I supposed to wear this to anyone else’s wedding?’
‘Lucky Mara has such a good friend in you,’ I admonish her affectionately as we head to the sales desk.
The next morning is cool and grey. Last night’s downpour still colours the pavement, and petrichor permeates the air. I retreat into the hood of my canvas jacket as I wait at the iron gates on Addison Road.
I see James approaching; loping across the street, giving a wave to the car that slows down to let him cross. Any fear I had about awkwardness, because of how much time has passed, or because of the intensity of our last conversation, immediately subsides. He greets me with a warm hug. ‘Long time, Romy,’ he says, with no trace of accusation. He’s all smiles, though he looks a bit rough, as if he just tumbled out of bed.
The markets are already hopping. Hipsters line up for crisp gozleme being barbecued on demand, Lululemon-clad women hand over fistfuls of cash for kombucha and jars of kimchi, and mischievous toddlers patter through the forest of legs, their strollers filled with organic vegetables and loaves of sourdough.
James yawns dramatically and shakes his head like a befuddled labrador, signalling his need for a coffee.
I roll my eyes, secretly smiling. I forgot how much I missed his antics. ‘Such a child,’ I say. ‘You know an apple wakes you up more effectively than coffee?’
‘Bullshit,’ he says. ‘When was the last time you couldn’t get to sleep because you had a particularly potent Granny Smith?’
‘Touché.’ I laugh, and point out a coffee cart.
Steaming coffees in hand, we mosey past the stalls offering $8 cold-pressed juice and vegan cashew slices.
James buys a bagel smothered in cream cheese, dill and smoked salmon, which I regard with suspicion. ‘I don’t know how you can eat that thing. It’s boiled bread. Defies understanding. Plus, it has the calories of like, five slices of bread.’
He pats his stomach, which is devoid of even a skerrick of superfluous flesh, and offers me a bite. I scrunch up my nose. ‘Such a child,’ he teases.
I buy a lemon tart the size of a hotel Bible from the next stall over. ‘See this?’ I say, waving it in his face. ‘Non-pretentious. I know it’s a calorie bomb, because it tastes deliciously like one, and not like a yeast chew-toy.’
We wander over to a free bench, test the wooden slats for dampness, and plant ourselves down. We watch with amusement as a young dad standing near us cajoles his twin sons. They must be around five years old; one is stuck to his leg like a koala, the other hangs off his arm. ‘Mum’s running errands today so we’ve got the whole day free,’ he tells them brightly. ‘What do you guys want to do? We can do whatever you want.’
/> ‘Wee!’ the kid hanging off his arm says.
‘What’s that, buddy?’
‘I wanna wee!’
‘You want to do a wee? Well, that sounds like a day well spent,’ says the dad, perfectly deadpan.
‘Wee! Wee! Wee!’ Their shouts carry through the air as the dad hirples away, still wearing them around his shin and shoulder.
James and I dissolve into laughter. ‘Insanity,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘They were kind of cute,’ I say.
‘Yeah, to onlookers,’ he chuckles. ‘That’s his all-day-every-day. Poor guy would probably kill for a coffee and fifteen minutes of peace.’
‘True. I always think in theory I want kids, but then I see them in the wild and it’s so – off-putting.’
‘Yep, I don’t see the appeal at all. But I guess at some point, the switch just flips and it seems like a great idea. Seems to happen to most people.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t know about that. I think in order to want kids, you either have to be a naturally clucky type, or run a cost-benefit analysis at some point and decide it’s worth it. You know, like that economics power couple did. The ones who learned baby sign language, and only had kids when they could afford a live-in nanny?’
James smiles at me. ‘You always have such an interesting take on things.’
‘Sorry, weird topic of conversation. What else are you up to today – you said you were helping someone move house?’
‘Yeah.’ James picks at his bagel for a bit. ‘It’s this girl I’m seeing, Kate. She’s got a new place in Surry Hills so I’m helping her move some stuff.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I nibble at my lemon curd and try to read the expression on his face. ‘That’s nice of you. Are things, um, getting serious with you guys?’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, it’s early days, but it could be something.’
I chew slowly as I digest the news. The last time I saw him he was denying any interest in being in a relationship.
‘So how did you and Kate meet? What’s she like?’
‘You know my mate, Marcus, who did that “It’s Not You” exhibition? Kate’s his younger sister. We met just before Christmas and have been hanging out ever since. She’s a cool girl – you’ll like her.’
‘I’m sure I will. That’s really great,’ I say, a little too cheerily. I can feel my insides roiling, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I resent how easy it is for him, to flit from girl to girl, when for me, finding Hans was a whole academic exercise. Or maybe I’m jealous of Kate . . . she must be something special to have changed James’s tune. I try to smile like a normal person. ‘What time do you have to go? I don’t want to hold you up.’
In the afternoon, I head over to Hans’s place. By now it’s drizzling, and my mood has taken a dive. I squelch up the street in leather sandals that are now sticky and swollen with water, and hold my flimsy skirt down to cover the tops of my thighs.
‘You look nice,’ Hans says when he lets me in.
‘Are you kidding?’ I say as I discard my sandals. ‘I look like trash. Wet trash.’
‘You always look gorgeous,’ he says, ‘but especially today. I forget, did we plan to go out?’
‘No, I thought we were just going to hang out here. We can hide from this gross weather.’ I shake out my jacket and hang the hood over a peg.
‘But you’re more dressed up than usual,’ he says pointedly. ‘And I haven’t seen you in make-up for a while.’
I feel a rasp of annoyance. ‘I’ve been out all day, okay? Sometimes I try to look presentable.’
‘Out with?’
I hesitate for a second, wondering if my response will provoke unnecessary drama. ‘Well, I met my friend James at the markets this morning.’
‘Who’s James?’ Hans’s voice is loaded.
‘A friend. We’re not super close but we hang out occasionally. Mainly to go to art events. He’s a graphic designer, so he’s into that kind of thing.’ I don’t know what Hans wants to hear.
‘So you hang out, just the two of you . . .’
‘Yeah. I mean, sometimes with other people. He’s friends with Mara as well, and Paloma’s kind of dating his housemate. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually.’
Hans’s expression darkens. ‘I just don’t understand why this is the first time I’m hearing about him. And why you’re being so cagey.’
‘I’m not being cagey,’ I protest. ‘Look, James and I have been friends for a while. We just don’t hang out that often.’
Hans, scowling, mutters something I don’t catch.
‘What?’
‘You have tomatoes in your eyes,’ he says.
I pause for a second, trying to comprehend. ‘Sorry, what?’ A spluttering laugh escapes me. ‘What are you talking about?’
He looks puzzled for a moment. ‘Tomatoes in your eyes. Tomaten auf den Augen haben. It means you can’t see clearly. You can’t say that in English?’
I chuckle at the absurd image, and feel my hackles lower. The crackling tension in the air has dissipated, leaving nothing but visions of tomatoes.
‘Hey,’ I move to clasp Hans’s shoulders and look him deep in the eyes. ‘I’m here. With you. There’s nothing going on with me and James. We literally spent the entire time talking about breakfast food, and dumb, inconsequential stuff . . . and his new girlfriend. Okay?’
He looks me in the eyes for reassurance. ‘Please don’t make this an issue,’ I say. ‘It really doesn’t need to be.’
He relents. ‘Okay. I’ll let it go. Just promise me you’ll be open about everything.’ I nod and he draws me into a hug, stooping down to kiss me, briefly, on the lips.
I press into him, trying to prolong the kiss. ‘I promise.’
20
The next weekend there’s a house party at Cameron and Louis’s place in Chippendale. On Friday, over Lync messenger, Paloma and I discuss who will be there. Neither of us is particularly keen to go – Cameron’s parties always end up with either someone getting glassed (too hectic), or someone breaking out an acoustic guitar (too mellow) – but we’re committed, neither of us having manufactured a plausible excuse in time.
Hans will be there, I type. So you’ll finally get to meet him.
Finally, Paloma types. And Miles is coming too. Not that you asked.
I cringe, feeling awful. I haven’t asked her about Miles in ages, and I know I have a tendency to spool our conversations around my issues and relationship dramas. I apologise effusively (I’m the worst. No, really. I’m a lukewarm gas-station pie. I’m a Turkish sweatshop pumping out nude bodystockings. I’m the North Pacific trash vortex, swirling in an acidified ocean of AirPods and anti-vaxxers), but Paloma brushes it off. Calm down, Romy. We’re all busy people. You can’t always be up to speed on the supporting characters in your life.
So it’s going well then, you and Miles?
Paloma’s typing ellipses hover in the message box.
The sex is amazing.
Wow, ok. Good for you.
I can’t even describe how satisfying it is. It’s like, transportive. Euphoric. Ripping off a Bioré deep cleansing nose strip-level satisfying.
I snort. That’s disgusting. I sincerely hope the firm’s IT surveillance is too busy focusing on confidential information leaks and corporate dissidence to worry about inappropriate Lync chats.
We have actually defined the relationship, she types. And he’s coming to Mara’s wedding. Despite what I told Alice the other day.
That’s exciting. And I figured. Hey, I type tentatively, hoping she won’t read into my question, if Miles is going, does that mean James’ll also be there?
I think so, she types. Probably his girlfriend too, she adds, as if she knows my game.
Have you met her?
Nope. But I hear she’s a few years younger. He’s not cradle snatching, per se. But, like, pushchair poaching. Do I sense some jealousy?
I’m glad there’s a computer screen and five floors
between us. Paloma has a way of drilling into people; she could make a Trappist monk squirm.
I let the message sit until my avatar displays as ‘idle’, then wait a few beats before closing Lync. It’s not uncommon for people to drop off a chat suddenly, whisked away on an urgent task, or by a ringing phone. I feel a twinge of guilt, but know it’s best to prevent Paloma from gathering steam and getting some twisted idea about my feelings for James.
Hans and I arrive at Cameron’s place quite late. We stopped at a bar in Newtown en route, and somehow managed to linger too long. Hans kept ordering drinks – I suspect out of reluctance to go to the party – and I kept drinking them, in a misguided attempt to transform myself into a glittering social success. Now, three beers and three vodka sodas deep, respectively, we traipse through the lobby of the Chippendale warehouse conversion, which Cameron likes to tell people was formerly an Iced Vovo factory. We take the elevator to the third floor, and as we walk the length of the exposed central walkway to 317, I loop my arm through Hans’s. It feels good to arrive with someone.
We enter the apartment – a huge split-level space with lofty ceilings and polished wooden floors – and see that it’s already teeming.
‘Hey!’ Paloma swoops over to us, Miles in tow. ‘Hans, finally! It’s so nice to meet you.’ She pulls him into a hug. ‘We were starting to think you were a figment of Romy’s imagination.’
Hans looks to me for explanation. ‘She’s joking,’ I say.
‘Hey Miles.’ I greet him with a half-hug, then introduce him to Hans.
As they exchange pleasantries, Paloma grabs my arm conspiratorially and directs my attention towards the kitchen. My gaze falls immediately on James, his rumpled hair and lopsided grin, and a girl who must be Kate. Lissom like a dancer, she’s leaning against the island bench, drink in one hand, other arm resting across the jut of her faintly protruding hipbone. James stands with one arm buttressed against the bench, just grazing her side.
‘I’ve had my eye on that Bec + Bridge dress for weeks,’ Paloma notes. I glare at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Though it’s kind of short,’ she adds quickly. ‘And she probably bought it with her babysitting money.’ She drains her plastic tumbler.
Love, in Theory Page 17
