James turns his head, and our eyes meet. There’s a beat of hesitation, then he smiles and raises his hand in acknowledgement. Kate turns to look at me, and there’s no avoiding them.
You’ll have to meet her eventually, I remind myself. And may as well get the Hans–James introduction over and done with. I reach for Hans, apologetically extricate him from his conversation with Miles, and pull him over to say hello to the beautiful couple.
James’s smile widens as we approach. He kisses my cheek, so fleetingly that I barely register it before he pulls away, and then extends his hand to Hans. ‘Hey man, nice to meet you.’
He turns to Kate, his arm slipping around her waist. ‘And this is Kate.’
She’s adorably gorgeous, with gap teeth that irk me partly because I’m the child of dentists, mostly because they make her look like Georgia May Jagger. The resemblance is undeniable – she’s got the tousled dirty blonde hair, achingly high cheekbones and rosebud lips to boot. As far as I can tell, she is a bit younger, but her youth is eclipsed by her sophistication and, I hate to admit it, sexiness. She’s like a walking Agent Provocateur parfum ad.
James says something to Hans – with the music cranked up, I miss it – and I’m left to talk to Kate.
We exchange smiles, mine a little less easy than hers. Her eyes are an arresting shade of icy blue, but they sparkle with warmth.
‘So, what do you do?’ I ask her; a lazy and banal fallback.
‘I’m studying visual arts at uni,’ she says. ‘With a view to being a painter, or maybe a film-maker. I met James,’ – she shoots him an adoring doe-eyed look – ‘through my older brother. They collaborate on projects sometimes. James tells me you’re a lawyer?’
I nod, and coolly name-drop Birchstone McCauliffe; a move I usually reserve for Law Society functions and when I run into old high-school acquaintances.
‘Nice,’ she responds, not au fait, but polite. ‘I’m sure my parents wish I’d studied something like law, but alas, they’ll be subsidising my rent for the foreseeable future.’
I’m caught a little off guard by her confidence, and her easygoing manner; she is neither aloof nor trying too hard. I think back to myself at nineteen and remember being chronically unsure of myself, and weirdly deferential to anyone older than me.
We start to chat about work and I find myself warming to her. She’s one of those rare people who, by striking the balance between displaying interest in the other person and revealing enough about themselves, invites confidence. Her self-deprecation is charming; far from a fish for praise or attention.
I think about the last time I got feedback on my social manner. ‘Bit of a cold fish,’ I’d overhead one of Paloma’s friends telling her matter-of-factly after we met at birthday drinks.
‘. . . so I ended up switching the painting to a different room, so people would stop putting offers in for the oil heater.’ Kate looks at me expectantly and I realise I’ve drifted off.
‘So funny,’ I say faintly.
Hans places a hand on my shoulder in an opportune break in his conversation with James. ‘Shouldn’t we go find Cameron and Louis?’
I nod and we smile and excuse ourselves, before any kindredness can congeal.
We wend our way through the knots of people, but Cameron and Louis are nowhere to be found. The balcony doors are thrown wide, and the navy blue of night beckons.
Out on the balcony, the smokers hang to one side, clutching glowing cigarettes and emitting lazy tendrils of smoke. We move past them to a pocket of cool air, only faintly tinged acrid. I breathe deeply and arch my back, pushing against the steel railing, and look out to the building across the street; another warehouse conversion. Four storeys of windows are lit up, the domestic scenes playing out like a shadow puppet theatre. There’s a couple cooking together, opening and closing cupboards, ducking and weaving around each other in a practised dinner-preparing dance. A girl no older than me, thumbing peacefully through a magazine, folded up like a cat in an armchair. A small cluster of friends playing cards around a table.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Hans, placing his hand on the small of my back.
‘That’s such an annoying question,’ I say. ‘People only ever ask it when they want the other person to say “You”, or when there’s nothing worth talking about.’
His hand slips away. ‘Someone’s in a bad mood tonight.’
I sigh, eyes still fixed on the scenes across the street. I know I’m being difficult. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’
‘You were the one who insisted we come tonight,’ he reminds me.
‘I know. Thank you for coming with me. And I’m glad we did – you got to meet Paloma, and I’m sure Cameron and Louis will turn up at some point.’
‘So that’s the James you hung out with last weekend, then?’ Hans asks, jerking his head back towards the party.
‘Yep.’
‘And his girlfriend.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘They seem like a good match,’ he says.
I peer at him, unsure exactly what point he’s trying to make. ‘Yeah, I guess they do.’
My eyelids feel heavy, and I wonder if I’ve had too much to drink already, or whether the night calls for more. ‘How about I go grab us some drinks?’ I suggest. Hans shrugs. ‘Why not.’
I sidle past him and head to the kitchen in search of whatever dubious punch I saw Paloma drinking earlier. I squeeze between two rowdy groups in the living room, making far too much contact with two very sweaty backs. Just as I’ve extricated my shoulder, I bump into James. He’s holding two beers, and steadies himself to avoid spilling them.
‘No more desert plants that need to be stored on high shelves?’ he asks. I roll my eyes and grant him a chuckle.
‘So, Kate seems nice,’ I say, a little too quickly, keen to have it on the record.
‘Yeah,’ he says, a smile spreading across his face like an arcing sunbeam. ‘She’s a good egg.’
‘She said you met through her brother, but she didn’t say how. What was it, an Anne Geddes calendar shoot?’ As soon as it comes out of my mouth I regret the poor joke. It drips with spite.
James reacts immediately, pulling away as if stung. ‘Whoa, okay.’ He cocks his head and peers at me.
‘I’m joking,’ I mutter weakly, feeling my face redden. It’s the qualifier that should never have to be given; the explanation only substantiating a crappy joke fallen flat.
‘I just mean,’ I try again, ‘she’s a bit younger than us old-timers.’
His perplexed look doesn’t abate.
I feel my chest constrict with the awkwardness of it all. ‘I was just on my way to the kitchen,’ I say, and brush past him before he can say anything.
Hans and I stay for just one more drink before I suggest we leave. We’ve located Cameron and Louis – piled into the stairwell with a clump of people, well into the good whiskey and interminable deep-and-meaningfuls – and judged that the introductions will have to wait for another time. Paloma is engaged in a heated, alcohol-fuelled debate with Miles and a few of his friends, and though we’ve had a fair bit to drink, I don’t see us getting to their level. Hans accedes immediately to my suggestion and we slip out the front door, nixing the rounds of goodbyes.
Outside, the cold and the stillness settle around us.
‘We can walk to mine?’ I suggest. It occurs to me that Hans hasn’t yet stayed over at my place; I’ve invariably gone to his.
Hans wavers for a second. ‘Yes, why not.’
We set off up the footpath.
‘Don’t you think,’ I say, unable to shake the image of James and Kate together, ‘that it’s weird for people to date when there’s an age gap?’
‘How big an age gap?’
‘Well, I guess it depends how old you are. A decade apart when you’re in your forties, or fifties, or sixties, seems negligible. It’s all relative, isn’t it? But even a few years at our age seems
monumental.’
‘Isn’t there some conventional rule?’ Hans says. ‘Something they always cite in trashy magazines?’
‘Add seven years to your age, divide by two?’ I suggest. ‘So a twenty-five year old could date a . . . sixteen year old? That’s ridiculous.’
‘No, I think it’s divide by two, add seven.’
‘Isn’t that how you calculate how tall a girl will be, based on her parents’ heights?’
‘No, that’s right. So a twenty-five year old can date a . . . nineteen-and-a-half year old.’
‘Hmm.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘That’s hardly any better than a sixteen year old.’
‘Why?’ says Hans. ‘I don’t understand what the problem is. A twenty-five year old and a nineteen year old; they’re both adults.’
‘Yes, but they’re at completely different stages of maturity. Twenty-five year olds are working full-time; they’ve been in bad relationships that have taught them what they want and what they won’t put up with; they have their own health insurance. Nineteen year olds still go to the bathroom in groups; they go on Contiki tours and miss seeing Venice because they’re too hungover; they haven’t figured out who they are yet.’
Hans looks at me. ‘So what?’
‘So . . . it’s just a bit weird, isn’t it? If one person is more naïve, and likely to defer to the other’s experience – what does that say about the younger person, that they want to be led? And the older person, that they want someone who’s impressionable?’ I realise I’m sounding more and more strident; I’m dovetailing this discussion into an argument.
Hans shoots me a strange look. ‘The girl I dated at Cambridge was younger than me. She was a fresher when I was a postgrad.’
I squirm. ‘Okay, well I didn’t mean you, necessarily . . .’
Hans slows his stride. ‘Well, who are you talking about? You? Is this your experience? Or are you talking about James and Kate?’
I fall silent. God I’m transparent. I’m letting my irrational jealousy of Kate get the better of me, and now I’m plaguing Hans with it.
‘Why do you care about them?’ says Hans.
‘I don’t know,’ I say quietly. ‘Maybe I’m just looking for something to pick at, something to analyse and judge. It’s a bad habit.’
‘Well maybe you should just focus on yourself, and us, instead of worrying about everyone else,’ he says.
Back at my place, we get ready for bed, moving about each other silently. Hans barely utters a thank you when I hand him a towel and spare toothbrush. I peel off my dress, pull on a tank top and slide under the covers. After a good ten minutes, he turns out the lights and joins me.
I roll over to face him, place my hand on his stomach and move to kiss him. He gently pushes me away. ‘Sorry, I’m not in the mood tonight.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I say faintly, feeling the sting of his rejection.
‘Let’s just get some sleep.’ He rolls over to face the window, his back towards me. I lay supine, staring up at the chalky darkness, mentally kicking myself. Why do I ruin everything? In one evening I’ve managed to drag Hans to a party he didn’t want to attend, put him in a bad mood with my bratty behaviour, and pick a fight about James and Kate’s relationship, as well as offend James by trying to be witty. I sigh, feeling the weight of failure settle upon me. I’m hardly doing my part to foster intimacy with Hans, to set us up for relationship success.
If Hans is also stewing, it doesn’t keep him up. Soon, he’s breathing heavily, the characteristic hum of deep sleep. From Anna’s room, I hear a low rumble of voices and rustling, cut through by the occasional giggle. She must have someone staying over. I roll over and grab a pair of earplugs from the stash beside my bed.
I try to distract myself by scrolling through my phone. After exhausting my Facebook news feed I find myself typing James’s name into the search box, and then following the trail to Kate’s page. It’s not exactly gumshoe work; she’s recently tagged him in a photo of them at some idyllic coastal location.
Evidently, James likes the artistic type. There’s a photo of her outside her art school, the black and white filter accentuating the sharp angles of her limbs, the slice of her collarbones, the crisp lines of her off-the-shoulder shirt and culottes. A less recent photo shows her leaning against a beat-up Kombi van in the bush; she looks like a wild forest girl, save for her sweeping eyeliner and the effortless perfection of her messy bun.
I drop my phone onto the bedside table and sigh, chastising myself for resenting her because I wish I could be more like her. Hans is absolutely right – I need to focus on myself, and not sabotage my own relationship by stalking other people’s.
21
The next Friday is my birthday. Twenty-five years old – a quarter of a century.
I’ve heard of workplaces that give employees the day off for their birthday; Birchstone McCauliffe is not one of them. Clearly caught between concern that birthday celebrations will disturb everyone else’s productivity, and not wanting to lose an entire day of billables, management has the bizarre policy of letting one leave at 2 pm on their birthday. Just early enough to make a long boozy lunch unworkable, far too early to make early clock-off drinks a possibility.
When it comes to my team, they needn’t have worried. Graeme has zero interest in birthdays. A couple of years ago, the team combined to get him a birthday gift (according to Barbara, one of those ugly wine decanters shaped like a duck); it’s still sitting on a pile of junk on his cupboard, unopened. He refuses to sign any birthday card that is circulated; it falls to Barbara to pen cheery well-wishes on his behalf. Sure enough, when I remind Graeme that I’ll be leaving early, he just mumbles something about emailing me if anything urgent comes up.
Just before I’m due to head out, Paloma, Cameron and I meet out on the stairs in front of the building. They greet me with animated birthday wishes and a little raspberry cake they’ve bought from the French patisserie down at The Rocks. Paloma pulls out a candle and a lighter, and I stare for a second into the flickering flame and make a wish. We scoff down the cake, then they pull me into a hug and tell me they’ll see me at my birthday party tonight. As they head back upstairs, I turn around and, in what feels like a total (albeit firm-sanctioned) Ferris Bueller move, walk down the steps and into the sunlight.
I spend the afternoon shopping at Pitt Street Mall, floating between boutiques, feeling only slightly like a pervert as I caress the liquid silks in Dion Lee, lace dresses in Lover, and jewel-encrusted platforms in Miu Miu while imperious panther-eyed sales assistants watch on. I stop for a cappuccino and a tiny Persian love cake at the David Jones espresso bar, and sip and nibble in luxurious stillness. It feels strange to be at the shops mid-afternoon, mid-week. I’m used to ducking in on a rare lunchbreak, jostling and queuing with thousands of CBD office rats who emerge from their dens between 1 and 2 pm. But at this time, the shops are peaceful. The only other people at the bar are a well-coiffed woman, impeccably dressed in a suede skirt and cream silk blouse, thumbing through a Vogue Living magazine, and her preschool-age daughter, who is decked out with pink velvet hair bows and patent Mary-Janes. The little girl is dipping her tongue into the milky fluff of a babycino. They could be poster children for the department store.
I pick slivers of pistachio off my cake and wonder how tonight will pan out. It will be a strange melding of worlds – Paloma and Cameron, Hans, uni friends, some of the other grads from work, Anna, my parents – the full spectrum of my Sydney life to date. I wonder what Anna will think of my colleagues, some of the more intense legal zealots. I wonder what Hans will think of everyone, and what they’ll think of him. I wonder exactly who will show up. I haven’t heard anything from James, although he has ‘seen’ the event on Facebook. Maybe it was rude of me not to invite Kate? I dismiss the thought; it would have been weird to invite her; we’re not Facebook friends and barely know each other. And presumably if James comes he’ll bring her anyway.
The little girl looks up at me, so I
smile and give her a wave. Her eyes narrow and she sticks her tongue out at me before returning to lap at her drink.
Wooed by the trail of ‘clearance sale’ signs, I wander up to the womenswear floor and start rifling through racks, thankful to be out from under the gaze of salespeople. I find a washed silk dress in a peacock blue to try on – it’s a simple trapeze style with a high neck that pares back around the collarbones, with a short flirty hem. I check the tag; once eye-wateringly expensive, it now only warrants some quick mental arithmetic to confirm that I’ll still be able to eat this week if I get it. In the dressing room, I stare at myself in the mirror and run through my usual checklist (Do you like it? Does it flatter you? Is this the image you want to project?). The dress is perfect for my birthday celebrations tonight – it falls flatteringly to make my William Bartlett figure look more Beurre Bosc, and it isn’t black. I almost look like a fun, sophisticated Sydney girl in this colour.
I twist my hair up with one hand to see how the dress looks with an updo, and catch some strands on my necklace – a thin silver chain with a heart pendant, from Hans. I untangle my hair, careful not to break the delicate links. It’s a sweet gift, made even sweeter by Hans’s bashful expression when he presented it to me this morning. I can imagine the effort he would have gone to in choosing it – worrying about whether I prefer gold or silver, asking sales assistants for their opinions. I smooth it down around my neck, and smile.
I turn around once more, every angle shown by the fly’s eye mirrored cubicle, and nod, justifying the price to my reflection. It’s my birthday, after all.
My parents come over to my place while I’m getting ready. Mum brims with birthday wishes, fills the house with chatter, and immediately sets about finding some glasses for the champagne they’ve brought. ‘We thought we’d have a pre-drink. Who knows what they’ll have at this Fish place we’re going to.’ Dad tugs awkwardly at the cuffs of his paisley shirt (no doubt purchased by Mum), plants a kiss on my forehead and hands me a wrapped box.
Love, in Theory Page 18
