I think about wanting to kiss him on the sculpture walk, at the wedding. About the little quickening I get in my chest whenever he’s around. About his easy, generous laugh. About how much I missed him when we didn’t talk. My jealousy of Kate. My guilt about Hans. And how I’ve spent way too much time thinking about the slope of his jaw and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
I can’t think anymore. And so, I kiss him. I feel him kiss me back. It’s warm, wet, perfect. He cups my face and the kiss deepens. He circles my tongue with his, tasting like smoky whiskey. My heart is beating fast and I press into the warm length of his body; yearningly, insistently. Yielding to what feels inevitable. My head swims and I think that if I don’t have him, I might die.
‘Do you want to . . . move to the bedroom?’ My voice is husky, not quite sexy, but I don’t care. He nods, and we stand. Taking my hand, he leads me into my room. The light is dim; a lone moonbeam noses through the gap in the curtains and falls across the bed. He looks at me, deep and searching. I reach up, my arms around his neck, kiss him again, and push him onto the bed.
He pulls me down so that I’m on top of him. I straddle him, arching my back as he pulls off my top and unhooks my bra. He leans back to stare at me, and for a beat I feel self-conscious. And then, ‘God you’re beautiful.’ He lifts himself up to kiss me, hand cradling the nape of my neck. He pulls off his shirt, eyes barely leaving mine, and then plants a trail of kisses down my neck. I feel myself tremble, my flesh coming alive with the sweep of his warm breath.
‘Come here.’ We move together, his hands on my breasts, my hips, the small of my back. Mine are in his hair, on his neck, stroking his chest. He reaches between my thighs, fingers moving in slow circles. I’m on the cusp of losing my mind. My heart is beating so fast, and I can feel my face flushed from the whiskey, the build-up, the heat of this moment. I want to catalogue every part of him – the smooth broadness of his chest, the sluice of his abdominals, the cant of his shoulders, the weird crenellation at the end of his clavicle – but at the same time, I can’t stop to think. I can barely distinguish his body from mine.
29
It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the pale light of dawn, which pierces unforgivingly through a gap in the curtains. The morning air is cold; a shock to the exposed skin of my face. Through the tangled mound of doona and blankets, the chill seeps through to the rest of my body.
I’m lying face-to-face with James, who is still asleep. Inches from his long, freckle-dusted nose, the achingly beautiful arc of his cupid’s bow, his thick fans of eyelashes. His hands are tucked up under his chin, and he sleeps with a faint smile on his face, like an axolotl, the ever-blissful Mexican walking fish. There’s not a sound in the apartment but the whisper of his breathing.
I lie still for a few minutes, watching him sleep, luxuriating in the memory of last night. The passion, and pleasure; waves driven by an unrelenting wind, finally allowed to break on the shore. Is it too much to hope that it could happen again? Maybe a short fling?
James’s eyes flutter open, and his smile breaks wider. ‘Good morning,’ he murmurs, kissing me on the lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
‘Good morning.’ I smile, a little bashful. ‘Last night was –’
‘Amazing,’ he says at the same time as I finish with ‘– fun.’
He looks into my eyes. ‘Romy, I’ve been wanting this for so long, wondering if you felt the same . . .’
A ripple of confusion courses through me. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. I don’t understand why his expression is so solemn, or why this feels like a confession. Where’s the impish grin, the fun banter?
His face reddens. ‘Wait, what do you mean? Are you . . . serious about this, giving us a try?’
‘Us?’ I feel my face flush. Where is this coming from? ‘James, I like you. I really like you. But I thought this was a one-time thing, maybe something casual . . . isn’t that your whole MO?’ I draw the doona tighter around me and shuffle back so I can better read his expression.
‘Romy, all my life I’ve jumped from girl to girl, chasing excitement and novelty, never really connecting with anyone or thinking it could be anything . . . meaningful. But then I met you – with your weird take on the world, your brilliance, your odd sense of humour – and everything changed.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I guess it took me a while to sort through my feelings . . . and then you were with Hans. And I was with Kate, which felt like a pale imitation of a relationship and then just . . . wrong.’ He looks at me with something between conviction and hope. ‘I’m just . . . completely undone by you.’
My brain scrambles. I’m so caught off guard that I struggle to piece together the words. ‘James, what we have . . . it’s just chemistry. I don’t want to make you feel that way – undone.’ I can tell from his expression that he doesn’t understand. I try to explain. ‘Relationships are about building something, incrementally, thoughtfully. Not about falling or caving or forgetting yourself. This is just brain chemicals, oxytocin or whatever. Telling us we want to sleep together. Not that we’d be good together.’
‘Why not?’ he challenges me. ‘I care about you, Romy. Shit, I might even love you. The only question is whether you feel the same way.’
‘No, it’s not.’ I sit upright, scrabbling to keep the blankets around me. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. But you can’t just be this guy – the fun, flirty, no relationships guy – and then claim that you want something serious. I’ve thought about it a lot, trust me. I need someone like me. Someone dependable and conscientious and sensible, whose routine is like mine. Who wants the same things in life. Someone I can build a future with. That’s not you, James. And you know it’s not.’
‘Maybe it could be –’
‘No,’ I cut him off. Why entertain an impossibility? ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘And what about love?’ he says, his eyes flat and dark. ‘Does that factor in to your plan?’
I stare back at him. ‘Love isn’t something that happens to you. It doesn’t come and sweep you off your feet and propel you to some charmed life. Love, real love, is something you have to work at. With a person who’s right for you.’
He shakes his head, as if cursing himself. ‘So what am I to you, then? A rebound? Just some chump between cookie-cutter boyfriends?’
I don’t know how to respond.
I hear a door creak open, the thud of feet hitting the floor, and the scrape of drawers opening, rustling.
‘James . . .’ I falter, at a loss for words.
‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘You’ve made yourself clear.’ He gets up, throws on some clothes and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
I get up, slowly, and pick up my stray bra, top and thermals from the floor. Miles’s booming voice carries through the walls. ‘Wo-hoah. Got a bit cosy last night?’ If James responds, I don’t catch it.
I dress quickly and pull a brush through my mussed-up hair. As I go to open the door, I steel myself. Don’t look at James. Just act normal. Pretend like nothing happened.
‘Eggs, Romy?’ says Miles, holding up a frypan, a glint in his eyes. ‘Sleep well last night?’ I glare at him, willing him to shut his stupid mouth, and start silently preparing some oatmeal. James sits at one end of the dining table, scrolling determinedly through his phone.
Paloma and Miles chatter away while the rest of us move through our morning routine in grumpy silence. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about last night,’ Cameron says to me when he emerges, wan and bleary-eyed. ‘I don’t know why I drank so much.’
‘You’re fine,’ I say faintly.
‘Did you sleep okay?’
Out of the corner of my eye I see Miles and Paloma conferring in whispers, heads bent together, and then Paloma glances up at me.
I stir my oatmeal sludge around in the bowl. I don’t think I can stomach this day. I just want to get out of here, and back to Sydney.
After we clear up from breakfast,
Paloma pulls me into her room. She moves to shut the door just as Cameron is passing. She hisses at him and yanks him inside.
‘So,’ she sits me down on the edge of the bed, ‘you and James slept together?’
Cameron crows with delight. ‘Ha, how good am I at giving advice?’
‘Yeah,’ I say shortly. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘Yes it is!’ says Paloma, a note of jubilation in her voice. ‘You’ve been angsting over him for forever. How was it?’
‘Fireworks?’ asks Cameron.
‘It was incredible,’ I say. ‘Until he wanted to talk about it this morning. And declare his feelings.’ I glare at Cameron. I know this has nothing to do with him, but I want desperately to blame someone for the turn things have taken.
‘What?’ Cameron looks as baffled as I felt earlier this morning. ‘Where did that come from? Is this his usual play?’
I shrug. ‘I have no idea. I mean, he said that he feels differently about me than other girls. But how am I supposed to take that? And then I got flustered and said some things that . . . well, are true. But maybe I was too blunt.’ I screw up my face. ‘I may have said something about the possibility of us being together being laughable, or ridiculous . . .’
Paloma stares at me. ‘Why is it so ridiculous? It’s obvious that you’ve both wanted each other all along.’
Cameron and I share a look. Paloma can be so dogged.
‘Look, I did it to resolve the sexual tension,’ I say. ‘And, job done. I fanned the spark with James last night, and now it’s blown up in my face.’
‘Just listen to yourself.’ Paloma shakes her head. ‘You think you’re taking charge of your life, shrouding yourself in all your theories and ideals, but you’ve completely lost the plot. Sometimes I think you’re the smartest person I know, and sometimes you’re absolutely the dumbest.’
Her words are an assault. I’ve been trying so hard, for months and months, to figure things out, find my way, and here she is, throwing it back in my face. ‘Tell me what you really think,’ I snap coldly.
Miles pounds on the door. ‘Are we skiing today, or what? I need my gear.’
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted from six hours in the car; three of them driving, hands clenched on the wheel, staring at the road, trying to avoid kangaroos; and three in the back seat when Cameron took the wheel, staring out the window, watching road line after road line slip by. From a morning spent skiing with Cameron and avoiding the others; hungover, tired, frozen and wishing for the day to end. From a day spent agonising over James; our argument, the words that can’t be retrieved.
I’d managed to avoid him all day, until we’d done the group goodbyes and bundled into separate cars to head home. ‘So that’s it, then?’ he’d said. I hadn’t known how to respond. What was there to say?
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
I drag my bags up to my room, do a half-hearted job of unpacking and sorting my laundry, and take a steaming hot shower. I stand under the scalding water for what feels like hours, until my skin is red and tender. James might not know the science and the statistics, but they don’t lie. Lust declines at a rate of 8 per cent per year, liking at a rate of 3 per cent per year. It takes about eighteen months for infatuation to fade to neutrality. There’s danger in mistaking the spark for the substance. I scrub at my face. What am I supposed to do – give in to my attraction, date James, wait for the passion to die, break up and end up alone again, well past my optimal stopping point?
Maybe it was a cruel thing to say to him, but it’s true. James and I are not supposed to be together.
30
We’re at the Four Seasons hotel in the city, a stone’s throw away from Circular Quay. It’s the final cocktail party of the extravaganza that is the summer clerk recruitment process. The first cocktail evening was to inform, the second to evaluate. The remaining applicants have survived two rounds of interviews, and while decisions are still being made (such that a blatant slip-up this evening could end their hopes of working at Birchstone McCauliffe), this cocktail party is really about impressing them, knowing that many will also receive offers from the other top-tier firms.
About eighty prospective clerks have been invited tonight, culled from an initial six hundred applicants. Half will be offered a clerkship, and it’s expected that most will accept. Nevertheless, there was a push by HR for all us graduate lawyers to attend; to present a ‘relatable’ and ‘fresh’ face of the firm. We’ve been briefed with talking points – the things to sell about the firm (impressive work, impressive clients, prestige, fun clerkship, travel perks, secondment opportunities) and the topics to avoid (the realities of working at a top-tier commercial firm). We’re all dolled up and on our best behaviour. I’ve pulled myself together, thankful for a night of distraction from the mess that my life has become.
If they need any persuasion, surely this event will do it, I think. Grain at the Four Seasons is a beautiful venue; all dark wood, glowing amber lamps, exposed wooden beams and art deco highlights. Waiters in glossy gold waistcoats circulate with trays of champagne and highball cocktails. Others wend their way through the crowd with trays of finger food – cigarettes of Peking duck, blini topped with smoked salmon, scallops, fat cubes of pork belly.
The prospective clerks stand out from the Birchstone crowd with their wide eyes and overstretched smiles. The girls wear black pencil skirts and treacherous stiletto heels, the boys look freshly shorn and adjust their ties uncomfortably. The braver (some would say foolish) ones opt for cocktails over water, and pluck the food off the circling trays with gusto. Out of the corner of my eye I see Graeme swoop in on a clueless one who’s holding a drink and a wad of napkins in one hand, a mini wagyu burger in the other. The would-be clerk startles and almost spills his drink trying to free his right hand for a handshake.
I make my way through the clusters of people, in search of Cameron or one of our grad peers to talk to – or maybe one of the wagyu burgers. I remember my own introduction to the firm; being both entranced and intimidated by the sheen of glamour and order.
A group of three would-be clerks pounce on me, almost toppling me with their eagerness. They introduce themselves – Darsha, Nick and Annabel – all from Sydney Uni, all ‘just so thrilled to have made it this far’. I dutifully plaster on a smile and launch into my filtered spiel about the firm.
‘How did you know you wanted to do employment law?’ Annabel asks me.
‘Oh, you know,’ I say airily. ‘I liked the team, the work is a great mix of litigation and advisory, you get a lot of responsibility and interesting work as a junior . . .’ I rattle off the platitudes, wondering whether I sound convincing. I don’t mention that I originally chose the team because I thought that if anyone in the firm was apprised of employee rights (and less likely to order unpaid weekend work), it would be the employment law team. I don’t mention that I have no idea if I’m on the right path.
‘I definitely want to do tax,’ Nick says. ‘I’ve just done a semester under Professor Laidley, and I’m about to start my thesis under his supervision, looking at tax treatment of outbound investments. The tax team at Birchstone McCauliffe has such a stellar reputation; I’ve been wanting to work for Stuart Green since I started law school.’ I wonder if he’s hamming it up, but I look at him, with his crisp suit and sincere expression, and realise that his spiel isn’t rehearsed, just oft repeated. That he’s one of the lucky ones who just . . . knows, and will slip into his commercial law career without a wrinkle of doubt. Annabel is similarly assured, pronouncing litigation her calling. ‘I’ve known since Year 7 debate.’
Darsha, by contrast, exudes uncertainty. When the others talk about their mooting experience and reel off their past paralegal roles, he mentions his part-time job at a second-hand bookstore, my favourite in Newtown. ‘I haven’t really gravitated to a particular area of law yet,’ he says. ‘But I’m sure I will. I’ll try a few different groups, find the best fit.’ He looks around. ‘Birchstone McCaul
iffe seems like a great place to work. Is it everything you hoped it would be?’
I open my mouth, ready to spout the usual drivel, when something stops me. Maybe it’s the mix of hope and concern in Darsha’s voice, and the look in his eyes, entreating me to give honest advice. Maybe it’s because I spot Mark out of the corner of my eye, affecting an avuncular air as he woos a group of would-be clerks. Maybe it’s that I’m tired, so tired, from trying to fit in and say the right things and feign enthusiasm and react the way I’m supposed to.
‘You know what . . . no, it’s not,’ I say. A look of shocked confusion crosses their faces.
I shrug. ‘This isn’t for everyone. Some people like the work and are happy pulling long hours for it – that’s good for them. Me, I’ve struggled to connect with what I’m doing. A lot of the time, I feel helpless. Occasionally, compromised. And in my experience, the culture of the firm is . . . problematic. My partner is boorish, and that makes me one of the luckier ones. I have friends who have spent the last year being bullied and harassed. There’s a lot of stuff that goes unchecked.’
‘So, why are you still here?’ Darsha asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, caught off guard. ‘I guess I just got caught up, thinking that this was what I had to do. And that all of this’ – I gesture at our surrounds – ‘was normal. It’s difficult, once you get in a certain mindset, to break out of it.’
By this stage, Nick and Annabel have edged away. I don’t blame them. My sudden breaking of character probably doesn’t inspire confidence.
I look Darsha straight in the eyes. ‘If you decide to do the clerkship, it’ll be a good experience. But don’t put up with crap just because it’s peddled to you as the way things are, and will always be. And don’t be scared to do something wildly different. I know this seems like the only entry point to a legal career, and a career at a commercial firm seems like the best, maybe only, option, but there are so many things you can do.’
Love, in Theory Page 25
