He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Thanks for being honest.’
As he shakes my hand and walks away, one of the HR representatives standing at the bar gives me a furtive thumbs up and a wink. She motions at another group of prospective clerks standing near me, indicating that I should go over to them and hit them with the sales pitch.
As if possessed, I put my glass down on a bar table, turn and walk away from the clerks, across the length of the room, and out into the hotel lobby. I collect my coat and bag, throw my coat over my shoulders, and walk out into the night. My tiny act of rebellion.
31
I float through another week, feeling like a husk of myself, and then all of a sudden it’s the weekend again. My parents are throwing a party to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary, so I head over on Friday night to help them with the set-up. We spend Saturday morning cleaning the house, collecting flowers from the local florist and preparing the canapés. Weeks prior, Dad had voiced his opinion that it would be silly to have a party for an anniversary; an event special only to them. But Mum had waved him off.
‘Nonsense, any excuse for a party is a good excuse. We have to get people together before we all get too old or curmudgeonly to get out of the house and socialise. Or before we start dying off.’
‘I’m already curmudgeonly,’ Dad had muttered under his breath, but he’d acquiesced and been his usual helpful self, restoring the deck to polished Jarrah glory and hand-writing the seventy invitations.
By the time the evening rolls around, the house and garden look immaculate, as do the hosts; Dad in a grey suit and flamboyant tie, Mum in a chic tawny gold dress. Somehow, more than thirty years on, they are radiant in their adoration for each other.
It’s a beautiful evening. A canopy of fairy lights glimmers beneath the velvet blue sky, large outdoor heaters suffuse the garden with warmth. A single cellist plays on the paved patio, deep mellow strains providing a comfortable backdrop for conversation. The party is laced with little nods to the traditional anniversary gift of pearl – opalescent baubles scattered about the flower arrangements, oysters on trays of crushed ice with an edible pearl cradled in each.
Alexandra arrives with the first wave of guests, a gorgeous apparition, having flown in this morning. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her for weeks. As soon as I spot her, I race over to embrace her. ‘Alexandra!’
‘Romy!’ She holds me at arm’s length, appraises me with a warm smile, then draws me into another hug. She doesn’t look like someone who has just spent twenty hours on a plane. Perfectly made-up, her pronounced cheekbones enhanced by a light sweep of bronzer and her dark hair falling in a silky wave, she looks like a film star, and a well-rested one at that. She wears knife-pleated satin trousers and a thin black cashmere sweater, and smells of some heavenly combination of amber and jasmine.
‘How was your flight? How are you?’ I ask, just as she tells me how great I look and asks how I’m doing. We smile at each other. There’s so much to talk about. Mum, spotting Alexandra from down the hall, hollers for her just as Dad beckons me over to help with the drinks.
‘I’ll come and find you later and we’ll catch up properly,’ Alexandra promises.
My cousins and I are tasked with topping up drinks and circling with trays of canapés. I smile and make polite conversation with my parents’ work colleagues and old friends; people I haven’t seen in years, who inevitably seem surprised that I’m no longer three foot nothing and hiding behind my mum’s legs. I lose count of the number of times I perfunctorily respond, ‘Yes it is crazy how time flies.’
As I weave through the party, I think how funny it is to be gathered on this occasion. Although Dad didn’t think it deserving of public celebration, thirty years of marriage seems like a monumental achievement to me. I watch my parents as they talk to a knot of friends; Dad taking Mum by the shoulders and subtly shifting her so she’s in direct line of the heater’s warmth, Mum fielding the questions I know Dad would hate having to answer. They make it seem so effortless.
Some way into the evening, I find myself leaning against the pergola, just around the corner of the house, hidden from the party. I let my arms – aching from doing rounds with a drink tray – hang by my sides, close my eyes, and drop my head from shoulder to shoulder to stretch my neck.
‘Your parents sure know how to throw a party, huh?’ Alexandra proffers up a napkin of nibbles. ‘I meant to find you sooner, but I got trapped by your cousin Siobhan. I haven’t seen her in years . . . still a bit dull, isn’t she? Though she seemed to think her upcoming nuptials give her a bit of an edge. I had to stop her mid-napery chat.’
I can’t help but laugh. Much like my mum, Alexandra doesn’t pull her punches.
‘So how are you holding up?’ she says. She hesitates for a second. ‘Your mum mentioned that you and Hans broke up.’
My chest tightens. It’s not a secret, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to message Alexandra about the break-up. Putting it into words feels like an admission of failure. But it’s easier in person, especially when her face is flooded with sympathy.
‘Yeah, I’m okay. Though still kicking myself for the way it played out. Hans was a good guy. Really right for me in all the ways that mattered. I just couldn’t shake this other guy, James, even though I knew it was all spark. And then James and I almost kissed at this wedding, which just confirmed Hans’s suspicions, and so we broke up.’
Alexandra cocks her head. ‘You feel strongly about James?’
‘Yes, but not like that. He doesn’t have long-term partner potential. Not like Hans did.’
‘But you and Hans broke up,’ she points out. ‘And you and James . . .’
I screw up my face. ‘Slept together once. Which was a mistake. Well, only because he read too much into it . . .’
Alexandra looks at me curiously. ‘You know, studies have shown that when people hook up casually, they’re often subconsciously trying to jump-start a relationship; to trigger the brain circuits for romance and attachment, both in themselves and their partner. Something like 50 per cent of people who initiate one-night stands are after a longer-term romantic relationship. Are you sure that wasn’t the case here?’
I shake my head. ‘Definitely not. I was just trying to get over him. To stop obsessing about him and letting him get in the way of me making sensible decisions.’
‘And did it work?’
I plough on. ‘I’ve thought so much about this topic – finding your life partner – and I’ve done my homework. You’d be proud of me. I read that book, and learned all about the best time to meet the person, the traits I should look for, the mistakes people make when they confuse lust with something substantial . . .’
Alexandra stares at me, a bemused smile playing across her lips. ‘But you’re telling me that you’ve found a guy you really like – who you can’t stop thinking about – who feels the same way about you, and you’re disregarding it? Do you know how precious that is?’
I feel my brows knit. ‘Yes, but the science says –’
‘Science can only tell you so much, Romy,’ she interrupts me. ‘Yes, we can do fMRIs of people’s brains and tell when they’re in love, by the way the VTA – the ventral tegmental area in the brain – lights up with activity, making dopamine and sending it to other brain regions. And we’ve identified factors that contribute to attraction – proximity, smell, common background, physical appearance. But science can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that makes us love, truly and deeply. No-one has figured out why we love some people and not others; how we can walk into a room of equally intelligent, good-looking, funny, kind, eligible people and be drawn to only one of them.’
I hesitate. ‘Okay. But why allow yourself to fall in love with the wrong person? When you could learn to love someone who’s a better fit for you – isn’t that the point of the book you recommended?’
She shakes her head. ‘Those theories are a helpful guide. Yes, be thoughtful about who you choos
e. Avoid the obviously wrong person. If you want to be in a relationship, make the best of the pool before you. But science, humans . . . we only know so much. There’s no formula for the perfect match. And if you are lucky enough to fall in love . . . well. The brain in love is a wonderful thing. It’s enough to sustain a relationship, and make you see the world differently.’
I feel my cheeks grow warm. ‘But all those studies about infatuation fading . . .’
She nods. ‘Often it does. But love doesn’t have to be fleeting. I’ve seen brain scans of people who after decades of marriage are still deeply, desperately in love. In fact, Bianca Acevedo led a study a few years ago on people who’d been married an average of twenty-one years, who claimed to still be in love with their partner. The results were truly astounding – the VTA and other areas of the brain associated with intense romantic love were just as active in those people as in younger people who had just fallen in love.’ She shakes her head. ‘You should see the scans. The VTAs lit up like beacons.’
The night air is cool. The party feels a million miles away.
Alexandra squeezes my shoulder. ‘It’s rare, I think. Not everyone will experience it in their lifetime. I haven’t, and I don’t know that I ever will.’ I try to console her with a look, but she presses on. ‘All I’m saying is that if it happens for you, that magical thing that science cannot formulate or forecast – if you find a person whose very existence breathes more meaning into your life – then that’s worth casting aside the statistics and the science for.’
Like twigs over a bear pit, something snaps within me.
I look Alexandra in the eyes. ‘I have to go,’ I say, suddenly breathless. Without another word, I give her a quick peck on the cheek, turn, and start to push through the crowd towards the house.
‘Romy, we’re just about to have croquembouche,’ Siobhan trills, catching me by the shoulder.
‘I can’t,’ I say, pushing past her and causing her to knock a tray of cutlery to the ground. For a split second, I think about going back to apologise. To help her pick up the dessert forks. To explain that it’s not because I’m angry or off my rocker. It’s just that I’ve finally realised how much of an idiot I am. But there’s no time.
As I reverse out of the driveway, I’m shaking. I need to see James.
His words ring in my ears: I’m completely undone by you. Paloma’s: It’s obvious that you’ve both wanted each other all along. Alexandra’s: If you find a person whose very existence breathes more meaning into your life – then that’s worth casting aside the statistics and the science for.
What I feel for James, what I’ve felt all this time, is more than a spark. It’s an all-consuming, all-sustaining force. Something that feels like . . . love. I’ve been burying myself in numbers and the lowest-risk strategy, worrying about how to force these feelings with someone who scores well on my artificial rubric, when James has been right there all along. I want to be with him. Need to be with him.
I can feel the blood prickling in my cheeks, the trip of my heart. I feel feverish, like one of those red cellophane fish you get in Chinese restaurants, that springs to attention in a hot palm and cannot thereafter be laid flat. The miracle of my feelings for James dawns on me, and with it, the awfulness of my mistake. How could I have so carelessly, so callously, rejected him? Thinking that I was the one tethered to reality and he the foolish one. Is he already lost to me? Have I fucked everything up?
I know that if I let James slip away, become a distant acquaintance, a lost chance whose milestones and life updates occasionally drip through to my Facebook news feed, I will never forgive myself.
By the time I get to James’s street, it has started to drizzle. I get out of the car. Cold beads of rain pepper my head, roll icily down my face as I jog up the driveway. I pound on the front door. My heart is racing and I feel sick to my stomach. I’ve never wanted anything quite so badly. And I can’t believe I’m doing this. As if I’m Richard Gere or John Cusack or Billy Crystal. Except that I don’t have a limo, a boom box, a dozen roses or a brilliant screenwriter. And I hope to god he doesn’t think this is some grand, empty gesture.
The door scrapes open. It’s Miles, wearing grey UNSW sweats and a groggy expression, a bowl of cornflakes in hand. His eyes widen a bit and some milk spills down his chin. ‘Romy. What are you doing here?’ He cranes his neck to peer behind me. ‘Is Paloma with you?’
‘No, it’s just me. Um, is James here?’
‘Oh, okay.’ He looks confused. ‘Yeah, I think he’s in. Let me go check.’ He shuffles down the hall, bangs on the first door on the right, and calls for James through a mouthful of cornflakes. The door opens. ‘It’s Romy,’ Miles announces, before sloping off to the kitchen.
And then he’s standing there, hands in his pockets, expression difficult to gauge. Apprehensive? Wary? I feel the words I’ve spent the drive rehearsing scramble in my head.
‘James, I know there’s no such thing as “meant to be”. That it’s a stupid myth and a statistical improbability. But when I think about you – when I’m with you – I can’t help but feel . . .’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to see it. I was so waylaid by theories and ideas about what it was supposed to be; so wilfully blind,’ my voice cracks, ‘and miserable. Because I think you are wonderful. Impossibly wonderful.’
He doesn’t hesitate, or demand an explanation. He just moves towards me, and takes my face in his hands. And then he kisses me. It tastes like rain and sunshine. I kiss him back, my cold wet nose grazing his, my palms pressed flat against his chest. He’s warm. Always so warm.
32
‘So what will you do, Romy – settle in the employment team with Graeme?’ Mum hands me a pot of marmalade, which I dollop liberally onto my toast. I take a bite, savouring the perfect combination of warm and chewy sourdough, salty butter and tart jam, and pull my chunky cardigan tighter around me. It’s almost warm enough to be sitting outside; the spring sunshine doing its best to drive away the winter chill.
I hesitate, bracing myself for their reaction. ‘So, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ve handed in my notice to Birchstone McCauliffe.’
‘What?’ They look at me in surprise. A piece of toast slips out of Mum’s hand. ‘I thought you liked the firm?’ says Dad.
‘It might be a good place to work for someone else, but not for me,’ I say. ‘A bit too much woe and corporate agenda. I think I always suspected that the firm, and this kind of law practice, wasn’t really a good fit.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ asks Mum, her tone gentle, but laced with concern. ‘We know you always like to have a plan, to know what’s next . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ I reassure them. ‘No really, I’m not worried. I have faith I’ll find it, the thing for me. I’ve put in some applications for in-house roles at a few different arts and media organisations. Hopefully it will lead to something a bit more creatively fulfilling.’ I reach for the coffee pot and pour myself another mug, inhaling the glorious spirals of steam. ‘As for now, I’ve bought a giant backpacking pack, and James and I have booked flights – we’re going to start in Peru and then . . . who knows.’
‘Well, that’s a big change, Romy,’ says Dad. His face edges into a tentative smile. ‘I have to say, it’s nice to see you so relaxed about things for once.’
‘I wonder . . .’ says Mum.
‘What?’
‘Well, I wonder if all the tumult of this year has been good for you.’ She takes a slow sip of coffee. ‘You’ve been through a lot and everything has changed, but you seem to know yourself better than you ever have.’
Dad shifts in his seat. ‘Come on now, I don’t think we need to go quite so far as to overlay some hero’s journey narrative. Romy’s twenty-five. Who knows how she’ll feel in a few years’ time – about work, James, anything?’
I know he’s right. But sipping my coffee and turning my face up to the sun to feel its warmth,
I think about James. About our first night together, unshackled from fears and worries. Our weekends; glorious little pockets of time made to feel momentous. I think about the warm comfort of holding his hand, about what it’s like to look up from a book I’m reading and catch him smiling at me. Of visiting art galleries and arguing over the interpretation of abstract paint swirls. Of soaping dishes while he vacuums up the hair I’ve shed all over his apartment with the pet hair attachment, without complaint. Of kissing him, deeply, and feeling as if everything is right in the world. I don’t know what the future holds for us. But I’ve got a magnificent hunch.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my publisher Cate Paterson for her enthusiasm, brilliant guidance and for making all of this possible. To the wonderful team at Pan Macmillan, especially Brianne Collins for her steady hand and constant support. To Vanessa Lanaway for her deft copyediting.
Thank you to my agent Sally Bird for believing in me.
Thank you to my parents Sim and Neil for everything, always.
Last and best, thanks to Jonathon. Without you, I could never have written a love story.
The following works were an invaluable resource, informing the theoretical aspects of this novel: The Science of Happily Ever After: What Really Matters in the Quest for Enduring Love by Ty Tashiro, Anatomy of Love: A Natural History of Mating, Marriage, and Why We Stray by Helen Fisher, Falling in Love: Why We Choose the Lovers We Choose by Ayala Malach Pines, The Course of Love by Alain de Botton, The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm, Mandy Len Catron’s New York Times article ‘To Fall in Love With Anyone, Do This’ and Hannah Fry’s TEDx Talk ‘The Mathematics of Love’.
Love, in Theory Page 26
