‘We know you give a lot of yourselves to the firm – your blood, sweat, social lives and weekends – and tonight is one way we like to thank you for your hard work.’ At this point, Chevy Chase’s face fades from the projection screen behind him and a slideshow begins. Against graphs of profit margins and media clips, the managing partner launches into a run-down of the year’s new clients and big wins. This leads him to the conclusion that ‘Ultimately, Birchstone McCauliffe is making great strides towards realising its internal motto of “no excess baggage”, and you should all be extremely proud. So, to the celebrations!’
I drain my champagne along with the rest of the crowd, still trying to process what I just witnessed. What exactly am I a part of? I move through the press of people gingerly, trying not to snag myself on anyone’s costume, and manage to locate Paloma. She’s barely recognisable in a sleek platinum blonde wig and white feather eyelashes.
‘Paloma, you look amazing. Is this . . . Hervé Léger?’
She smooths down the skin-tight bandage material. ‘Yep. Is that . . . your coast dress?’ She cocks her head. ‘Romy, you look cute, but they expect more at these events. You have to show that you’re buying in.’
I grab us both glasses of champagne off a passing tray. ‘Yeah, about that . . .’ How to explain to her that I’m having serious doubts about this place? I shake my head. ‘Anyway, I know for next time. Costumes equal serious business. Hey, have you seen Cam?’
‘I just messaged him,’ she says. ‘He’s stuck putting together transaction bibles. He’s not going to make it.’ I frown, feeling awful for him and angry at Mark; a feeling that intensifies when we see Mark saunter into the room not five minutes later and tip back a glass of wine.
As the Christmas remixes switch out to dance music, Paloma urges me to loosen up and enjoy myself. She pulls me through the crowd and into a group of juniors that we summer-clerked with, who are dancing under the strobing silver-blue lights.
What is it about work Christmas parties and removing clothing? I wonder. Already, the parquet floor is strewn with shirts. I’m reminded of a phenomenon I once read about called ‘paradoxical undressing’, whereby a person suffering from lethal hypothermia will, shortly before death, take off all their clothes as if they were overheating. One theory is that freezing cold leads to paralysis of the vasomotor centre in the brain stem, creating the sensation of a body temperature higher than it actually is. I wonder if a year of overwork plus alcohol has a similar effect – paralysing the social centre of the brain and making these lawyers think that getting naked in front of their bosses is a good idea.
For some reason, I can’t bring myself to dance. I shuffle from side to side, trying to get into the music, but after half a song I come to a stop, defeated. Around me, the world swirls and pulses. I’ve already lost sight of Paloma. Seized by a sudden need to escape, I walk off the dance floor, grab my handbag and swipe a stray bottle of Veuve from a table near the entrance. I text Cameron as I trot down the grand staircase: Do you have time for a quick dinner break?
Cameron’s office is the only one lit up on the entire floor. It’s silent but for the whir and clunk of the industrial-size printer, churning out page upon page of what I assume must be Cameron’s transaction documents. I poke my head in. ‘Break time?’
‘Romy, what the?’ Cameron clutches at his chest. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the Christmas party?’
‘Didn’t you see my message? I thought you might need some company, or at least a bite.’ I hold out the champagne and the Maccas I bought en route. ‘Are you still partial to a Big Mac?’
Cameron’s expression is one of pure gratitude. ‘I’m starving, and I don’t know how many more of those gross mint humbugs I could have eaten. But you shouldn’t have come back for me. Get out of here, go enjoy yourself.’
I perch on his desk and tear open the brown paper bag, spilling a few fries on the wooden laminate.
‘I made an appearance,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not missing much. How much more work do you have to do?’
‘Just waiting for all the printing,’ he says. ‘Then I’ll figure out how to use the binding machine.’
‘Well, those sound like tasks that would be improved by alcohol,’ I say. I busy myself opening the champagne, careful not to let the cork fly. ‘Seriously Cameron, what are we doing with ourselves? A Friday night – you stuck in the office, me unable to stomach the firm Christmas party?’
He takes a swig of Veuve. ‘I know, it sucks. I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it, that all I have to do is put up with a few more months of Mark’s bullshit and then I can settle in arbitration. That’s the work I really want to do. But it’s hard to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel when I keep getting bulldozed along the way.’ He passes me the bottle.
‘I can’t wait for you to get out of this team, Cam.’
‘What about you? Why so blue?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ I bite my lip. It feels petty to complain when he’s the one dealing with workplace abuse. ‘I just wasn’t feeling it. The gross displays of excess, the masturbatory speeches, the fact that everyone else was so psyched to be there and had put so much effort into their costumes. I mean, is this it? This hedonistic party is the highlight of our year?’
Cameron shrugs. ‘I think you might be reading a bit too much into it. It’s just a chance for people to let off steam. Celebrate the wins.’
I down some more champagne and feel warmth spread down to my fingertips, and my surroundings soften into an alcoholic glow. ‘Yeah, maybe. I guess I just didn’t feel like celebrating.’ I shake my head and force myself to snap out of my wallowing. ‘Hey, I came here to cheer you up. What can I do?’
Cameron takes the bottle from me. ‘Trust me, the food and bubbles helps a lot.’ He starts to laugh. ‘Also, the image of you as a weird Victorian ghost.’ I look down at my dress – white cotton, now patterned with blood-red tomato sauce stains. I can’t help but laugh too. ‘Well, I’m glad I could bring some of the party to you, even if it is more Halloween than Christmas.’
15
I wake up with a mild hangover but a lighter heart. The clouds of self-pity have parted; I’m just glad I left the debaucherous Christmas party and spent some time with Cameron. Between the two of us, we figured out how to bind all fifty copies of his transaction bibles, and when I left around midnight, he thanked me for keeping him company, and keeping him sane. ‘Don’t worry, Romy,’ he said, ‘we’ll get through this grad shitshow together, and figure it all out.’
I roll over and grab my phone. I’ve got a bunch of garbled messages from Paloma (something about Cirque du Soleil and ice luges), and one from Hans, sent earlier this morning: Can’t wait to see you tonight, an x of a kiss affixed at the end. I smile and sink down into my pillow.
An email notification pings on my phone, and I instinctively tap on it, revealing a gold evite from Mara and Angus. ‘Romy and guest . . . Save the Date!’ it reads. ‘25 May . . . details to follow . . . looking forward to celebrating with you soon.’ My smile widens. Something to look forward to – and, all going well, someone to enjoy it with.
When the day turns to dusk and the heat begins to fade from the air, I make my way over to Pyrmont, to Hans’s apartment. I’m curious to see his place, and excited to see him. Our dynamic is still very courteous – still appraising, still trying to impress – but each date draws us closer together. Tonight, I think, I’m ready to progress things even further.
I reach his apartment block, double-checking that I have the right shabby white concrete tower, and press the buzzer for apartment 815. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass door pane; I look fresh, bronzed, dewy. The hour I spent in front of the mirror with Anna’s curling wand and a boatload of concealer, cream blushes and highlighters was worth it. I rearrange my hair, adjust the crisscrossing ties of my floral dress, and wait to be let in.
Hans answers the door to his a
partment with a beaming smile, kisses my cheek and ushers me in, apologising for how messy his place is. I shuck my sandals and hand him a bottle of wine. His apartment is objectively immaculate, and looks unlike any bachelor pad I’ve seen before. There are a couple of worn but cosy sofas padded out with cushions in shades of soft grey, a woven blue rug, and floor lamps emitting a warm glow. The furnishings are old (‘cobbled together from the Gumtree’, he apologises), but have been chosen with care. And the whole place smells fresh and clean, like ocean mist and crisp linen. I peek into the kitchen. Neat stacks of cookware, a complete spice rack, and the beginnings of what looks like homemade pasta. ‘I hope that will be okay?’ he says.
We open the wine and, while Hans tends to the stove, I witter on about my busy week at work, culminating in a dissection of the bizarre Christmas party extravaganza.
‘Hmm, that sounds full on,’ he says. ‘Not your scene at all.’
We eat dinner – faultless spinach and goat cheese ravioli, cooked to al dente perfection – out on the tiny concrete balcony, and watch the sun sink slowly beneath the horizon; a glowing tangelo orb slipping from a pink gauze sky.
‘How is it?’ Hans asks, gesturing to the pasta.
I take another appreciative bite. ‘Not bad at all,’ I say.
He looks crestfallen for a beat and I realise how that must have come across. ‘It’s absolutely delicious,’ I correct. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m – we’re’ – I speak for all Australians – ‘used to understating everything. “Not bad” means really good. “Not the worst” means the same.’ Bloody Australian litotes. He nods slowly, and I try to explain that if I’d thought something was bad, I’d have said it was ‘very average’.
I grasp the stem of my wine glass and toast to the evening, trying to iron over my misstep. ‘What could be nicer,’ I say, ‘than a beautiful dinner, on a beautiful summer’s evening, with . . .’ I pause for a split second, trying to figure out how to describe what Hans is to me, ‘wonderful company.’ If Hans thinks I sound like an insipid TV commercial mum, he doesn’t react. He just smiles at me and reaches across the table to take my hand. It’s a more tender and intimate gesture than our sidewalk kisses and doorstep frottage.
I quietly marvel at how natural and self-assured he is; completely unattended by any awkwardness or boyish hesitation. Whereas I feel like a cage of butterflies, constantly rippling with nervous energy, always looking for some concrete, external thing to quell my doubts.
‘What were you like as a teenager?’ I ask curiously. He seems like such a fully-formed adult, right down to his ability to make the perfect burnt butter and sage sauce.
‘I was very headstrong,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I made it easy for my parents, or my teachers. But I suppose most teenagers are a bit selfish, cocky, convinced they know what’s best.’ He chuckles ruefully. ‘And you? Did you have a crazy rebellious phase?’
I almost choke on my ravioli as I laugh. ‘Hardly. I was just . . . awkward. And not in a cute way,’ I add, thinking about all the celebrities who talk about being ‘awkward’ teenagers, when what they really mean is they had Bambi limbs too long and slender to control, or braces to perfect their already near-perfect smiles. ‘I just spent years in my own head, praying not to be noticed, never quite sure what to say or what to do.’
I have to stop myself from cringing at the memory of those painful years. ‘I grew out of it, of course, but I can’t help feeling that some of that awkwardness has carried through.’ I take a sip of wine and say, not quite offhandedly, ‘One day I guess I’ll be all self-actualised and bien dans sa peau.’
Hans shakes his head and smiles. ‘I think maybe this is an Australian thing. The self-deprecation in the way you talk, and probably also in the way you think about yourself. Germans are much more forthright. At some point, you just have to know yourself and what you want.’
By the time we finish dinner, the sky is a dark sheet of navy. A troupe of moths flit playfully above our heads; powdery courtiers dancing around the flickering outdoor lamps.
Hans and I clear the table and make our way inside. I perch on a kitchen stool and watch on as he carefully soaps and rinses the dishes and places them to dry beside the sink. I sip my wine a little too quickly, like a dipping bird, suddenly nervous about where the night is headed.
‘Would you like something sweet?’ Hans asks. ‘Chocolate, moscato?’
I can’t help but think of the scene from Muriel’s Wedding, where Muriel and her date Brice are on the beanbag. ‘Tim Tam?’ she offers. ‘Maybe after – later,’ Brice says.
I take a deep breath and urge my brain to shut up. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anyone. And even longer since it was the first time with someone.
‘Maybe later,’ I reply.
I’ve decided that I want to sleep with him. In anticipation, I’ve waxed and groomed and worn my nicest lingerie (as in, my only matching set, pretty scraps of rosebud pink silk). The easiness between us tonight, all signs pointing towards compatibility, give me assurance that this is the right move. The line from Chemistry: The Art and Science of Romance has been playing through my mind: ‘It is entirely possible to engender the feelings of trust and intimacy that lead to love . . .’ And Alexandra’s message about dopamine, oxytocin and vasopressin levels spiking during sex and promoting feelings of attachment. What better way, then, to fell any remaining wall between us?
Hans disappears from view to put on some music. Bon Iver. The melancholic strains of ‘Skinny Love’ fill the apartment. He returns and takes my hand, gently pulling me down off the kitchen stool. He encircles my waist and we sway, ever so slightly, as the delicate vocals start up. I rise up on my toes to kiss him. It steadies me, the comfort of this now almost familiar kiss, and I feel my heart rate slow and my shoulders drop.
As the last notes die, I look meaningfully into his eyes and start to steer him towards the bedroom. He looks at me searchingly. Checking, I can tell, that I want this. I smile at him in reassurance.
Hans slides his hands up my thighs, hiking up my dress. I press into him, feeling the warmth and resistance of his firm body. He reaches behind my back to undo my dress, and gets stuck on the complicated ties. ‘Oh, they’re double-knotted,’ I say, turning around and drawing my hair over my shoulder to expose my back.
He fumbles for a bit. ‘They’re really tied tight.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, cursing myself for wearing such a finicky outfit. ‘Should have worn my velcro tear-aways.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Sorry, never mind.’ I curse myself again. Try not to ruin the mood with stupid jokes, Romy.
Hans manages to undo my dress and I wrench it up over my head. I fumble with his shirt buttons as he kisses my mouth, my neck, my collarbone. Resisting the urge to twitch at the ticklish sensation, I take a deep breath, willing myself to get out of my head and into the moment. Moving as one, we inch towards his bed until I feel my calves catch on the mattress and we fall backwards, together.
The next morning, I wake to an empty bed and the sound of the shower running. I take a moment to adjust; to the strange room, and the grey light that filters through the thin curtains. After a few minutes the rushing water squeaks to a trickle, then a drip, and Hans soon emerges – hair slicked back, chest beaded with water, dark blue towel wrapped around his hips. He leans over, kisses me tenderly and wishes me good morning, so naturally you’d think we’d been together for years. He pulls a spare towel from the cupboard for me, and I slip out of the bed and into the bathroom.
I shower slowly, to gather my thoughts, soaping myself with Imperial Leather. Scenes from last night play in my mind – the uncomfortable first few minutes as we tried to adjust to each other; Hans on top, his weight and hips digging into me; me clambering on top, feeling self-conscious and wishing that I’d had more to drink . . . I cringe, diverting soapy water into my eyes and triggering an involuntary yelp.
‘Are you okay in there?’ Hans calls out.
‘Yes, all good,’ I call back.
I close my eyes, tip my head back and let the warm water rush over my face. It wasn’t bad sex, by any measure. And it’s not as though I was expecting the first time to be magical; I know that it takes time to truly be in sync. And yet . . . I sigh deeply, my breath mingling with the rising steam. I have to admit that I do feel disappointed. I was hoping that sex with Hans would make me feel more connected to him; that it would create a profound feeling of oneness. I wasn’t expecting to feel so mechanical, almost disembodied.
I try to shake my disappointment. The intimacy will come in time, I tell myself. I turn around and let the water beat against my back and wash the lather away.
That evening, back at home, I call Paloma and give her the run-down. She reacts with an exasperated ‘finally’, and demands details.
‘So what I’m hearing is, it wasn’t great,’ she says, after I’ve painted her a fairly accurate picture of the previous night.
‘Well, no, but the first time is never mind-blowing, is it? Like everything else in a relationship, it’s something to work on. It’s fine, I feel good about it.’ And it’s true, I do feel better, having had the day to think things over. Even if sleeping with Hans didn’t catapult things forward in the way I’d hoped, at some level, according to the science, we must have crossed the threshold into new intimate territory. We will keep sleeping together until there is no awkwardness, only predictable pleasure and a keener understanding of each other.
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
‘Paloma?’
‘It will definitely get better,’ she ventures. ‘But you do have to have that thing, you know. Sexual compatibility.’
Love, in Theory Page 13