‘Thanks Dad.’ I grin, wondering what new gadget or storage solution he could possibly have got to add to my collection of practical birthday gifts. Last year was a meat thermometer and fire blanket; the year before, a stainless-steel shower caddy. I tear off the wrapping to reveal an Avanti multi-function box grater.
‘So you can make zucchini slice! And grate cheese without making a mess,’ he explains brightly.
‘Just what I needed,’ I say, giving him a hug.
Mum returns with two wine glasses and a Loony Tunes collectables tumbler. ‘No champagne flutes?’ she remarks.
‘Student living,’ I shrug.
‘Since when were you a student?’
‘Okay, rental living. And shared house. Anna will be home soon, by the way, so I’ll grab another glass.’
Mum shakes her head in exasperation. ‘When we were your age we were looking at buying our first home. Wait, you’re twenty-five now! So we were even younger than you . . .’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ Dad chides her. ‘Romy’s generation are just a bit slower off the bat.’
Anna arrives home, clattering through the door, her arms exploding with sunflowers. She greets my parents and hands me the joyous blooms with a flourish. I hug her, feeling very spoilt and wondering if we have a vase in the house. An empty Campari bottle might do?
‘You girls keep a very tidy house,’ Dad says, attempting to make conversation. Anna looks around in surprise; in the last hour I’ve done a hasty tidy-up, shoving all of her books and junk into various cupboards.
‘And you’re growing things? That’s the sign of true adulthood.’ He moves closer to the windowsill to inspect our herb garden. Dead parsley leaves crumble in his hands. ‘I might recommend a skosh more water . . .’
Mum fills the glasses and we cheers. ‘To Romy,’ Mum says. ‘Our little girl, no longer so little. Happy birthday, darling.’
Just before 7 pm, we lock up and leave the house. My parents assure me that they will only stay for one drink. ‘We don’t want to impose,’ says Mum. ‘We just want to say hello to your friends, and Hans, of course.’
Dad chimes in. ‘Also, we have tickets to see Hot Chocolate at the State Theatre.’ They begin to hum ‘You Sexy Thing’. I roll my eyes with affection at their unified dorkiness.
‘Will I know anyone there?’ asks Anna, as we walk down towards Blackwattle Bay.
‘You’ve met Cameron and Paloma.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Anna says. ‘I like Cameron, he’s a sweetheart. Paloma’s . . . a bit much.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, but she means well. Who else . . . you know Hans.’
‘Love Hans.’ She nods definitively. ‘He’s so calm and sensible. You know he fished my earrings out of the toilet for me the other day, right? He heard me freaking out and came to the rescue. If he was grossed out, he didn’t show it.’
‘He is good like that.’ I smile.
The evening’s celebrations are at the Flying Fish, a casual bar and restaurant attached to the Glebe rowing club, adorned with lobster baskets and painted wooden signs in the style of a kitschy New England seafood shack. The winning factor is the huge wooden deck that stretches out over the water.
I stop for a moment to take it all in. The beauty of the evening, bathed in milky moonlight, the balmy weather perfect for bare arms. The hundreds of fairy lights strung up on the deck, their twinkling reflections studding the barely rippling water of the bay. The fact that I’m one year older, and all that’s happened in the past year.
I needn’t have worried about turnout. Within minutes Paloma and Cameron arrive with a group of people from work and report that the others will follow (once they escape, having been served with classic Friday ‘5 pm surprises’ by the other side in litigation, or by the real enemy, their bosses). Soon after, a bunch of uni friends turn up, then Miles with a couple of his friends; guys I met in passing at Cameron’s house party. There’s no appearance by or mention of James, and so I surmise, with both disappointment and relief, that he’s not coming. Mara and Angus arrive; Mara as vivacious as usual in a jumpsuit patterned with lorikeets, Angus as chill as always.
The drinks flow and a live band begins to play. I flit between groups, collecting birthday wishes and tidbits about everyone’s lives. I hear about new jobs, new houses and housemates, new boyfriends and girlfriends. Hans arrives, full of apologies for having been held up at work. ‘Don’t be silly, you’re fine,’ I say, and take great pleasure in introducing him around.
A couple of hours later, when we’re all awash with sparkling wine and beer, Cameron clinks ceremoniously on his glass with a metal table number and signals for silence. He clambers unsteadily up onto a wooden crate and extends a hand for Paloma to join him.
‘We’re not going to give a big speech or anything,’ he starts. ‘This isn’t a twenty-first, thank god, and all the embarrassing stories – Romy passing out in a tulip bed at Floriade, Romy’s grand epiphany that the Academy Awards and the Oscars are actually the same ceremony, Romy “accidentally” calling a sex hotline when we were in Paris – have already been aired.’
Paloma picks up the thread. ‘We just wanted to say, on Romy’s special quarter-century birthday, that we adore her. We all know that Romy is brilliant – she’s a top of the class, killing it at work, always managing to make time for the people in her life, kind of gal. She’s also a hopeless romantic –’
‘And by hopeless, we mean hopeless,’ Cameron chimes in.
‘Always developing some interesting –’
‘Usually inane –’
‘– theory about life and love. Though it seems to have finally paid off . . .’ Paloma raises her glass in Hans’s direction.
‘One thing has always been for sure, and that’s that Romy has the biggest heart. And so much love for her family and friends –’
‘That’s reciprocated. Completely.’
‘We love her dearly, and wish her the most glorious twenty-fifth birthday and year ahead.’
Cameron and Paloma raise their drinks in tandem. ‘To Romy!’ The toast echoes around the deck.
I sip my wine, a little bashful. There are a few calls for a reply speech, but I holler definitively over them to stamp them out. ‘Thanks Cam and Paloma. And thank you so much for coming everyone! Hope you’re all having fun.’ I press sideways through the crush of people to reach Cameron and Paloma. ‘You guys are the cutest,’ I tell them, pulling them into an awkward three-person hug.
Miles sidles over to join us and slaps Cameron on the back; approval for a speech well made. He slips his arm around Paloma’s waist and gives her an affectionate squeeze. She turns towards him, rests a hand on his chest, and gazes up at him with an expression I’ve never seen on her before. Sleepy lids, purring smile; at once rapturous and serene.
‘That reminds me!’ Miles says, reaching over to the bar table beside us, which is stacked with gifts and a few bunches of flowers. I don’t know who they’re from, though I notice a brown paper parcel so clumsily stamped with dragonflies that it must have been done with a potato. Miles hands me a small box, novella sized. ‘From James,’ he says.
They look at me expectantly. I unwrap it slowly, thankful for the shadowy darkness, and that Hans is over by the bar.
Peeling back the paper, I uncover a black ink drawing of a swan – painfully beautiful in its intricacy, in a simple matte silver frame. It depicts the swan in flight, neck extended, wings a graceful arc, floating past wisps of clouds. It’s perfect; evocative of freedom and possibility. Could it be that James sees me as more than a scrabbling, anxious thing? I want to keep staring at the drawing, to drink it in or press it to my chest, but with my friends’ eyes on me, I simply replace it in the wrapping. ‘Nice of him,’ I remark casually.
Later, when the party begins to thin, Hans comes over to find me by the edge of the deck.
‘Sorry, I’ve barely seen you all night,’ I say, trailing my hand down his chest. ‘I hope my friends haven’t been boring you.’
/> ‘No, all good. It’s nice to meet them all.’
We lean against the wooden railings and look out at the melding blackness of sky and water, strewn with tiny pinpricks of light.
‘Romy,’ Hans says solemnly, turning towards me, ‘there’s something I’ve been wanting to say for quite some time. I was waiting for the perfect moment . . .’
My chest constricts and I feel my body stiffen. He dips his head to find and hold my gaze.
‘I love you.’ He says it plainly, confidently. As if it were inevitable.
I stare at him wordlessly. My mind has gone blank. My mouth hasn’t moved but I feel as if I’m gaping, like a goldfish that has jumped out of its tank and is now floundering on the kitchen bench. Strangely, time slows down, and I force myself to consider my options in a split second. Should I say it back? I don’t know that I could utter the words. It’s not that I don’t think I could love him. I just . . . don’t know. A Ryan Atwood/Marissa Cooper-style ‘thank you’, then?
I look him squarely in the eyes – his beautiful Husky eyes – and reach to cup the side of his face with my hand. I lean forward and kiss him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I think I could. I really do. But I’m just not quite there yet.’
He looks at me searchingly, a twinge of confusion and hurt in his eyes. ‘That’s okay,’ he says slowly. ‘It doesn’t change how I feel about you.’
‘I will get there,’ I say, in what I think is a reassuring tone, and kiss him again.
When we get back to my place, Anna in tow, I fumble with my keys and struggle to unlock the door, peering at the keyhole through an alcohol-induced haze. ‘Here, let me,’ Anna says, taking over.
‘You go up ahead,’ I say to Hans, champagne on my breath, only slurring a little. ‘I’m just going to call my parents and make sure they got home from the concert okay.’ He nods and heads upstairs.
I pull out my phone, scroll down my contacts to Mum’s number, and then, for some reason, keep going. Maybe it’s the alcohol capering through my bloodstream, but it’s as though I’m possessed. Somehow, I find my finger hovering over James’s number, and then dialling him. I count out the rings, head spinning and heart thumping in my chest. When his voicemail beeps, I startle, caught off guard. ‘Hey James, um, it’s Romy. I just got home from my birthday thing. Yay, twenty-five. Time for bus driver socks and Rogaine and that quarter-life crisis. Um, well, you obviously know it’s my birthday because you sent Miles along with – sent the beautiful swan drawing along with Miles. I just wanted to call and say thank you. Really, it’s beautiful. I wish you could have come tonight . . .’ I pause, trying to find the words I want to say. The voicemail cuts me off with an insistent beeeep.
I shake my head. What am I doing? Leaving the world’s most pathetic voicemail at – I check my phone – almost 1 am? And probably causing Hans to wonder what I’m doing; it’s obviously too late to speak to my parents.
I stagger inside, pull the front door closed behind me, and try not to trip up the stairs. I find Hans collapsed on my bed, still fully clothed, eyes closed and hands splayed over his face. ‘Are you awake?’ I whisper loudly.
‘Yeah.’ He opens his eyes and extends his arm, inviting me to join him.
I scooch in next to him, pressing the length of my body along his. ‘You know, I really do like you,’ I say.
He sighs and rolls on his side to face me. ‘I know.’
I kiss him deeply, imploring him to believe me. He tastes like beer, sour but not unpleasant. ‘You taste like champagne,’ he murmurs.
I begin to unbutton his shirt with one hand. He reaches behind my back to unzip my dress, and pulls one strap down over my shoulder.
‘I think you’re amazing,’ I say. ‘Perfect.’ I graze his nose with mine, our hot breath mingling. ‘And I think you and I are something special. When I’m with you, I think long-term, future stuff. Just, I want you to know that, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he says. I wriggle out of my dress and he pulls me on top of him, hands firm around my waist. I lean down to kiss him again, hungrily and insistently.
22
I wake early the next morning to the shrill sound of an incoming call. I peer at my phone through bleary eyes. ‘Alexandra?’
‘Romy! It’s still technically your birthday in London . . . happy twenty-fifth!’
‘Thanks,’ I croak, pulling myself out of bed. I look over my shoulder; Hans is still slumbering away, snoring lightly.
‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ she says. ‘You’re still an early riser, right?’
I pad out into the kitchen. ‘Yep. Though I did go out last night for my birthday. I’m feeling a wee bit dusty.’
‘Well, that’s what we like to hear. So you had a fun night?’
‘Yeah I did, thanks. Lots of drinks, a bunch of friends from work and uni, a cute speech but nothing too embarrassing, cameo from Mum and Dad . . .’ I flump down on the sofa, my head still throbbing.
‘And how’re things with Hans? What did he give you for your birthday?’
I screw up my face, the complicated eddy of emotions from last night returning. ‘Things are good. He’s really lovely. He gave me a necklace –’
‘How sweet. Jewellery says “I love you”,’ Alexandra sings.
‘– and he said “I love you”.’
Alexandra coos through the phone. ‘No, don’t coo,’ I say, half laughing, half feeling like I want to cry. ‘I . . . couldn’t say it back. I don’t know why. I guess I’m not quite ready.’
‘Hey, that’s okay,’ says Alexandra, registering my distress. ‘It’s not always obvious when you should say it. You know, it’s like, how do you identify the moment when day becomes night, or when grains of sand become a pile? You might be in the liminal stage.’
‘But why is it so straightforward for some people?’ I say. ‘You read about it in people’s engagement posts on Facebook all the time. They knew they wanted to be together forever when she rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night, still in her Snoopy pyjamas and sleeping appliance, because she got the call that he’d been in an accident. Or when they were separated by an ocean for three months, but could only think about each other. When will I have that?’
Alexandra clucks. ‘Honestly, Romy, I wouldn’t put too much stock in those accounts. Have you heard about the two-factor theory of emotion?’
‘No.’
‘Well, according to this theory, all intense emotions have two components: the physiological, “arousal”; and the cognitive, the “label”. When we identify that we’re experiencing a particular emotion, that’s because we’ve put a label – love, anger, sadness, fear, disgust or whatever – to a state of arousal – elevated heart rate, rapid breathing, trembling. As we get older and have more experiences, we learn which label to use for which experience, even though the physical response is the same. But humans aren’t always great at distinguishing between feelings.’
‘Okay . . .’ Through my headache, I’m struggling to understand Alexandra’s point.
‘So when people claim to have this lightbulb moment, realising they’re in love, they may well be misattributing some other state of arousal – a strong sense of fear when the other person’s in an accident, an intense feeling of loneliness when they’re separated . . .’
I wade through my brain fog. ‘Has this got anything to do with why magazines always recommend horror movies for dates?’
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘Because there’s a chance your date will misattribute the physiological response related to fear to romantic arousal. Similarly, it’s pretty well documented that people are more likely to fall in love, or at least think they’re in love, when they’re in a heightened emotional state or going through a major life event. When someone’s been dumped and they’re feeling vulnerable and lonely – rebound love. When they’re on an exciting holiday – summer romance. Hostages falling in love with their abductors. The looming menace of death triggering the phenomenon of “war love” . . .’
She chuckles. ‘Sorry, you’re probably not in the mood for a whole spiel right now. All I’m trying to say is that emotions are complex. Don’t think you’ve got to have that epiphanic moment. We know that love can grow in time.’
I close my eyes, feeling reassured, if only by the conviction in her voice. ‘Thanks Alexandra, freak-out averted. Possibly the best birthday present I got this year.’
‘What, no jumper cables from your dad?’ she quips.
Mid-morning, a hungover group of us meet for brunch on King Street. Though I’m showered and rehydrated, I feel like death. I’m sure I look it too; my eyes are bloodshot, my skin feels like puff paint, and I’m wearing a garish silk scarf patterned with butterflies. The latter was a calculated decision; I figure once Mara sees me wearing my birthday present, I can stash it away, never to be worn again.
Hans is faring much better than me. Having slept soundly until I gently shook him awake half an hour ago, he looks well-rested and bright-eyed. He joins Miles, Louis and Angus at one end of the table, and I slide in between Mara and Paloma at the other end.
‘Cute scarf,’ Paloma remarks with a wink.
We order bacon and eggs, and a round of home fries, and I focus on getting caffeine and grease into my system.
‘It was so nice to see you and Hans together last night,’ says Mara. ‘Picture perfect couple.’
I smile, guiltily, and quietly fill them in on Hans’s declaration of love, and my inability to reciprocate. ‘But,’ I conclude, ‘it’s not a big deal. Hans was really understanding, and I’m sure I’ll feel it, and be able to say it, soon. Though I don’t know what’s holding me back. Maybe I’m waiting for some kind of sign that he’s The One?’
Paloma turns to Cameron and Mara. ‘Well, these guys can weigh in. How did you know that Louis was a keeper, Cam?’
Love, in Theory Page 19