Cameron smiles wistfully. ‘I think it was when Louis took a day off work because I had this awful flu. I’ve never been so sick in my life. Louis told his boss that his uncle had died, made pot au feu and watched a season of 30 Rock with me even though he can’t understand it because they talk so fast.’
‘And you, Mara?’
‘I don’t know if there was one moment . . .’ she muses. ‘Okay, maybe this time we were at a bar and Angus had gone to get drinks. This guy started cracking onto me, and when I told him I had a boyfriend he accused me of lying and started getting really aggressive. Angus rushed over and told the guy to fuck off, and didn’t stand down until he and all his mates had left. I know we’re not supposed to buy into the whole “white knight” thing, but I just knew, in that moment, that he’d always protect me.’
‘There you go,’ says Paloma, turning back to me. ‘Don’t stress out about it now. You just have to wait for a moment of disaster to clarify things.’
I sink into my thoughts, and fill my mouth with fries. Maybe, like my friends, I’ll have an experience where it becomes clear to me that I love Hans. Or maybe, as Alexandra says, it’ll be a feeling that grows imperceptibly over time, like sand, grain by grain.
After brunch, Hans and I wander down King Street. We look aimlessly in a couple of clothing stores and book stores, rifling through racks of basic tees and stacks of coffee table books. My phone buzzes with a message from James. Sorry I couldn’t make your birthday party last night. Glad you like the drawing. If you’re around next weekend, I’m going to check out the Woolloomooloo Sculpture Walk. You should come along.
I feel immediately guilty, thinking of my drunken voicemail. I look over at Hans, who’s inspecting a display case of Scandinavian design watches.
‘Hey Hans, what are we up to next weekend?’ I wonder if he would want to do the sculpture walk, which is on my ‘want to see’ list. Maybe I should just go with him instead of James.
‘I’ve got that team-building convention, remember?’ he says. ‘Blue Mountains.’
‘Oh, right.’ I do remember him mentioning it, and being bemused by his enthusiasm. I’d thought it sounded like a nightmare, ropes courses and raft-building and forced bonding with colleagues.
I put my phone away, my hungover brain struggling to make a decision. Next weekend can be a question for later.
23
The following Saturday, I get a call from my mum just as I’m grabbing a coffee from the little Greek café across the road. She runs through her usual list of questions, like a doctor taking a medical history. I assure her that I’ve been eating properly, getting enough sleep and looking away from my computer screen every twenty minutes.
‘And how’s work?’
I tell her about the thing that’s been bothering me all week, a workplace bullying matter we currently have before the Fair Work Commission. ‘It’s awful. The poor guy who’s making the complaint describes all these insidious incidents – a comment about him having a face like a dropped pie, his sudoku mysteriously vanishing from his desk every other day, people calling him “DS”, which are his initials, but which he’s certain is intended as “Dipshit” . . .’
Mum clucks. ‘That’s terrible. Are you going to get them for it?’
‘We act for the company,’ I remind her. ‘Our case is that there was no bullying, that the nickname and comments were all in good fun.’ My voice cracks as I say it. I’ve found it disturbing, reading the other employees’ affidavits, all parroting the same lines – ‘It’s a very relaxed, convivial work environment’; ‘We call him DS because those are his initials. There are a few other guys who have similar nicknames, like JD, TJ . . .’ It seems to me like an obvious cover-up.
‘Well, maybe the Commission will find in his favour?’ Mum suggests.
I sigh. ‘I hope so. But he has such a hard task, to reduce to words what he’s experiencing. How do you prove the intent behind the nickname? How do you describe the vibe you’re getting from people?’ Not every instance of bullying is as blindingly obvious as, say, Mark’s treatment of Cameron.
I can tell Mum doesn’t know quite how to respond. ‘Well, hopefully the truth comes out.’
‘Yeah, I just hope the company caves and admits fault. Management is either lying to us, or being deliberately obtuse.’ A wave of weariness hits me. ‘Anyway, it’s too depressing to talk about. I guess I’ll just see what happens. Please, let’s talk about something other than work. Two free days, that’s what I’m focusing on.’
‘Okay,’ she says, still sounding unsure. ‘Well, what are you doing today? Do you and Hans want to come around for dinner tonight?’
‘Hans is out of town, at his corporate retreat. I’m not doing much today, going to do the Woolloomooloo Sculpture Walk . . .’
‘Who with?’
I waver for a second. ‘My friend James.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds surprised, as apparently everyone does when I mention that I have a male friend. ‘A friend from work?’
‘Nope, just . . . around.’
‘So Hans doesn’t mind you hanging out with this James?’
‘Why would he? He knows that there’s nothing going on.’ I pause. ‘Also, James has a girlfriend.’ There’s silence on the line, and I feel myself getting defensive. ‘This isn’t When Harry Met Sally, you know. Men and women really can be just friends.’
‘Okay, whatever you think,’ Mum says, in an infuriatingly passive-aggressive tone. ‘You’re closer to the situation than I am. Just be careful. You and Hans have such a good thing going, and I’d hate to see you ruin it.’
I wait for James at the entrance to the Woolloomooloo Finger Wharf, the huge twin-storey building of vaulted steel beams, lattice timber, glass panels and metal walkways that stretches out into the harbour along the longest timber-piled wharf in the world. Once a passenger terminal, it’s now a fashionable complex of apartments, a hotel and restaurants. We’ve happened to choose a particularly cold and miserable day to view the sculptures that decorate the concourse and promenade, so I’m hoping to start inside, protected from the whistling wind.
I spot him walking towards me, then stopping to appraise an installation that I’d bypassed in my desperation to get out of the cold, an army of spindly steel figures. James extracts a camera from his jacket, raises it and looks through the viewfinder, twists the barrel of the lens, fiddles around with some settings, and then lowers it.
He catches sight of me, grins, and saunters inside.
‘That was quite the production,’ I say, pointing to his camera, an old Canon. ‘Don’t tell me that’s a film camera?’
‘Yep, it’s a Canon AE-1 Program 35mm SLR. One of the best cameras ever made. Point, click, collect your Pulitzer.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ At least he seems aware of his pretentiousness. ‘You know they make digital cameras these days, right? And there’s this crazy feature on your iPhone . . .’ He pretends to clutch at his chest in horror. ‘But seriously,’ I press, ‘why film?’
He rights himself. ‘Because it’s like painting with light,’ he says. ‘Every time you click the shutter release, the camera opens, light floods in and leaves its impression. You can capture an image, a feeling, that you can’t get with digital. And the film is so expensive that it forces you to think about what you’re shooting.’
I suppress a laugh. ‘Okay then. Shall we start walking? I hadn’t factored in photo composition time.’
We pace along the concourse, following the trail of sculptures – a nest of spun copper, a giant pomegranate torn open to reveal seeds that look like dinosaur teeth, a precarious stack of glass cubes. The yawning space is surprisingly devoid of other sculpture-seekers.
We pass underneath a huge mobile of the kind usually dangled over a baby’s cot. Instead of clouds or animals or boats, it sports a plastic smartphone the size of a boogie board, metallic hashtag and social media symbols, and an oversized fries holder filled with banknotes. ‘Bit obvious,’ I say
at the same time as James says, ‘We get it, you hate Zuckerberg.’ I take out my phone and snap a quick picture, to make him laugh. ‘Gotta flash this up for my internet points.’
‘Meta,’ he quips.
We amble on, under another walkway, past a frozen flock of pelicans and a sleek silver seal balanced on a globe. I stop to inspect a series of shiny panels, peering at my funhouse mirror reflection. ‘So Kate didn’t want to come along?’ I ask, feigning nonchalance.
He stops beside me; in the wavy panel, his legs are shrunken down, his torso freakishly elongated. ‘She’s out of town, filming something in Bowral with uni friends.’
I shuffle over to the next panel, giving myself giraffe legs. ‘Oh, yeah. Hans is also away for the weekend, team-building in the Blue Mountains.’ I can feel the shadow of our respective partners, and regret mentioning Kate.
When we’ve exhausted the inside of the Finger Wharf building, we head outside to view the art along the promenade. A giant star-shaped weathervane planted on the water’s edge whips around in a frenzy; the wind has picked up.
‘I can feel a storm brewing,’ I say, my eyelids struggling against the bluster.
James offers me his jacket, a leather bomber which is much better suited to warding off wind chill than my waffle-knit sweater. I accept it gratefully, welcoming its weight on my shoulders. ‘Will you be okay?’ I ask, eyeing his thin grey Henley shirt.
‘Right as rain,’ he says. ‘I don’t get cold often.’
I suspect he’s just being chivalrous, but he does have the healthy pink glow of a just-slapped newborn. I, on the other hand, can already feel my lips going blue. I should have thought to wear something warmer, but the weather wasn’t quite so wild when I left home.
James slides his hand around mine, and I fold into his chest for a moment, relishing the warmth. It’s like sinking into a steaming bath. I nestle for just a beat too long, before pulling away. ‘Sorry,’ I say, hoping he won’t read anything into it. ‘I’m just stealing some body heat.’
‘You thermal vampire,’ he says, in mock admonishment.
I look up at him. ‘It doesn’t make sense, you know.’
‘What?’
‘How warm you are. You’re so lean. Though I did watch this documentary the other day where they looked at the way different people respond to doubling their calorific intake. Some people just packed on the pounds, but a couple – these small wiry guys – didn’t put on any weight at all, just seemed to emit more body heat.’
‘Huh.’
‘I would love to be able to convert doughnuts to heat,’ I say dreamily.
‘Now there’s a mild but useful superpower,’ he says, ‘like . . . being able to accumulate sleep credit.’
‘Or never having to pee,’ I supply.
We walk further along the wharf, rows of docked boats to our right, the smaller ones pitching from side to side. We pass a few other brave souls, mainly older couples bundled up in sensible jackets. At the end of the wharf, there’s a giant blue snail shell, designed to be explored.
‘Wait there,’ James calls as I approach its entrance. I turn around to see him focusing the camera on me.
‘Not of me,’ I say, shielding my face with my hand.
‘No, that’s perfect,’ James says. ‘It shows the scale of the shell. Just hold still for a moment.’
I relent, half smile and try not to look posed.
‘Thanks,’ James says with a winsome grin when he joins me at the shell entrance.
We clamber inside, careful not to bump our heads on the archway. The shell is snug; standing inside, we can almost touch the roof with our hands. Everything is cast in an electric-blue tint. I like the closeness of it, and the feeling of being protected from the elements. I can hear the wind beating against the outside of the shell, but it’s muffled, a distant echo.
There’s something nostalgia-inducing about small spaces, I think. Perhaps because of all of the time I spent as a child in wardrobes (looking for Narnia), in the cupboard under the stairs (in a show of solidarity for the boy wizard), and curled up like a cat under my desk on top of the heater vent.
James runs his hands along the walls, which are smooth but studded with the occasional whorl. ‘This is cool. It reminds me of this quote I love, about artists being like snails, slowly secreting and building their world around them.’
I nod approvingly. ‘I like that.’
The sound of heavy footfall interrupts us. ‘Knock knock,’ a voice trills. A couple – Scandinavian, perhaps, judging by their Helly Hansen jackets and the way they both have to duck their flaxen heads to see in – and their small boy enter the snail shell curiously. We smile at them, eyes following the little boy as he toddles in and tries to slide up the curved blue wall.
We offer up our space and emerge from the shell, into the cold air.
We keep walking around the curved promenade, towards the wharf terraces, passing a spiralling staircase to nothingness, a wooden installation that blossoms with hundreds of curved pieces like a ceremonial matcha whisk, and an imposing iron grasshopper.
Timber slats meet pavement, and another row of sculptures beckons, strange and beautiful. Some call for James to take a photo; a measured, methodical process. Others beg for my touch, and I run my hands over the organic curves and unusual textures; chain links and iron lace. By the time we reach the end of the row, the blustery wind has died down, and with it, the light. Everything is tinged with the bluish-grey of dusk.
‘Crepuscular,’ James murmurs, as we stand still, looking out over the inky water of the harbour. I love that word; the way it captures the eerie sadness of twilight. This is the time at which I always feel detached from myself; not quite grounded, eyes not quite sure how to adjust to the strange half-light. Like a small boat cut adrift, or a traveller waking up in a foreign bed.
This moment, the afterglow of exploring the sculpture trail with James, feels perfect and precious. It’s steeped in the beauty of the otherworldly artworks, and the knowledge that to be alone with him is a rare pleasure. I look at him staring out over the water, eyes crinkled in the dying light, and have a sudden urge to take his face in my hands, and kiss him. It’s a dark and ugly thought, and it breaks through like sunshine. He turns to face me, and I think I catch something in his eyes.
With a surge of near-panic, I shake my head to physically snap myself out of it. As quickly as it came, the urge slips away, replaced by a realisation. I can’t see him anymore. This is a dangerous feeling, a dangerous moment.
‘You know what,’ I announce abruptly, ‘I’d better get going.’ I pull James’s jacket off my shoulders and thrust it towards him.
‘Yeah? You don’t want to grab a drink or something?’
‘Nope. I’ve got things to do at home.’
‘Okay,’ he says, clearly a bit confused by my sudden bluntness. ‘Well . . . let’s walk back, then. Here, keep my jacket for the walk, it’s cold.’
I refuse with a shake of my head. ‘I’m good, thanks.’
As soon as I get home, I call Hans. The phone rings out, twice. He must be off orienteering or building a go-kart or doing a scavenger hunt; no doubt being an enthusiastic and helpful teammate, the kind anyone would want in their group. I bury my head in my hands. Why did I let things with James go so far? I’ve been denying my attraction to him since I met him, thinking that my objective understanding of the situation – that he’s wrong for me; that he lacks the traits I want in a partner; that Hans is the one for me, the one who’s better than anyone I’ve ever dated before – would be enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. But here I am, with my stupid little crush on James, jeopardising my relationship with Hans.
The weight of my near miss crashes down on me like a wave. I almost cheated on Hans. I don’t know how James would have reacted had I acted on my crazy impulse to kiss him, though I thought I read some understanding in his expression, but that split-second decision would have spelled the end of things for me and Hans. It’s not
something I could hide from Hans, and not something I think he could, or should, accept. I shudder. It’s decided, then. I won’t see James again. I will put this day behind me.
I message Hans, every fibre of my body quivering with guilt. ‘I hope you’re having fun at the retreat. I’m thinking about you. I miss you.’
24
A week later, I wake early to the sun yawning through my flimsy lace curtains. The morning is still, not yet broken by the first trickles of weekend breakfast-seekers and grocery shoppers down Glebe Point Road. I roll over and press my face into Hans’s shoulder, slinging my arm across his stomach. He slumbers away peacefully. I lie still for what feels like half an hour, enjoying the marble cool of his skin, the ebb of the night air, and the delicious possibility of two days without work. I marvel at how fresh I feel when I’m not suffering a hangover courtesy of Friday night drinks. I’d opted to spend the evening in with Hans instead, watching some sci-fi thriller film. The convoluted time travel plot was lost on me, but Hans relished it. I didn’t mind; it had been a cosy night, curled up on the couch with his arm around me, bowl of popcorn in my lap.
Eventually, when the rumble of street noise starts up, I roll out of bed and pad out to the kitchen, crossing my fingers that there’s still milk in the fridge. There is, along with an unusual stash of vegan cheese and nut milks. I can only surmise that Anna is experimenting with a dairy-free diet, and hope for the sake of my own predictable milk supply that it lasts. I grab a handful of slightly stale Nutri-Grain to tide myself over, and get to work making pancake batter.
When Hans eventually emerges, I have a small stack of golden pikelets ready to go. I plate some up for him, and dig some maple syrup out of the cupboard.
‘What’s all this?’ he says, kissing me sleepily.
‘Nothing, I was just up early,’ I say. I drown my own plate in maple syrup and, a couple of bites in, regret it. ‘Oof, these tasted better in my head. I always forget that I can’t handle a sugary breakfast like I did when I was eight years old.’
Love, in Theory Page 20