Hans smiles. ‘The pains of adulthood.’ He takes a wary bite. ‘So what are we up to today?’
‘I’m going to the beach with Paloma and Mara, remember? Mara asked us, and I couldn’t really say no. I haven’t spent that much time with her lately, and it’s getting close to the wedding.’
‘I thought we could spend the day together?’ he says.
‘I’m sorry. But I’ll come around to yours later. We can watch a movie, maybe something less … impenetrable.’
Hans’s face is impassive. My phone buzzes with a message from Paloma – she’s a few minutes away. ‘I’d better go get ready,’ I say apologetically.
Back in my room, I dig through my drawers like a racoon through trash, and eventually manage to locate my swimmers – a striped Seafolly bikini, bought hastily for a coastal holiday a few years ago. I pull it on, sighing as I let out the ties to do so. I run my hands over my stomach and stare at myself in the mirror – there’s still some definition, but the effects of long sedentary days, hastily bought food-court lunches and late, carb-laden dinners are evident. Pancakes probably aren’t helping. I try not to be disheartened, and think of Nora Ephron’s famous words from I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman about regretting not having worn a bikini for the whole year she was twenty-six. This is as good as it gets, I think. I slip on a shirtdress and some Havaianas, and throw some stuff in a straw tote.
‘You’re okay to let yourself out?’ I ask Hans, kissing him and feeling a twinge of guilt as I head for the door.
‘Fine,’ he says.
The McIver’s Baths are a tranquil oasis. Craggy cliffs drop down from a reserve alongside Coogee Beach to a large turquoise pool set into a rock platform. Fairly well screened from the surrounding area, offering just a peek of the beach and headland, the baths are surrounded on two sides by the ocean. Waves lap gently at the edges. We enter at the top of the cliff, each tossing 20 cents into a metal pail at the clubhouse, which proudly announces that the McIver’s Baths are the last remaining women-only seawater pool in Australia.
We make our way cautiously down the steps cut into the cliff face. Women are perched like mermaids on the flat rock outcrops; young women with discarded bikini tops, wearing large headphones and thumbing through paperbacks; a group of older women who have evidently just emerged from the pool, now wringing out their hair and laughing about the bracing cold water. There are just a few swimmers, including one middle-aged woman in a striped one-piece and flowery swimming cap, bobbing along like a cork in a modified breaststroke. We find a place for our towels, careful to avoid the jagged shale, and lay out in the sun. Mara begins the intense operation of smothering herself with SPF 50+; her moonbeam skin can’t handle even brief exposure to the sun’s rays. As she liberally rubs sunscreen onto her pointy knees and elbows, she gives us a status update on her wrapping paper business, which is not doing so well. I bite my tongue to refrain from making a joke about the business having to fold.
Despite the vacation vibe, Paloma is in a no-nonsense mood. She props herself up and starts schooling Mara about all the things she’s doing wrong, and counsels her to keep her day job.
‘I don’t know,’ says Mara. ‘It’s all getting a bit much. There’s only so much tweeting I can do about Gubi chairs and alabaster table lamps. I think I’ll take a bit of time off after the wedding, anyway.’
‘Ooh, for the honeymoon?’ I ask, sliding on my sunglasses. ‘Where have you guys decided to go?’
‘Well yeah, we’ll take a few weeks for that. We’re thinking Nepal. Or maybe Iceland. Or Cuba –’
‘Isn’t June hurricane season in Cuba?’ says Paloma. ‘And monsoon season in Nepal?’
Mara brushes over her. ‘– but no, I meant that I’ll take some time when we get back from the honeymoon. You know, to recalibrate. Settle into married life.’
It strikes me as a strange thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What is there to do?’ says Paloma at the same time. ‘You guys already live together. It’s not like you have to set up a marital home. What are you going to do – order new stationery and change all the monograms on your towels?’
‘Oh, are you changing your name?’ I ask, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would.
Mara glares at us. ‘No, I just want some time to enjoy being married. Focus on the relationship. And,’ she adds, almost defensively, ‘Angus and I do actually need to sit down and figure out what we want our life to look like. At some point, he wants to set up his own restaurant. My parents are in my ear about how it’s never too early to start family planning . . .’
‘What about your acting, Mara?’ I ask tentatively. I’d always figured that she was just temporising with her crafty business ventures, and that one day she’d decide to enrol in a graduate drama course, or go out on auditions.
She busies herself donning an enormous straw hat, its brim the size of a small planet, and cat-eye sunglasses. ‘I don’t know if it’ll happen for me. But that’s okay, dreams change. I’m not the wide-eyed, turtleneck-wearing eighteen-year-old you met in English classes . . .’
‘You’re hardly old, Mara,’ says Paloma. ‘In the scheme of things, we’re babies.’
Mara adjusts her hat, and continues. ‘I think I want to focus on building something with Angus. Something real.’
‘Can’t you do both?’ I ask. ‘Angus isn’t demanding that you make his career goals the sole focus, is he?’
‘Of course not.’ Mara laughs. ‘Can you imagine Angus demanding anything? No, but at some point, you have to compromise, and be realistic. You can’t have it all.’
Paloma shakes her head. ‘That’s why I’m never getting married. The self-imposed prison of compromise.’
Mara smiles. ‘Um, you realise it’s not just in a marriage, Paloma. Don’t they say relationships in general are all about compromise?’
‘Well, my partner can be the one to compromise,’ says Paloma, only half joking. ‘I’m not doing boatloads of laundry and putting dinner on the table at six every night.’
I shift uncomfortably, the sharp rocks digging into my bum and shoulder blades through my towel. ‘Well, Mara’s already subverted that trope,’ I say. ‘Marrying a chef, smart move.’
‘What about you, Romy?’ Mara asks. ‘What do you see for yourself?’
I squint at them. ‘I guess I just want what my parents have – both working, doing something they find fulfilling, travelling occasionally, surrounded by family and friends. I’ll take in my stride whatever compromises you have to make to have a lifelong partnership.’
Paloma smirks. ‘So what I’m hearing is, five years’ time: married to Hans, Senior Associate at Birchstone McCauliffe, a few little Kinder running around?’
I laugh. ‘The only Kinder in my immediate future are of the chocolate egg variety.’
Paloma laughs and Mara shakes her head, lips curled into a smile. l let my eyes drift across the stretch of the ocean, the delicious warmth of the sun kissing my knees and shins. I try to imagine standing at an altar with Hans, setting up a house with him, starting a garden. Waking up every morning and trotting off to work at Birchstone McCauliffe. A couple of children; one wrapped around my leg, the other hanging off my arm. A salty breeze rushes across my face.
‘I’m going for a swim,’ I announce. Mara and Paloma make no move to join me, so I clamber up, ditch my dress and sunglasses, and make my way down the rocks. Reaching the pool, I dip my toes into the water, which is cool, but not icy as I’d expected. I dive in, letting the cold hit me and numb my senses, and pull myself through the water in one big stroke.
I arrive at Hans’s apartment later that afternoon, a dishevelled, contented mess. We’d cooled off on the future talk after I got back from my first swim, and spent the rest of the day reading trashy magazines, eating Grain Waves, chatting about non-controversial topics and going for a couple more dips. My hair hangs in matted clumps down my back, still damp, leaving sodden patches on my d
ress. My skin tingles with residual particles of sand and salt. I greet Hans, tasting sunscreen and sea in our kiss.
‘Okay if I take a quick shower?’ I say. I kick off my thongs and toss my tote onto the couch, empty water bottle, wallet, phone, keys and sunglasses spilling out.
‘Yes, go ahead. I’ll take care of this,’ he says, motioning at the mess I’ve made.
When I emerge from the bathroom, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, I know instantly that something is wrong. Hans stands territorially in the middle of the living room, my phone in his hand like a weapon.
‘What did you do last weekend?’ he asks me, dangerously sotto voce. His gaze is so intense I can almost feel it boring through me.
‘I told you, I went and checked out some sculptures at the Woolloomooloo wharf, and otherwise just mooched around.’ I have an awful sense of where this is headed.
‘You didn’t say you were going with anyone.’ Now his voice is steely. ‘So why are you getting pictures from James?’ He flips my phone around. On the lock screen, there’s a message from James. Most of the text is cut off, but it’s unmistakeable – the photo of me in front of the giant blue snail shell.
My stomach lurches. I hadn’t mentioned that I was going with James because I didn’t want to aggravate Hans. And then I’d had that moment with James, of wanting to broach something, essentially vindicating Hans’s suspicions. But I’d decided firmly against seeing James again, and so, I’d figured there was no need to say anything. I’d thought it easier, cleaner . . . and now I’ve made it a thousand times worse.
I take a couple of steps closer and try to defuse the tension. ‘Yes, I went with James. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you, or worry you . . .’ I’m close enough to touch him now, but I hold back; he’s almost shaking with anger and I’m afraid he’ll just shuck me off. ‘I’m really sorry; I shouldn’t have lied by omission. But I know now that you were right. I shouldn’t have been hanging out with him.’
He looks at me, eyes piercing. ‘Did something happen between you?’
‘No,’ I say, almost too quickly, too loudly.
‘But you wanted it to?’
I hesitate just a fraction too long. His eyes darken.
I’m in a heightened physiological state – pounding heart, shortened breath, sudden awareness of every joint and hair follicle and inch of my skin – and I don’t know how to label it. Anger at myself for creating this mess? Shame for betraying Hans’s trust? Fear for what this means for me and Hans, for the relationship that is supposed to be it?
‘It’s not like that, Hans,’ I say, searching desperately for the words to explain. I take a deep breath, knowing that only transparency will save me now, that I can’t delude him, or myself, any longer. ‘I think maybe I have been harbouring a bit of a crush. James is . . . charismatic. He reminds me of the guys I used to hanker after at uni. It was flattering, to think that he could find me interesting enough to want to spend time with me.’ Hans’s face is set in a grimace, and his eyes flicker searchingly across my face. ‘But I realised pretty quickly that he’s the kind of person I’d want as a peripheral friend, not anything more. Any feelings I had for him were . . . childish. Fleeting.’
I look Hans straight in the eyes, imploring him to read my sincerity. ‘But you . . . my feelings for you are real. You’re so kind and warm and reliable, everything I want –’
Hans’s face is pale. ‘Why do these things sound like insults?’
‘They’re not, trust me. You make me feel good, certain.’ A couple of tears track down my cheeks, and more threaten to spill over. ‘I want things to work out with us.’ How can I make him believe me?
‘You can’t dance at two weddings, Romy,’ he says. ‘And you can’t just string me along while you choose.’
I wipe my cheeks. ‘Trust me, Hans, there is no comparison. I choose you. I’ve chosen you.’
He stares at me, intently, and I see his face soften, the fog of anger and hurt begin to lift.
‘You won’t see him again?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I won’t. And I won’t mind.’ I move closer, and place my hands lightly around his waist. He doesn’t pull away.
‘Okay.’
I rise up on my toes to kiss him, and he lets me.
That night, when Hans is in the shower and I’m already in bed, I reach for my phone and open the message from James. I hadn’t dared to look at it before.
It’s the photo of me from the sculpture trail. When it was taken, I’d thought I looked stilted and weird, awkwardly posed, with an affected smile. But James must have waited for the moment I released my pose; my smile is wide and genuine, and though my eyes are half-closed, I look natural, happy. The blue snail shell looms behind me, still a kooky sight. The message is short and simple: Got the film developed from last weekend – thought you might like this one. I call it Girl and Snail.
My chest constricts. Foolish Girl and Snail. How could I have thought myself better than my worst impulses? I hesitate for a moment, then delete the entire message train from my phone. Now is the time for good decision-making. I turn my phone off, pull the covers up under my chin, and close my eyes lightly, waiting for Hans to join me.
25
The next morning, Hans is quiet, but he relents a bit when I offer to make breakfast. We walk in to work together, and when we part at Martin Place, he kisses me and squeezes my hand as usual. I sigh with relief and think that maybe, things will be okay.
I fill Paloma and Cameron in on my almost break-up over Lync messenger. Paloma is baffled by the whole episode. Hans got worked up because James sent you a photo of a plastic snail with some anodyne caption? It’s hardly a solicited dick pic.
Cameron is more sympathetic towards Hans. It’s about what the picture represents. Of course he was upset. Especially because Romy admitted that she decided not to see James again because it felt dangerous.
Don’t you think that’s a sign? types Paloma. That if you felt something for James, you should have gone for it?
Um, ‘danger’ signs mean ‘back off’, says Cameron. Not run towards the hazard.
I’m not a cheater, I type. And that thing I felt for James? It’s a spark, lust, whatever you want to call it. Not exactly the basis for a stable relationship, which is what I think I can have with Hans.
Paloma persists. But if it’s meant to be, with you and James? All’s fair in love and war . . .
I roll my eyes. Sorry, but those are the kind of inane, platitudinous things people say to justify being a scumbag. To make themselves feel better about cheating, and being their worst self.
I’m with Romy, types Cameron. Well, with Hans. He’s the good guy here. And how could it possibly end well with James, even if Hans wasn’t in the picture?
If Hans is the good guy, then why was he reading Romy’s messages? Paloma fires back.
You can’t turn this on him. It was obviously justifiable suspicion, says Cameron.
Just as their bickering starts to escalate, I hear Graeme hollering for me. I quickly minimise the Lync conversation, grab a notepad, and leg it to his office.
Graeme tells me that we’ve been instructed to prepare an advice for a new client, a construction company, which discovered that its director of resources was using his company email to message a female client.
‘The messages were of a highly personal and overtly sexual nature,’ says Graeme. ‘And in total breach of the company’s email policy, which the director was conversant with. So the company commenced a formal improper conduct investigation. Now the director is claiming repudiatory breach of the employment contract by the company, for accessing his personal emails.’
‘Okay,’ I say, scribbling the facts down on a legal pad. ‘But surely the company has a right to read his emails? Isn’t that usually part of the employment agreement, or IT policy? It couldn’t come as a surprise . . .’
‘Yes,’ says Graeme. ‘But bear in mind that no-one actually expects their emails to be
monitored or read. And usually, they aren’t. Trust me, a company will only ever go sifting through the messages when they suspect something’s up.’ My mind drifts to Hans, and I think about my phone buzzing with an incoming message. Did he just happen to glance at it, or was it an active step, an opportune moment to confirm a suspicion?
‘Anyway, this director is claiming breach of his privacy,’ Graeme continues, ‘because his emails were written in Wingdings. He says the company shouldn’t have decoded them.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I respond faintly. I wonder why James sent me the Snail photo, what it was intended to convey. It’s hardly code for sexual desire or anything deeply personal. One couldn’t even read it as a flirtation. No, more likely it was simply intended as a memento of an afternoon shared by two friends.
Graeme and I spend the next few hours drafting a preliminary advice to the client about the work emails not attracting any expectation to privacy, particularly given the company’s policy around workplace monitoring. ‘And use of Wingdings – evidence of his knowledge that the emails might be read,’ Graeme says. ‘Not the most sophisticated encryption system I’ve seen, but hey, credit to the man for trying.’
Before I know it, the wedding day arrives, a crisp day in late May. I head over to Mara’s parents’ place in Turramurra mid-morning to get ready for the ceremony, which is at 4 pm.
I arrive to find Mara brimming with excitement, and Angus a live bundle of nerves. While we are primped, curled, dusted and painted within an inch of our lives, he dashes in and out with an endless string of questions – What’s the order of the vows? How exactly does one tie a bowtie? Who’s collecting Grandma Mimi from the station? Who has the rings? Who’s meant to hold the rings? And it’s definitely left hand, right? Through a swarm of hair stylists and make-up artists, Mara guesses at the answers, and Alice, taking her Matron of Honour role deadly seriously, barks orders.
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