He shrugs. ‘People have to eat.’
I slide onto a kitchen stool and watch as Angus makes a shakshuka and pulls a tray of muffins out of the oven. I make some inane comments about last night’s highlights, and manage a half-hearted offer to help, which Angus politely declines.
Soon, Paloma emerges, yawning and begging for coffee and Advil. Angus dutifully begins to brew us coffee, and Paloma collapses down beside me.
‘Are you okay?’ she says under her breath. ‘I heard that something happened with Hans, but you were already passed out by the time I came in.’
I fill her in.
‘And has he texted you?’
I reflexively check my phone again. Nothing. ‘Nope.’
‘So what does this mean?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know.’ I wring my hands. ‘He was so mad. Like, absolutely furious . . . understandably.’ I try not to choke on my words as I turn towards her. ‘I think this is it, Paloma. I think we’re done.’
‘Shouldn’t you call him? Try to talk to him about it?’
The scene from last night rushes through my mind – dancing with James, his hand on my back, headiness, giddiness, our almost kiss . . . fractured by a shout, the deluge of red wine, Hans’s terrible anger, him turning and walking away.
Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. ‘I don’t think this can be fixed.’
Paloma wraps an arm around me. ‘Hey, it’s okay. You’re human. People make mistakes.’
I shrug her arm off. I don’t deserve her comfort. ‘This is all my fault. I don’t know why I kept seeing James, even when I knew Hans wasn’t happy with it. Or why I danced with him last night, when I’d told Hans I’d steer clear.’ The tears track down my cheeks. ‘I’m so stupid. Hans was as close to perfect for me as I could hope to find. I think he was my best chance at happily ever after. And now I’ve gone and screwed that all up.’
‘But did you love him, Romy?’
Just a few hours ago I was sitting on Mara’s bathroom floor, sobbing, doubting that I could ever have loved Hans. But in the cold light of day, I can see those doubts for what they were; a momentary loss of faith in the science, in everything I know to be true. ‘No, I don’t think I did love him, but I probably could have got there,’ I say. ‘Like my parents, like . . .’ I glance up and see that Angus has left the kitchen, ‘other couples I know. They started where Hans and I did, with friendship and respect that grew into love.’ And I have destroyed any chance of that now.
‘Maybe Hans wasn’t the one?’ suggests Paloma gently. ‘If he didn’t make your heart sing. If you couldn’t get James out of your head. Maybe this is your body’s way of revolting, of telling you that James is the one.’
I don’t want to have this conversation again. ‘What I feel for James is spark, not substance.’ Thinking back to last night, I can almost feel the crackle of electricity, the magnetic pull as he held me close. The terrifying feeling of losing control. Stendhal’s words: Whenever I gave my arm to Leanore, I always felt I was about to fall, and I had to think how to walk. ‘It’s just a heightened emotional state, the kind that makes people lose touch with reality, leads them to do stupid things –’
Paloma cuts in, sympathy slipping. ‘For god’s sake, Romy, you can’t rationalise away every feeling you have. Will yourself into one relationship, away from another –’
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from James. Paloma looks at me, daring me to take it. I hit cancel. He messages: Are you okay? Can we talk?
There’s a clattering down the stairs, and Mara’s parents emerge, all freshness and buoyant energy. ‘Hi girls. Oh wow, has Angus been hard at work already?’
I quell Paloma’s insistent glare with a look, feel her relent, and we both stand up to greet Mara’s parents and gush over the wedding.
I try calling Hans a few times, but he doesn’t pick up. I don’t know what I would even say to him, what I could possibly say to debride the ugly wound I’ve inflicted. I’m sorry, I ruined everything, please give me another chance?
Then, late afternoon, as I’m sitting on a train heading home, my phone chimes with a message. I have nothing left to say to you. We’re over.
My heart plummets as it finally sinks in: Hans will no longer be a part of my life. Any possible future that I imagined with him has been whisked away.
Briny tears leak down my face and I turn towards the smeary window, trying to hide from the rest of the carriage. The landscape races past me – trees, tunnel, endless track. So this is what it all comes to. All my research and self-reflection, false-start dates, careful analysis, talks with Alexandra, my mum, anyone who’d listen . . . all to find the right guy at the right point in time, only to lose him.
I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. How could I have been so stupid? All I had to do was stay the course, put in the work, and I would have the relationship I so desperately want. Instead, I’m sitting on a train alone, heart heavy with the same fears that have niggled away at me for the whole of my adult life. That I won’t find the one. That even if I do, I’ll screw it up. That crushing loneliness might be my fate.
I call Mum when I get home, bracing myself for her disappointment while hoping she’ll allow me to play the role of helpless child in need of succour.
‘Romy, how was the wedding? Do you have pictures to send us?’
Just hearing her voice provokes a fresh wave of tears.
‘Oh dear, what’s wrong?’ Her voice is flooded with concern.
I hiccup out a brief run-down of the night’s events.
‘Oh Romy,’ she says. I can almost see her shaking her head. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle an I told you so. ‘Are you going to be okay? Why didn’t you come home? Do you want to come home now?’
‘No, I just want to be alone,’ I snivel.
‘I’m sorry, honey. But it’s all going to be okay. You’ll see. Just give it time.’
I know she’s trying to calm me down, comfort me, but the words just cut at me. It’s not going to be okay. And I don’t have time. The time was right with Hans.
‘Just be kind to yourself, Romy. Things are messy sometimes. They don’t always go to plan.’ Coming from the woman who has always taken a prescriptive approach, whose plans always work out, who first introduced me to optimal stopping theory, this just makes me feel worse.
‘It’ll work out in the end, I promise,’ she says. But her words sound hollow, and I don’t believe her, not one bit.
I hang up and stare at my messages. The last from Hans, the final edict. The one from James, asking if I’m okay, if we can talk. I type out my response slowly. Look, I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I’ll be fine. I just want to move on.
27
The next few weeks are a painful blur. The simplest tasks become monumental ordeals – getting out of bed, choosing what to wear, choking down breakfast, leaving the house, forcing myself to go to work. My body feels as if it’s not my own; my brain is a soupy mess. I’m almost thankful for the mind-numbing discovery task Graeme foists on me; I expend what little energy I have skimming thousands of pages of documents, marking each as discoverable or not, privileged and/or sensitive or clear. I’m sure my assessments are riddled with mistakes, but I can’t bring myself to care as I spend hour upon hour staring at the pixels on my screen, checking the tiny boxes and sending each page back into the ether.
The evenings are especially difficult. The couple of hours between getting home from work and collapsing into bed, usually a golden sliver of freedom, swell into interminable torture. I spend them staring at my skirting boards in the waning evening light, thinking about Hans and what should have been.
I’m desperate for distraction, and finally it arrives, one Monday afternoon as I’m listlessly attempting to draft a statement in our Fair Work bullying matter. My inbox keeps filling up with reply alls to a firm-wide email seeking expressions of interest in the upcoming LawSki event, and then firm-wide apologies for the firm-wide expres
sions of interest.
Should we go? A Lync messenger bubble appears from Cameron, copying in Paloma. No doubt he’s grappling with the same email influx. I hear it’s supposed to be fun, though Mark’s on the committee – apparently a moguls champion – which is a bit of a downer.
I’m up for it, Paloma types. Guaranteed leave on the Friday, subsidised booze, what little snow Australia has to offer – what’s not to love?
I’m keen to ski, but wary about spending a weekend with work colleagues at an event renowned for its rowdiness. I’ve heard that last year, a couple of lawyers nearly came to blows with Ski Patrol and had to be hospitalised after guzzling Camelbacks of rum while skiing, and a (recently engaged) senior associate was caught in flagrante with a graduate lawyer. I express my misgivings: It seems like one of those things that’s better in theory than reality – skiing while hungover, drinking over a few days with work colleagues . . .
Yeah, you’re probably right. What if we just do our own ski trip? Cameron suggests. I know Louis will be keen. Every winter he complains about how much he misses Meribel, and already this year he’s been making a campaign for New Zealand.
Paloma agrees, on the proviso that we organise it on a weekend that falls between the LawSki event and the school holidays. So we avoid looking antisocial to the Birchstone crowd, but also avoid skiing with a bunch of snotty-nosed Milo kids.
Let’s do it, I type, getting excited at the prospect of a weekend away.
Paloma asks if it’s okay if she invites Miles and James. My spirits drop. I don’t know if I can handle seeing James. And is Paloma suggesting that Kate come along too? A couples trip . . . with me as a seventh wheel?
My hands hover over the keyboard long enough to signal my apprehension. My desk phone rings, lighting up with Paloma’s extension.
‘You know that James and Kate broke up, right?’ she says as soon as I pick up.
‘What? No. How would I know that? How come?’ Could this have anything to do with our almost-kiss? I suppose it’s inevitable that Kate would have found out. I shudder. James and I are terrible people.
‘No idea,’ she says. ‘I mean, I don’t know if it’s about what happened at the wedding. Miles only knew the bare details. He said James has been really off lately. James didn’t tell you?’
‘We haven’t spoken since the wedding. Well, since I texted him that there was nothing to talk about, and that I just want to move on.’
‘So it’s fine if I invite him then. It won’t be awkward if you’ve put it behind you.’
I hesitate for a moment, suspicious of the challenge in Paloma’s voice. I’ve heard that tone before, and it always means she’s up to something.
‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘The damage is done. And I’m keen to ski, get out of Sydney for a bit.’
By the end of the week, Paloma has pulled everything together, including booking an apartment in Thredbo village. After putting down a non-refundable deposit, she checks that I don’t mind sharing a room with James. ‘It was really limited accommodation, basically the last place available,’ she says. ‘It was either this or a three-bunk dorm room. But don’t worry, your room has two single beds.’ I’m annoyed at Paloma for not checking with me prior to booking – it’s so obvious what she’s trying to do – but I don’t want to admit that her meddling is getting to me. ‘Fine by me,’ I say breezily. I’m not sure if I’ll feel comfortable sharing a room with James, but worst case, I can always claim the sofa.
Cameron and I, ever cautious, put in for leave on the Friday. Cameron goes even further and asks Mark in advance for permission to take leave. We’re all surprised when it’s granted, without any interrogation or snide remarks. Paloma mocks us for being goody-two-shoes, planning, naturally, to chuck a sickie.
As we approach Thredbo, Louis, Cameron and I perk up at the first signs of snow dusting the trees and roadside, and the decent white blanketing on Mount Kosciusko. It’s been a long journey – more than five and a half hours listening to Louis wax lyrical about European ski resorts, warning Cameron not to eat so many Trolli peach hearts and cola bottles, listening to Cameron complain about feeling ill and being unable to share the driving with me, and praying that he doesn’t mess up the interior of my parents’ car. But all my grievances fall away when Thredbo village comes into view. A cluster of grey and brown apartments in the valley of Crackenback River, it’s not quite a Swiss alpine resort of chocolate box lodges, but it’s beautiful all the same.
We meet Paloma, Miles and James in the parking lot of the ski rental store. Unfolding myself from the driver’s seat into the bracing cold, I feel a flutter in my chest when I see James emerging from Miles’s car. How will he greet me? Will I be able to act like a normal person? Will things be awkward between us? Paloma, stamping her feet furiously to ward off the chill, hollers for us to get inside.
I smile at James – a tight, nervous half-smile – as I round the car. He hangs back so that we’re trailing behind the others. ‘Hey, Romy.’
‘Hey.’ It comes out as a squeak. I try to act nonchalant as I clear my throat.
‘I’m sorry to hear about you and Hans. I hope you’re holding up okay?’ He sounds sincere, natural.
‘I am, thanks. I’m sorry about you and Kate, too.’ I draw my jacket around me. This exchange of condolences was always going to be uncomfortable.
‘Yeah, thanks. Break-ups . . . never easy, are they?’
I think about fishing for details, asking him why he and Kate broke up. But as I’m phrasing and rephrasing the question in my mind, we reach the door to the shop – buzzing with activity – and he motions for me to go ahead.
We collect our rental equipment and, in awkward public toilet shuffles, change into our skiwear. We’re a ragtag bunch – Louis in his streamlined black KJUS clothing, iridescent Smith goggles and custom Lange boots; the rest of us in much less technical (but still hopefully waterproof) assemblages of borrowed clothing, Aldi jackets and, in Miles’s case, a brightly coloured vintage Rossignol jacket that he picked up from Vinnies and is admittedly good-looking enough to pull off.
We queue for lift passes and then tramp up to Friday Flat, the beginner’s slope at the base of the resort. The wide slope is teeming, courtesy of the after-lunch crowd and afternoon ski school.
‘Looks like it’ll close in soon,’ Miles says, pointing at the grey clouds brewing further up the mountain.
‘Let’s get moving, then,’ Louis says, clicking on his skis and pulling down his goggles.
Despite Cameron looking longingly at the Magic Carpet, we eschew Friday Flat (‘I didn’t come here to cross-country ski,’ Paloma snorts) and get the Gunbarrel Express up to High Noon.
‘Watch your head,’ James hollers as he pulls down the chairlift safety bar. I settle back against the cold metal chair, and we’re pulled up the mountain.
It’s been three years since I last touched snow, but when my skis hit the land and slide across the flat at the top of the chairlift, the time melts away. Muscle memory kicks in, like the proverbial bike riding.
Miles, James and Paloma push off immediately and, without a backward glance, start hurtling down the run. Within seconds they disappear from sight.
Louis and I hang back for a few minutes, wanting to ensure that Cameron, who has the look of a headlight-stunned deer, is going to be okay. We needn’t worry. He starts off skittish, and is momentarily thrown when a ski instructor and trail of ski school kids zip past him, almost cutting off his first turn, but by mid-run he finds his snow legs. Assured that Cameron isn’t an obvious danger to himself or anyone else, I gather speed and focus on the run. I race down the slope, the cold air whipping around my cheeks and my spirits lifting.
After we’ve packed up for the day, we find the apartment block in the middle of Thredbo village and begin the difficult process of dragging and bumping our things up three flights of stairs. The apartment is basic – a large living room laid with heavy-duty carpet that looks to have taken a beating from ski
boots over the years, an old wood and slate-tiled kitchen with a few scuffed pots and pans, one lavender bathroom and three bedrooms. Each housing a double bed.
‘Um, Paloma? What happened to the single beds?’ I hiss under my breath after a quick recon mission.
‘I don’t know, sorry.’ She shrugs. ‘It was definitely advertised as two double beds, one room with single beds.’ I glare at her, trying to figure out if she’s genuinely surprised or if this was some kind of deliberate scheme. Her face doesn’t give anything away.
Cameron and Louis call dibs on one room, and Miles starts to move his and Paloma’s things into another. James takes a peek in the remaining room, then looks back at me. ‘Well, this is awkward. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ he volunteers.
‘No, that’s okay,’ I say. He looks at me queryingly. ‘I’ll take the sofa,’ I clarify.
‘No, it’s cool. Here, already done,’ he says, dumping his bags onto the corduroy monstrosity.
‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling incredibly self-conscious. I consider insisting that he take the bed, but I don’t want to escalate an already uncomfortable situation. And I definitely don’t want Miles or the others weighing in on the sleeping arrangements.
We unpack the food – frozen bolognaise, packets of spaghetti, a token bag of baby spinach, and Aldi’s finest selection of European off-brand chocolate. ‘And the important stuff,’ Paloma says, revealing half a case of Penfolds (which I’m guessing she purloined from her parents’ cellar), a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of Swiss peach schnapps.
As we busy ourselves reheating the bolognaise and cooking the pasta, Louis, reclining on the sofa, regales us with tales of skiing in Europe.
‘The Grande Motte glacier at Tignes, it is magnificent,’ he says wistfully. ‘It’s like skiing on a meringue mixture. Metres and metres of powder snow. And that is nothing compared to Obergurgl, the best snow I have ever seen.’
Love, in Theory Page 23