by Hugh Mackay
If only Mum could take to Richard a bit more wholeheartedly. It breaks my heart to see him yearning for a mother-in-law who could almost be a surrogate mother. I don’t know why she holds back. I do know she’s got this strangely lingering thing about Daniel and me. But I suspect something murkier. I’ve discussed it with Fern, who says she really doesn’t want to know, even though she’s the one who worked out who Felicity’s father could be, if it wasn’t Dad. I’ve discussed it with my therapist, of course, and she remains appropriately tight-lipped. Not a flicker of interest from the old Megan, except in the question of why I’m so interested. (Why wouldn’t I be interested?) Anyway, Fern the sleuth calculates the freckle-faced chief suspect is about eight years younger than Mum. He drives a green Jag, apparently. Fern actually thinks Mum might be seeing him again. Nothing wrong with that – Dad’s long gone. If it’s true, Mum is certainly giving nothing away. But is that eight-year gap an unfortunate coincidence that makes her feel awkward around Richard? Her boyfriend the same age as her daughter’s husband? Who knows? It’s probably just the Daniel thing. Or maybe she simply doesn’t like Richard, which would be weird. Everyone likes Richard. There’s usually a nice one in a marriage, and he’s the nice one in ours.
*
If only Freya wouldn’t persist in this fantasy that I am going to drop into some so-called fertility clinic, wank into a jar, and then let a total stranger whisk my sperm off to parts unknown where it will fertilise the egg of some hapless student who’s strapped for cash and then have the embryo implanted in the womb of an even more desperate woman who is apparently prepared to walk around for nine months with someone else’s foetus inside her, give birth, and then get on with her life as if nothing’s happened. Or maybe go through it all again. I admit I don’t understand people’s motivations for agreeing to do such things. Is it the money? Is it altruism? I have no moral objection to it; I just don’t feel inclined to clamber aboard that particular production line myself. I know Freya thinks there should be more passion in our lives – well, what could be less passionate than high-tech baby farming? Young couples who are infertile for some reason, but desperate to have their own child – sure. Fine. No problem. But that’s not us. Not at our stage of life. If Freya discovers she is pregnant by natural means, I’ll be right there in support, every step of the way. But I think I’m pretty safe.
If only I was better at reproduction. Of course, if I were, I might still be stuck with Dave and our children. No, that would never have happened. I would have left him in the middle of one of our cyclonic depressions. Mum was right about Dave. But a baby might well be the thing that’s missing from my life with Richard. Richard says he doesn’t want another child, and I agree it would be hard for him now, at fifty-four, to face life with a newborn in the house . . . although, come to think of it, Dad must have been a good deal older than that when Felicity was born. (Ah, the Mystery of the Red Hair. No mystery at all, really.)
If only I was better at the personal stuff. I know what’s required – I’m not a fool. Frey says there is a deep well of something or other inside me – empathy, perhaps – that hasn’t yet been tapped. Look, I’m not unsympathetic to people’s various difficulties and traumas – Freya’s in particular – though I think such things are often overplayed. I do believe in getting on with life, as far as possible. In that respect, I think architects are a bit like surgeons. You think about that moment when a surgeon wields a scalpel and actually makes an incision in the skin and opens up the body. There’s a particular level of self-confidence needed for that. A particular ability to put aside all your natural inclination not to do it and just get on with it. I find that admirable. And I wouldn’t expect a surgeon who had that ability to focus on the technical process to be necessarily so terrific at the bedside-manner thing. Most people aren’t good at everything. I’m not equating architecture with surgery, but there is a certain amount of bravado involved in both. You’re going to build something out of nothing – something very substantial and very permanent. You’re going to fill a hole in a streetscape in a very particular way. Size. Shape. Style. You’re in the business of changing people’s environment and that means changing the way they live. A new place in which to live or work, a new space for them to move through. This is actually mind-blowing, if you think about it. A very smart woman at one of our Socially Aware Architects seminars said that if she wanted to improve the life of a community, to raise its moral tone, she’d look for ways to bring people together more, to increase their sense of connectedness. So she’d consult architects and urban planners before she’d bother with moral philosophers or social psychologists. You can’t achieve that sense of belonging online, not with the same immediacy, the same three-dimensional intensity. You have to pass people in the street or the corridor, or chat to them at a dog park, or sit with them in a coffee shop or beside a pond. Someone has to create spaces that will facilitate this sort of unplanned social interaction. Well, you need to be pretty bold to take that on. You need some of the self-confidence of that surgeon if you’re prepared to accept the responsibility of shaping people’s lives. Maybe you’re going to demolish an eyesore or an inefficient building – like cutting out a tumour – and you’re going to replace ugliness with beauty. Alright, maybe you’re not always going to be as sensitive to every little nuance in your own personal relationships as some people might want you to be. (Can you have everything? Can you be everything?) Do I want to change the world? Yes. Do I want to change Freya? No. Does Freya want to change me? Yes.
If only Richard were not so verbose. His default position is to talk but not to share. I once accused him of approaching every question with an open mouth.
If only Freya understood that my architecture is just as important to me as her music is to her. No – that architecture is just as important as music.
If only something would happen. I might have to go back to teaching, though I really don’t want to do that. And, to give him his due, Richard doesn’t expect me to. My never having to teach again was one of the loveliest offers he made in the very beginning.
If only I hadn’t dragged Freya along on that harbour cruise; if only I hadn’t invited Briggs. But Santori was mightily impressed by the rescue, so he pays more attention to me now than he ever did before, which is actually not all that welcome. And Philip Noakes is a changed man in his attitude to me. Quite pathetic, really. Apparently I’m not boring anymore. He’s suddenly respectful again, the way he used to be when he first joined the firm. Now he’s suggesting regular breakfast meetings so he can run his work by me and – get this – receive the benefit of my wisdom and experience. He’s still a pretentious little prat. And now he seems to think that being rescued by my wife entitles him to start hanging around my workspace – I’m almost tempted to call it snooping – and calling me ‘Rich’.
If only Richard were as keen, as attentive, as he was in the beginning. It sometimes feels as if marrying me was a project he managed like all his other projects. And he did manage it brilliantly, from the foundations up. Now he can just live in it and admire his handiwork. No, that’s not fair. What am I trying to say? I don’t expect the falling-in-love kind of passion to last, but I still wish there was more passion in our life together. We are each passionate about our work, but we don’t seem to be equally passionate about the marriage. I sometimes wonder if Richard has the talent for marriage. I sometimes wonder if I do myself. But maybe it’s like being a musician – it’s not just the talent, it’s the sheer bloody hard slog. Perhaps I should encourage him to think of us as a work in progress. ‘Marriage under construction’. That could appeal to him, actually. I might erect a sign.
If only you could draw up plans and specifications for a marriage. Still, I’ve never created a perfect building, either. But we go on. We get better at it.
If only I could simply accept that what I have with Richard is really quite special compared with the fate of so many other women I know. Richard does love me. And I only hate him inter
mittently. It reminds me of working on a piece of music – you play the same thing over and over and eventually you either get so heartily sick of it you abandon it, or you get better at it and start to love it more deeply, or perhaps in different ways. We will go on. We will get better at it.
28
Coming Home
The sight of his convivium gladdened Richard’s heart, as it always did when he came home, though he could already see a polished concrete floor in his mind’s eye. Freya was sitting at the farmhouse table they had imported from France, with her back to him. Richard thought her shoulders gave a little shiver as he entered the convivium, but she appeared to be bent over her iPad, so perhaps she was merely responding to something on the screen.
‘Home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,’ he said, removing his linen jacket and draping it carefully over the back of a chair.
His wife looked up at him and smiled. ‘Hello, sailor,’ she said.
‘You okay, Frey?’ Richard asked as he kissed the top of her head.
‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw a bit of a shiver as I came in. Can I fetch you a sweater?’
‘No, I’m fine. It’s not cold. Would you like a drink? Or tea? Have you eaten?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I had a late lunch with Briggs. I probably drank more than I should have, but so did he. The food was good.’
‘Where did you eat?’
‘Beppi’s. Where else?’
‘So, do you want something to eat?’
Freya, Richard now noticed, was bent not over her iPad but over a score that was covered in pencil marks. He knew what to say.
‘No, you’re busy. I’ll get myself something. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine. I ate earlier. Daniel and I had a bite to eat straight after the rehearsal.’
Freya paused, waiting to see if Richard would ask how the rehearsal had gone, how the work was coming on, or even how Daniel was coping with a new baby in the house. Nothing.
She said: ‘There’s some lasagne in the fridge. You could heat it up in a couple of minutes. I’m happy to heat it while you change, if you like.’
Freya was wearing the long black skirt she sometimes wore to rehearsals. Richard loved the look of her in it. He loved the silky feel of it. His wife – his young wife, he often thought with gratitude – was an endless source of aesthetic and sensual pleasure.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she turned to face him. He pulled her out of her chair and embraced her, reaching down to stroke the curve of her hips through the thin fabric of her skirt. She responded with a warm kiss.
They stepped apart and smiled at each other.
‘I’ll heat the food and pour us both a glass of something,’ Freya said.
Richard had to admit – but only to himself – that he enjoyed the idea of Freya preparing his food. He particularly enjoyed the sound of her busying herself in the kitchen when he came home from work. He supposed it was a throwback to something quite primitive. Whatever.
Returning to the table, they raised and clinked their glasses of red wine. ‘Cheers!’ said Richard. ‘Salute!’ said Freya. Richard sat and ate his lasagne while Freya continued to work on the score.
After a few minutes, Freya picked up her glass and the score, excused herself, and retreated to her studio. Through the closed door, Richard could hear the rich, resonant sound of her violin and he reflected, yet again, on what a lucky man he was. Freya was beautiful, talented, successful, far less demanding than the wives of most of his friends – he heard regular horror stories from two of his partners at work – and she loved him. It sometimes seemed too good to be true, but he believed it was true.
Richard often said to his clients that everything in your home – everything in your life – should be either beautiful or useful, or both. He would never say so to Freya, but, to him, she had always fallen squarely into the ‘both’ category. On top of everything else, she had a bottom like a peach, played the violin like an angel and had a voice like smoke. He used to compliment Freya on her beautiful hair – a fine, greyish gold that hung loosely about her shoulders – until she pointed out that this was a matter of genetics, not accomplishment, and therefore not deserving of praise. ‘Handsome is as handsome does’ was one of her favourite aphorisms.
Forty-five minutes later, Freya emerged from her studio and announced that Rondo needed to be taken outside for a pee and a short walk. She offered to do it and asked Richard if he would like to come too.
He glanced at his watch. ‘I think I’ll get ready for bed, if you don’t mind. Early start.’
‘That’s fine.’ Freya ran upstairs to the bedchamber and changed into tracksuit pants and a sweater. At the sound of her taking the leash off the hook on the back of the laundry door, Rondo, asleep on the floor of the convivium, sprang to life and scrambled to the front door, his paws slipping and sliding on the pavers, the tail wagging the dog.
Richard checked his emails, sorted some papers for the morning, brushed his teeth and got into bed. He read for a few minutes, felt drowsy, and rolled onto his side.
When Freya returned, Richard was snoring lightly. She smiled, undressed, and slipped into bed beside him. She, too, read until drowsiness overwhelmed her.
Acknowledgements
Given the structure of The Question of Love, my primary debt is, of course, to Johann Sebastian Bach. Countless other composers – and jazz musicians – have employed the ‘theme and variations’ form, but Bach remains the exemplar.
I am grateful to Ingrid Ohlsson, my publisher at Pan Macmillan, for supporting my attempt to adapt the musical form to the written word, and to Ariane Durkin for creating the book’s ‘architecture’ and guiding the project to fruition. Ingrid and Ariane have been ably supported by creative editor Naomi van Groll, and editorial assistant Belinda Huang.
Ali Lavau has brought her characteristically sensitive editing skills to the project, having offered constructive advice at an early stage of the book’s development and thoughtful criticism of the final draft. Rebecca Hamilton’s proofreading included valuable editorial input. I also wish to acknowledge Kane Shepherd’s creativity and sensitivity in typesetting the book, and Alissa Dinallo’s beautiful cover design.
My wife, Sheila, has lived with the project through the years of its evolution, offering both criticism and encouragement, and I am grateful, as ever, for her loving support.
About Hugh Mackay
Hugh Mackay is a social psychologist, researcher and bestselling author. The Question of Love is his eighth novel.
His non-fiction includes social and cultural analysis, psychology and ethics.
He is a Fellow of the Australian Psychological Society and of the Royal Society of New South Wales, and was appointed an Officer of the Order of Australia in 2015. He lives in Canberra.
Also by Hugh Mackay
FICTION
Little Lies
House Guest
The Spin
Winter Close
Ways of Escape
Infidelity
Selling the Dream
NON-FICTION
Reinventing Australia
Why Don’t People Listen?
Generations
Turning Point
Media Mania
Right & Wrong
Advance Australia . . .Where?
What Makes Us Tick
The Good Life
The Art of Belonging
Beyond Belief
Australia Reimagined
The Inner Self
First published 2020 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Hugh Mackay 2020
Chapter opener images from ‘Goldberg Variations’, J. S. Bach,
first edition published by Balthasar Schmid ca. 1741.
The moral right of the author to be identified as the aut
hor of this work has been asserted.
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This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available
from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781760981266