Page 89 of The Elements

Neither Rebecca nor I had ever been to Australia, but two years after we married, she was offered the opportunity to complete her training in Sydney and we made the decision to relocate.

Although it stretched our budget, we chose to rent an apartment on Waruda Street in Kirribilli for a few months while we got to know the city.

Our balcony faced directly onto the Opera House, and there were mornings, as we breakfasted, when I felt an overwhelming sense of well-being, an inner peace that I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

One night, drunk, we even had sex—a rare treat—and, as fate would have it, that was the night Emmet was conceived.

Rebecca reacted to her pregnancy better than I expected, given her previous determination not to bring a child into the world, and we might have gone on like that forever, two companionable people in a sexless relationship, bringing up their son, had Furia Flyte not entered our lives.

We first met at a birthday party when Emmet was three.

We had quite a small circle of friends, as Rebecca’s schedule once she was qualified left little time for socializing, and I was alone with him much of the time.

I formed good relationships with the parents who helped out at Nippers, growing friendly with another set of parents, Belinda and Jake, a full-time lifeguard who proposed to teach me surfing.

Their son, Damian, had bonded with Emmet on their first day in Kindy, and the two boys had rarely lost sight of each other since.

Eventually, it seemed sensible that we should all meet, and we began with a Saturday lunchtime date in the Ravesis, a lively spot that afforded views of the surfers making their way toward the beach.

Somewhat to my surprise, Rebecca and Belinda hit it off, and I saw a side to my wife that I hadn’t often observed before.

Carefree, relaxed, unencumbered by the past. She liked Jake too and a comfortable friendship developed, pushed along by our sons’ growing bond.

Jake’s thirtieth birthday party took place in a nightclub in Bondi.

Having lived in Sydney for a few years by now, I was accustomed to beautiful people.

Hardly a day went by when my head wasn’t turned by the women who passed me on the street.

But in my life I had never laid eyes on anyone as beautiful as the woman I met there.

I’d never even imagined that such women existed.

When I first saw her, she was standing alone by a trestle table, sipping from a glass of champagne and looking out toward the sea.

Her skin was a dark ebony, her hair shaved close to the skull, allowing her extraordinary bone sculpting to come to the fore.

Rebecca had vanished into the crowd, and I found myself gravitating toward her.

She looked at me rather coolly as I advanced and I guessed that she was not unaccustomed to men approaching her, but, after all, we were at a private party, which meant that we must both have some connection to the hosts.

“Can I join you?” I asked.

She nodded, and we fell into conversation easily. When she threw her head back and laughed at some remark I made about the latest government crisis, I felt a premonition, and a strong desire, that this would prove more than just a random encounter.

We exchanged details about our lives. I told her about my job, and she confessed that, while she currently worked in a theater, she had aspirations toward being a writer.

Possibly a playwright. Possibly a novelist. Possibly a screenwriter.

Possibly all three. She’d published some short stories, she told me, including one in an American anthology, and had had a one-act play produced at the previous year’s Sydney Festival.

She betrayed neither narcissism nor false humility as she talked about her ambitions, admitting that she’d already written a novel that had been rejected by publishers.

“Fuckers,” I said.

“No, it wasn’t good enough. They were right to turn it down.”

“And you’re working on something else?”

“Always.”

“Will this be the one?”

“I’m twenty-nine,” she told me with a shrug. “And my plan was always to get published before I turn thirty, so that ship’s probably sailed. But there’s nothing else that I want to do with my life than tell stories.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because unlike in the real world, when a writer invents characters, we get to decide how their stories end. Happy or sad.”

“And which do you favor?”

“Oh, happy,” she told me without hesitation. “Always happy. Readers need to feel that there’s hope.”

“For the characters?”

“No. For them.”

I felt a deep desire to tell her how beautiful she was but restrained myself. But it wasn’t just her face or her body to which I was attracted. It was deeper than that. I wanted to know her in every way that you can know a person.

“I haven’t even asked your name,” I said when we were on our second glass of champagne.

“Furia,” she said, extending a hand. “Furia Flyte.”

“Sounds like a pen name.”

“I know. But I swear it’s real. And you?”

“Aaron Umber.”

“Your accent,” she said. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“No,” I said, telling her a little about the city where I’d grown up.

“I haven’t traveled much yet. Although I’d like to.”

I’d almost forgotten that I was at a party. It seemed like we were just two people who’d met in a club and been drawn to each other. I couldn’t be certain that the attraction was mutual, but I felt it was.

After we’d been talking for around forty minutes, Rebecca joined us, introducing herself to Furia, who looked at me with a disenchanted expression on her face, as if she was both surprised and unsurprised that I had failed to mention the existence of a wife.

The conversation became stilted then, and I looked over the balcony toward the waves crashing onto the shore, feeling a desperate urge to throw myself into the water and swim out as far as I could.

It was Rebecca, however, who brought Furia back into our lives a few weeks later. We had a spare ticket to a concert, and she suggested offering it to her.

“Why?” I asked. “We barely know her.”

“Actually, I had a coffee with her on Tuesday.”

I was startled by this admission, and immediately envious, having spent a lot of time since Jake’s party trying to contrive a reason to meet again while my wife had simply done the sensible thing and phoned her up.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Because we got along and exchanged numbers,” she replied with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why, didn’t you like her?”

“She seemed fine,” I said.

“I mean, we don’t have to,” she told me. “We can invite someone else if you prefer.”

“No, it’s fine,” I replied. “It would be nice to see her again.”

Furia replied to Rebecca’s text invitation with a yes, and I spent the days leading up to the gig obsessing over what I would wear.

“Have you done something with your hair?” Furia asked when we found a small bar for drinks after the show had ended.

“He’s had it styled,” said Rebecca, a mocking note creeping into her tone. “He usually just gets it cut, but this afternoon he had it styled apparently.”

“It looks good,” she replied, her eyes meeting mine.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You haven’t added highlights, have you?”

“Christ, no,” I told her. “I’m not some aging boy band member. I’m naturally blond but it lightens even more during the summer.”

Standard conversation followed, questions about Emmet, asking how Rebecca and I had first met, and soon, the subject of whether she was seeing anyone arose. My heart beat a little faster in my chest as I waited for her reply.

“Not right now,” she said. “I think I’ve sworn off men.”

“Really?” asked Rebecca. “Why?”

“Cos I’m fucking sick of them. Every guy I’ve been with has done something to let me down.

I just think I’ve reached the point where I’m wondering whether I need the hassle.

They’re either using apps on the side, looking for nothing more than a shag, or they’re married.

Or all three. The truth is, we only really need a man in order to have a child.

And even then, they’re pretty much disposable afterward. ”

“None taken,” I said, and she smiled.

“I think I just need to mix it up a bit,” she continued, looking around the bar as if she hoped the right man might be sitting somewhere nearby just waiting to introduce himself. “No more fuckboys. I need to try someone different to my usual type.”

“Like who?” I asked, ready to transform myself into whatever that might be.

“I haven’t figured that out yet. Not an Aussie, that’s for sure.

Someone with experience of life outside Sydney.

One of the benefits of writing, if I ever get published that is, will be the opportunities I’ll have to see the world.

Maybe I’ll meet someone amazing in, you know, Argentina or Denmark or someplace like that. ”

“Of course you’ll get published,” I said.

“How do you know? You haven’t read anything I’ve written.”

“I offered.”

“No you didn’t,” she said, and she was right, I had merely thought it on the night we met but considered it too forward to ask.

“Well, I’m offering now,” I said. “I’d love to read your work.”

“Aaron,” said Rebecca, “all you ever read is thrillers.”

“Then it would be good to broaden my horizons, wouldn’t it? Obviously I wouldn’t be able to give you any great critique but, I mean, if you’d like a reader, then… I know it’s a very personal thing…” I let the sentence drift away, conscious that I might be sounding a little ridiculous.

“Well, thank you,” said Furia, reaching over and placing a hand atop my own and squeezing it. “That’s kind of you. Let me think about it.”