Brise Soleil

I can tell that it’s snowing before I open my eyes. The vast bedroom windows, two inches thick and double glazed, are purpose built to keep the weather at bay – but they’ve never been able to impose this kind of silence. The harbour is completely frozen over, rows of abandoned houses stretching down to the water are a grid of vague white angles. Rolling onto my back, I enjoy the blinding whiteness of seven AM. Three full minutes pass before I remember last night’s firestorm.

***

Two soiled coffee mugs on Melanie’s desk are the first reminder that I should have been in the office hours ago.

“Sorry, bad night’s sleep,” I apologise, sliding into my spot at the desk we share. “What time did you get up?”

“Five,” she replies, passing me the remaining half of her breakfast wrap. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got the bathroom sketches done. If you can tidy up the exterior, we’ll be ready for three.”

Shit. I’d forgotten the client wanted to “touch base” this afternoon. Unfolding my tablet and panning through the latest design files, I marvel at Melanie’s ability to shake almost anything off. She’s carried the load for both of us this morning, but I know that she won’t hold it against me. Just as I know that she slept straight through the fire.

“Big night with Max?” she asks, smirking without looking up from her work.

“Something like that,” I lie, wishing my exhaustion wasn’t so obvious. “We’ve got dinner at Portico tonight.”

“Ooh-err, I’d forgotten about that! Make sure you take pictures for me. Mum and Dad went for their anniversary and said the view was amazing.”

“They should come by the office sometime,” I suggest. “We’ve got a pretty good view here.”

Melanie looks up as though it’s only just occurred to her that there’s anything to see out the window. I feel guilty again, I know our outlook by heart. In the afternoons – when my work is least appealing – I can see almost all of Eastern Sydney. Buildings are dispersed across the hills, suspended on stilts like spindly insects perched above the old eastern suburbs. The suburbs – eclectic residential ruins, overgrown and weather beaten – carpet the entire district. Today the trees dotted amongst the ruins are almost fully white, only a few singed black branches reach through the snow. It’s a dense and fascinating view, full of history, but my eyes are always drawn to the horizon. Nothing fuels procrastination like the sight of a tornadic waterspout hurtling towards us from the Pacific. There are no new buildings in the far east for a reason.

“I believe in you guys,” Melanie says. “You’re the couple I root for.”

“Max is great,” I reply, new excitement blotting out old anxieties. “I’m looking forward to dinner.”

Most of my day is spent on 3D visualisation, rendering windows for the house that Melanie and I have been working on all week. Residential architecture is repetitive and mindless. Everyone wants the same home – expansive yet minimal, sleek yet durable. I spend at least an hour adding all the pointless details that make millennials feel comfortable with contemporary design. Mullions in windows to divide them into panes, even though the sheets of glass we deal with can be cheaply manufactured to any size or shape. Brise soleil – sun breakers – jutting out from the side of the house, as though the blinding sun can be broken by a shallow concrete awning and flash fires aren’t the most frequent source of heat. When the seventy-somethings who own our firm move on, these extraneous visual elements will disappear from our buildings. As an architect, I enjoy sitting in judgement over conservative thinking, but as a woman who can’t stop looking out the window, I understand the hunger for protection.

***

I take the train from work to Portico. The restaurant is out west amongst a cluster of other eateries, tucked away from the turbulent coast. I catch my reflection in the window and touch up my lipstick, my face distinct in front of the snowy landscape. I wonder if Max will have had time to go home and change before dinner. The clouds are rapidly shifting and I sense a change is coming. Nerves metastasise. I worry that I should have straightened my hair.

My first year out of university everyone was vying to work on the new train system. Six years later and it’s finally here, opened to critical acclaim from all of the news streams. A slick, transparent tunnel running between each of the key buildings in Sydney, criss-crossing and spreading outwards like a spiderweb, supported at critical junctures by thick concrete pillars. A knock off by Jones Bagot of the system in San Francisco. I tie my hair into a tussled top knot and nod at my reflection approvingly. I look good and we are going to have a good night – that’s settled.

***

Max stands up when I approach the table, as though it’s our first date. We’ve dined together hundreds of times, but this feels like the kind of place for old-fashioned manners. Our champagne glasses are long stemmed and gilded lanterns hover below the ceiling.

“You look like you’ve had a day,” he says.

“Thanks,” I groan. “Do I look that bad?”

“No. You look stunning, just stressed – what did the clients think of your house?”

I know I should be thrilled to have a partner who remembers important details, but if anything, his question makes me feel worse that I’d forgotten the meeting myself.

“You know what, they loved it. Things are good,” I scull half my glass of champagne in one go. “I have literally nothing to worry about and we’re at a beautiful restaurant. Let’s not talk about work.”

“Let’s not,” he grins, topping up my glass.

The restaurant makes me feel like I’ve had too much to drink, long before that’s the case. The lights are dim, the food is rich, and I begin to sink into the moment. I feel as though I could float among the lanterns – as though I’m capable of focusing entirely on these immediate pleasures. Max has a way of making me feel heard. For starters, he listens, which is more than I can say for the men that came before him. And he doesn’t just listen – we laugh together. He makes me feel like easy-breezy Melanie, the kind of person who brushes things off. The more we talk, the more euphoric I feel, words bumping into one another as they flood from me in an uninterrupted stream.

We’re halfway through dessert when he pulls a box from the pocket of his jacket.

“I got something for you.”

The box is in my hand before I realise what is happening. It’s velvet, obviously decades old, and I fumble with the latch as I open it. I pull a heavy gold necklace from the box, a heart-shaped locket hanging from the chain.

“It was my great-grandmother’s,” he explains, though I could have guessed as much – they don’t make this kind of thing anymore. “I hope you like it. You know that I love you.”

I hold the locket out in front of me, taken aback by the romance of Max’s gesture. This is the moment that people post pictures of online, a cinematic ritual that proves you’re of value and loved. I know Max well enough to know he’d hate to think of his gift this way, but I silently revel in reaching a clichéd milestone. This is what happiness feels like for those who keep life simple. This is what happiness can feel like for me. I lean across the table and kiss Max – under golden lights with a golden locket and the feeling of gold in my veins.

When I end our kiss and lean back to examine the locket in my palm, everything goes white. Lightning illuminates the restaurant, reflecting off the gold heart so brightly that I’m left squinting. Turning to the window I see that a fierce thunderstorm has rolled in. Clouds twist around the spherical building, swirling past the window in waves. A second flash of lightning strikes, dividing into innumerable branches. A tree is pulled across the skyline, torn from the earth. The rumble of thunder is loud enough to echo through the room, reverberating against architecture designed to keep the harrowing sounds of nature at bay. A handful of other diners glance up before returning to their chatter. Across the table, Max looks at me expectantly, his cheeks glowing pink. He is still in the kiss; I am out in the storm.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful. You don’t need to give me presents.”

“It wouldn’t be a real present if I gave it to you because I had to.”

“That’s nice,” I say, putting on a smile. “This is a nice night.”

He looks hesitant to believe me, so I squeeze his hand in reassurance. Breaking into a grin, he begins to narrate a history of the locket that I don’t hear. I’m occupied with lookout duty, eyes glued to the window over his shoulder. There’s already clear sky edging in from the west. Storms never last long. My grandparents say the weather “these days” gives them whiplash, but shifting skies are all I’ve ever known. Portico is full of guests who are right to be undisturbed. This night is like any other – the workings of my mind are a greater disruption than the lightning.

“I love you,” I tell Max, without noticing I’ve spoken.