Like most sane people, I’d always assumed “love at first sight” was a concept reserved solely for sappy romcoms and teenage diary musings. It certainly didn’t happen in real life, to real people, and it certainly couldn’t happen to me. I was entirely devoted to my career in radio and, after a particularly bad breakup, had all but sworn off love.
It was November 2016 and raining. I remember, because I’d just had my hair and makeup done. I cursed the grey Sydney sky that was quickly turning my hair frizzy as I raced to the Star casino, like I did every year around this time. It was the Aria music awards, which meant I’d soon be in a room with a few thousand people sipping free booze and growing increasingly raucous as the night progressed. This night was one for debauchery, drunkenness and maybe a cheeky pash on a dark dancefloor. It certainly wasn’t where you met your future husband.
The Veronicas were on stage, performing in nothing but red body glitter, when I saw him out of the corner of my eye, apologetically squeezing past people in an effort to find his seat. He had curly hair pulled back into a man bun, glasses and a simple black suit. My stomach flipped. I leaned over, grabbed my best friend Angus’s leg and asked who this man was. I insisted he introduce me as soon as possible because I was “going to marry him”. He probably thought I was joking. I wasn’t.
I found out his name was Adrian and that he worked in our Melbourne office. I’d heard people speak about him before, and had assumed he was much older. Words like “mentor” and “good bloke” had been thrown around – not words I usually equated with a man in his 30s who ran a radio station. After securing an introduction, I had to wait until the show was over to have a proper conversation. I spent the next couple of hours catching glances and trying to send sly photos of him to the group chat.
Eventually a group of us headed to the top floor of the Intercontinental hotel in Sydney for the afterparty. The place was jam-packed and I found myself scanning the room to see if Adrian had arrived. Moments later he walked in and we locked eyes. I ditched my mates and before long we were holed up in a corner chatting like we’d known each other for years.
We nursed glasses of sparkling water while everyone around us got progressively drunker. He didn’t try to impress me. There was no ego. We spoke about our families, where we’d grown up and our travel plans. It was blindingly clear to me from the moment we started speaking that this beautiful boy would be my husband, and I would do everything I could to make him happy for ever.
There is, however, a difference between knowing someone is “the one” and realising you’ve actually fallen in love. That moment came one night within the first month or so of dating. We lived in different cities and we were FaceTiming. As we were wrapping up the conversation and saying goodnight, I accidentally dropped a very casual: “All right, love you!” Realising what I’d said, I promptly hung up before he could react. I was mortified, but knew that I’d be lying if I tried to take it back. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue, because when I took a moment to think about it, it was clear to me that I really did love him. He rang back a moment later, and I answered the call to see his sweet, goofy, slightly smug face smiling back at me. I giggled, embarrassed. He laughed, and with a simple “I love you too, obviously”, turned the situation from mortifying to swoon-worthy.
Three months later we spotted a beautiful vintage ruby ring while out shopping. He bought it while I was in the bathroom. Later that year, 12 months after we first laid eyes on one another, he proposed. This time we were alone at a cabin in the Blue Mountains. No pop stars prancing around in red body glitter, no raucous musicians drunk on free booze. We’ve now been married for seven years, and have a gorgeous three-year-old son called Buddy. While life hasn’t always been easy in those years, loving each other always has.