Page 1 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

On my wedding night, after the speeches have ended but before we’ve cut the cake, my best friend Genevieve scurries off. Rises from our table, grabs her purse, discards her soda water, and beelines through the crowd towards the bathroom. A frown is etched across her forehead.

Immediately, I follow.

I squeeze past the tables, worm my way through the dancefloor, navigate around the wishing well and down the corridor to the restrooms. I’m nipping at her heels, which clack loudly with each thunderous step.

Before she can close the bathroom door, I’ve stuck out my hand and forced my way through. Yanked on the train of my dress so it doesn’t get caught. Shut the door behind me, the noise from the party softening.

Instantly, Genevieve insists I should leave. ‘No, no,’ she says, scrambling. Utterly frazzled. Hands tilting back and forth, outstretched. Her rich mahogany hair, blow-dried and wavy and perched on her collarbones, bounces. ‘It’s your wedding day. I can do this myself.’

It always amuses me when she tries to stand her ground. She’s tiny. Wee and compact. One day I might just pick her up and put her in my pocket.

‘I know you can,’ I say. But I don’t move. Defiant, feet rooted to the ground. ‘But you shouldn’t have to.’

‘I’m fine, Charlie. Honestly.’

‘Are you?’

As her lips purse and her eyebrows rise, I know she’s contemplating fighting me on this.

Telling me to get out, to go back to my wedding.

She knows they’ll be readying the cake, knows the photographer will be stationed near the bar where the lighting is best. Is aware that my friends will be looking for me on the dancefloor.

But ultimately, she also knows I’m right. She should not have to do this by herself.

‘Sit down. It’ll be over in five minutes.’ I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, hurrying her up.

She resists, but only for a moment.

Relenting, she sighs, pulls up her sheer ivory bridesmaid dress and plonks herself down on the toilet lid. ‘Fine.’ She hands me her suede purse. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

I pluck the needle from inside her bag and undo the insulated packaging.

‘IVF injections on a toilet lid. No one told me having a baby would be so romantic,’ she says. Sighting the syringe, she winces and averts her gaze. ‘One of your friends asked me why I wasn’t drinking.’

‘Was it Emmanuel?’ I ask. ‘He means well but he’s nosy. Or Josie? She gets bold after her fifth champagne.’

‘It was a man with five buttons undone.’

I let out a chuckle. ‘Cinar.’

Her lips part; she’s fascinated. ‘Oh, that’s Cinar,’ she says, amused. ‘The serial dater.’

‘Correct.’

‘The man who thinks chest hair attracts women?’

‘Also correct.’

‘I pictured him taller.’

‘That’s Emmanuel,’ I clarify. ‘Long neck, giant forehead. Cinar’s the short one.’

But she’s no longer listening. She’s glancing down as I pinch a section of her torso, her mouth twitching.

Her lip product is new – glossy and rose-coloured – but she cannot stop biting her bottom lip and it’s all starting to rub off.

I’d hoped discussion about the wedding might distract her, but she’s grown quiet. I readjust my grip and she recoils.

‘Bruce is drunk,’ I say, hoping that diverting the conversation to her husband might help instead. ‘He’s gearing up for the dancefloor.’

‘I know.’ She smiles – tender, genuine. ‘He’s going to embarrass me, isn’t he?’

‘Probably.’

Laughing, she adds, ‘Good. It means he’s having fun.’

‘And we aren’t?’ I ask, and she returns my smirk.

Usually, Bruce is the one who injects the needle.

Calms her down, distracts her. Makes self-deprecating jokes to make her laugh.

Reassures her when she’s feeling like all of this is her fault.

Tells her not to call herself harsh names like childless or empty.

Since they started IVF, he’s been home every night during a cycle.

An IT consultant who used to be on call until seven o’clock, he now slips out of the office at five for a smaller pay cheque.

Gone are the after-work drinks and the dinners with colleagues.

Interstate conferences are timed around Genevieve’s cycles, as are their holidays.

Every evening, same time, his alarm goes off and Bruce knows he’s needed.

If one of his main tasks is something as simple as inserting a needle into his wife’s abdomen, he’ll ensure he’s home for it.

Unless, of course, his wife gives him the night off. Forces him to forget about the needle and have fun. Drink. Dance.

Like tonight.

‘Look at the size of this thing,’ I say, holding it up in front of my face. In the mirror, it looks even larger. Longer than chin to forehead. ‘Can’t believe you have to do this every night.’

‘Just wait until it’s your turn. It’s awful.’

I freeze, my body clenching. There’s a silence while her words register, and then she crumples.

Folds over, her upper body deflating. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.

I don’t know why I said it.’ She rests her head in her hands, looking at me between splayed fingers.

‘You won’t have to go through this, I bet. ’

I pull her hands off her face. ‘You’re ruining your make-up.’

She grabs my wrist, gives it a squeeze and looks me in the eye. ‘Thank you. For this.’

‘This round is going to work.’

She’s on the fourth, although I usually try not to say numbers. Any time she remembers how long it’s been, how many years she and Bruce have been trying, she retreats into herself. Is devastated, all over again.

Genevieve glances down. ‘It has to work,’ she whispers. ‘ Has to. Or I borrowed Mum’s money for nothing.’

I force her to look at me again. She’s paler than usual, and I know she’s feeling defeated. ‘You know she doesn’t care about the money.’

Her parents would give her anything she asked for – anything she needed. She’s the only child they could have, and they’re not going to let her think, even for a second, that she’s without their support. I know that on tough days, Genevieve wishes they didn’t live so far away.

‘It’s about to go in.’

She glances down at the needle and jolts. ‘A fairytale conception.’

Then, after a moment, she whispers, ‘I’m barren, aren’t I?’

‘ Stop. ’

‘Sorry,’ she says, sullen. Her hair is starting to frizz now, as if compelled to return to its factory settings. ‘I’m trying really hard not to say these things. It’s just … It’s been so long, Charlie.’

‘I know.’

‘And everyone around me is …’ She trails off. ‘It’s hard to be happy for others, sometimes.’

‘I know.’

‘I think about teenagers getting knocked up in cars far too often. One and done, like that .’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Makes me livid.’

She closes her eyes. ‘When people tell me they’re pregnant, I’m happy for them, I really am, but I’m also sad, and then I’m so angry with myself for being sad. What a terrible person I am, for thinking like that.’

What about me? I want to say. If I were pregnant, how would you feel?

She clocks my expression, sees me avert my gaze. And in an instant, she’s angled her face towards mine so I’m forced to look at her. ‘If you were to fall before me, I’d be so happy for you. You know that, right?’

I gesture to the needle. ‘I know you’d do the same for me.’

She smiles and nods, as if to say, Yes, I would. I really would .

The needle slides into her skin and she makes a pained squeak. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this for me on your wedding day.’

‘Who cares that it’s my wedding day?’

‘ I care,’ she cries. ‘This is the hottest you’ve ever looked and you’re squatting next to a toilet for me.’

I smile.

‘You should wear hair extensions more often,’ she says, pointing to the sleek low bun at the base of my neck.

I touch it, delicately. I’m so used to my thin, wispy hair – ash blonde – that to feel such a large amount of hair on the back of my head throws me, every time.

She looks down at my dress. High-neck, intricate lace, fitted. It’s vintage and elongates my body. She runs her fingertips over the sleeves. ‘I still can’t believe how stunning you look.’

I slide the needle out of her torso and stand. ‘All done.’

Genevieve shimmies down her dress and rises from the toilet. ‘I love you.’ She pulls me in for a hug and I wrap an arm around her. Squeeze tight. ‘The ceremony was beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘ You are beautiful.’ She releases the hug. ‘Did you see Dave’s face? Poor man couldn’t hold in the tears.’

Oh yes, I saw. A revelation for all of us.

I’d never seen Dave cry before, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t unsettle me, give me pause before I continued down the aisle.

Make me wonder what it meant, to have a husband you’d never seen be that openly vulnerable.

The first time he’s truly showing his emotions and it’s the day we’re vowing to be together forever.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asks, frowning.

‘Yes, fine, why?’

She eyes me, a flicker of doubt. But I laugh off her concerns. Give her shoulder a reassuring nudge. ‘I’m great.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she says, relaxing. ‘I can’t believe you’re married . I can’t believe I’m married, sometimes.’

‘Scary, isn’t it?’

‘A slippery slope,’ she says, eyes widening. ‘How fast I went from shots and clubs to checking budding tomatoes at eight in the morning.’

We laugh.

‘And I can’t believe I finally met your mum,’ she cries. ‘And your sister. And Dave’s vows were beautiful. And the speeches were—’ She kisses her fingers, then releases them. A moment later, she grabs my hands. ‘You look happy.’

‘I am happy.’

‘Good. You and Dave are perfect.’

Yes, we are. Perfect.