Page 11 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER SEVEN

Where is the engagement ring, Charlotte?

Dave’s back. Only managed to hold him off for one week, unfortunately.

‘Honestly,’ Genevieve says. ‘Of all the things he should be worried about right now, and he chooses the engagement ring.’

Sunday morning, we’re standing in the far aisle at a baby superstore, discussing which pram is most suitable. I’m trying to explain to Genevieve why a flatback pram might be better than a foldable. Ignoring Dave, we continue.

‘It’s convertible,’ I say. ‘You can see the baby the entire time and they lie flat, so they sleep more easily. The front-facing ones are better for—’

But she’s just not invested. Eyes in a daze, attention easily broken. Furrowed brows, hand clawing through her burgundy hair. She can be an indecisive person, but this is tipping over into extreme. So, I stop.

‘There are just so many of them,’ she says, overwhelmed. She flips over the price tag of a nearby double pram, and her eyes bulge. ‘And some of these are outrageously expensive. Look at this! Two thousand two hundred.’

She’s a helpless child herself, lost among all the pastels. Walking around aimlessly, distracted by all the products and the prices.

She’s found another pram now, significantly cheaper.

‘That’s a jogger,’ I point out.

She tilts her head, places a finger to her temple – I notice she’s had her nails done recently. They’re painted a deep teal. ‘Maybe I could start jogging when the baby is born.’

I wait for her to realise her error. Only takes a moment.

‘No, never mind, I’d hate that.’ She leads me further down the aisle. ‘How do you know so much about prams?’

‘How do you not ?’

It takes her a second to answer. ‘I was so focused on the getting pregnant part, I hadn’t really thought beyond that.’

Guilt gnaws at my stomach. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

‘Seriously though, you know a lot about prams.’ She eyes me suspiciously. ‘Were you and Dave thinking—’

‘No.’ I clear my throat. ‘Josie and Emmanuel have two kids each, and Naya has four. And lord knows there’s nothing a new parent loves doing more than talking about raising their child.’ I catch her wary stare. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’

Actually, now that I think about it, in the week since I found out she’s pregnant, Genevieve has barely spoken about her pregnancy at all.

After years of trying, and a dozen rounds of IVF, Genevieve is finally pregnant.

She’s finally got what she wanted, but she seems determined not to draw attention to it.

My phone buzzes again, and I fish it out of my pocket.

My lawyer will be in touch.

When I show Genevieve the message, she is instantly sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry it’s getting nasty.’

I run my hand over a nearby bassinet. ‘You should’ve seen his reaction when I told him it was over. His body just … collapsed in on itself.’

Genevieve is silent.

‘I like to remind myself of his annoying habits, whenever I have that image in my head. Helps it go away.’

‘Like his obsession with golf?’

‘No, more like, when he would constantly talk about what time of year it was. “Can you believe it’s the end of October already? Christmas is next week. Oh god, it’s mid-May! How did that happen? Sometimes I just cannot fathom how fast the year goes.”’

Genevieve chuckles. ‘I forgot he used fathom in sentences.’

‘That’s not the reason I left him, but I feel it should be taken into consideration.’ I run my eye over a bright mural to our right – orange, green and soft hues of pink.

‘What about when he ate?’ Genevieve suggests. ‘Chewed with an open mouth and food would drop out, like a child.’

‘Oh god ,’ I say, mortified. And amused. ‘One time he put too much mayonnaise on our burgers, and it just squelched out the corners of his mouth and dripped onto the plate. I can still hear it .’ I shiver.

She’s laughing. ‘You never told me that story.’

‘I think I’d repressed it.’

‘Well, yeah. Naturally.’

We’re in the next aisle now, and she’s pulled out her phone. Replying to Bruce, then browsing her social accounts. As we pass through the toy section, I play with the interactive displays – the games, the stuffed animals, the motorised cars. This trip is starting to feel like a waste.

‘Have you thought about bassinets yet?’ I ask. ‘Cots? Toys or a change table?’

Once quick glance at Genevieve and I can tell she’s not into this. It’s a little heartbreaking, to be reminded of how hopeless she’d become. How she thought it’d never happen for her.

‘I feel like I’m playing catch-up.’ She looks around. ‘There’s so much to do . So much to buy. I don’t know how two people are expected to manage it all.’

‘ Three ,’ I say, nudging her. ‘And your parents. That makes five.’

She’s appreciative, I can tell, but it’s short-lived. ‘My parents don’t live here, though. Do they count?’

‘Of course they count.’

‘I keep having nightmares the baby is going to fall out of me while I’m walking.’

‘As in a miscarriage?’

She stiffens. ‘No, like a fully formed baby just falls out one day and starts crawling. It just waddles around the grocery store and I’m standing there with no idea what to do.’

She grabs my shoulders then, her eyes desperate. ‘Charlie, the baby was huge . Ready to graduate from daycare, I swear.’ Holding her hands to her flat stomach, she glances down. Then back up. Leans in close for a whisper. ‘You don’t think my baby is going to be like, gigantic, right?’

I look at her, not sure how to respond. Although I can see why she’s worried.

Her husband Bruce is taller than a fridge and wider than anyone I’ve ever met, but his whole body is sponge, his belly like pudding.

He’s a human marshmallow, inside and out.

He’s got that bum chin American face, though he’s not American.

The square haircut, too. I once asked him if he has a favourite smell, and he said brand-new action figures.

I have no doubt he’d be the first of us to die in an apocalypse.

As we make our way through the store, from the car seats to the nursery, and over to the other side where they sell the feeding supplies, Genevieve avoids making any sort of decision.

‘I’m finding it hard,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t feel quite real.’

‘The pregnancy?’

She laughs. ‘No, the pregnancy is real. The nausea is fucked.’ We catch eyes. ‘I meant the end of the pregnancy. The bit where you actually have the baby and it’s alive and it’s well and I get to take it home.’

She reaches out to a nearby rack and runs her fingertips over a cotton bib, dinosaurs stitched to the front. ‘Like, what happens if I buy all this stuff and then I lose it?’ She looks over at me, tears in her eyes.

‘Oh.’

She tries to brush it off with a smile but fails. ‘This was it. The final round, you know? And I have to wait another seven months before I know whether it’s worked.’

Worked . What an odd yet devastating way to describe a full-term pregnancy.

‘Why don’t we start with something small?’ I say, walking back over to the rack of bibs. ‘We can buy a couple of these and then if something happens, I can mail them to Dave. And he can use them when he eats.’

She barks out a laugh, so hard her face goes red. Her knees turn inwards and I can tell, without her telling me, that she’s at risk of a small pee. It makes me happy that when she’s upset or stressed, I can still manage to make her laugh.

Once she’s collected herself, she says, ‘Deal. Thank you.’