Page 15 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TEN

‘You ever think about having kids?’

Monday lunchtime, and Graham does not take well to my question. Across the kitchen, he looks up from his sandwich. Raises an eyebrow, slightly stricken. ‘I think you might be too young for me.’

‘Funny.’ I pour my coffee and lean against the bench. ‘I am absolutely too young for you.’

He discards the sandwich for a moment.

‘I’m worried about Genevieve,’ I say, stepping closer to him. ‘She’s terrified the pregnancy won’t carry.’

‘I think that’s a fairly valid terror.’ He reclaims his sandwich, bites into it. Then continues. ‘And no, I never thought about having children.’

‘Never?’

‘No.’ Something darkens in that expression of his – like he’s plagued. Haunted. His frown, the creases in his forehead, the slight pull of his lips as they shift. Then, he points at me. ‘Did you?’

I came here to discuss Genevieve, not myself. ‘We’d talked about it.’ I take a sip of my coffee. ‘But we weren’t there yet.’

‘Right.’ He eyes me over his lunch.

‘Thank god,’ I say. ‘Leaving him would’ve been significantly harder if the two of us had a child.

’ But now I’m approaching my mid-thirties and I’ve no prospects for children and I may never have children and maybe I’ll be the one doing twelve rounds of IVF and feeling crippled with worry about miscarrying.

It’s something I think about, from time to time, but then I remember my only other option was staying in a decaying marriage, and I remind myself I did the right thing.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I segue the conversation back to Genevieve. ‘I’ve never gone through it, so I don’t know what’s normal. She won’t even buy a pram.’

He thinks on it for a moment, as he chews.

‘I thought you might have some advice. Like, if this were me, what advice would you give?’

He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t give advice, I’d just tell you that I’m sorry you’re hurting.’

‘That’s it? I’m sorry?’

‘Sometimes that’s all people want to hear,’ he says, rising. Discarding his napkin and putting his plate in the dishwasher.

‘You leaving?’ I ask, checking the time.

‘Not yet. I’ve got a meeting.’

‘A meeting?’ I follow him out of the kitchen and back towards the studio. ‘You never have meetings.’ Suspicion activated.

‘Yeah, well, today I do.’

‘With who? Doing what?’ I’ve heard nothing since our rapid fall to fourth, and I’ve been paranoid ever since. My body reeks of it, I’m certain.

No word from the executive team, no whispers around the office.

I’m terrified my time is up, worried they’re going to replace me.

The media coverage has dwindled, sure, but I’m convinced there’s an agenda here at the station.

Surely, surely , something is coming. A staff shake-up, or a new format.

Maybe they’ll move Graham to a different time slot, or get rid of him altogether.

And me! What’s going to happen to me? My colleagues look at me each morning like it might be the last time they see me, and with each passing day, I’m growing more and more agitated.

‘You need to stop stressing.’ He slaps his hands down against his sides.

‘I’m physically unable to do that. Is the meeting about me?’

‘You’re not that important,’ he says, then smiles. ‘No offence.’

This does not placate me. I’m like a dog with a bone, I simply cannot stop. ‘Who is it with? I’m stressing over here, Graham.’

‘I’m sorry you’re hurting,’ he says, then smiles.

‘You seriously aren’t going to tell me?’

‘No. I’m seriously not going to tell you.’ He walks across the floor towards the elevator. Turns briefly, holds out his hand. ‘But you’re fine, okay? You’re not going anywhere. I can promise you that.’

But it does little to ease my nerves.

Over a late lunch, Bruce and I meet to discuss Genevieve.

At a poky little café near my work, he arrives wearing chinos and a brand-new business shirt. It’s a deep lilac, and it throws me. Not sure I’ve ever seen an IT consultant wear the colour eggplant before.

‘Nice shirt,’ I say, as he slips into the chair opposite.

Looking down, he casts an eye over it. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic—’

A staff member cuts him off, and we take a moment to order – coffee, cheeseburgers, juice – and then Bruce runs a hand through his hair, slouches back in the chair, crosses his arms and sighs.

‘I’m worried about Genevieve,’ I say. ‘She’s so terrified this pregnancy won’t carry that she’s too anxious to make a decision – won’t buy anything.

She’s convinced you shouldn’t buy a place.

Hasn’t chewed my ear off about stretch marks or rose-hip oil.

Hasn’t contemplated names yet. I had to make a joke about Dave just so she’d buy a bib , for Christ’s sake. ’

Bruce chuckles. ‘I know, she told me. Always bothered me that man couldn’t close his mouth when eating. Was like watching someone who’d been living underground their whole life enter society.’

I give him a look, unimpressed.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He gestures to me. ‘Keep going.’

‘That’s it!’ I exclaim. ‘You haven’t noticed? Haven’t thought something is odd?’

Bruce sits forward, ready. ‘Have I noticed? That’s a bit insulting. Of course I’ve noticed. I’m not Dave, Charlie. I am useful for some things and I do possess the ability of noticing when my wife is upset.’

Well, ouch.

‘And we’ve talked about it.’ Then he clarifies. ‘Actually, I’ve tried to talk about it.’

‘But she shuts you out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’

He runs a finger across his forehead, evidently stressed. ‘I was hoping, as we progressed, she wouldn’t be so worried. But then we passed six weeks. Then eight. And she’s still—’

‘Terrified.’

He nods. ‘I don’t think she thought this was ever going to happen. Twelve rounds, you know?’

‘I know.’ I think back on the IVF – the disappointments and the letdowns, the countless medical appointments, the negative pregnancy tests, how Genevieve changed with each round. She grew quiet, more reserved. Resigned to the fact that it might not happen for them.

‘It scares me,’ I say. ‘How withdrawn she is. Like she’s waiting for this whole thing to fail and each day, she’s retreating more and more.

Protecting herself, in case something happens again, and she can be like, “Well, I was right. I’m not meant to be a mother.

” But if everything is okay and she does have the baby?

Well, she might regret it, one day,’ I say, mid-chew.

‘That she wasn’t there for the big things. ’

‘Fuck, you’re right,’ he mutters. He expels a loud breath, rolls his shoulders back. ‘I have no idea what to do. I thought she might just need more time.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t look convinced.’

Because I’m not. Because I know Genevieve and I suspect she will hold on to this fear the entire nine months. She will wind herself up and stress will slowly eat her alive.

Our coffees arrive and he grabs at his like a lifeline.

‘I’ll talk to her parents, when we’re home for Christmas,’ he says, between sips. ‘I think it might be good for her to spend some time with her mum.’

‘Yes.’ Her parents . I feel myself relax at the suggestion, like Bruce just threw us a lifeline. ‘That’s a good idea. Talk to Cheryl when you arrive and ask her to speak with Genevieve. It’ll help, it has to.’

Frowning at me, Bruce says, ‘You’re very bossy, you know.’

‘One of us has to be.’ I don’t mean for it to sound cruel, but I hear it as it comes out of my mouth.

He winces, as if attacked. Silence befalls us.

And then, he says, ‘I’ve really tried.’

‘I know.’

‘Every day, I’ve tried speaking to her. She’s been so snippy with me, and we never used to fight, but we’re fighting. She thinks I’m nagging her and all I’m trying to do is help her. It’s been keeping me up at night. It’s my baby too.’

He’s haunted – sunken expression, body folded over his burger, devouring that meal like he hasn’t eaten in days. I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now.

I reach out, grab his hand. Squeeze. In this moment I realise something – Bruce and I have been worrying about Genevieve, but who has been worrying about Bruce? I was so focused on my best friend, I didn’t really think about how these years, and their miscarriages, affected Bruce.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

His eyes widen, and his chin tips up as he collects his thoughts. I can tell, and I’m ashamed in this moment, that this might be the first time someone has asked Bruce that.

‘I really don’t know.’ Rather suddenly, he wipes his mouth with a serviette. Clasps his hands together, shakes away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

‘Oh, Bruce. I’m sorry.’