Page 18 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Two days later, still reeling, I relay the story to Graham in the hallway of a posh hotel as we await our turn at a press junket with a touring celebrity actor.

‘He ran away?’ Graham says, dumbfounded. We’re seated by the elevators on the fourth floor. A row of chairs lining the wall, we move forward every time a journalist at the front steps into the junket room. ‘Like, actually ran off? You sure he wasn’t just in dire need of the loo?’

‘No, the little fucker ran off ,’ I say. ‘Should’ve seen his face. Had no idea I was coming – looked like he’d been slapped across the nose.’

Graham’s eyebrows rise, shocked. ‘And you never saw him again? He didn’t send you a message afterwards?’ he asks, left leg crossed over the right. Arms folded. His frown tells me he’s rather invested in this story.

‘No. He just slithered off somewhere.’

The time reads three o’clock and a flustered publicist wearing black tells us it shouldn’t be too much longer.

‘Right, well. There you go. And the price? What did they charge you?’

‘No discount.’

He is empathetic, offering me a gentle smile. ‘Shame.’

After Diego disappeared, I was gutted. I’d expected there to be an awkward conversation, of course, but was completely thrown when there was no conversation at all. What kind of adult runs away from another person? Am I riddled with an infectious disease? A witch dancing with the devil?

I haven’t stopped thinking about where he even went, when he slipped away.

I picture him cowering in some office, under a desk, and it just doesn’t seem like the Diego I know.

The jovial, social, helpful Diego. The man who sends money home to his parents every month, who dances while he eats, who wears orange tracksuit pants to dinner and spends the entire evening trying to convince us all that it’s far-shun .

I just never thought I’d be a person someone ran away from.

‘You want to talk about it?’ Graham asks, shuffling through the interview questions and briefing notes that sit nestled in his lap. Beneath our feet is plush navy carpeting with gold trims at the base of the skirting boards. Scattered along the walls are bone-white sconces.

‘Not really.’

‘Understood.’

But then, instantly, I change my mind. Realise it’s dangerous to be left alone with my thoughts at a time like this. Left alone at all, really.

‘You’ve done this five times,’ I say. ‘You ever had anyone run away from you?’

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ he says, giving me a look. ‘And no, never.’

‘Must be me, then.’

‘Must be Daniel.’

‘Diego.’

‘Right, Diego.’ Then he chuckles. ‘Still can’t believe he ran away from you.’

We’re moved up the line into the next seats. In front of us sits a television entertainment reporter, and in front of her a print journalist I don’t recognise.

‘You lose people,’ he says, quietly. ‘It’s kind of inevitable.’

‘I’ve lost all my people.’ Dave, my friends. Haven’t seen my family in over a year and a half. It’s like somebody clicked their fingers – snap! – and everyone I love evaporated. Disappeared into thin air, leaving me behind. Then, I remember Genevieve. ‘Well, almost all of my people.’

‘Not me,’ Graham says. Then he is sombre, his face still. I’ve known him long enough that I can pinpoint the exact moment he moves into deep thought – he grows quiet.

‘You’ve lost people?’ I ask.

And he nods. ‘Every time,’ he says, leaning back into the chair. ‘You never see their friends again. Their family. I’ve made friends with their colleagues before, but they didn’t survive the divorce.’ He shrugs. ‘Life, I guess.’

Josie, Shaun, Emmanuel, Cinar, Diego. Are they really all gone?

Perhaps Graham realises how nonchalant he’s being about it all, because he starts to backtrack. ‘But I get it. I remember how shocked I was the first time around. After Leona …’

Leona, his first wife. The one I suspect he misses the most, and the one he loved the greatest. He talks about her the least, but when he does, it’s always good things.

The way she laughed, how often she laughed.

How beautifully she dressed, and how superb her taste was. How kind she was. Caring. Thoughtful.

I didn’t know him then, of course. This was a lifetime ago – thirty years, maybe more – when Graham was co-host of a community radio music station.

He was somewhat known but not famous. Not rich.

Just another bald white man working in radio, who’d been married for ten years and loved his wife so fiercely he complimented her on air on a regular basis.

Spoke about how he was punching, how he couldn’t wait to have children with her.

And then it ended, and Graham was blindsided. He went underground for a while, took a leave of absence. And the tabloids went berserk for it – how in love he was, quoting old audio of him raving about their perfect marriage.

And the whole time, she was cheating on him.

The widely sordid tale of Leona leaving Graham for a café worker sped around the country, and when Graham emerged from his isolation four months later, thinner and haunted, everyone knew who he was. Everyone was tuning in to hear what he had to say.

Leona leaving Graham was the worst thing that happened to him. But it was the best thing to happen to his career.

Back in the hotel hallway, we’re shuffled forward to the front of the queue and are one step closer to our interview slot. If Graham knew how hard I had to beg for this, he’d be sickened. I sent so many emails, called the actor’s management and pleaded for time – any time – in the press junket.

But if this helps keep our breakfast program alive, I’d do it all again.

The flustered publicist returns. She has a slick ponytail, darkened eyebrows, and her phone appears stitched to her hand. ‘You’re next,’ she says, then disappears into the hotel junket room.

‘How long did you say our slot was?’ Graham asks.

I swallow. ‘Five minutes.’

He frowns, checks his watch.

The journalists before us have each had longer allocations – ten minutes – and I am hoping Graham won’t notice. Hoping he won’t say anything. I’m just so sickeningly grateful we’ve even got a slot at all.

‘Any plans this weekend?’ I ask.

After a moment, Graham disregards the time and shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘You say that every week.’

‘Well, I mean it every week.’

‘I’ve tried calling you on weekends, and you never answer.’

‘I’m not glued to my phone the way you lot are.’

‘Careful, you’re showing your age.’

He smiles, then looks back at me. ‘I drive a lot. Get out of the city.’

‘By yourself? Why?’

His chin snaps back with the question. Why are you alone most of the time? And it takes him a second to answer, but rather poorly.

‘I don’t know, I think I just prefer it that way—’ He checks his watch again. ‘You know, everyone else has been in there longer than five minutes.’

‘Oh, really?’

At my feet sits my handbag, and I grab out my water bottle and take a sip.

‘You told me the publicist emailed us about this junket.’

‘She did.’

He holds my gaze.

‘She didn’t,’ I say. The way he’s looking at me – narrowed eyes, upper body tilted forward – and I know that lying to him is not an option. ‘Someone dropped out, that’s how we got in.’

He looks down, running his hands over his knees. Nods a few times, deflating each time. His body is like a balloon and I just popped it.

My phone alerts me to a text message – loud and shrill – and I realise it’s not on silent. I fish it out of my bag. Switch it to silent, intent on ignoring the message until the press junket is complete.

But it’s Josie.

And I cannot possibly ignore it, when it’s been weeks since I’ve heard from her. When I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking, even though I know I shouldn’t.

‘Charlie? Graham? We’re ready for you now.’ The publicist is back.

Graham is already standing, three steps ahead of me. He’s managed to mask his disappointment.

The publicist is waiting for us, impatient. She’s giving me a narrowed look, then glances down at the phone in my hand.

‘Charlie.’ Graham grows huffy.

‘Sorry!’ I stand, collect my things. ‘Coming.’ Scrambling after him, nodding an apology at the publicist.

I step inside the room, and as I hear Graham introduce himself to the agent, and then the actor, I sneak a glance at the message.

Charlie, let’s get coffee. Tomorrow? Usual spot?

I’d like to apologise in person.