Page 21 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When he finds out I’m not headed home for the holidays, and that Genevieve and Bruce are away, Graham invites me over for Christmas Day lunch.
It’s awfully nice of him. Without Genevieve and Bruce in the apartment, I fear I’m slowly dying from the quiet. I feel like an inmate who has been granted a day pass.
Graham’s mansion is stunning, like something out of the Hamptons, with its beige shingle aesthetic.
Fifteen bedrooms, gated like Fort Knox. Three-storey stone, and natural wood bordering all windows.
Triangular roof with two chimneys. Manicured garden out the front stretching fifty metres, leggy monsteras, flowering philodendrons, clipped evergreen shrubs and tall, elongated Cypress trees lining the motor court driveway.
The front door swings open and I cheer, ‘Happy Christmas!’
Graham waves me through, reading glasses perched atop his nose. He wears dark-wash denim jeans and a white linen shirt.
Inside, I marvel. ‘Jesus Christ .’
Grandiose artwork with golden frames, plush sofas and armchairs with velvet cushions, and sheer, white curtains that stretch to the ceiling. Sparkling glassware, overgilded appliances, glittering chandeliers, four-poster beds – honestly, I could go on.
‘Graham, you don’t need to make your wealth quite so obvious.’
I’m dazed, tottering through the place. And I wouldn’t have pegged Graham for someone who loved Christmas, but the decorations are madness.
It’s a sea of tinsel (on cabinets and benches and tables, and just about any surface that exists), and I count four trees in the first ten minutes of the tour.
Fairy lights over railings, baubles in bowls, and glass gingerbread homes lined up on windowsills.
I’ve brought a bottle of champagne with me, but when I reach one of the many bars in his mansion, I scoff. He’s got boxes of the stuff, and better brands, too. I feel I’m no longer worthy of an invite; I’m showing my wage. ‘Well, my contribution is a waste.’
‘Steady on,’ Graham says, reaching forward and grabbing it from me. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge.’ Then he points me in the direction of the main kitchen. That’s how big his place is – he has to point so I don’t lose my bearings in the maze of corridors and nooks.
‘You live here by yourself?’
‘I do.’
‘What if you get lost? You take a wrong turn and get disorientated, who knows where you’d end up?’
He wears an amused expression. ‘It’s a house, not a fairytale forest.’
Graham insists on doing the majority of the cooking. Glazing the ham, prepping the meat, slicing and oiling the vegetables. All I have to do is sit on the kitchen stool and drink champagne, and it’s making me feel all sorts of rich.
‘You like cooking?’ I ask.
‘It’s calming,’ he says as he seasons the vegetables with rosemary then takes a sip from the champagne flute to his right.
‘And Christmas?’
‘I like what it does to the world. People stopping and celebrating on the same day. There’s something about that, I can’t quite explain it.’ After a brief pause, he adds, ‘And my mother loved this time of year.’
This might just be the first time he’s ever mentioned his mother to me. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘What would you have been doing, if I hadn’t?’
‘Cooking ham for one,’ I say, chuckling. ‘My mum sent through a recipe.’
‘Sounds depressing.’
‘You’d be alone too. If I’d said no.’
He smirks. ‘I meant ham for one sounds depressing. Not being alone.’
‘Oh. Right.’
He straightens, rolls his shoulders back. Even his apron is festive – an enlarged green Christmas tree with flashing lights attached – and it reminds me of my dad. He loved wearing those loud, silly aprons at Christmas. ‘You should’ve gone home for the holidays.’
I stop mid-sip, and place down the glass.
He continues. ‘We would’ve survived without you. And I could count on one hand the number of times you’ve visited home since we met.’
Now I feel guilty, which I’m sure was his intention.
‘Please tell me you’ve spoken to them today.’
‘Yes, I’ve spoken with them,’ I say. ‘Called them both this morning.’
Mum was prepping cocktails, and Naya was dressing the kids and listing out all the gifts she and Leonard had given them this morning. Leonard, somewhere, was fastening a new, Christmas bowtie around his neck.
It’s been so long since I’ve spent Christmas with my family, I’m afraid I can’t picture what they’d be doing right now. It’d be too early for lunch, I’m sure, so perhaps Mum is giving the kids her presents. Or maybe they’ve already unwrapped them and are playing in the yard. Or maybe—
‘Charlie? Did you hear me?’
‘Oh.’ I readjust myself on the bar stool. ‘No, sorry.’
‘I was thanking you. For the year,’ he says. ‘I know how hard you’ve tried.’
He’s thinking about the ratings again. I’m thinking about the ratings again. Even on Christmas Day, of all days, and we’re morose about it.
‘You’ve had more meetings,’ I say. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
It’s all I’ve been stressing about these past couple of weeks, really. Graham staying later at the station, walking into meetings with suited men and their gel-parted hair.
He holds my gaze for a beat, then glances away. ‘I’ve been negotiating my contract for next year.’
‘Oh. Oh .’ Relief floods through me. ‘So you’re staying then? We’re okay?’
‘We’re okay.’
‘They’re keeping you? Oh, Graham, that’s such good news.’ Hand to my chest, I feel ten pounds lighter.
We’re safe. We’re okay. All that hard work wasn’t enough to keep us in second place, but it was enough to keep our jobs, and suddenly I’m not as distraught that we fell so far in the ratings. Because we’re safe , and Graham still has a job.
And then I’m heavy again. Because if Graham is okay, what does that mean for me?
He senses my discomfort. ‘I already told you, you’re fine. I’ve made sure of it.’
Why do I not believe him? I still feel uneasy – wound up.
‘We don’t need to talk about this today,’ I say. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘I know.’ Looking me in the eye, he adds, ‘I just want to make sure that you know you’re the best producer I’ve ever had. And I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with you.’
‘Oh. Graham, me too.’