Page 22 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Two weeks later, a freakishly hot day in January, and the air is already thick and sticky when I wake.

Of all the days to hold a gender reveal in a park , and it had to be today. Today! I’m already feeling so clammy, so deflated by the heavy heat in the apartment that I experience pockets of rage as I flitter around collecting everything for Genevieve’s party.

I fear the heat might kill me. My pasty freckled skin is not prepared for this – I’m going to crisp and crumble near a rusty outdoor barbecue and there’ll be nothing left of me except my spaghetti-strap summer dress and chunky silver sandals.

I’m late to arrive because it took me three attempts to leave the apartment this morning.

The first time, I realised I forgot the present – a lush size 00 bodysuit from a boutique near our building – and had to dart inside again.

And then Mum called just as I was stepping back out the door.

We’d been playing phone tag all week, so I chatted with her long enough until I could excuse myself from the conversation.

Turns out, she just wanted to discuss how one of her neighbours, who I cannot remember, sold their home after forty-five years.

And, also, that she was contemplating buying a clothing steamer.

‘Charlie! You made it! We were about to send out a search party.’

Bruce’s wave is entirely unnecessary. His head peeks above the rest of the crowd like a lighthouse. He emerges from the group of people and approaches me in the carpark. ‘Need a hand? Christ, what is all this stuff?’

Flowers. The present. A hat. Genevieve’s hat, because I noticed it on the kitchen table and realised she forgot to bring one. Sunscreen, in case others need it. My handbag. A two-litre water bottle that Bruce calls monstrous.

‘Oh, good thing you brought that.’ He points at the water bottle, then behind him. ‘The lake’s looking low, might need a top-up.’

‘Funny.’

He grabs a few of my belongings and I take the opportunity to glance around the park.

Hectares of open space, with manicured gardens and at least two different playgrounds, children crawling all over them like ants, which reminds me of Naya’s house.

There’s an oval, a sports field, bushland and a small artificial lake in the distance.

I hear the distinct sizzle of meat on a hot barbecue.

All over the park, people use paper to fan their faces and women are tying their hair into top buns.

One man clutches the front of his shirt and jolts the material out and in , out and in, to try and cool his body down.

‘We moved everyone to a shady spot,’ Bruce says, then grabs my forearm. ‘Don’t say anything about the heat to Genevieve. I’m trying to keep her positive.’

‘I feel like my make-up is melting off my face.’

He runs his eyes over my forehead, nose, then down to my chin. ‘No, you look fine.’

‘ Charlie .’ Genevieve appears from behind Bruce (an easy hiding spot), wearing a fitted beige cotton dress with thin straps.

Her face is red, and her skin dewy. Her bump is small but prominent.

Fifteen weeks. She cradles it instinctively.

‘I’ve been trying to call you. Was worried you’d melted or something. Fuck me, it’s hot.’

‘Is it?’ I say, tossing my hair over my shoulder. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘I think the weather is quite nice, actually,’ Bruce adds.

Genevieve narrows her eyes, glancing between the two of us.

I assess her for any kind of indication of how she’s feeling. Is she excited at all? Embracing the pregnancy? Or still annoyed her parents organised a gender reveal without consulting her?

In this moment, I’m also thinking of how Genevieve might feel if things do go awry.

I don’t want to think, even for a second, that her pregnancy will have complications.

But, what if it does ? Her parents meant well planning this, and I know they’re not malicious people, but what if they put on this party and then something unexpected happens? How will she cope then?

Genevieve runs an eye over my olive-green dress, right down to the flared skirting and brown stitching at the hem, and back up. ‘ Love this.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ I extend the present towards her. ‘Where do the gifts go?’

‘The invite said no gifts.’

‘And I ignored.’

Genevieve chuckles, then takes it from me. Places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. ‘I need to check on my parents. They keep touching the cannons and I’m worried they’ll set them off early.’

The cannons . A concept so absurd I twist my body because I must get a good look at them over by the barbecue.

Bio-degradable powder cannons from Etsy, intended to erupt in blue or pink when it comes time for the big reveal.

Something I’d have never guessed until I saw them.

And there they are, looking like male genitalia.

After Genevieve darts off, I step closer to Bruce. ‘How was it? Seeing her parents.’

For a split second, his face stills. Then he masks it with a smile. ‘It was good,’ he says. ‘She really needed that time with her family, I think.’

‘Good, good.’

And then he winces, sympathetic. ‘She told me about the group chat.’

‘Oh. Yes. Awful.’

‘Have you heard from them?’

‘No.’ It’s been almost three weeks and with each passing day, the hurt dulls. Graham was right – I’ll never see them again. ‘Thank god Genevieve’s back or I’d be struggling.’

A quick flash and I see it again, on his face. Guilt, I think. Lines appear on his forehead as he frowns. The inner ends of his eyebrows flick up like tails.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Of course, of course.’ He looks across the park at Genevieve. ‘Big day.’

‘How is she?’

‘You should talk to her,’ he says, face grim. He’s not even trying to hide his expression now. Something is wrong.

‘She’s okay, right?’

He raises his hands to calm me. ‘She’s okay. Her mum really helped. They went out and bought some things, and she has an ultrasound picture to show you. I mean she’s still terrified, and it’s an uphill battle, but she’s okay.’

My body instantly relaxes, my stomach knot gone.

‘Okay, good. That’s good.’ Across the park, I watch Genevieve as she chats with other guests.

Directs them to the food – iced cupcakes, sandwiches, cheese platters, cob loaf, three charcuterie boards and an ice bucket filled with beer – chastises them for bringing gifts, and laughs when they notice the cannons.

Bruce rubs his forehead, and I notice his fingernails – painted a sharp shade of blue. Surprised, I point.

‘Oh, it was Cheryl’s idea,’ he says, extending out his hands. ‘Bit of a last-minute thing. They’ve got pink and blue nail polish over there on the table. Guess what you think the gender will be and paint your nails.’

I glance across at Genevieve, but her hands are now in her pockets. ‘What colour has she painted?’

There’s a pause, and then Bruce speaks. ‘Neither. She won’t do it.’

As I wait for the right moment to speak with Genevieve, I mingle.

Bruce’s sister is so beautiful that I hate her and walk away after a couple of minutes because it’s just too saddening staring at her face – high cheekbones, smooth skin, arched black eyebrows and a set of veneers.

Her forehead is always fresh with botox.

She once told me that when you get to her age (forty-six), you must choose between your body and your face.

It’s a bit of a blur after that – a couple of the teachers from Genevieve’s school (one of them runs phys.

ed. and is mighty jacked, has pink nails), her parents (excited to be here, both guessing a boy), her dentist (not sure how he scored an invite, Genevieve has not once mentioned him, nails painted pink) and some of Bruce’s colleagues (all IT consultants, names include Gary, Jon, Xavier and Ny, all nails painted pink).

Lastly, a former roommate of Genevieve’s named Julia, nails unpainted.

‘Bit presumptuous to have boy and girl ,’ she says, biting into a cupcake.

‘What if the baby identifies as something entirely different?’

I’m quiet for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right.’

Just before the announcement, while Bruce is working out the final touches on those powder cannons, I swipe the nail polish from the tables and pull Genevieve aside.

‘Having fun?’

‘People are fascinated by the cannons, for some reason.’

‘Because they look like circumcised penises.’

She frowns, her mouth making an O . Looks back at them. ‘Oh damn, you’re right.’

‘And they’re cannons , G.’

She winces, and a flash of embarrassment crosses her face. ‘Dad organised them.’

‘I don’t think anyone at this party believes you bought those things.’

She smiles, laughs, then reaches out to me. ‘I missed you.’ Then she points at the nail polish in my hands.

‘I thought we could do ours together?’ I suggest. ‘Although, I’m sorry, there’s only blue and pink—’

‘Ignore Julia,’ Genevieve says. ‘I mean, she’s right, and my parents wouldn’t really understand, but it’s fine.’

I hold them out to her again, but she dismisses me with a shake of the head.

‘Come on.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she says, placing a hand to her stomach. ‘I’ll be happy about whichever sex it is—’

‘It’s just a guess.’

‘Okay, alive and healthy. That’s my guess.’

I lower the nail polish, embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ Genevieve says. ‘That was harsh.’

‘No, you’re right.’

I lead her to a nearby table, far enough away from the group that we’re not overheard.

‘I bought a pram,’ she says. ‘Thought you’d be proud. And a bassinet. And some other things.’

‘That’s great, G.’ I slide in opposite her. ‘Do you want to start looking at listings again? Not now, obviously, but maybe tomorrow?’

She looks down, her face resembling the same expression as Bruce. Guilt.

‘Unless you definitely want to stay in the apartment? Because if you need me to move out, I can be gone tomorrow. Can help you put together furniture, paint walls, whatever you need.’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s not that.’