Page 24 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Naya cannot quite grasp that I’ve elected to attend a book club. ‘But you barely read,’ she says over the phone while one of her kids calls for her in the background. ‘Not now, Mummy’s on the phone to Aunty Charlie.’

My phone pressed against my ear, I stare at the terrace house before me. Old, paint-stripped, charming. Door painted a deep red, with black detailing around its rim and a thick, bristled door mat. I hear the sound of buzzed discussion on the other side.

‘I read plenty.’

‘Really?’ she says, sharply. ‘What books?’

I laugh, but only a little. That raised pitch in her voice, and the pointed nature of her questions.

She’s the reader in the family, always has been – self-confessed bookworm with shelves stretched to the ceiling.

I can tell I’ve encroached on her territory.

Now that she has kids, I know she wishes she had more time to read.

Dad always said that one of his favourite things about her was how much she loved books – falling into other worlds, other perspectives, other lands – and I know it’s something she still thinks about.

A child calls for her again, and she groans. ‘Charlie, sorry, I have to go. Tell me how it goes. Where is it?’

I shrug. ‘Just some house. I’ll send you a picture.’

‘I assumed it’d be, like, a pub or a café or something. Not someone’s house .’ She groans. ‘Lord, one day you’re going to turn up to one of these things and get murdered.’

One of these things .

It’s been one month since Genevieve and Bruce left, and four weeks of exploring as many different methods as possible to fill my time.

Distract myself. Meet new people. Wine tours, pub crawls, music festivals, anonymous meet-ups I found on the internet, soap-making classes (a low point), ocean swim races, tennis clubs, dinner parties, bar-hopping with colleagues.

The list goes on. And while I’ve met some great people, something about each interaction has left me feeling unsatisfied.

‘You’re going to be turned into a podcast, I can feel it.’ One of Naya’s children screeches and she lets out another frustrated groan. ‘Sorry, I’ll call you later. Be careful, okay?’

And then she’s gone, the line dead. I’m left alone with my thoughts and the paperback copy of a book that I did indeed read but couldn’t understand. One of those literary books that definitely had a hidden meaning – if only I could figure out what it was!

Once inside, I’m greeted by a tall, pencil-thin woman about ten years younger than me with six books under one arm and a glass of prosecco in the other. An icon.

Closing the door behind me, she flashes me a smile. ‘Welcome.’

She introduces herself, and then about six other women standing nearby. I instantly forget all their names, but I am grateful when they pass me a glass of wine and point out the various cheeseboards laid out around the room.

‘Head through to the back,’ she says. ‘The girls are there somewhere. They’re wearing white trainers.’ The girls . Alannah and Francine, book club founders. Sisters. I remember their names from social media – their beaming profile photos, hands curled into a wave.

‘Thank you.’

The house is open and bright. White walls, high ceilings, cool air coming in through open windows down the back of the house. Oak bookshelves line the back of the house by the kitchen, rugs along the floorboards don rich colours – plum, teal, a pumpkin tone.

Rising onto the tips of my toes, I scan the room.

If I had to guess, I’d say there are about thirty women in here.

Youngest around twenty, oldest in their late forties.

It’s eight o’clock and I’m going to regret this in the morning – the late weeknight, the alcohol.

But when I contemplate heading home, I promptly change my mind.

Genevieve isn’t here anymore. I am, begrudgingly, alone.

We no longer live together, and I am missing her something stupid.

It’s like a limb has been removed and I’m learning to live without it.

Floundering, stumbling, doing anything I can to acclimatise.

Before she left, Graham offered me one of the many empty rooms in his mansion. Just temporarily, he said, while I figure things out. It was very altruistic of him, but I also suspect he wanted company after news broke of his firing.

And so, somehow, I’ve survived four weeks without her, and with each day that passes I feel like I am still in mourning.

Like I am a wealthy, teary woman at my husband’s funeral staring at the ground as his body is lowered beneath it – except for the fact that I do not have much money at all and my clothes scream common folk.

And I really do look like a swollen panda bear when I cry.

Nearby, someone lets out a high-pitched laugh and it makes me wince.

Spurs me forward, through the property. Draining half my wine, I shoulder my way through the people.

Past the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen and the bookshelves.

Beeline past a group of girls each discussing their mother-in-law (‘I’m very lucky to have her.

She’s very nice. Very welcoming. But she’s also a nosy mole. ’).

Doesn’t take long to find them, in merino sleeveless tops.

Alannah and Francine are on the balcony, standing in the open doorway.

The close resemblance is remarkable. Their mouths dip in the same manner, their body shapes identical – average height, barrel-chested and busty but lean in the legs.

Borderline translucent skin. Both are wearing wide-leg jeans, although different (dark blue denim, khaki corduroy).

‘Charlie, right?’

After we’ve introduced ourselves, they describe themselves as girlies in their thirties . Then they ask me how I feel about the book.

‘I have many thoughts,’ Francine says, dimples flashing, her hair the colour of soot.

‘All of them good,’ Alannah adds, then clutches her chest. ‘I cried at the end.’

Francine tips her head back. ‘The twist . Ugh, gutting.’

Oh god. Help! I can’t remember a twist. Can’t remember the last one hundred pages. I completely zoned out. Barely knew what was happening. Only finished it because of this meet-up.

‘I really struggled, actually.’

‘You did ?’ Francine says, horrified. Then she holds out a hand to stop me from speaking any further. ‘Let’s save this until we’re with the others.’

Together, they lead me back into the house to introduce me to some of the other members.

They start with Lily, who they’ve known since the first meet-up a couple of years earlier.

She’s recently cut her hair into a bob and she’s not so sure about it.

She strokes the ends while Alannah compliments the style.

Cordelia and Sally joined the club at the same time, and work together at a nearby media agency.

Cordelia says she doesn’t read as much as she used to, and makes some sort of distraught face when she says she’s only been able to read five books this month.

Five! In the same month! And she’s not trying to be funny.

I lose track of the names after that. One girl recently graduated with a degree in nutrition and another asks for my star sign. ‘Cancer,’ I respond, and the girl nods. ‘Thought so.’

Another member runs marathons on her weekends, evidently by choice, and the girl next to her – round face, glasses, arms and neck coated in fake tan – works as an event manager at a library not too far from here.

She shakes my hand, the only one who does, and tells me she lives and breathes books.

Another woman is a self-confessed yogi who calls her friends her tribe .

It’s a blur, and incredibly hard to keep tabs on everyone.

Their names slip out of my memory almost as soon as I’m told them.

This is the most ambitious event I’ve attended since Genevieve left (and that’s including the podunk carols singalong in a dimly lit park just a couple of weeks back!).

More people than any other night. More faces and more conversations, more glasses of wine.

It’s selfish, I know, but I search each of them for some hint of familiarity. Just something that reminds me of Genevieve – her dry humour, her optimism, her class. Sporadic insults she throws out when I’m in need of a laugh.

Here, just like every other event I’ve attended, I want to meet someone and think, Yes, it’s you . I don’t have Genevieve but I’ll have you .

Because the easiest way to move on from her is to try and find a new her. A new Genevieve. And it’s not going to be easy, I know that. Genevieve and I have known each other for a decade. We’ve been friends since I had bad eyebrows.

Back at the house, Cordelia is updating the group on a dating disaster. ‘I lied and told him I could ski, and then found out he went to the Olympics for it.’ She sighs. ‘So, yeah, didn’t really work out.’

At some point, and I promise it arises naturally, the conversation shifts towards chest size and Francine moans about her own. ‘If I had the money I’d reduce them,’ she says, looking down. ‘People look at me and just think, boobs .’

She’s right. I did think boobs when I first saw her.

‘But I didn’t choose the DD life.’

‘If I had money, I’d do a lot of things,’ Alannah says. ‘I should’ve bought a house in 1990 instead of learning how to walk.’

Sally adds, ‘I wasn’t even born then and I’m mad at myself.’

I chime in. ‘Only thing stopping me from a drug problem is a money problem.’

The group erupts into laughter. It was a risk; they might have genuinely thought I could have a drug problem.

But I’ve been doing this for weeks – embedding myself into friendship groups, meeting new people – and I’m getting better at it each time.

Have learnt the best moment for a joke, and what questions to ask.

How to ease seamlessly into a group that’s long been close.