Page 26 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After they announced Graham’s impending departure, I began socialising with colleagues after work – Dora and Ivan, mostly, for happy hour on Fridays. We drink spritz and beer and wine at our local until I stumble home alone.

The three of us realised, almost instantly, that we needed each other if we were going to get through this. Graham’s departure, and all the media attention. A new host, the ratings results. Suddenly, as if overnight, we bonded.

Tonight, we’re perched on bar stools around a high table. Above us, on the television screen spanning the entire width of our table, is a basketball game that none of us are watching.

Dora, ever the optimist, tries to reassure us that Graham needs a break, that he must be exhausted, and that his departure is a blessing in disguise. Tucking her hair behind her ears – a sleek, auburn bob with a blonde balayage – she incants the phrase ‘everything happens for a reason’.

Ivan takes a different route. ‘He’s a crusty old geezer about to crumble into dust,’ he says, then senses our reaction. ‘But yeah, it’s sad. I’ll be bummed to see him go.’

He’s sturdy, Ivan. Tall, muscle-less and pudgy with perfectly crafted hair – shaved on the sides, polished blonde quiff on top, and he’s obsessed with ensuring every strand of hair stays in its rightful position.

‘Is anyone going to drink this?’ he adds, pointing to a spare cider on the table – an error from the bartender who accidentally made an extra one without charging us for it. Dora and I shake our heads, still nursing our third drinks.

‘Wonderful.’ He grabs it, taking a sip. ‘All I’m saying is the other stations are lapping us. No one wants him anymore.’

‘I want him,’ I say. Dora nods in agreement.

Ivan looks me in the eye, then jokes, ‘Yeah, but you’ve been around almost as long as he has. You’re paid to like him.’

His logic is flawed, and incorrect, but I’m not going to argue.

Too exhausting. The man once told me we shouldn’t need farmers because we have grocery stores.

Sometimes I remember he’s got a fully formed frontal lobe and it’s all I can think about for the rest of the day.

How beautiful it’d be if, just once, he stopped describing male sports players as men with no necks.

He’s our social media manager and I’m worried he’s accidentally going to post from the work account one day and we’ll make the tabloids.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Ivan says. ‘The man’s house has, what, fifty bedrooms? Plenty of space to wallow. And decompose.’

Dora slaps his arm but laughs at the same time. ‘You’re so bad.’

Neither of them asked where I moved to after Genevieve left, and I didn’t want to tell them. Didn’t want the questions, or the envy. Didn’t want them asking if they could come over to see the place.

‘Okay, make sure I stop after this one,’ Dora says, placing her hand on top of her glass. ‘Need to be up early tomorrow.’

She hasn’t told us what for, but I’d bet money it’s related to the wedding. It’s remarkable how quickly she and Cleaver have managed to pull everything together – how easily they were able to lock in a venue, a planner, the dress, the guest list, the menu. Dora’s always been efficient like that.

‘Oh,’ she says, perking up. Swivels towards me, placing a hand on the table in front of my drink. ‘You’re coming to the hens’, right? You haven’t RSVPed.’

‘Oh god, sorry. Yes, yes, I’m definitely coming.’

‘Great.’ She raises a finger in the air, taps the side of her forehead. ‘Making a mental note to add you to the seating plan.’

Ivan makes a face. ‘Devastated I’m missing out.’ His mother’s sixtieth is on the same evening. Flapper-themed. He rises. ‘Bathroom,’ he explains, darting off.

The bar is not quite as busy as usual, but we’re still lucky to have nabbed a table. The place is a smorgasbord of finance men – six-five, pressed suits, brass rings, polished brown shoes – and I watch as Ivan slips through the crowd, running his eyes over some of the men as he does.

Suddenly, Dora is switching to the stool next to me.

Placing her drink next to mine. ‘How is Graham feeling about the whole, firing thing?’ She says firing thing so flippantly, and it reminds me of her age.

That this is probably the first colleague she’s ever known to get fired. ‘Been meaning to ask you.’

‘Why?’

Her head tilts, suggesting I’m silly. ‘If there’s anyone he would’ve talked to, it’s you.’

Well, yes, this is true. But that doesn’t mean we’ve talked about it. Doesn’t mean he’s divulged. ‘I don’t know that he’s ready to talk about it.’

‘Oh.’ She’s disappointed, deflating. Eyes downcast. ‘Okay.’

Should I be pressing him about it? The man isn’t a very open person, and even after six years there’s a lot I don’t know – he’s revealed very little about his family and his childhood. Outside of the station, and his career, he’s quite guarded.

‘I imagine he’s very disappointed,’ I say. ‘That job is his world.’

‘Do you think he’ll go somewhere else?’

I shrug.

‘Or maybe he’ll retire.’

I say nothing.

‘Maybe he’ll switch careers, do something else. That’d be me, I reckon. I’m delulu like that.’

Delulu . Another moment that reminds me of her age.

‘I wonder if he’ll be relieved.’

I counter it immediately. ‘He won’t.’ Because I’m picturing his face when he found out, like that morning he saw the ratings.

I’m imagining how he’d feel knowing this could be his last job in the industry – that he may not receive any offers after this.

That he’s tainted, with those ratings. That people think him a has-been.

Ivan returns from the bathroom in a furious mood. Running his hands over his belly, his face a permanent frown. ‘Some little fucker in the bathroom called me chunky. I know I’m not skinny skinny but I still go all right.’

We’re horrified, even though it’s a little bit true.

‘Chunky? Seriously?’ Dora asks.

‘I know,’ he says, looking down. He doesn’t ask us if we agree, or seek validation. He’s reeling from the encounter, drink forgotten.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That’s awful.’

‘The man was probably feeling insecure and took it out on you,’ Dora offers.

‘Was the other guy big too?’ I ask.

‘ Too ?’ Ivan asks, upset. ‘What do you mean too ?’

Oh god. ‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant—’

He holds up a hand, and I stop. Dora catches my eye and I can see she’s trying not to laugh.

Ivan downs the rest of his drink. ‘What an utter fuck ,’ he says. ‘Can’t believe it. Just wanted to piss in peace.’

Dora announces she now needs the bathroom. ‘All this toilet talk and I’m suddenly busting.’

‘Careful,’ Ivan warns. ‘The toilets here come with body shaming.’

After she’s gone, Ivan takes her spot on the stool next to mine. Comes in real close – so close I can smell the cider on his breath. He’s intense. Eyes alert, body rigid. He’s going to talk about something very important.

‘Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m chunky?’

‘I don’t like where this is headed.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I feel like there’s no right answer.’

‘There is,’ he says, desperate. ‘There is .’

‘Okay, well. No, you’re not chunky,’ I say, fibbing. ‘You look great.’

‘ Liar ,’ he says, pointing at me.

‘Okay, well. Yes, you’ve gained a little weight recently.’

‘Bitch.’ Then, suddenly, we’re laughing. Ivan running his thumb across his chin, and me chuckling into my glass of wine.

Ivan glances down at his belly. ‘It’s getting harder as I get older. I have this constant desire to be skinny but the complete lack of motivation to do anything about it.’

Later, long after Dora has left, I head for the bar. ‘Two gin and tonics, please. Double shot.’ The bartender nods, turning to assemble the drinks.

‘Two doubles? I respect it.’

I turn, looking for the source, and come face to face with an older man. His forehead is at eye level, his body puffed in a buttoned-up business shirt. A golden necklace clasped tight around his neck, and a rugged beard stretching down from his face.

He’s got a pointed face like a bird that’s been extinct for millions of years. ‘I’m Vance.’

‘Charlie.’

‘Nice.’ He looks – no, peers – at me, like he’s attempting to crack a code. ‘You work nearby?’

He’s well-dressed, but it’s a certain vibe.

His shirt is rich green and tailored, but oddly patterned.

Botanical designs – oversized flowers, shrubbery, seeds.

All overlapping and repetitive and far too chaotic.

Like Gucci in the ’70s. Like the kind of man who’d wear cowboy boots with a tasselled jacket.

‘The radio station,’ I say, then point behind me. It’s entirely unnecessary to do that, because it’s eleven o’clock, we’re too many drinks in, and he doesn’t need to know the direction of my workplace.

‘Oh?’ he says, voice rising. ‘Interesting. I work across the road actually. I’m in sales.’

‘What do you sell?’

‘Insurance.’ Then he leans forward, chuckles. ‘It’s actually very boring. Please don’t judge me for it.’

Laughing, I step closer. ‘You didn’t say what kind of insurance it is. Could be body part insurance. Could be cyber insurance.’

He pouts. ‘It’s dental insurance.’

I turn away. ‘Oh no.’ I smirk. ‘You’re a lost cause.’ Tapping with my credit card, I pick up my two drinks and pretend to slip past him. ‘Couldn’t possibly be interested now.’

He laughs, and it doesn’t match his exterior. It’s rather angelic – delicate. Quiet and reserved, but sharp and detailed, with a slight rise at the end.

The crowd is even louder now, and for someone with a voice that soft, he has to lean forward to be heard. His hand grazes my elbow in the process. ‘So, what do you do at the radio station?’

‘I’m a producer.’

His lips part, and there’s a glimmer to his expression. ‘Whoa, okay. Love that. Very interesting. Love music then?’

‘Love Graham Jackson,’ I clarify. Then I add, ‘And music, I guess.’ ‘Can you play anything?’

‘Musical instrument? I played the recorder in school,’ I offer. ‘You?’

He pats his chest. ‘Drums.’

‘Any good?’

‘For a nine-year-old playing in my bedroom, yeah.’

‘Got any siblings?’

‘Three.’

‘Bet they loved you.’

His mouth twitches, amused. ‘We had our moments,’ he says. ‘My brother dabbled in the saxophone for a couple of years.’

‘And your other two siblings?’

‘Bought ear plugs.’

I hold in a laugh, but the smile escapes.

And he uses it as an opportunity to step closer.

The way he looks at me – and only me – triggers something.

Reminds me of Dave, and the first time we met.

In a pub, not too dissimilar to this one.

We’d bonded over a quip, too. Made each other laugh.

He’d looked at me with the same eager, wide smile that Vance currently has across his face.

And it frightens me, how easily I could be that to someone else.

How easily I could start something with a new person, after a chance encounter in a bar.

It’s all too easy. And far too quick.

‘I don’t want to leave my colleague waiting, but I’ll come find you later.’ I have no intention of finding him later, but I cannot bring myself to reject him. Cannot bring myself to disappoint him, and that wide smile, like I’ve just recently done with Dave.

This is too much too soon. Flirting with him, flirting with anyone , has me feeling trapped. Claustrophobic. So uncomfortable that when I slip away from him, I don’t even hear his objections – don’t hear what he says to try and stop me.

When I return, Ivan pokes a finger at me. He’s fuming, his frown back. ‘What do you think you’re doing speaking with him? That short greasy geezer is the one who called me chunky .’