Page 27 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Once at home, I search for Graham.

All I know is that I do not want to be alone here.

I’m always alone in this place, and it fills my body with remarkable dread.

I do not want to think about the bar, and that man, and how it felt when I realised I could start over, if I chose to.

Instead, I want to mindlessly drink. Spirits, preferably.

And with someone who gets it. Not Dora or Ivan.

I want someone who has been through what I’m going through, and who can tell me what this means.

It’s absurd how long it takes me to find Graham.

I spend fifteen minutes walking through bedrooms, corridors and living rooms calling out his name.

His house is ridiculous in size. To think I grew up in a settler’s cottage and somehow ended up here, even if only for a short amount of time, forces me to contemplate: I’ve either done something very right, or very wrong, and I’m not sure which.

I give up and call him. ‘You’re home, right? Your car is outside.’ ‘I’m by the pool.’

‘Which pool?’

‘North-facing.’

I hang up, swivel on a heel and go back the other way, swiping a bottle of Japanese whisky and two glasses from one of the bars. The bottle has already been opened, so I unscrew the lid and take a swig. Then another.

A couple of minutes later I exit the downstairs living area onto the patio, walking over flecked paving and then pebbles. They crunch under my feet.

Doesn’t take me long to spot Graham lying on the outdoor sun lounge, fully clothed in trackpants and a faded grey T-shirt, slides still on his feet.

Of course, he’s already got a drink with him and a bottle down on the floor. He’s cloaked largely in darkness, except for the faint, warm glow coming from fairy lights behind him – wrapped around a shrub, half of them not working.

‘Never noticed those before.’

He looks over his shoulder. ‘Been there a couple of years. Shayna put them up for Christmas.’

Shayna. The fifth ex-wife.

‘So this is where you hide,’ I say, sinking down onto the sun lounge next to him. I adjust the recliner and look up at the starred sky.

He sips from his glass.

‘Want some more?’ I ask, jiggling the bottle in my hand.

His eyebrow arches. ‘Bad night?’

‘Went drinking with Dora and Ivan.’

‘Went babysitting, you mean.’ He swallows a smile, and I notice the sunken skin beneath his eyes.

The man doesn’t sleep much since he was fired.

And these last few months on air seem like such torture, I’m wondering if it would’ve been better if he’d been dismissed immediately, instead of given notice.

I pour myself a generous serve. ‘A man hit on me at the bar.’ The way I say it, pitch slightly piqued, is like I’m surprised it even happened.

His smile turns sly. ‘And how do we feel about that?’

‘At first it was exciting. And then it was terrifying.’

His expression suggests he’s been there before, the way his body softens and his mouth pinches in the corners.

‘Does that go away? Feeling terrified?’

‘Eventually.’ He kicks off his shoes. ‘Sickening at the beginning, though. My first date after Leona, my body ran so hot I was melting at the table. The woman was ten minutes late and I spent the entire time googling that surgery to make your hands stop sweating.’

‘Is that a thing?’

‘The surgery? It is. An enormous amount of money though. Even for me.’ He sips.

Our conversation takes a pause, Graham switching up his drink. Reaches for the second glass from the ground, fills it one-third with whisky.

I look down, fiddle with the whisky glass and then take another sip.

‘Young people are terrified of being single.’ He glances across at me, reaches out to cheers my drink. ‘What you did was a good thing.’

Are young people afraid of being single, or is everyone afraid of being single?

Graham’s been married five times. Josie won’t stop complaining about her husband but has no plans to leave him.

Cinar is always in a new relationship, and then ends them three months later so he can find someone else.

Dora is getting married at twenty-three.

‘It doesn’t always feel like a good thing.’

He is silent.

‘I feel like I wasted all that time with him.’

‘You didn’t know.’

‘I think I did.’ I sink further into the chair. ‘On some level, I knew something was wrong.’

He looks across at me, sympathy crossing his face. He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You ever going to tell me what he did? Did he murder someone?’

‘No.’

‘Human trafficking?’

I shake my head.

‘Mass poisoning with that awful wine of his?’

I whirl on him. ‘I liked his wine.’

Graham corrects himself. ‘That’s mean, actually. His wine is okay.’

‘Just okay?’

One of his eyebrows rises. ‘That’s me being generous.’ He pauses then drains his glass. ‘Charlie, did he cheat?’

‘No.’

He is shocked quiet. Then his upper lip curls towards his nose and he makes a hoomph sound. ‘Well, shit. Okay. I was certain I had that one.’

I swivel around, planting my feet back on the ground. Take my glass and rest it on my knee. Think about all that happened between me and Dave – all I went through – and realise that with Genevieve gone, maybe I should tell someone else.

‘He—’

‘Don’t.’ Graham holds up a hand.

‘What?’

‘I actually think it might be best if you don’t tell me.’

‘Oh.’

‘It was bad, what he did.’ He eyes me, his expression softening. ‘Sensed it when you first told me you’d left him. Could see how much you were hurting. And I always thought he’d had an affair, but if he didn’t— ’

He looks to me to triple check, and I shake my head to confirm.

‘—then he did something even worse. And I don’t want you telling me unless you really want me to know.’ He points to my drink. ‘And not when you’ve done nothing but drink.’

He continues. ‘I have so many regrets about how I handled my separations,’ he says.

Not divorces. Separations . ‘I told anyone who’d listen what happened.

Blabbed to the heavens. And now I look back and realise I wasn’t being very smart.

So many people out there know my business, are free to pass it on to whoever they choose.

’ He looks over at me. ‘If you tell me, you need to be sure.’

I go to speak, but come up short. My mouth hanging open, no sound coming out.

I love Graham, always have. And I trust him, but not like I trust Genevieve.

And maybe I’m not ready yet to let him in.

To give him this one final piece of the puzzle, and have him realise just who I was married to.

Dave did something unforgivable, and I judge myself every day for missing it.

For marrying him, for being so blind. Do I want to give other people the opportunity to judge me too?

Refilling his glass, Graham pivots the conversation. ‘So, Ivan and Dora. How were drinks?’

‘Dora’s getting ready for her hens’ party.’

‘Just what you need,’ he says. ‘Sipping cheap prosecco from a dick straw. Do people who have hens’ parties realise they don’t have to?’

‘She asked me how you were feeling about it all, and I didn’t know what to say.’

He’s quiet, running his fingertips over the rim of his glass. ‘How are you feeling?’

Shrugging, he sinks back into the lounge. ‘It is what it is. All fine. I’ll survive.’

Guarded, as suspected. ‘Because—’

My phone buzzes in my pocket and our conversation takes a pause. I fish it out. Genevieve.

How are you? What are you doing? I MISS YOU.