Page 28 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY

I am living in the eastern wing of Graham’s mansion.

Eastern wing .

How posh of me. How foul. Sometimes I will stand perfectly still in one of the corridors, and tell myself not to move until I hear a noise.

Any noise! But then I’m standing for so long I worry I’ll turn geriatric before I hear anything, because it’s a fortress and could even be soundproof.

I could emerge from the house one day and discover every other person on this planet has perished, and have zero idea what happened to any of them. Or what year it is.

Most nights, I pace through the halls. Back and forth, like some crazed lunatic in an asylum, I trudge down the centre hallway, with its stark white walls and its plush grey carpet, and then when I reach the end where the cinema room meets a living room, I turn on a heel and make the journey back to my room. Just for something to do.

For the first fifteen minutes of my pilgrimage, I am usually on the phone to my sister.

She always starts the call with a rolling update on her kids like they’re models down a catwalk – one by one.

‘Darla is a poltergeist, I swear,’ Naya says.

‘I came out of the shower this morning and she was just standing there in the corridor, completely in the dark. She yelled at me for getting out of bed before her.’

From there, the conversation diverts.

‘You only call me because you have no one else to talk to,’ she says.

‘That’s not true.’

It’s totally true.

‘I get so worried about you. I’ve started memorising the names and numbers of a few crime reporters,’ she says. ‘In case I need media coverage to solve your disappearance.’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’m not that bad.’

I am that bad. I simply cannot stop signing up for ridiculous activities. With Genevieve gone, I must find ways to fill my evenings. Search for people who could slot into her space.

For a very brief moment, I considered Dora and Ivan. Wondered if it could be them I needed. But then Ivan, drunk on gin and tonic, described me to a friend as middle management, and I realised I needed to cast the net a little wider. Needed to socialise with people my own age.

Earlier in the week, I attended an urban wine crawl and met two women obsessed with talking about their busy jobs. In the middle of the conversation, I realised that being an adult is just saying ‘after this week things will slow down a bit’ until we all die.

One of the women, an alarmingly pale person whose veins showed at the wrists and neck, told us that she’d recently got back together with her troubling ex-boyfriend. ‘I love a good relapse,’ the other woman replied.

My sister clears her throat. ‘Did you hear me? I asked if you’d booked your flights.’

‘Oh, god. Sorry. No, not yet.’

‘You’re terrible.’

‘I know.’ I pass one of the many bathrooms as I walk, and run my hand over the sleek, gold-coloured door handle.

‘You’re coming, right?’

‘Of course I’m coming.’

‘Good, good.’ She sighs. ‘Mum’s garage has flooded.’

‘Again? She needs to get that fixed.’

Naya is quiet, then says, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks, Charlie.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Leonard thinks he can fix it.’

Of course he does. ‘What’s causing the flooding?’

‘I don’t know,’ Naya says. ‘I just know it’s causing me grief.’

In the background, I hear squealing. Laughing, playing, the occasional snort of a child. One of them is running, I can tell from the thump thump thump of their little feet on Naya’s floorboards.

I look down at my own feet, bare, on the carpet. And around me, nothing but silence and pristine walls. Reminds me of home, after Dad died. When whatever fun we’d had together, whatever laughter, was sucked clean out of the house and we all simply co-existed.

I keep pacing. ‘How is Leonard?’

‘Leonard is the same. He’s headed around to Mum’s tomorrow to help her with a few things. She’s driving us a bit nuts, Charlie. I don’t think she suits retirement.’

‘She’s seventy-two.’

‘And bored.’ She huffs. ‘You’re coming home, right? Like, actually coming home?’

‘Naya, I just said—’

‘I know what you said,’ she replies. ‘I need to hear it again.’

‘I’m definitely coming home.’ Begrudgingly. Forcefully.

‘Great. It’s just been a really long time.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you miss us?’

‘Of course I miss you.’

‘But you’re never here. And I don’t understand.

’ There are more squeals, more thump noises as the kids are off on their game.

It’s so loud and I crave more of it. Crave it as I look around Graham’s eastern wing.

As I reach the entrance to the cinema room and run my hand over the closed double door – polished rich wood, painted a deep red.

‘Charlie—’ Naya’s voice wavers. She sniffles, clears her throat.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, yes. Just, excited.’ She clears her throat again, and I’m picturing her pressing her fingers into the corners of her eyes. ‘I need you to—’ She stops herself.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Never mind.’ Her children are loud again, and she excuses herself. ‘Charlie, I have to go.’

‘Oh. You can’t stay?’ I say, as I step through into one of Graham’s living rooms. Cast an eye over the stone interior and the fireplace. The hanging, rustic chandelier and the plush cream sofas. Over at the window, I place a hand on the glass and stare out at the grounds – pitch black.

‘Yeah, I do,’ she says. ‘Need to put the kids to bed.’

‘Talk tomorrow? Same time.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

And then she’s gone.