Page 30 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Back at happy hour, Dora updates us on the wedding planning. The menu and the cake and the bridesmaids’ dresses. She’s stressing about the budget, and the weather forecast. She thinks vendors are taking advantage because she’s young.

‘I just can’t believe how much it costs to get married,’ she cries.

‘Imagine doing it more than once,’ Ivan says, smiling. ‘Graham’s been married five times.’

‘Graham has money though,’ I point out. ‘Too much money.’

Ivan suddenly remembers something – I can see it flash in his eyes. He points at me. ‘You’ve been married before, right? How much did it cost you?’

He stinks of wine, like Henry VIII.

‘A lot.’

‘Right.’ He wants to ask me again how much. I can tell by the way his beady little eyes dart between looking at the table, and looking at my face. The way his mouth twists, as he tries to think about how best he can repeat the question without seeming like an arse.

Dora continues. ‘Anyway, it’s absurd, that’s all I’m saying.’ She sips at her wine, and the table falls silent. My shoulders feel heavy, like they might just sink down into my body if I let them.

We’re glum this evening because rumours are circulating at the station that they’re close to securing a new host – that it’s down to three options.

Who exactly, we don’t know. But with each piece of information we overhear, we realise we’re one step closer to losing Graham.

And it wrecks me each time, knowing that.

I check my phone to see if Genevieve has replied to my latest message.

Nothing.

‘How do we think he’s coping?’ Dora asks. ‘Graham.’

‘Not well, I’d guess.’ Ivan readjusts his position on the stool. ‘Imagine if they replace him and in twelve months we’re still fourth. Or worse.’

‘Charlie?’ Dora asks, and they both look my way.

‘He hasn’t said anything to me.’ Which isn’t a lie: he really is keeping everything to himself. Pretending he’s fine, acting as if he’s processed the news.

I don’t buy it. Not for one second.

He keeps disappearing on Saturdays. Every week, he slips away.

When I ask him where he goes, he tells me he just drives. Gets in the car, picks a direction, and keeps driving. ‘Helps clear my head,’ he says.

There is something there, under the surface, that I cannot place. Something he’s not telling me. And I wonder how hard I’ll have to peck to find out.

Ivan buys the next round and I realise how glad I am to have these two. The routine of it all – seeing them at work every day, drinking with them on Friday evenings. They’re not Genevieve, but they’re something. Something to make me feel less alone.

Once again, I check my phone to see if Genevieve has replied.

Nothing.

There’s a natural lull in the conversation, at some point. At ten, or maybe eleven o’clock, Ivan ducks to the bathroom and Dora is on a call with her fiancé. So I grab my phone and open Instagram. Mindlessly scroll while I sip.

It’s my crutch, I realise, to automatically look for Genevieve’s name. To seek out her profile picture in a line-up. Maybe it brings me comfort to know what she’s up to. To know how she’s spending her time.

And when I see that she has posted something new to her story, I open it immediately. Practically stab my phone with my finger clicking on that icon.

‘Oh.’

She is with three other women, seated at a restaurant.

Crisp white linen, gleaming gold cutlery.

Half-eaten pasta in front of them, and a meaty pizza nestled in the middle of the table.

Genevieve is wearing a flowing dress and cradling her growing bump, and she looks so happy – wide grin, hair brushed behind her ears.

Who are these women? How does she know them?

I click on all of their profiles in a desperate attempt to solve this great mystery, but their profiles are on private and it makes me murderous.

‘Fuck.’