Page 33 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Late on Saturday evening, Graham finds me repainting his kitchen walls.

‘What are you doing?’

He’s come from the cellar, a bottle of Irish whiskey in hand, expression amused. Trackpants, T-shirt, bare feet. He leans against the doorframe and watches me.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

I’m crouched on the ground, perched atop a bedsheet I found in a cupboard along the western wing, holding a paint roller.

Hair pulled back into a low bun, wearing a stretched bed shirt I was considering tossing.

I’ve started with the wall by the dining table and have almost completed the first coat.

‘Did you mark the walls?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you painting?’ he asks. ‘And where did you get all this stuff?’

‘Found it in the basement.’ I continue painting.

‘You know I pay people to repaint my interiors? Every couple of years.’

But we both know it’s not about the painting. Not about the kitchen or the eggshell colour of the walls. It’s not even about this house.

It’s simply a way to occupy my time.

Graham pops off the bottle cap and sips the whiskey. Then, heads further into the kitchen, opens a cupboard and takes out a glass. Pours himself a generous serving.

‘Want some?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

He’s drinking more, I’ve noticed. Didn’t think it was possible, but there’s definitely been an increase. He’s still pretending everything is fine. Still assuring me he’s okay with being fired, even though I suspect he’s not.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘Perfect.’

See? Pretending. ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do after you finish for the year?’

‘No. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’

‘After you leave?’

‘No.’ He looks over at me, takes a sip of his drink. ‘About your engagement ring. And Genevieve being gone. What are you going to do the next time you have to see Dave?’

I don’t quite know how to answer that.

‘You’re going to have to figure it out eventually.’

That’s hardly news. Of course I’m going to have to figure something out. As much as I wish it, Dave is not going to disappear – although sometimes I imagine him evaporating, nothing left but a puff of smoke, and it makes me giddy.

‘Do you regret getting married?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘Not even the fourth one?’ I say, knowing that wife took photos of him drunk and sold them to the tabloids not long after they separated. She told him she did it for the money and he said he would’ve given her the cash, if she’d just let him know.

‘I find it hard to trust people,’ he says. ‘But the ones I do trust, I like being around.’

He looks at me then, with this expression I cannot place. Pensive, small smile. ‘I thought every single one of them was going to last.’

‘Do you keep in touch with any of them?’

He looks down, shakes his head, then glances around at the kitchen bench, where I’ve left mess from dinner. I hadn’t yet harnessed enough energy to clean up. ‘Another Penelope special?’ Graham notes.

‘It is.’ I run the roller down to the base of the wall, and back up. ‘You going to join me one evening?’

He shrugs, takes a sip. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Have you booked your flights home yet?’

‘No.’

‘Charlie.’ He sighs. ‘You’ve got a family that loves you and you barely even see them. It’s really sad.’

‘Excuse me?’

Sensing my tone, he holds up his hands in defence. ‘They care about you. And you never see them. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘They never visit either,’ I counter. ‘Been here ten years and I think they’ve visited once.’

He shrugs, as if to say, I don’t know anything about that .

‘I’ve never seen you with your family.’

When I was preparing for my job interview, I read as much about Graham as I possibly could.

Every interview, every segment, every snippet I could find.

And nowhere, in any of the information I found, was there a mention of his parents.

He’s mentioned his mother to me once or twice, but never talks about them on air, in the station, to the press.

And even though we’ve all wondered at some point whether they were still alive, none of us has dared ask.

‘It’s like you just appeared one day. Rose out of the ground, all on your own.’

He doesn’t reply.

‘I’ll book the flights, I promise.’ Can’t quite bring myself to stomach the task, but just another thing I’m going to have to face eventually.

Fastening my grip on the roller, I rise and look at my handiwork. The smell of paint always does make me feel like I’m starting something afresh. I feel cleansed.

‘Genevieve finished her nursery,’ I say. ‘She sent me a photo. Want to see? They’ve put stencilled stars next to the window and they’ve painted the walls lilac.’

I can feel him behind me, can feel his comforting presence as he steps closer.

He does not answer me. Instead, he grabs holds of my upper arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘I think I’d like to pretend for just a little longer.’

‘Pretend?’

‘You asked me what I’m going to do after I finish,’ he says. ‘And I actually think I’d like to believe I’m not leaving. At least for the time being.’