Page 36 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The next afternoon, my sister is flustered when she answers my call.

‘Charlie, hi. Sorry. It’s noisy. Got the kids with me.

Everyone, say hi to Aunty Charlie.’ She’s in the car, on speaker phone.

I hear Raphael talking about trucks and Darla calling for her mother’s attention.

The other two are quiet. ‘Not now, Darla, I’m on the phone.

Charlie, sorry, just headed to Mum’s for lunch. ’

I’m getting ready for dinner with Quinn. Applying foundation while sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, make-up bag in my lap, tall mirror leaning against the wall in front of me.

Naya waits, then asks, ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes, just calling to see how you are.’

‘Oh.’ She makes a slight squawk sound. ‘Thought you were calling about something.’

I pause. ‘No.’

I hear her flick on the indicator in the car, and Raphael yells out about a dog he can see. ‘Yes, Raphi, a puppy dog,’ Naya says.

‘Is Leonard with you?’

‘No, he’s injured his back.’ Exasperated, she sighs. Turns off the indicator. ‘My sympathy is growing thin, Charlie. I don’t understand why he’s always injured. This man isn’t yet forty, why is he spending so much money on the physio?’

‘How did he injure it?’

‘Playing with the kids.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too.’ She clears her throat. ‘Before we left, I told him to hang out the washing. If he’s going to stay home today, he can do some chores. Am I a bad person?’

‘No.’

‘I told him I don’t have time for his injuries.’

‘Oh.’

‘I know, it’s bad.’ And then she’s quiet.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine. Just a mum with four kids. How are you?’

I feel if I imply in any way that I’m busy, I’ll regret it. ‘Why don’t you visit? All of you. Graham wouldn’t mind, he probably wouldn’t even notice you’re here.’

She laughs. ‘Tempting.’

‘Or come alone. You and me.’

She is quiet for a moment. ‘Have you booked your flights home yet?’

I stop applying blush and say nothing.

‘Charlie, I can’t keep chasing.’

‘I’ll book them, I promise.’

She ignores me. ‘I can’t look after another person.’

‘Excuse me?’ She hasn’t looked after me since I was a teenager. Since Dad died. Since Mum was grieving and she needed to teach me how to use the stove to make dinner. ‘I’m not asking you to look after me.’

‘You are. You really are.’ She lets out a groan. ‘By calling me every second night. By not booking your flights. By never calling Mum but expecting me to update you. You might not realise it, Charlie, but you are asking me to look after you—’

One of the twins starts screaming, a real snotty, tantrum kind of belt.

‘Christ, okay. Charlie, two seconds.’ And she mutes herself, and I’m suddenly listening to white noise while I thicken my eyebrows with setting gel.

I do not expect her to look after me; what an absurd thing to say. I’m the one who calls her! Listens to her woes about Leonard and Mum, bites my tongue when she uses her children to justify her chaotic schedule.

I’m brushing my hair now – still wispy, still a nightmare – into a sleek ponytail, and with each stroke of the brush I grow more and more irate.

I’m trying with all my might to see it from her perspective and I just can’t.

Don’t speak to me about not booking flights when you and Mum have only visited me once—

‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’ She’s back, the car now much quieter. ‘It’s just been a day. We’re almost at Mum’s now. Can we speak tomorrow?’

‘Do you really think you’re looking after me?’

‘It’s fine, Charlie. Ignore me, honestly, I’m just not having a good day. We really do have to go. Is that— Is there anything else?’

Is there anything else? Like I’m her colleague, not her sister.

‘No, I think that’s it.’ I zip closed my make-up bag and rise. ‘I’m heading out, anyway, so yeah, all good. Busy day for both of us.’

‘Great! Okay, talk soon.’