Page 37 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Quinn takes me to an Italian bar she’s fond of – shabby, rundown, dimly lit. Finds us a booth, orders two gin cocktails and a bowl of crisps. Then some pasta.

When she takes off her coat, it reveals two arms coated in tattoos.

They’d been covered up at the hens’ party, but here they are, shoulder to wrist, both sides.

Almost complete coverage, dark blue and red.

It’s hard to see all of the tattoos without better lighting, but I spot flowers and mosaics, sculptures and spirals.

There is something rather mesmerising about the shapes and the angles on her arm.

She catches me staring. ‘I’ve got space for another,’ she says, pointing to the only blank area left on that arm that isn’t tattooed. It’s the size of my hand. ‘Not sure what to get.’

‘It’s impressive. When did you—’

‘Since I was eighteen.’

‘What about the rest?’ I glance under the table, but she’s wearing jeans.

‘Nothing yet,’ she answers. ‘Just the arms. Might go for the back next. Or maybe one of my calves.’ When she flips over her left hand to reveal the initials PV on the back of her wrist, she smirks. ‘My ex-husband. Peregrine Vance.’

‘His name was Peregrine?’

‘Ridiculous, right?’

‘Do you keep in contact?’

She shakes her head. ‘You?’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘He used to call me Charlie and now he calls me Charlotte .’

I haven’t acknowledged that aloud until now – haven’t allowed myself a moment to speak about how awful that is, for someone to call you something different after so many years. No matter what happened, he says Charlotte and it feels like the last ten years have been erased.

‘Well, last I heard,’ Quinn starts, ‘Perry was living on a tree farm and learning to grow eggplants.’

Later, when we’re four wines deep and I’ve divulged far too much about my predicament with the engagement ring, she considers it her responsibility to offer a solution.

‘So here’s what you should do,’ she says, straightening. Fork in her hand, spaghetti wrapped around three-fold. She’s wobbly on the chair. Body like a noodle. ‘Turn up to his apartment, shove a finger in his face and tell him to fuck off.’

‘And option number two?’

‘Turn up to his workplace , shove a finger in his face and tell him to fuck off.’

It doesn’t sit right with me, either suggestion. Telling Dave to fuck off, when I’m the one who lost the engagement ring?

She clocks my uncertainty and softens. ‘Or you could just tell him the truth.’

I gesture to her empty left hand. ‘What did you do with your rings?’

‘Sold them,’ she says, chuckling.

When her phone rings, the screen lights up between us. Vibrates next to the bowl of crisps.

Cinar .

She pulls her phone to the other side of the table, throwing me an uneasy glance.

So I guess they’re still together then.

If Genevieve were here, we’d laugh about it all.

She’d tell me, again, how horrible the group was.

How they don’t deserve me. She’d turn petty and call them ghouls and tell me Josie’s hand lotion isn’t that good, that Cinar’s artwork looks like a child’s, and that Emmanuel’s clothing needs tailoring.

She’d pin anything she could on them to ease my anxious mind.

‘You can answer that, if you need to.’

Quinn considers it, but ultimately declines the call and slips her phone into her bag.

We fall into an easy silence, and I think about how I haven’t heard from Cinar in weeks. How, in the group chat, he acknowledged that lying to me was the only way .

I wonder if he lies to Quinn.

‘How is he—’

‘He’s good, really good.’ She gives a tight nod. ‘He’s got a show coming up, in case you want to …’

‘Probably not.’

‘Right.’

‘But thank you for the invite.’

She nods.

‘Things seem to be going well, between you.’ I don’t actually know that, not for certain.

She hides a smile, looks over at me. ‘Because he hasn’t broken up with me yet?’

‘Yes.’ I sip from my glass.

We laugh, and the tension between us eases.

I like that we can laugh about these things, that we seem to be on the same page.

I like that she seems like a sensible, well-rounded person.

That she, too, made a mistake and married the wrong person.

And seems to be doing better because of it.

Most of all, I like that she sympathises.

That she understands. Josie, Cinar Emmanuel and Diego, they just couldn’t seem to understand why I left.

Couldn’t seem to hide their judgement – their distaste, at what I’ve done to Dave.

I take a moment to look at Quinn’s tattoos again. Those shapes and colours – the flowers and the architecture. I don’t need to know much about tattoos to admire them; I cannot help but lean towards her to take a better look.

An arched eyebrow tells me Quinn is surprised by my curiosity.

‘Just interested in this one.’ I point at her forearm. Cursive writing – Ohanna . There’s something shadowed across Quinn’s face when she looks down at that word.

‘It’s Armenian,’ she responds, quieter than before.

‘A name?’

‘My mother,’ she answers in a whisper. ‘That was actually the first one.’

‘Your first tattoo?’

She nods. ‘After she died, then I started decorating around it. The orchids, the tree roots.’ She twists her arm to show me the other side. ‘I’ve got a clock around her at the back—’

‘Does it mean anything?’

‘My tattoos? Or my mum’s name?’

‘The clock.’

She shrugs. ‘Just saw one I liked. It was cut-out, with berries and mountains. Kind of charming and rather unique, so I photographed it. Got it inked on my arm a few years back.’

My attention diverts back to Ohanna , and the way it kickstarted all of Quinn’s tattoos.

‘You want to ask about her, don’t you?’ She gives me a pointed look.

I didn’t realise I was being so obvious. ‘A little,’ I respond. ‘But I know what it’s like, people asking questions about someone you’ve lost.’

I hate it. Always have. A few people have asked, over the years. What happened? How did he die? Like those weren’t intrusive questions. And when Father’s Day rolls around, I just want to disappear. Close my eyes and wake up when it’s over.

‘It doesn’t bother me. I like talking about her.’

‘You like talking about her?’ I echo, unable to process it. ‘Really?’

‘I don’t like forgetting about her,’ she says. ‘Each year, I can feel her memory shrinking. And I don’t like it. It scares me. And so, if you want to ask about her, you can. I don’t mind.’

I do ponder it, for a split second. For Quinn to have her mother’s name tattooed on her body means she must’ve been somebody special.

‘It’s okay.’ I retreat, leaning back in my chair.

I’m still thinking about what she said, that her memory is shrinking. That she feels her mother fading.

I cannot remember what my father sounded like. What his signature cologne was. How often he’d get his hair cut or what his favourite films were. All I remember is how he made us feel – loved, safe.

‘So, your engagement ring,’ Quinn says. ‘The more I think about it, the more I think you need to buy a replica.’