Page 38 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘I miss you.’ It’s the first thing Genevieve says to me when she calls.

Friday afternoon and I’m seated, alone, out by Graham’s north-facing pool. A crisp white wine in my right hand, my phone pressed against my left ear.

‘Sorry, who is this?’

She chuckles. ‘Tell me you miss me too.’

‘Of course I miss you.’

I recline in the chair as the sun sets behind the house. Graham is out this evening, and I’ve escaped out here for a moment to recollect myself. I never thought I’d say this, but living in a mansion is not what you’d think it to be. It’s a bit dull. Still and silent, much room for self-loathing.

It’s been such a strange week. I’ve seen Quinn twice since that dinner, and each time I’ve come to appreciate her even more.

She’s no-nonsense and brazen. Assertive, but also the first to laugh.

Sometimes I stare at her face and feel this great sense of astonishment that we crossed paths, then I remember she’s dating Cinar and find it all a little confusing.

What does she see in him? He’s flippant and vague, loves to fool women. Quinn is far too smart to be fooled.

Truthfully, Quinn has taken my mind off Genevieve.

‘How are you?’ Genevieve asks.

In front of me, ripples line the pool.

‘We’ve almost chosen a name,’ she continues. ‘And we had a scan today. Twenty-five weeks. I’m getting big.’

‘Big and beautiful?’

‘No, big and sweaty,’ she counters. ‘But the nausea has stopped.’

‘Finally,’ I cry.

‘I know, I know.’ I hear her shuffling about before collapsing down onto something comfortable. ‘I no longer vomit when I see raw meat.’

When she laughs, I drink it in.

I’m aghast at how long it’s been since I’ve seen her in person. Since I’ve hugged her, smelt her citrus perfume, cuddled her little body and felt her arms crush me from behind.

‘You’ve met new people,’ I say, remembering the restaurant photo.

Genevieve knows who I’m speaking about. ‘I joined a mothers’ group. It’s early, but a lot of us are new to the area—’

‘You don’t have to explain. I think it’s nice.’ I feel my insides coiling from jealousy as I say it. ‘I’ve been doing all sorts of silly things since you left. A book club.’

‘Since when do you read?’

‘I tried a martial arts class.’

‘Bitch, I told you . Martial arts is not for you. How many times have I said that?’

‘You were totally right. The experience was harrowing.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, smug. And then there’s a moment of silence – a slight inhale, then a choking exhale.

She’s quietly crying. ‘I just need a minute.’

‘Oh, Genevieve.’

This makes her cry even more, like my empathy has given her body permission to blubber. ‘I’m okay,’ she says.

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I just really miss you,’ she says. ‘My parents are great. And these women, they’re nice, but they’re not you. One of them dresses like she sells Bibles.’

All this time, I thought she was learning to live without me. Moving on. I thought it was just me struggling. I clutch my chest. ‘You can come home.’

‘No, I can’t,’ she says, sniffling. ‘If I could’ve stayed, I absolutely would have.’

‘I know.’

‘And I want to see you. Why haven’t you visited?’

I gasp. ‘Because you haven’t invited me.’

‘Oh, Charlie.’ I can feel her physically deflating. ‘You don’t ever need an invitation.’

My heart feels hard – squeezed tight – and I feel awful. Like a bad friend, like I don’t deserve her. ‘I’ll visit. Of course I’ll visit.’

‘I’ve been waiting.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I didn’t realise it’d be this difficult. Moving,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying so hard and I think it’s only just hit me that this is going to take longer than I thought. To settle in.’

She calms herself, then asks, ‘Was it like this for you? When you moved?’

Ten years ago – what feels like a lifetime. ‘No,’ I say. ‘But that’s because I had you.’