Page 4 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER TWO

‘You’re pregnant?’

She vomits.

‘Genevieve—’

I’m cut off by the guttural sound of her throwing up. And then she speaks (splutters, actually). ‘Ugh, this could’ve been such a lovely moment but I’ve ruined it.’

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, rising and leaning against the vanity – made of reclaimed wood, nestled beneath a vintage, gold-trimmed mirror.

‘Obviously not .’ Then she laughs.

‘Is there anything left in your body?’

‘Not really.’ She flushes the toilet and then sits down on the lid (the irony, I’m aware). The wall behind her is newly painted, I note – sage green.

Reaching forward, I grab at her hand. Give it a squeeze. ‘You’re pregnant?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘On the final round.’

She nods.

‘My god, this is …’ I’m still processing it. Letting her revelation sink in. Excitement builds – I feel it somewhere in my soul. After everything that’s happened over the past few months, it feels like a light switching back on. ‘Incredible.’

‘I know,’ she says, and then her face changes. A small smile, the hint of tears in her eyes. ‘I’d gotten so used to seeing negative, I don’t think I ever expected to see two lines.’

‘But you told me it didn’t—’

‘We wanted to wait a little longer.’ She clears her throat. ‘In case it happened again.’

It. Miscarriage. The word hangs over us, haunting us.

‘How have I not—’

‘You’re always at work.’

Well, yeah, that’d do it. As a breakfast radio producer, I’m out the door by four in the morning. Often not home until dinner. In bed not long after.

‘But still,’ I say, thinking back. ‘I am home on weekends. And the apartment is small.’

She gives me a look.

‘Sorry. Irrelevant.’

And then she’s sliding off the toilet lid, yanking it open and vomiting again. Afterwards, she mutters, ‘Women who go through IVF twelve times shouldn’t get morning sickness. It needs to be a rule or something.’

‘Maybe it’s something you ate.’

‘I haven’t eaten in two days—’

Knock, knock .

Horror crosses Genevieve’s face. ‘Oh god. ’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘I don’t think I can move from here.’

Knock, knock .

I call out, ‘Sorry, busy in here. Can you use another bathroom?’

Nothing for a moment, and then the swish swish sound of shoes shuffling away from the door.

‘Thank you,’ Genevieve mutters, sitting on the toilet lid again. At this point, she’s just dry heaving. ‘I feel disgusting.’

‘You’re glowing.’

She looks at me. ‘Fuck off.’

She’s vicious when she’s sick.

‘Jesus, G, why did you come?’

‘Because you asked me to.’

‘No, I didn’t, you invited yourself,’ I say, hands on hips. ‘I told you I was fine coming alone, and you told me you didn’t care.’

She dry heaves once more before replying. ‘I thought it’d be fun.’

‘A fortieth in the suburbs? With people you’ve met once?’

She looks for another excuse. Doesn’t find one.

‘Genevieve.’

She groans, relenting. ‘Okay, fine. I thought it might be tough. After everything that’s happened, I thought you might need a friend.’

I don’t quite understand her logic. ‘I’ve got friends here.’

‘First time seeing them, though. Just thought … never mind.’ She clutches her head. ‘Any chance you’ve got painkillers in your handbag?’

‘I didn’t bring a handbag.’

‘Shit.’

‘Josie might have some.’

She waves it off. ‘It’ll pass, just give me a few minutes.’ Then she relaxes a little, rolls her shoulders back. Runs her hands through her hair.

Pointing behind me, she smiles. ‘She’s got motivational posters all around the place, have you noticed?’

I turn, see the rustic watercolour artwork above the bathroom door. Live Laugh Love . ‘Oh. Yeah. There’s, like, six of those around the place.’

Genevieve’s voice lowers to a whisper. ‘I feel like, if you’re over forty and you’re hanging motivational quotes, then it’s probably too late for you. Just a little forced, you know what I mean?’

I perch on the edge of the bathtub. ‘She said Dave’s been wearing V-neck T-shirts and then she made this face.’ I jut out my chin and curl my lower lip over in an attempt to imitate it. ‘Like she felt sorry for him. Like he’s so depressed that I left him, he can’t dress himself properly.’

‘The man can’t dress himself properly. He’s got a broken hand.’ And then she laughs.

When I don’t reciprocate, she ceases. Wiggles closer to me. ‘You want me to say it?’

‘Yes, please.’

She clears her throat and recites, ‘You’re not a terrible person, you just left a terrible marriage.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And it’s not your fault you ended it.’

‘Thank you.’

It’s become our mantra these past couple of months, whenever I feel overwhelmed about what I’ve done. About what Dave did. You’re not a terrible person, you just left a terrible marriage. And it’s not your fault you ended it .

Another knock on the door, this one quieter but there nonetheless.

‘Can you use the other bathroom please?’ I call out. ‘We’re busy.’

‘ We ?’ It’s Josie. She may be softspoken, but I’d recognise that voice anywhere, even through a door.

I’m careful to open it a sliver, just large enough for me to slip out. Concern is etched across her face, the corners of her mouth pinched. When she sees me, she relaxes. ‘Oh, Charlie, it’s you. Is everything okay?’

Behind her, along the corridor, there’s a line of three people.

No one I recognise, but I realise just how much the party has grown since we’ve been in the bathroom.

The living room and kitchen are much busier, the chatter louder.

The music volume has been increased to compensate, someone switching it to a much more upbeat, contemporary playlist.

‘Genevieve is unwell.’

‘Oh no.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Has she drunk too much?’

In the twenty minutes we’ve been here? I’d laugh, if it were appropriate. ‘No.’

Josie turns and shoos away the rest of her guests, directing them upstairs to the second bathroom.

Then she turns back to face me. ‘Is everything okay?’ She checks no one is nearby to overhear before whispering, ‘I’m sorry if I seemed …

taken aback, when you arrived. I was surprised, but I am glad to see you. ’

There’s a pause, and she leans in a little closer. So close I can smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘We’ve all missed you.’

Oh.

Oh.

She thinks I’m crying in the bathroom. Upset about being here, not yet ready for a party. Still struggling with what’s happened between me and Dave. She thinks I’m hiding away, on the toilet, too scared to face the group.

Again, my instinct is to laugh, but I refrain. ‘Genevieve really is unwell. Can you help keep people away from the bathroom?’

Realising her mistake, she straightens. ‘I’ll write a note for the door.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you’re sure … you’re sure that you’re okay? I imagine it must be hard coming here, after what’s happened with Dave. You’ve always been a very brave person.’

Does she respect me or feel sorry for me? I cannot tell. It makes me feel a little sick, being this close to such a squished, sympathetic facial expression. When anyone looks at me like that, I want to reach out and poke their furrowed forehead and tell them I’m perfectly fine.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ I shut the door, locking it, and move back towards Genevieve.

‘How are you doing?’

She’s still sitting on the toilet lid, hunched over. ‘Haven’t vomited again, so that’s a bonus.’

Fishing out my phone, I divert the conversation. ‘I’m going to call Bruce and ask him to pick you up.’

‘But then you’ll be alone,’ she says.

‘G, I’ve been friends with these people for ten years.’

She nods.

‘I’ll be fine—’

Oh bugger, she’s vomiting again. Clutching her head. Groaning, loudly. ‘Okay, yeah, I might need those painkillers.’