Page 44 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Quinn finds me perched on the front steps of the state museum. ‘You been waiting long?’

It’s been ten minutes. ‘Just got here.’

I always think two things whenever I see Quinn.

What on earth are you wearing?

How do you look so good in it?

This time, it’s wide-leg silk black pants. And I mean really wide. You could fit another person in there. Polished black loafers on her feet. Cropped white knit top. Khaki leather jacket. She’s a work of art.

The museum was her suggestion. I said I wanted to go somewhere that might distract me. I’d proposed a walk around the lake and she’d countered with this. ‘I’ll introduce you to my world,’ she’d said, and I thought, Yes, good . Introduce me to your world. Let me escape mine for the afternoon.

‘So funny you’ve never been here before,’ she says. ‘I must be here at least once a month.’

From what Quinn’s told me about her art, she’s had mild success. Small-scale shows. Enough interest to help her pay bills, but nothing of great note yet.

I’ve googled her, of course. Trawled her social media.

Her art is graphite pencil portraits, mainly.

Emotional, moving drawings of faces. And bodies.

Sometimes hands. I can’t pretend I understand anything about art, but when she told me she’s not had much luck with her career so far, I remember feeling great surprise.

She waits for me to purchase a day ticket at the box office, then steers me to the right side of the museum, past the Egyptian collection and the zoological specimens, and through to the historic objects.

Extending a hand towards the collection in the far corner of the museum, she leads me to walls of oil paintings.

Of river gullies and stretched, open land.

Of horses and farmland, men in wide-brimmed hats looking out over clifftops.

‘Aren’t they striking,’ she says, framed as a statement, not a question.

She steps closer to one of the artworks and her head tips to the side as she examines it. A faint smile crosses her face. ‘I’ve tried it before.’

‘Oil painting?’

She nods. ‘When I was younger. Starting out. I knew I wanted to create, I just didn’t know what kind of art it would be.’

‘Were you good?’

She turns back towards me, an amused expression across her face. ‘At oil painting? God, no. I was terrible. Couldn’t get the blend right.’

‘I’ve seen your drawings online. They’re beautiful. You’re very talented.’

She appears uncomfortable at the compliment, fingers fidgeting with the zipper on her jacket. ‘Thank you. Cinar tells me I should post more. On socials. Said it might help me find my audience.’ She looks at me. ‘It felt very patronising.’

‘Cinar doesn’t even have socials.’

Quinn raises her eyebrows. Exactly , she’s saying.

‘And you’ve got more of an audience than his previous girlfriends.’

‘Got more years on me, too.’

We laugh, moving through the collection.

‘I wouldn’t worry what about what Cinar says. He’s so focused on himself, he doesn’t notice much about those around him.’

She seems mildly annoyed, her brows slightly furrowed. ‘I’m not worried. Just would love to see my art on walls like these one day.’

I don’t know what that’s like, pursuing something creative. Making art for years, hoping it’ll resonate. To come in here, look at what’s possible, and wonder if it’ll ever happen for you.

‘I bartend on weekends,’ she says. ‘Not sure if I’ve mentioned?’

‘You haven’t.’

‘To make extra money.’ She looks away. ‘Need to pay the rent, and all that.’ Waves her hand around as if to say, You get it .

My phone vibrates with a message from Genevieve. A photo of her recent pottery creation – a miniature jug with a spout. Squished, lopsided, wonky. Looks like shit.

LOVE it.

After sending the message, I turn back to Quinn. ‘Did I tell you I ran into Josie the other day?’

‘No, but I heard.’ She catches my eye and sniggers.

‘She was drunk.’

‘Really?’ Quinn says. ‘She left that part out.’

‘Her colleagues call her Jose . And she was drinking beer.’

‘And you’re sure it was her?’

‘In the flesh.’

Around us, the exhibition grows busy. We’re in the photographic collection now – negatives and rolls of film from the 1800s.

‘I never heard from Cinar. Or Emmanuel.’

And then suddenly, as if sliced, she straightens, body swivelling to face mine like she wants my full attention.

‘Something that surprised me when I split with Perry, something that I never realised until later, was that it’s never about you.

How people react, what they think. It’s not about you at all.

And I wish I’d known that earlier. I think it might’ve helped.

’ She folds her arms across her chest, then continues.

‘Cinar’s parents are divorced, did he ever tell you that? ’

‘They’re divorced? No, he didn’t. He told us his dad left. That he hasn’t seen him since he was—’

‘Ten,’ she finishes. ‘But they were divorced before it happened. A few years earlier. His dad was a drinker. And a cheater. And his mum got sick of it and left. Took Cinar and served divorce papers.’

‘Oh.’ We’ve stopped in the corridor.

‘Cinar was shuffled between the houses, but his dad stopped minding him as often and then eventually disappeared altogether. Cinar blames the divorce for his father leaving the country. Blames the divorce for a lot of things, actually.’

‘You couldn’t expect his mother to stay, though.’

‘I agree.’

The fact that he’s told this to Quinn, and not the group, means he must be serious about her.

And the relationship. More serious than any of the other girlfriends we’ve met (and lord, have there been a lot ).

And selfishly, I’m wondering how this is going to work, if those two are going to last. Me and Quinn, being friends, when she’s with Cinar. What are the rules here?

‘He told me it ruined his childhood. He told me he’d never get a divorce,’ Quinn says. ‘No matter what.’

I glance at Quinn and detect no lie. No exaggeration. She offers me a sympathetic smile.

‘What?’ I hate hearing this. It pinches my body and makes my chest contract – like it’s been sucked of nutrients.

Cinar would rather stay miserable in marriage than explore the chance of being happy alone.

Is that what he thinks I should’ve done?

Stayed unhappy with Dave? Spent the rest of my life with him while each part of me slowly died?

‘He said that?’ My voice is strained.

‘He did. So don’t take it personally. It’s not about you. It’s about him.’ She places a hand on my shoulder and it feels genuine. When her thumb runs over my skin in a reassuring movement, I feel comforted. So comforted I might just cry in front of her.

‘But you’re divorced,’ I point out. ‘It’s fine for you to be divorced, but not me?’

‘I don’t get it either.’

Reflecting, I say, ‘It explains all the women.’ And his limited experience with long-term relationships. The man’s trying so hard to avoid a divorce he just flitters between partners instead.

Quinn continues. ‘And Emmanuel’s a practical man. Very matter-of-fact. Can’t sympathise for things he doesn’t understand. You leaving a marriage without telling him why? I suspect that’s why he’s distant.’

How has Quinn figured out my friends quicker than me? How has she read them this well, this soon? Is that why Emmanuel doesn’t message anymore? Because he doesn’t understand the decision? Does he even have a right to understand the decision?

‘And Josie? What about her?’

She muses. ‘I need a little more time to figure that one out.’

Driving home that night, I call everyone to see who might be available for a chat – Genevieve, Dora, Naya, Ivan, Mum. But no one answers.

Ten minutes later, once inside Graham’s house, they all start calling me back. But my window for being social is over.