Page 5 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THREE

Turns out, painkillers prove difficult to find. Nothing in the bathroom with Genevieve, and nothing in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. And no sign of Josie to ask where they might be housed.

‘Everything okay?’

Swivelling on a heel, I find Emmanuel and Cinar standing behind me. Emmanuel, an auctioneer, with high cheekbones and a harsh jawline, and that deep olive skin tone. Leaning against the fridge, I realise he’s a lot bulkier in the upper body since I last saw him.

And Cinar stands by the kitchen island, arms crossed.

Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

He’s got a beautiful face. Soft, gentle, with piercing blue eyes.

So blue you can’t look away. I’ve always wondered if he’d be as successful at pulling women if he’d been born with a different eye colour.

‘I’m looking for painkillers. For Genevieve.’

Cinar clicks his fingers, lets out a relieved laugh. ‘ Genevieve , that’s her name. Been bothering me since you arrived.’

Emmanuel has an amused smile. ‘The teacher.’

‘The maid of honour at your wedding,’ Cinar adds.

It’s remarkable how quickly my wedding has been brought up at this party – not once, but twice. Like people cannot help but remind me that I did, indeed, marry their best friend.

We come together in a series of hugs – Cinar first, then Emmanuel – and exchange greetings. Emmanuel tells me Diego is sick and won’t be attending, and after we’ve had a brief but mandatory discussion about how the flu is going around at the moment, I apologise that I haven’t been in touch.

‘It’s been …’ I trail off, trying to find the words. ‘A time.’

Emmanuel nods, sympathetic. ‘I can imagine. I’m sorry.’

It’s genuine. And sincere. The silence between us tells me they’re devastated the group is no longer what it once was.

And then we disband, rifling through the pantry. Checking, just in case the painkillers deceived me. We work our way through all the cupboards, one by one, talking as we search.

‘So, the first of us to turn forty,’ I say.

Emmanuel, who will be next, lets out a groan. He’s always hated celebrating his birthday (acknowledging his age in any capacity tends to sour his mood). He’s been telling his colleagues he’s thirty-one for the past five years. The man couldn’t pull off thirty-one even when he was that age.

Cinar muses, ‘I think I’ll organise a trip for mine, somewhere overseas. Haven’t decided yet.’

Emmanuel is bitter. ‘Well good thing you’ve got two years to figure it out.’ Then he nods at me. ‘And a whopping eight for you.’

Cinar looks at him. ‘You haven’t told us what you plan to do for yours—’

‘Inject my forehead with botox, probably.’

‘What about a toupee? Cover that bald spot you’ve got growing up there.’

‘What do you mean bald spot ?’ he snaps, grabbing at his hair. He then clocks Cinar’s smile. ‘Oh, fuck you, I don’t have a bald spot.’

‘For now.’

Emmanuel turns towards me. ‘Have you checked the bathroom? For painkillers.’

‘I have.’

He puts his hands on his hips. ‘Josie’s handbag?’ Then, without waiting for my input, he’s gone and grabbed it from the counter. Shoves a hand in, copping a feel. ‘Nope, nothing.’

While we move through the remaining cabinets, Cinar and Emmanuel update me on everything I’ve missed these past couple of months. Like a shopping list, ticking off each one.

‘We’re planning a holiday to Greece.’

‘I’m seeing a new therapist.’

‘Did I tell you I found a strange freckle on my back thigh?’ ‘I’m thinking of a career change.’

‘I pulled my hamstring lifting the kids into a trolley the other morning.’

And then, finally, Cinar steps closer to me. ‘Not sure if you’d heard, but I’m dating someone new.’

Of course you are. Serial dater, certified commitment-phobe. ‘I hadn’t heard, no. That’s exciting.’

Emmanuel and I share a look. Poor girl.

‘What’s her name?’ I ask.

‘Quinn,’ he replies, chest puffing out, proud. ‘She’s an artist. Like me.’ He juts a thumb behind him. ‘She’s outside having a vape.’

Emmanuel and I share another look.

He’s brought her to this party.

We have to meet another one.

We have to make an effort to make her feel welcome when he’s going to dump her in three months anyway .

I sense the exhaustion across Emmanuel’s face, and the tired way his shoulders fall forward. Honestly, same.

‘It feels solid,’ Cinar says, with an encouraging nod. ‘I’m feeling good about it.’

Emmanuel tips his head back. ‘Remind us how long it’s been?’

‘Two weeks.’

Emmanuel’s expression remains neutral.

‘I can see this one lasting.’

‘You said that about the last two, and then you broke up with them.’

Cinar is sheepish, and embarrassed, so I jump in to console. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Alicia,’ I say, then experience an instant panic. God, it was Alicia, wasn’t it? Or was that the one before?

‘Thank you.’ He straightens. ‘But Josie made me realise it wasn’t working. I went to her for some advice, and she was like, “Cinar, the girl is fifteen years younger than you and doesn’t know who Sean Penn is. Dump her.” So I did. Turns out Josie’s good at giving advice.’

One of Emmanuel’s eyebrows – recently laminated and tinted – arches sharply, as if he’s been practising. ‘That’s not advice, that’s just … pointing out the obvious.’

‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know Quinn is only one year younger than me.’

‘But does she know who Sean Penn is?’ I ask.

He frowns, suddenly serious. ‘You know, I haven’t actually asked. Do you think I should?’

‘I was joking.’

Emmanuel lets out a deep chuckle, and Cinar’s face and neck grow red. He points at me rather aggressively. ‘You wait until you’re back out there, dating. It’s rubbish, I’m telling you. Once you hit your late thirties all the good ones are gone.’

I avoid their eyes, and silence stretches between us. Somehow, I just know they’re thinking about Dave.

Finally, Cinar speaks. ‘Have you seen him? Since it happened?’

‘No. Why? Have you?’

They nod.

Cinar says, ‘We’ve driven up to see him some weekends. With his hand he can’t really do much, so.’

‘You’ve driven up? All of you?’

‘He’s not in a great way,’ Emmanuel says. ‘Although you seem to be doing well.’

Oh great, six weeks in hibernation and I’ve emerged looking too good. Not a problem I thought I’d have.

‘That wasn’t a dig,’ he adds. ‘You look good, is all I’m saying. Dave’s beard is so big you can barely see his face.’

I swallow the guilt now lodged in my throat. Even after two months, and despite Dave’s secrets, it hurts to be reminded of the pain I’ve caused. How different things are now. What his voice sounded like when I told him I couldn’t do it anymore – strained beyond recognition.

Cinar adds, ‘He’s also been wearing the same pair of pants every weekend, have you noticed?’ He turns to Emmanuel. ‘Those khaki trousers? Would we call them khaki?’

‘Who cares what colour they are, they’re fuggo ,’ Emmanuel exclaims, face scrunched.

Laughing, Cinar segues. ‘We’ll go find Josie,’ he says to me. ‘Ask her for painkillers. You stay here.’

And then they’re gone, leaving me here, in the kitchen, while they dart upstairs in search of help.

‘Need these?’

A petite, bird-like woman with ear-length jet-black hair appears to my left. Posture straight, wearing polished loafer shoes and a burgundy jacket with shoulder pads, hands clasped together in front of her. Her perfume is intoxicating. Velvet. Vanilla. Musk.

In her outstretched hand, she holds a packet of paracetamol.

‘Oh my god ,’ I say, grabbing and clutching them to my chest. ‘Lifesaver. Can I take two?’

‘You can have them all. I swiped them from Josie’s handbag.’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘That was a joke.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I laugh. ‘I’m Char—’

‘I know who you are,’ she says, offering a curt smile. ‘I’m Quinn.’

‘Cinar’s girlfriend.’

This is not what I was picturing at all. For once, he’s dating someone who was alive when the twin towers fell. Someone who probably uses an eye cream. Someone who wouldn’t be mistaken for his daughter (only happened once, but Cinar has forbidden any of us to mention it).

‘You’re an artist too,’ I note.

She nods. ‘That’s how we met.’ Then she chuckles. ‘Well, that’s how he meets all of them, right?’

‘All of who?’

‘His women,’ she says, sipping at her gin and tonic. ‘His reputation precedes him.’

Okay, interesting – she’s not clueless. It’s a nice change. Refreshing.

‘Well, I wouldn’t describe them as women ,’ I say. ‘More like—’

‘Youth?’ Quinn quips.

‘I was going to say girls.’

She shrugs, as if to say that both descriptors would suffice. And in this moment, I decide that I approve of Quinn. Far too sensible for Cinar. Far too self-aware to be fooled by his antics. What a shame she’ll be the next one voted off the island and he’ll have a new girlfriend by February.

I catch her looking at my left hand. My bare left hand.

‘It’s awful, when they end.’ She raises and wiggles her own left hand. ‘I’ve been divorced six years now. Married a drummer after university and spent most of my twenties smoking weed and dressing like Frodo Baggins.’

We catch eyes and laugh. It makes me want to pull her in close. Here is someone who understands what I’m going through. Has stood where I am and come out the other side. I want to pick her brain. Take her to lunch. Ask her what happened, how it happened and how she feels about it now.

But then my phone erupts in my pocket – two text messages at the same time. I pluck it out, turn it over in my fingertips and read the notification.

Dave.

A knot forms in my stomach, seeing his name on my phone.

It’s been sporadic, our communication. Short, punchy text messages.

Blunt phone calls. Mostly, we speak through our lawyers about dividing our assets (he’s petitioning that he should get the porcelain dinner set because they were a wedding gift from his side of the family, but I didn’t even know we had a porcelain dinner set).

At some point, Quinn slips away. Whether she sees my phone or just senses something has shifted, I do not know.

I open the messages, my thumb shaking a little. It feels like my ribs might just crack open.

Charlotte, where is the engagement ring? You can’t ignore me forever.

I touch my cheeks, hoping my cool fingertips dull the redness I’m certain is building across my face. You’re fine, Charlie. You’re okay. And you absolutely can ignore him forever. He’s a slippery eel and it’s his fault this marriage ended.

His fault.

His fault.

His fault.

The painkillers are still nestled inside my left hand, and I head back to the bathroom, Dave’s messages playing over and over in my mind.

It’s the one thing he wants from me, to help finalise this settlement – the engagement ring.

The one thing we have left to settle. The one thing still tying us together.

I give him the ring, and it’s over between us.

For good. Finished. We never need to speak to each other again.

He’s keeping the apartment, and I’m living somewhere else.

We’ve divided up all the other assets. There’s nothing left to work through.

It’s just this one, tiny thing left to give him, and then we’re over for good.

I pass the staircase on the way to the bathroom, and I hear muted voices. A whispered conversation between Josie, Cinar and Emmanuel. They’re on the landing, tucked away but not out of sight.

‘She actually turned up,’ Josie says. ‘Can you believe it? Wait until I tell Dave. I’m in complete disbelief. How awkward. After everything she’s put him through. She left him. And she turns up here?’

Beneath my feet, the floorboards creak. And they all turn. Josie, Emmanuel, Cinar. They see me, they recognise me, and then all three adorn a stricken facial expression.

So this is what they really think of me. My gut twists. My palms moisten.

And then, because the universe decides I have not taken nearly enough hits today, I get another message from Dave.

I paid for that ring and I want it back.