Page 54 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

‘Well, here we are.’

Dave wheels me inside his apartment. Extends a hand as if showing me the place for the first time. As if I didn’t live here for years. ‘I’ve got the spare bedroom set up for you.’

Then, for the third time this afternoon, he looks down at my plastered body. One broken arm and one broken leg. Very grim. Would not recommend. On the same side too, which somehow makes it worse. I’m still reeling from it all – the fall, the hospital, having to move back in with Dave.

He closes the door behind me, then clocks a lone shoe on the ground near my chair. He hastily tosses it into a nearby cupboard, and I take a moment to assess the apartment.

The whole place is different. Alarmingly different.

The cream couch has been replaced by something violet and stiff.

Utterly foul. The white, circular coffee table is gone and there’s a floor lamp against the wall.

One of those tall ones with a beige rattan top.

I can’t see the terrace because Dave has the blinds half-closed, but I’m wondering if the plush furniture out there is gone, too.

And then my mind wanders to the master bedroom, which we painted a dusty blue.

And now the colour feels ruined for me, like if I see that misty tone again, I’d instantly think of Dave.

I wonder if the neighbours are still here – that Italian woman across the hall who baked through the night to manage her insomnia, and the young family down near the fire exit who rode their bikes together on Sunday mornings.

Shortly before I left, a man named Louis moved in next door and I often heard him speaking fluent French to family on the phone – it reminded me of my father, bringing a surprising amount of comfort in the days leading up to the separation.

‘I’m glad to be out of that hospital bed,’ I say, even though I’m completely mortified by this whole situation.

Not only do I take a torrid tumble down an escalator and find myself in a wheelchair for the next five weeks, but I’m in my ex-husband’s apartment because he was the only person I thought to call who I knew would turn up. Isn’t that just horrific?

‘When did you move back?’ I ask.

Dave walks towards the kitchen, and I’m relieved to see it’s been kept the same. The kitchen table, round and ribbed, is still there, as is the striped rug underneath it. Dave hasn’t yet rid himself of everything we lived with.

‘Couple of weeks,’ he says, leaning against the marble countertop. He scratches his cheek, then runs a hand through his ashy brown hair, which is fluffy from a wash and, in my opinion, a bit too long. ‘I think Dad was getting sick of me, to be honest.’

‘He’d never.’

There’s a small smile. After meeting him at a work event, Ivan once described Dave as looking like unbuttered bread – pale, with a thin mouth and a bland expression.

I’d scolded him at the time, because what a rude and foul thing to say about my husband, but now that I’ve had some distance from Dave, I can see it.

He totally looks like unbuttered bread.

Dave says, ‘I haven’t told him yet. About us.’

Beat. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Oh, Dave, no.’ I’m astounded. We’ve been separated for over half a year. ‘He didn’t wonder why you moved home for months?’

He looks ashamed. ‘I told him it was to help take care of the vineyard. Told him I was worried about him.’

Silence, for a few moments. Then, I mutter, ‘How is he? Your dad?’

‘Do you care about my dad? Or are you just trying to find something to talk about?’

I’m trying to find something to talk about. ‘I care about your Dad.’

‘Then he’s fine,’ he says, fiddling with the gold watch on his right wrist. His hand is healed now, although some of his movements are slow and jolty. ‘Considering retirement.’

‘Been considering it for twelve years,’ I say. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

He smiles, then clears his throat. ‘I assume you’ve told Penelope? And Naya?’

‘I told them straight away.’

He smiles, nods. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, then touches his earlobe (seemingly for something to do).

I’ve got no idea why he said yes to all this; it must be terribly uncomfortable for him as well.

‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘I don’t need babysitting. I’ll just …’ Then look around the apartment. ‘Amuse myself.’

A moment of silence passes, and then Dave meets my eye.

‘I’m sorry you fell down an escalator,’ he says. It’s a moment or two before I realise he’s being genuine, and not intending to be funny. ‘You could’ve been seriously injured.’

‘I am seriously injured.’

‘Yeah, but, injured even wors— You know what I mean.’

One week in a hospital bed and now five weeks in this apartment before these casts can come off.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I didn’t have anyone else I could call.

Quinn would’ve been my next guess, but honestly, it’s all a little too soon.

She’d think I’m coming on too strong if I were to ring her from a hospital telling her I need help because I’ve broken some bones and I need a place to live for a few weeks.

But every time I remember that Dave was the only person I felt I could call, a small piece of me chips away.

When he met me at the hospital, he didn’t look nearly as dishevelled as I was expecting.

No unkempt hair, wrinkled clothing, slender frame, bags under the eyes.

I thought I’d turn up to the hospital and the ambulance door would open to reveal an absolute shell of a man.

And I’d work my hardest not to feel sorry for him, because he did this to himself.

I’d lay there and think, You’re to blame here.

But he looked, well, good. Put together. Ironed jeans – black, potentially a recent purchase – with a buttoned-up, pastel linen shirt. Not sure I’d seen it before. No fugly khaki pants in sight. There was a scent of sandalwood in the air: his cologne.

I felt thrown. Last time I’d seen him, he was clawing at his hair as he begged me to stay, cradling a crushed hand. Telling me we could fix us. That he’d do anything to keep me. But when I saw him, in that ambulance bay, he looked composed.

Dave goes to fix me a cup of tea, and a bite to eat.

‘I can do that,’ I say.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Can you?’

I look down at my wheelchair, and remember I can’t. Not yet. I’m still working out how to get around, let alone make a beverage.

Fuck. I’ll be forced to rely on Dave for so much – food, movement, water, getting into bed. This is going to be awkward for the both of us.

‘I’m glad you called. I was feeling awful about everything.’ Pause. ‘I was being a solid arsehole. Can’t believe how many times I texted you about the ring.’ He glances at me. ‘But it’s been nice to see you, this past week.’

He’s usually not this funny. I’m glad you called . As if I rang him casually one morning, not the paramedic on the way to the hospital. It’s been nice to see you . Broken limbs and all, helping tend to me in hospital.

Perhaps what he’s trying to tell me is that he misses me. That even with me in a hospital bed, dazed and doped up on painkillers, he’s enjoyed my company.

‘I’m actually quite furious with myself,’ I say. ‘Who falls down an escalator?’

He hides a smile.

A little later that afternoon, when my phone rings, he fishes it out of my bag and hands it to me on the sofa.

It’s Genevieve.

‘You’re not going to answer that?’ he says. ‘She’s been ringing you every day.’

Decline call. I’m still fuming about the whole situation.

She told Dave I was planning to leave. You’d think broken bones would give me perspective, maybe encourage me to let the smaller things go, but this is still a massive thing in my mind.

I intend on being bitter and angry until the end of time.

‘Can’t believe she told you.’

‘Can’t believe you were planning on leaving me.’

‘I did leave you.’

He shifts. ‘Well, yeah, eventually,’ he replies. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier that you were unhappy.’ He sits down beside me.

‘Not my fault you didn’t notice.’

‘My mother was dying.’

‘So was I!’ Okay, too much. Very inappropriate. ‘Sorry.’

His mouth twists, ashamed. He stares at my phone, nestled in my lap. ‘You’re not going to tell her? About the fall.’

‘Don’t know,’ I say, opening the scores of messages I’ve received from her over the past fortnight. She knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t understand what it is.

‘And your family? Are you—’

‘Dave, come on.’

He raises his arms. ‘I just think they’d all want to know. Your Mum, especially. And Naya.’

‘Turns out my sister doesn’t like me very much.’

I think of you as dead . I’ve never heard such venom come from her mouth – I feel like I’ve been poisoned, and it’s seeped through every crevice of my body, unable to be extracted.

‘Your sister loves you a dumb amount. She once told me she holds a great deal of respect for you, chasing your dreams.’

I realise he’s being serious. ‘How do you get so many people to tell you things? Genevieve, Naya.’

He smirks. ‘For one, they might like a distraction from Leonard’s injuries.’ He sinks into the sofa. ‘How are they?’

‘Mum bought a slow cooker.’

Oh, and Naya is angry with me. And I’ve neglected my family. And the reason Leonard is injured is because he’s always helping Mum, and perhaps I shouldn’t have found his feeble body so amusing all these years. And my family lied about the anniversary celebration just so they could see me.

‘I loved her cooking,’ he says, then smiles. As if reminiscing.

It’s a little absurd. How easily we fall back into our old rhythms. How nice it is to speak with him, without all the anger and the tension.

It’s not that I’ve missed Dave. I haven’t.

Not as my husband, anyway. Not in any way that makes me want him back.

But as one of my best friends? Oh, yes, I’ve missed that.

I miss him in the way I wear a lot of dark grey clothing, because he once pointed out that it suits me and contrasts well with my blonde hair.

I miss him in the way I complete a crossword before bed every night, because he introduced me to the app years earlier.

I miss him in the way I still buy the same brand of washing powder we used to use.

I miss him in the way he changed my life, in all the littlest ways.

‘Why did you help me?’ I ask. ‘All those days at the hospital. Setting up the spare bedroom.’

‘Couldn’t say no, could I? What kind of person would that make me?’

‘I would’ve understood if you told me to fuck off.’

He grins. ‘Sometimes I do think about telling you to fuck off. Then I remember that I ruined everything.’

He’s quiet when he speaks next. ‘Was it ever really about the girl?’ he asks, voice quiet. ‘Or was that just an excuse to leave—’

There’s a knock on the door – a few loud bangs, but so forceful it feels like the whole apartment is shaking.

And then Dave’s face falls. Instantly, it’s white. And he’s looking at me like he’s terrified, and he’s sorry, and then he’s running a hand across his forehead. ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.’

‘Forgot what?’

He rises and starts turning in all different directions, like he doesn’t quite know what to do first. Open the door?

Explain to me what’s going on? He runs a hand down his T-shirt, as if realising it’s an inappropriate thing to be wearing.

Then he looks at me, wearing trackpants and an unwashed jumper, and winces.

‘I’m hosting a dinner party tonight. With everything that’s happened, I forgot to cancel.’

‘A dinner party?’ I say, straightening. ‘With who?’

And then, from the other side of the apartment door, I hear a familiar voice. ‘Dave, open the door. We’ve got alcohol and we want to drink it.’

Josie .

‘Oh god,’ I say, running a hand through my tangled hair. Looking down at what I’m wearing, which is horribly basic and far too casual for a dinner party with the group. I’ve got a broken arm and a broken leg, for Christ’s sake! My body is filled to the brim with pain relief medicine.

Another bang on the door, and then two voices.

‘Come on, Dave, hurry up.’ Cinar.

‘I need to use your loo.’ Emmanuel. ‘And Diego’s carrying the apple pie and it’s burning his fingers.’

I’m frantic at this point. Cannot even move from the lounge because I’ve not yet mastered the art of transferring myself to and from the wheelchair without Dave’s help. And that man is way too frazzled to help with anything right now.

‘Tell them to go home.’

‘Fuck,’ he’s saying, over and over and over again. ‘Maybe I just don’t answer?’

‘We can hear you in there.’ Cinar, again. ‘Who on earth are you talking to?’

In a state of mania, Dave rushes over to help lift me into the wheelchair. Swivels me around so I’m in the corridor. Tells me I can hide in the second bedroom, if I want.

‘ Hide ?’ I repeat, mortified. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m not hiding.’ It’s a ridiculous notion, and at the very least I’d need some time to manoeuvre the chair around his furniture. Time we do not have.

‘What’s going on in there?’ Josie asks. ‘We’re coming in.’

And then Dave and I share a look. A trapped kind of look, because we both remember, at the same time, that Josie knows where the spare key is hidden. That right now, she’s probably reaching above the hallway light to secure it.

‘Last chance to hide,’ he says.

I do consider it, for a moment. Because I cannot face them tonight. Simply cannot sit here during a dinner party with that group. Not after everything that’s happened. Not after the fortieth and the group chat, and that awful discussion with Josie on the street.

I look awful. I feel awful. All I want to do is hide from the world until I’m healed. Until I’m ready.

They cannot see me like this.