Page 58 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

One day later and I’m still flooded with alarm. ‘Maybe there is no wedding and she’s just coming here to yell at me.’

Genevieve frowns. ‘That seems like a lot of effort, even for her.’

We’ve come to a local park for fresh air and some lunch – just the two of us. It’s a bright, clear day. Warm, but not muggy. Everything is green after an evening of heavy rain, and there are scores of families here, setting up rugs for a picnic.

‘She really told you that she thinks you dead .’ Genevieve says it like a statement, not a question. I’ve filled her in on the anniversary and she’s not stopped talking about it for the past ten minutes. ‘What an awful thing to say.’

She walks slowly, guiding my chair. In my lap rests an insulated lunchbox packed with juice and sandwiches. She and Bruce are in a hotel nearby, even though I’ve insisted, many times, that I don’t need them here. That they don’t need to take care of me.

‘I provoked her,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t help it. Saw a button and I pushed it.’

Genevieve is still disturbed. ‘I don’t think that matters.’

Now out of breath and in need of a rest, she gestures to a nearby bench and sits, pulling everything out of the lunchbox and handing me a bottle of water.

It takes a moment or two for her to find a position on the bench that is comfortable, and she groans as she goes through the endeavour.

Presses a gentle hand to the side of her bump.

‘Are you okay?’

She smiles. ‘All part of it,’ she says, then scratches. And scratches. And scratches. ‘But the itchiness is killing me.’

‘Itchiness?’

‘Everyone experiences it,’ she replies, as if she knows hundreds of pregnant women personally. ‘Carpal tunnel, too.’

‘Nine weeks to go,’ I say, mostly to myself. ‘I feel like I only just found out and now here you are, two months from birth.’

Her response is lethal. ‘Well, I’m glad it’s going fast for you – I want her out.’ She looks down. ‘Did you hear me? If you’re one day over forty weeks, I’m going to reach in and pull you out myself.’

I admire the bossiness. ‘You’re going to be a great mum.’

‘I know,’ she says, leaning back on the bench.

‘Have you finished the nursery?’ I ask, because the last time we spoke about it, all they’d done is paint the walls. And I want to know if she’s bought everything, or if she’s still holding back.

‘Almost,’ she says. Then, assessing my stare, I can tell she knows what I’ve been thinking. ‘I’m still terrified.’

‘I’d be surprised if you weren’t.’

She runs a hand over her stomach. ‘I want her out, but I also want her healthy. If something happens—’

‘Nothing is going to happen,’ I say, cutting her off before she can tear up.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologising.’

‘No, not about the baby. About you . And Dave.’ She reaches out and grabs at my hand. ‘I never should’ve told him.’

I am silent, and bite into my sandwich – turkey, cranberry sauce, lettuce. Take a sip of my water.

‘I thought I was helping. I wanted you to be happy. And at the time, I thought he could make you happy, but now I know you don’t need anyone to make you happy.’

I’m slowly learning this too. I’ve been relying on others for a long time – years – and now I’m learning balance. Learning what it’s like to be around the right people but also experiencing what it’s like to survive on my own. If there’s anything this year has taught me, it’s that.

‘I thought I could move away and things would still stay the same with us,’ she says.

‘They can’t. But that’s not a bad thing. It’s just, different.’

‘When you weren’t returning my calls, I went a bit mad.’

‘Oh god, I’m sorry.’ I reach for her. ‘I was being selfish, only thinking about myself. I didn’t even realise what it would be doing to you.’

She nods, then points at me. ‘I’m putting in a new rule. We speak at least three times a week on the phone. And we text.’

‘Always.’

‘And you don’t ignore me again,’ she says.

‘That depends,’ I joke. ‘What else did you tell Dave?’

She looks unimpressed.

‘I don’t ignore you again. I promise.’