Page 62 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FIFTY

‘Do you need me to get you anything? Some water? Coffee? Maybe a pillow for your back?’

Genevieve has overstayed her welcome. She’s not even living here and she’s overstayed it.

‘I’m okay, honestly.’

She’s been faffing about the apartment at all hours of the day.

Vacuuming, cooking, cleaning, scrubbing the toilet, wiping down the cupboards, steam-cleaning the lounge.

She orders Dave around like he’s my servant and I can tell he feels uncomfortable.

It seems to be this unspoken competition between the two of them – who can tend to me the most.

But at least Dave lives here! If anyone should be scrubbing a toilet, it’s him.

‘Genevieve,’ I say, holding out a hand as she darts into the spare bedroom to strip the bedsheets. ‘You don’t need to do any of that. I’m getting pretty good at it.’

She walks back out, horrified. ‘You’ve been washing your own bedsheets? With a broken arm and a broken leg? Dave is making you do that?’

Dave, who is in the apartment and sitting over at the dining table, is offended at the allegation. ‘Excuse me. She insists on doing it. Any time I’ve attempted to help, she’s squealed at the top of her lungs like a dog.’

We catch eyes, and laugh.

I turn back to Genevieve. ‘Please stop.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She raises her hands, surrendering. ‘No bedsheets. I’ll get started on the meal prep.’

‘You’re thirty-four weeks pregnant.’

‘And?’ Hand on hip, she looks murderous. Then, when I don’t reply, she stomps into the kitchen and starts pulling out groceries and pans to cook.

Honest to god, I need to get rid of her. One, it’s wildly unnecessary and bordering on slave labour. Two, she’s on maternity leave and should be resting. And three, she’s reminding me of Naya right now, in the years after Dad died. I love her, I really do, but this cannot continue.

‘Genevieve, stop.’

Dave nods. ‘Yes, Genevieve, please stop.’

‘Dave, I cannot believe you let her wash her own sheets.’

‘Genevieve, go home, please,’ I say.

She shakes her head, and her hair flutters around her face. ‘Not yet. I’ll just do this and then head back there.’

‘I don’t mean your hotel,’ I say. ‘I mean your real home.’

She stops, then, turning to me. ‘What?’

‘Go home.’

She splutters, ‘But I’m here to help.’

‘I don’t need it.’

Dave catches my eye, whispers, ‘Thank you,’ and puts his hands together as if in prayer. Then he scurries off to his bedroom. He never did like being around Genevieve when she was in a mood.

‘I get my casts off in ten days,’ I say. ‘And I’ve survived a month already. I’m fine .’

She struggles to comprehend that she is not needed. Turns around in a circle, as if looking for some kind of task. ‘There must be something I can do.’

‘Yes, there is.’ I rub a hand along my jaw. ‘You can go home and rest.’

She rolls her eyes, then walks over to me. Perches herself on the edge of the lounge, her belly protruding and her hands resting atop it. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I know you’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘But if I leave, I won’t get to see you every day anymore.’

‘Oh.’ I shuffle closer to her.

‘And I’m worried I won’t hear from you again,’ she says. ‘I’ll be waiting by the phone like I was before.’

I sigh. Jesus, I really hurt her. ‘I promise I’m not going to do that again. I’ll be calling, and messaging. I was mad before, and I was only thinking about myself. And I’m sorry .’

‘I blame Dave,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘What a snitch.’

From the bedroom, he calls out, ‘I’ve missed you too, Genevieve.’

She turns to me. ‘If I get even the slightest whiff that something is wrong, I’m forcing Bruce to drive me back down here.’

‘You’re a good friend.’

‘I know.’