Page 69 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

On my final day in the apartment, Graham calls me from Morocco. His reception is patchy, and background noise loud – a collection of wind, beeping cars, distant chatter and birds squawking.

‘I wanted to hear your voice,’ he says. ‘Wanted to check you’re all right.’

‘Did you get your hair transplant?’

‘That’s not an answer.’ Pause. ‘And no. Decided I don’t need it.’

‘Decided you couldn’t be twenty-nine again?’

He laughs, inhales. ‘No. Decided I’m fine without it. I’m old, and I look it.’

‘Right.’

Muffled, he thanks someone. ‘Just out for a drink. Will send you a picture.’

‘Please don’t.’ I straighten. ‘I’m packing right now. Wearing baggy slacks and an oversized shirt, and I’m arms deep in tape and flatpack boxes. You’ll make me jealous.’

He is silent for a moment, and I worry he’s dropped out. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m here.’ He sips, says ah . Then continues. ‘You told me I was running away.’

‘What?’

‘When I said I was leaving, you told me I was running away,’ he replies. ‘It was in the middle of your big speech about how I was being a whingey sook and needed to get over myself. Remember now?’

Ah. ‘I do,’ I say, sitting down on Dave’s lilac couch, discarding the tape and the scissors on the coffee table. ‘And?’

‘And I’m in a tiny little city where everything is blue, and no one knows who I am and no one has seen that video and the weather is mild but crisp and I’m drinking mint tea, and I realised you were absolutely right. I’ve run away.’

‘Sounds like a nice place to run away to.’

‘Charlie, if you could see this place …’

‘Are you coming home?’ I ask. ‘Is that what you’ve called to tell me?’

‘No, I’ve called because I miss you,’ he says. ‘And to tell you that you were right.’

‘I like being told I’m right.’

He chuckles. ‘My body clock still has me waking at three, and I’ve got all this time to myself. Sometimes, at four o’clock in the morning, I imagine you’re with me. I imagine we’re in the kitchen and we’re making a pot of coffee and we’re talking about our lives.’

‘Graham—’

‘You’re not blaming yourself, are you?’

The ratings. My stomach lurches.

‘Because you shouldn’t. I’m happy, Charlie. And when you go back to work tomorrow, you remember that.’

Tomorrow. My first shift back since the fall. New host, new ratings quarter. ‘I will.’

‘Good.’

‘Are you going to listen? To the show?’

He laughs. ‘Of course not.’

‘But you’ll be coming back, right?’

‘At some point,’ he says. ‘Someone once told me my career isn’t over, and I think they might be right.’

I smile.

‘So, you’re moving out,’ he says. ‘You found a place?’

‘I did. Rental apartment across town.’

‘With who?’

I look at the boxes and shake my head. ‘No one. I’ll be living alone.’

‘Good for you.’