Page 7 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, I am early to work. A ghastly kind of early. Three o’clock in the morning; what a disgusting time to be at the station. I am functioning on very little sleep.

Today, we find out how our breakfast show fared in the previous quarter and I fear the nerves might just be devouring my insides.

The radio station is torridly quiet. No music yet. After-hours lights, dull and flickering. And it’s dark outside, nothing but streetlights illuminating the road. Every other desk on my floor is empty.

Usually, this place is bustling. Loud, lively.

Laughter from all corners of the building, and rumbling chatter at every desk.

Graham, our breakfast host, will sit inside his soundproof studio, tucked behind the microphone, and his commentary will project out here across the floor.

Ad breaks, traffic reports, news updates, top forty music – it’s a cycle, and I live for it.

This place is a zoo, at the best of times.

The walls are painted a deep purple, and the people are just as bizarre.

Where I work is anything but ordinary, and I love it.

But, right now, I am alone.

Grabbing my headphones, I blast rock pop to disrupt the deafening silence. On my desk sits a half-eaten slice of toast – with butter and jam – now cold, and coffee. I’m wearing a new pair of boots not yet broken in. Brown with a small heel, deceptively painful. I rather hate myself for buying them.

I clear out some of my inbox from the weekend, then ready the segments for the day.

Catch up on recent news to slide into the program.

Read over my reminders from Friday, print out briefing notes for Graham.

Research talking points for a segment we’re running next week, and then take a sip of coffee.

It’s gone lukewarm, and my lip curls. ‘Ugh.’ But I drink it, because I’m desperate. Because I’m exhausted, and tired, and I’ll take anything to keep me awake – even tepid coffee.

Anxious, I flit between tasks: scour gossip websites for information to compile for our entertainment wrap, read through more emails, reply to publicists, go over my notes for the morning, then plot out notes for the rest of the week. Rinse and repeat.

Since my separation from Dave, there are two things I’m grateful for – Genevieve and my job.

Genevieve, for obvious reasons. And my job, because of how busy it is.

How easily it can distract me. Radio is never-ending, and if you really wanted to, you could work every hour of the day.

It’s what I’ve learnt in the six years I’ve worked here.

If I arrive early and I stay back late, I can push everything from my consciousness, and let the station take over.

The more I work, the easier it is to forget how different my life is. How much Dave hurt me.

Suddenly, as I’m deleting spam from the inbox, a ham and cheese toasted sandwich, wrapped and resting on a plate, appears before me. Placed delicately in front of my keyboard, along with a raspy directive.

‘Eat.’ It’s Graham, pulling up a chair. His bald head is especially shiny today – what a gleam! ‘I made it for you.’

‘You’re here early.’

‘So are you,’ he counters. ‘Eat.’

‘I’ve already eaten. But thank you.’

He spies the toast on my desk and raises one thick, bushy eyebrow. Gives me a come on kind of look, and I relent.

I take a bite, then another. ‘Did you actually make this or did your housekeeper?’

He smirks, shoving a hand in his jean pocket. ‘You know she doesn’t start this early.’

At sixty-eight, Graham is best described as past his prime.

And that’s not me being cruel; he actually is referred to that way.

Journalists, reporters, presenters – they argue he should’ve retired years ago, when he was still on top of the radio charts and people flocked to his program.

Now, we’re struggling to keep up with the competitors and he’s struggling to stay relevant.

‘Which kitchen did you use?’ I ask, then smile. He’s got four in his mansion, all fully equipped. Genevieve’s entire apartment could probably fit inside one of them. ‘Can’t sleep?’ I add.

He shakes his head, then wheels over a chair and sits down beside me. Crosses a leg, then crosses his arms over his chest.

This station was once number one in breakfast radio. For decades. Every quarter, we’d beat our competitors – all seven of them – and we’d toast to the win and congratulate each other, and then do it all over again three months later.

But it’s been a while since that happened.

For two years, almost, we’ve been number two.

And no matter what I’ve tried, we just haven’t been able to reclaim the lead.

And god, I’ve really tried. We’ve extended the show by an hour, increased listener calls, added in giveaways and competitions, doubled the entertainment segments and the interviews, slotted in more music, taken Graham on the road to news events and red carpets and sporting tournaments.

Anything the team has suggested, we’ve tried it.

And it hasn’t worked.

Each quarter, we’re hopeful. This time we’ll be number one again. This time we’ll be back on top. But then it’s—

Second, again .

Second, again .

Second, again .

If only I could figure out what’s gone wrong. Why we’re not number one. Because then I could fix it – get us out of this slump and back in the lead and I’d stop stressing for my job. For Graham’s.

‘You worried?’ I ask, even though I already know the answer. Can see it in his frown and the bags under his eyes, in the way he’s thrown on an old, creased shirt today instead of something ironed.

He holds my stare, then looks down. Readjusts his stance.

‘We’re going to be number one,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘You say that every time.’

‘And I mean it, every time.’

‘Maybe I’m too old for this.’ He straightens, groaning, and runs his left hand over his head. ‘Can you figure out a way to make me young again?’

‘You’d still be bald.’

He lets out a laugh. ‘Been bald since I was twenty-nine.’

‘So you’ve told me, about twenty-nine times.’

That makes him chuckle. Then his face turns stony and he points at me. ‘Eat.’

Three more bites of my sandwich and he’s satisfied.

Doesn’t say another word about ratings, but I can sense his anxiety.

The man dedicates his entire career to this breakfast program, holds the top position for decades, and then he hits his mid-sixties and his audience scatters.

Diverts to other programs, with their younger hosts and their hot takes and their pranks.

Their salacious, revolting humour. Maybe reclaiming the top spot means Graham would have to lower himself to their level, but that just doesn’t seem fair.

‘Jesus, absolute ghost town in here.’ He rotates, looking around at the empty station. There’s an eerie silence with so many desks unoccupied. ‘Been years since I’ve arrived before the team.’

‘Briefing notes are on your desk,’ I say, nodding at the glass-encased studio to my left. ‘I’ve updated one of the segments to discuss celebrity divorce, after the news on the weekend.’

He frowns, tilts his head. He has no idea what I’m talking about. Arguably the most famous couple in the world announces their split and he’s oblivious? It annoys me, just sometimes, that he doesn’t even try to keep up with all facets of the news. I’m trying to make you relevant, come on.

‘Never mind. It’s all there in the notes. Just read it before the segment and you’ll be fine.’

‘Is anyone going to care what I think about celebrity divorce?’ he mutters, slipping into the studio to pick up the document and returning to sit down next to me.

He flicks through the pages, skimming my notes, nodding as he follows our plan for the morning.

And then he stops, narrows his eyes, scoffs and gives me an accusatory look.

‘Seriously?’ he says, gesturing. Then reads aloud. ‘“You can draw a connection to your own experiences here. Talk about one of your two hundred divorces.”’ His mouth twitches in a grin. ‘I’ve only been divorced five times.’

‘Only?’ I match his grin, then ask, ‘How was your weekend?’ He shrugs. ‘Uneventful. Drank port.’

‘Alone?’

‘Of course alone.’

Good lord, he says things like this and it makes me berserk with stress that I’m looking at my future.

Will this be me one day? Drinking alone, spending my weekends in an uneventful manner.

Something about it makes me coil with shame.

At least Graham owns a mansion! I’m sleeping in someone else’s spare bedroom, for god’s sake.

‘You ever think about going out? Socialising?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because it’s fun.’

He counters, ‘You telling me that fortieth you went to on Saturday night was fun ?’

My smile falters, and he grins, smug. ‘Well?’

‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Really?’

‘I did, I really did,’ I lie. ‘Genevieve’s pregnant, actually.’

His expression remains unchanged. ‘Exciting. But I didn’t ask about Genevieve. I asked about you.’

There’s something about the way he’s looking at me; I feel cornered. I can no longer harbour the energy to lie. ‘I didn’t realise things were going to change.’

He leans forward, elbows on knees. ‘You went and hung out with his friends. After leaving him.’

Immediately, I am defensive. Borderline whiny. ‘They’re my friends too.’

‘Not anymore, they aren’t.’

I feel like he’s sliced me. Two people now telling me my friendships are gone – irreparably changed. All these people I’ve come to love over the past ten years and now I have to let them go?

He stands. ‘You’ve got us though. We’re a team.’