Page 9 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER SIX

I do not leave on time. I don’t even try to leave on time.

The day stretches into late afternoon and I’m still in the office, well after the rest of the team have departed – after they tiptoed out, deflated by the ratings.

Before they left, they gave me one final, sympathetic look, and told me to hang in there .

It’s the closest I’ve come to committing grievous bodily harm.

Fourth .

I need to prove myself. Better myself, and this program. Only three months until we do this all over again, and I can fix this. I can definitely fix this. I am not going to be responsible for tanking this show. It is not an option. We will climb back to the top.

When a young model out of Canada admits to a three-way tryst with a celebrity chef, I line up an interview for the next day and then spend fifteen minutes shifting the rest of the program.

A subpar musician contacts us directly asking for an interview, and feeling generous, I slot her in for later that week.

A pop group from twenty years earlier announce they’re returning to the stage, and so I arrange an interview with their tour manager for Wednesday and negotiate a radio exclusive.

All the while, I think about the ratings. Wonder if there was anything I could’ve done differently – could’ve done better. I’m trying so hard not to check the news, not to read the articles. What they must be saying about Graham, I can only imagine.

To distract myself, I sporadically scan the group chat.

Two days since the party and not one of them has reached out.

Not even to apologise. Not even to ask why I left Josie’s fortieth so suddenly, or if I’m okay.

All I’ve received is deafening silence, and I’m terribly hurt.

Before I left Dave, this group chat would ping every couple of hours.

And now, nothing. I imagine they’ve created a new one without me.

Not anymore, they aren’t .

Graham’s words haunt me and I feel it’s official. By leaving Dave I have become Adolf Hitler and all association with me is considered frowned upon. I hadn’t thought there’d be sides, but it appears they have all sided with Dave.

How many evenings have I babysat for Emmanuel and Diego?

Listened to Emmanuel’s work woes, given him relationship advice (hilarious to ponder, now that I’m en route to a divorce) – even went with him to trial new gyms because he needed a second opinion.

Shaun and Josie assigned me godmother to two of their children, and I’m now worried they’re going to revoke the offer.

And Cinar . I’ve been to every art show, met every girlfriend, even arranged an interview with Graham to promote each collection.

And now I’m dead to them all.

These people shaped my twenties. Built me.

When I moved here, ten years ago, Dave introduced us all and they made me feel welcome, in a city completely different to my hometown.

Told me how much they loved me, how glad they were that Dave had found me.

They brought me into their world and wrapped me up tightly in their arms. What a world it’s been.

And in turn, I’ve been there for them through every major stage in their lives.

Every wedding, every engagement party, every baby shower, every gender reveal.

I’ve met every newborn, babysat them whenever they needed.

Listened to Cinar whenever he decided to leave another girlfriend, helped Emmanuel when he and Diego were adopting – literally became his shoulder to cry on.

I tested how many bottles of Josie’s lotion?

Most of it was gluggy and smelt like infection, but I still helped her.

Dave certainly didn’t. I purchased every birthday gift and Secret Santa present – did they know that? Dave organised nothing .

I’ve been nothing but supportive, and here they are treating me like I’ve got a transmissible disease. If I told them what Dave did, I’m certain their loyalty would realign. It’d be me they chose.

But why should I have to reveal Dave’s betrayal to steal back their attention? That shouldn’t be how life works.

I scan the group chat again. And again. And one more time. Still nothing.

This quiet office is doing nothing to settle my nerves. I look at those purple walls and I feel like I’m being shouted at, and then I look around at the empty desks, and ahead of me inside Graham’s empty studio, and I think I’d actually quite like it if someone shouted at me right now.

Lord, give me someone to talk to.

I call Genevieve but she doesn’t answer, so I try a second time. Then a third. Still no answer. Almost instantly, I switch to my contacts list and do something rare – I call my sister Naya.

She answers on the eighth ring, just as I’m about to hang up. ‘I’ve been fantasising about going to prison,’ she says, out of breath. ‘Something white collar. Six months at the most. Long enough to have a rest.’

Naya’s got four children under six. ‘Is it the kids?’ I run my hand along the fabric of my chair.

‘Leonard,’ she says. ‘He tried to fix a cracked pipe and ended up hurting his hand. He said it’s been sliced but I’ve looked at it and it’s just a small cut. You’d think he’s returned from war, the way he’s going on about it. Keeps referring to it as a wound .’

Naya’s husband is best described by his relentless injuries.

If he hasn’t pulled his groin, he’s twinged his back.

Perhaps his knee is clicking, or his ankle feels strained.

He insists he bruises easily, and that he has off-centre hips.

His core isn’t engaged enough and it throws off his balance, et cetera, et cetera.

‘I’ve told him if it’s still bleeding tomorrow morning, I’ll take him to the hospital,’ she admits.

I check the time, do the conversion in my head. ‘It’s only lunch-time over there—’

One of her kids starts crying and Naya apologises.

‘Hold on a second, just going to escape into the yard. Let Leonard manage them.’ I hear her make her way through the house and out the back door.

‘They’re always crying, Charlie. And I love them, I do.

But they’ll cry about anything and I know that didn’t come from me. ’

Four years older than me, Naya is a stay-at-home mum. While I fled at twenty-one, she remained, living ten minutes from our childhood home and seeing our mother at least three times a week.

I can’t imagine it, being with my family that often.

When I met Dave, I was a university graduate and didn’t need much convincing to travel across the country with someone I had only known ten months.

Naya and Mum had been suffocating me since Dad died, all throughout my teenage years, so I welcomed any excuse to flee.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking for some form of a getaway vehicle, and along came Dave. Perfect timing.

The crying stops, so Naya continues. ‘Is everything okay? You never ring me.’

‘I ring you sometimes.’

‘You ring me back sometimes. And you never reply to my texts,’ Naya clarifies. ‘You’re damn near impossible to track down. Something must be wrong.’

‘Nothing is wrong.’

There’s silence on the other end.

‘So how are the kids?’ I ask.

‘They’re fine, except for the crying. Lots of energy and we’re constantly exhausted, but they’re fine,’ she says. ‘Raphael’s birthday party is this weekend, actually. Down at the park near the bike track. He’ll be four, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘I hadn’t.’

‘It makes me happy that all his friends from daycare are coming. Especially because he’s bitten a few of them recently.’

‘He’s bitten them?’

She sighs. ‘Nothing serious. Daycare is forcing us to see an occupational therapist. And the twins are testing us, which is actually a bit of an understatement. I had a twenty-minute argument with Camille about brushing her teeth this morning. Made me late to a doctor’s appointment.

And I can only put sunscreen on them if I use a make-up brush.

I’ve realised at least sixty per cent of toddler management is marketing. ’

A child starts crying again, this time a particularly heightened shrill sound.

And then another starts weeping and Naya huffs.

‘Hold on, better see if something serious has actually happened. Darla doesn’t like to share anything and the twins have a tendency to steal things and it’s honestly just a melting pot in this house most of the time. ’

‘Where’s Leonard?’

‘Assessing his hand, most likely. I keep telling him to stop looking at the cut, but he keeps stressing that he’ll develop gangrene.’

Leonard works at a local hardware store and has done so since he was sixteen.

He met Naya at the cash register not long after he’d started.

She’d come in looking lost, because our father had just died and Mum was still glued to her bed in grief, and Naya needed something that was going to plug a leak in the shower.

He helped her, they fell in love, and they were married before Naya turned twenty-one.

‘Hold up, Charlie, just muting you for a moment.’

The line goes dead.

I use my shoulder to keep my phone rested against my ear and take the time to answer a few more emails.

Then I trudge towards the kitchen, just for something to do, and pace around the place.

Make myself a piece of toast – butter, peanut butter – and wipe down the kitchen bench while I’m there, since nobody else in the office seems to know how to do it.

Have I always worked with such grubby people?

Naya then returns to the call. ‘Just as I suspected,’ she says, sounding rather defeated. ‘Juliette and Camille stole some toys from Darla’s room, so now I’ve put everyone on a time out—’

Naya is cut off rather suddenly.

‘Do you think it’s getting worse?’ A muffled voice, gruff and husky. Leonard.

‘You’re fine, it just needs a band-aid,’ Naya responds. ‘Check my handbag if there’s none in the drawer. I’m on the phone to Charlie.’