Isnt it nice we both hat.., p.1
Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things, page 1
ABOUT THE BOOK
Charlie, a prime-time radio producer in her early thirties, has always had a big group of friends – until she left her husband and they all sided with him. Now she finds herself floundering in a sea of awkward run-ins and silent group chats. When her best friend Genevieve starts moving on with her life, too, Charlie realises how few significant people she has around her, and what a lonely place that can be.
Dreading the prospect of returning to her childhood home for the anniversary of her father’s death, she busies herself by seeking new friendships – book clubs, pub crawls, team sports, the works. But Charlie’s determination to surround herself with unfamiliar people forces her to confront her insecurities. What kind of life does she want? And who does she really want to spend it with?
PRAISE FOR ISN’T IT NICE WE BOTH HATE THE SAME THINGS
‘Moving, funny and original, this is both a character-driven comedy about who gets what after a couple splits – not just the assets, but the people – and a deep study of loneliness, grief and growth.’
—Clare Fletcher
‘Relatable, witty and full of heart.’
—Bridget Hustwaite
‘Heart-wrenching and beautifully observed, Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things is for anyone who’s ever felt left behind while everyone else is surging ahead. Jessica Seaborn captures the disorientating loneliness and gritty hope of life after marriage with aching honesty and razor-sharp wit.’
—Natalie Murray
‘A ridiculously relatable story of thirty-something friendship – fresh, funny and full of heart.’
—Amy Lovat
‘An honest and heartfelt novel about the importance of surrounding yourself with people who bring out the best in you.’
—Michelle Upton
‘A novel that explores the chaos, sadness and gravity of the most untold love story – friendship breakups – with laughter, empathy and a depth of emotion that will stay with you beyond the final page.’
—Karina May
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE BOOK
PRAISE PAGE
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DAVE
PART THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
IMPRINT
POWERED BY PENGUIN
To friends – mine, yours, and those we have yet to meet.
7 MARCH
I haven’t seen you in forever!
We should catch up.
8 MARCH
Definitely!! Let’s get dinner sometime.
29 JUNE
Happy birthday gal!! Dinner soon?
Miss you.
30 JUNE
Thank you!! And yes, of COURSE.
Let’s plan something.
10 SEPTEMBER
Gah, it’s been ages since I’ve seen your face. When are you free to catch up?
It’s been too long.
12 SEPTEMBER
I was literally just about to text you.
Catch up sounds perfect! I don’t mind where we go. What works best for you?
25 DECEMBER
Merry Christmas lady, congratulations on the engagement! So thrilled for you.
Drinks soon to celebrate?
30 DECEMBER
Yes definitely!! Let’s get cocktails somewhere. Haven’t seen you in ages, we need to get together.
*Repeat until one of you dies.
PROLOGUE
On my wedding night, after the speeches have ended but before we’ve cut the cake, my best friend Genevieve scurries off. Rises from our table, grabs her purse, discards her soda water, and beelines through the crowd towards the bathroom. A frown is etched across her forehead.
Immediately, I follow.
I squeeze past the tables, worm my way through the dancefloor, navigate around the wishing well and down the corridor to the restrooms. I’m nipping at her heels, which clack loudly with each thunderous step.
Before she can close the bathroom door, I’ve stuck out my hand and forced my way through. Yanked on the train of my dress so it doesn’t get caught. Shut the door behind me, the noise from the party softening.
Instantly, Genevieve insists I should leave. ‘No, no,’ she says, scrambling. Utterly frazzled. Hands tilting back and forth, outstretched. Her rich mahogany hair, blow-dried and wavy and perched on her collarbones, bounces. ‘It’s your wedding day. I can do this myself.’
It always amuses me when she tries to stand her ground. She’s tiny. Wee and compact. One day I might just pick her up and put her in my pocket.
‘I know you can,’ I say. But I don’t move. Defiant, feet rooted to the ground. ‘But you shouldn’t have to.’
‘I’m fine, Charlie. Honestly.’
‘Are you?’
As her lips purse and her eyebrows rise, I know she’s contemplating fighting me on this. Telling me to get out, to go back to my wedding. She knows they’ll be readying the cake, knows the photographer will be stationed near the bar where the lighting is best. Is aware that my friends will be looking for me on the dancefloor.
But ultimately, she also knows I’m right. She should not have to do this by herself.
‘Sit down. It’ll be over in five minutes.’ I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, hurrying her up.
She resists, but only for a moment.
Relenting, she sighs, pulls up her sheer ivory bridesmaid dress and plonks herself down on the toilet lid. ‘Fine.’ She hands me her suede purse. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it.
I pluck the needle from inside her bag and undo the insulated packaging.
‘IVF injections on a toilet lid. No one told me having a baby would be so romantic,’ she says. Sighting the syringe, she winces and averts her gaze. ‘One of your friends asked me why I wasn’t drinking.’
‘Was it Emmanuel?’ I ask. ‘He means well but he’s nosy. Or Josie? She gets bold after her fifth champagne.’
‘It was a man with five buttons undone.’
I let out a chuckle. ‘Cinar.’
Her lips part; she’s fascinated. ‘Oh, that’s Cinar,’ she says, amused. ‘The serial dater.’
‘Correct.’
‘The man who thinks chest hair attracts women?’
‘Also correct.’
‘I pictured him taller.’
‘That’s Emmanuel,’ I clarify. ‘Long neck, giant forehead. Cinar’s the short one.’
But she’s no longer listening. She’s glancing down as I pinch a section of her torso, her mouth twitching. Her lip product is new – glossy and rose-coloured – but she cannot stop biting her bottom lip and it’s all starting to rub off. I’d hoped discussion about the wedding might distract her, but she’s grown quiet. I readjust my grip and she recoils.
‘Bruce is drunk,’ I say, hoping that diverting the conversation to her husband might help instead. ‘He’s gearing up for the dancefloor.’
‘I know.’ She smiles – tender, genuine. ‘He’s going to embarrass me, isn’t he?’
‘Probably.’
Laughing, she adds, ‘Good. It means he’s having fun.’
‘And we aren’t?’ I ask, and she returns my smirk.
Usually, Bruce is the one who injects the needle. Calms her down, distracts her. Makes self-deprecating jokes to make her laugh. Reassures her when she’s feeling like all of this is her fault. Tells her no
Unless, of course, his wife gives him the night off. Forces him to forget about the needle and have fun. Drink. Dance.
Like tonight.
‘Look at the size of this thing,’ I say, holding it up in front of my face. In the mirror, it looks even larger. Longer than chin to forehead. ‘Can’t believe you have to do this every night.’
‘Just wait until it’s your turn. It’s awful.’
I freeze, my body clenching. There’s a silence while her words register, and then she crumples. Folds over, her upper body deflating. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t know why I said it.’ She rests her head in her hands, looking at me between splayed fingers. ‘You won’t have to go through this, I bet.’
I pull her hands off her face. ‘You’re ruining your make-up.’
She grabs my wrist, gives it a squeeze and looks me in the eye. ‘Thank you. For this.’
‘This round is going to work.’
She’s on the fourth, although I usually try not to say numbers. Any time she remembers how long it’s been, how many years she and Bruce have been trying, she retreats into herself. Is devastated, all over again.
Genevieve glances down. ‘It has to work,’ she whispers. ‘Has to. Or I borrowed Mum’s money for nothing.’
I force her to look at me again. She’s paler than usual, and I know she’s feeling defeated. ‘You know she doesn’t care about the money.’
Her parents would give her anything she asked for – anything she needed. She’s the only child they could have, and they’re not going to let her think, even for a second, that she’s without their support. I know that on tough days, Genevieve wishes they didn’t live so far away.
‘It’s about to go in.’
She glances down at the needle and jolts. ‘A fairytale conception.’
Then, after a moment, she whispers, ‘I’m barren, aren’t I?’
‘Stop.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, sullen. Her hair is starting to frizz now, as if compelled to return to its factory settings. ‘I’m trying really hard not to say these things. It’s just … It’s been so long, Charlie.’
‘I know.’
‘And everyone around me is …’ She trails off. ‘It’s hard to be happy for others, sometimes.’
‘I know.’
‘I think about teenagers getting knocked up in cars far too often. One and done, like that.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Makes me livid.’
She closes her eyes. ‘When people tell me they’re pregnant, I’m happy for them, I really am, but I’m also sad, and then I’m so angry with myself for being sad. What a terrible person I am, for thinking like that.’
What about me? I want to say. If I were pregnant, how would you feel?
She clocks my expression, sees me avert my gaze. And in an instant, she’s angled her face towards mine so I’m forced to look at her. ‘If you were to fall before me, I’d be so happy for you. You know that, right?’
I gesture to the needle. ‘I know you’d do the same for me.’
She smiles and nods, as if to say, Yes, I would. I really would.
The needle slides into her skin and she makes a pained squeak. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this for me on your wedding day.’
‘Who cares that it’s my wedding day?’
‘I care,’ she cries. ‘This is the hottest you’ve ever looked and you’re squatting next to a toilet for me.’
I smile.
‘You should wear hair extensions more often,’ she says, pointing to the sleek low bun at the base of my neck.
I touch it, delicately. I’m so used to my thin, wispy hair – ash blonde – that to feel such a large amount of hair on the back of my head throws me, every time.
She looks down at my dress. High-neck, intricate lace, fitted. It’s vintage and elongates my body. She runs her fingertips over the sleeves. ‘I still can’t believe how stunning you look.’
I slide the needle out of her torso and stand. ‘All done.’
Genevieve shimmies down her dress and rises from the toilet. ‘I love you.’ She pulls me in for a hug and I wrap an arm around her. Squeeze tight. ‘The ceremony was beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You are beautiful.’ She releases the hug. ‘Did you see Dave’s face? Poor man couldn’t hold in the tears.’
Oh yes, I saw. A revelation for all of us. I’d never seen Dave cry before, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t unsettle me, give me pause before I continued down the aisle. Make me wonder what it meant, to have a husband you’d never seen be that openly vulnerable. The first time he’s truly showing his emotions and it’s the day we’re vowing to be together forever.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asks, frowning.
‘Yes, fine, why?’
She eyes me, a flicker of doubt. But I laugh off her concerns. Give her shoulder a reassuring nudge. ‘I’m great.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ she says, relaxing. ‘I can’t believe you’re married. I can’t believe I’m married, sometimes.’
‘Scary, isn’t it?’
‘A slippery slope,’ she says, eyes widening. ‘How fast I went from shots and clubs to checking budding tomatoes at eight in the morning.’
We laugh.
‘And I can’t believe I finally met your mum,’ she cries. ‘And your sister. And Dave’s vows were beautiful. And the speeches were—’ She kisses her fingers, then releases them. A moment later, she grabs my hands. ‘You look happy.’
‘I am happy.’
‘Good. You and Dave are perfect.’
Yes, we are. Perfect.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
My marriage lasts two years.
Less, if we omit those final couple of weeks when everything imploded. When we stopped speaking to each other. When I discovered what he’d been hiding.
It’s November, almost two months since I left him. The weather is crisp but bearable, and it’s the first time I’ve worn make-up in six weeks. First time I’ve braved a social event. This is a momentous occasion, ready to be etched in stone. I’m wearing heels and I put volumising tonic in my hair, for Christ’s sake. I plucked my eyebrows for this! I’m rising from the dead, I’ve decided.
‘Are you sure that you’re okay?’
Beside me, Genevieve cradles a bottle of champagne and her handbag. We’re deep in the suburbs, Saturday evening. Minivans and station wagons line the street, with basketball hoops in driveways, chalk art adorning the footpaths, and tended flower patches in front of every home.
Outside Josie’s house, balloons are tied to the letterbox.
Battling a rather ferocious wind, Genevieve gives her head a shake to try and keep her hair away from her face. It’s longer now, cascading down her back. A section somehow slips into her mouth and with a graceless puh puh puh she spits it out. ‘Jesus, this wind is not a vibe.’
I tuck the birthday gift under an arm and relieve her of the champagne.
‘Do I look okay?’ she asks, tucking hair behind her ears.
Lord, she looks matted. Absolutely psychotic. ‘You look great.’
Her mouth flattens out; she knows I’m lying. Running a hand through her red hair, she attempts to tame it. Licks her fingers to calm down the flyaways. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Am I sure I want to do this?’ Pause. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Time to live my life again. I’ve been stowed away in Genevieve and Bruce’s apartment for six weeks and it’s essential I move on. Get back out there, reconnect with friends, leave the house for something other than work, shower at least once a day, et cetera. If I am to believe all the lady websites, I am still a confident, successful woman who can achieve things!
‘Because we can go home, if you’d prefer.’
To her two-bedroom apartment? Another night where the three of us squeeze together on the sofa and Genevieve asks me how I’m feeling every ten minutes while Bruce throws out ideas on how I could spend my time now that I’m separated from Dave? Nature stuff, sex with strangers (the younger the better), drinking (the more the better), facials, tattoos, training for marathons, signing up to dating apps. All suggestions provided by his colleagues who are divorced. It seems I’ve now entered some sort of club for the separated. The advice comes free.
