Olive

by Emma Gannon

  “You’re right. Being the intern is just so hard sometimes.”

  “You can’t take it personally. They grew up in the ‘one seat at the table for women’ era. Amie Hammer is threatened by you.”

  “Ha! I highly doubt that, Bea.”

  “She is. You’re young. You’ll take her job one day,” Bea said confidently, piling more sugar into her coffee.

  Mine and Bea’s lives have always paralleled, almost exactly. The four of us in the friendship group have gone through most things together, but Bea and I are something else. Our birthdays are just a few days apart, we started our periods at the same summer camp together, we both tried to insert our first tampon in the same bathroom together, we started our very first jobs years later in the same local pub pulling pints, and now we both had jobs that made us cry in our respective company toilets. For so long, we’d moved up the same ladder, and our friendship had become more and more solidified on this basis. But today we’d found something brand-new in common! Sitting in Fall & Well, we were both complaining about the same bodily annoyances: change in appetite, sore boobs, being grouchier than normal, having annoying headaches and a little bit of nausea thrown in for fun. Oh, and (er, most importantly) a very late period. Upon announcing this, we looked at each other through gritted teeth and realized we should probably check it out, together. We didn’t really have time to discuss how we felt about it emotionally—never mind what our boyfriends would think—as we had less than half an hour before we needed to traipse back to the office, aka our prison cells. So, we walked in silence to quickly find some answers. And the answers to modern life’s big questions were normally found in Boots.

  We walked in and headed to the “family planning” area at the back of the store—walking past life-size posters of catalog model babies in shiny diapers smiling creepily at us—and popped the tests in our baskets. I took them to the register. I find it strange that at times of such great personal uncertainty, the cashier knows more about the intimate details of someone’s life than their partner or anyone else close to them. Fanny rash? Pregnancy? Fungal infection? They scanned your life’s secrets. Beep. Bea went off to look for some mouthwash. The older woman serving me, with two long earrings in the shape of cacti, gave me a wink as she put them in the bag as if to say “good luck,” which was weird, because how could she possibly know what I wanted? Fine, I clearly looked of an age at which buying a pregnancy test was something totally normal and something I might be excited about, but still.

  “I’m not happy about this, you know,” I said to the presumptuous cacti-earringed cashier, pointing to the pregnancy tests.

  “Er—”

  “Yeah, this purchase,” I said, pointing at the offending item with my eyebrows, “is the opposite of exciting.”

  “Oh, I see—okay! Well, then. Have a good day.”

  Bea and I left the store, and I put one test in each pocket of my big coat. Where should we do them? This felt the same as buying cigarettes back in the day, needing to find a good hiding place to stash our new goodies and consume them privately.

  That’s when we duck into the flagship Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road, because we knew they had some spacious toilets in there, next to the café on the fifth floor. While everyone else was lining up to buy their baked potatoes with salad and coleslaw and skinny lattes, with shiny new hardback books stashed in their bags, we scurried off to the loos to see if our lives were going to change forever.

  When we entered the women’s loos on the fifth floor, a little boy—who couldn’t be older than two—popped out from behind the door. I let out a scream. Terrifying! Like something out of The Shining. He started crying, and his mother appeared with her wet, soapy hands still dripping, rubbing them on her jeans. She huffed and puffed and tutted at me, checking her watch dramatically and swiping at his face with a wet wipe. He was inhaling quickly, still crying.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I literally screamed in the child’s face.

  “It’s okay,” the mum replied abruptly. I stood there like an awkward lemon. This kid’s chubby little legs were stuffed into his tiny Converse shoes. I guess he was quite cute. My hand clamped around the pregnancy test box in my pocket.

  Time ticked on frustratingly slowly. I waited for the purple line to become a little clearer. I brought the test up close to my face. My eyes crossed over and blurred. Why do seconds seem so stretched out when you are waiting for something important? Bea always told me to “zoom out” when I became too overwhelmed with daily life. “Like you would do with your fingers on a photo online, Ol, just breathe and use your two fingers to adjust, in and out,” she’d say. I often get so anxious that I can’t find a logical way out of my own muddled-up thoughts, like a spider spasming in its own cobweb. That’s why looking at the sky and out to the sea scientifically relaxes humans—because when we look into that deep, deep blue we realize we are insignificant specks. I sometimes found my brain racing around and around like a merry-go-round, and I felt like I was going to be sick but couldn’t find a way to jump off safely. Breathe. Zoom out. Switch to bird’s-eye view, Olive. Breathe. It’s okay, I told myself. This was a Sliding Doors moment, but whatever happened, it would be okay.

  I heard Bea shuffle out from her cubicle, the door gently closing. When I eventually emerged myself, the door accidentally slammed loudly behind me. I looked over at Bea, who had red cheeks with mascara-stained tears streaking down them.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “It’s . . . negative,” she said, sniffing.

  Oh . . . shit. She actually wanted it to say she was pregnant? Were those tears of disappointment?

  I looked down at my hands cupped around the pissy plastic container. “Me too. Negative,” I said. I couldn’t help but sound relieved. I thought of Jacob then, and I tried to imagine what he’d say. If I told him.

  Two women, one result, two totally different responses whirring around in our heads; I could feel them clashing in the air. I thought we were in this together, Bea and I; I thought we wanted the same thing. We always did. I felt my utter joy and relief deflate slightly. I was well and truly off the hook—not pregnant! Yes! We could carry on living our sweet, sweet lives. Wahoooo! But I couldn’t bounce up and down; I had to pretend to look sad. Also, Bea’s reaction had really knocked me for six. How did I not know she was trying for a baby? We knew absolutely everything about each other.

  Pfft. This was ridiculous. We didn’t want kids. We were only in our early twenties. And I thought Jeremy was away all the time for work. She’d be really screwing herself over if she got pregnant now. We hadn’t even been out of university that long, and there was so much time stretched out ahead of us to do big crazy things before we settled down. We had parties to attend, careers to smash, hangovers to indulge in, impromptu cinema trips, and dinner parties to throw. I had a work acquaintance who had just had a baby, and she said that even a trip to the cinema cost her over £50 because they had to book a babysitter on top of the tickets, snacks, and car parking. Was that really what we wanted, so soon? Our lives to be put on hold?

  After a slow afternoon back at work, we went to a small bar just off Soho Square—we both needed a drink after all of that lunchtime palaver. We ordered a bottle of rosé. Then another one. After that we ended up in a dingy basement club nearby, where the barman gave us a free bottle of champagne—I lied and said it was Bea’s birthday.

  “This is the silver lining, eh, Bea—if you’d had a different result, you wouldn’t be able to drink this delicious ch-champagne!” I slurred, sloshing my glass around.

  “Oh, sshhhh,” she said, smashing her champagne flute into mine. Luckily they were plastic.

  Part of me wanted to ask her about the test, her disappointment: Why a baby now, Bea? And why couldn’t you tell me? But the bigger, more selfish part of me kept quiet.

  So, there we were, marking a real milestone together. Me celebrating—Bea
commiserating.

  I drunkenly called Cecily on the way home, around 11:00 p.m., from the night bus. I got off a few stops early so I could get some fresh air. Cec always worked super late as a paralegal, so I knew she’d be up reading through a pile of documents that her boss couldn’t be bothered to read. Sirens seem to blast past me every ten minutes. Motorbike engines pierced my eardrums. I sat inside a bus shelter to get away from the noise and replayed the whole ordeal to her, my leather jacket perched on my shoulders, with a cigarette in my hand. I was a bit drunk, and I realized too late into the conversation that I was being a bit bitchy.

  “I mean, thank god my test was negative, Cec. And Bea being pregnant would be so weird; it’s too early! But she did look very gutted, though,” I said, exhaling smoke. I suddenly felt guilty, remembering the intense disappointment on Bea’s face.

  “Well, I think Bea and Jeremy have mentioned wanting kids one day, but yeah, I agree that it’s very early . . .” Cec replied. It sounded echoey where she was; clearly her office was pretty empty as it was so late.

  “Yeah. I guess I just assumed we’d both be freaking out. We were both so nervous buying the pregnancy tests because, you know, it was an accident. Well, at least for me? So I was totally taken aback when she looked upset at it coming out negative.”

  “Wow,” Cec gasped, joining in. “I suppose I’d be shocked too. It’s a huge change and responsibility.”

  “We’re only twenty-two,” I said, tapping ash on the floor.

  “There’s no rush. I’m personally not ready at all. I’ve only just got properly going at work. It’s bloody competitive in my office as well.”

  “Same! I mean, do you think you will have one, one day, though?” I asked.

  “Dunno. Not until I’m much older, I think. I reckon I’ll have one when I’m like thirty-eight or something? When I’m bossin’ it as a lawyer with millions of pounds,” Cec said, laughing.

  “That sounds good, Cec—and there’s no doubt you’ll be bossing it. I guess we can just wait and see, can’t we?”

  “Exactly. And anyway, Ol, don’t worry about today, and keep me posted. Right, I’d better sign off. I’ve got to get through a mountain of stuff and wanna be home by 1 a.m. God help me. Love you.”

  “Love you—bye, Cec.”

  I loved Cec’s ambition, her general go-getting attitude. She was a party animal on the weekends and worked super hard in the week. I loved that we both weren’t in any rush to settle down. I was suddenly worried about losing Bea. Terrified that this was the start of the downhill slope. The downhill slope to adulthood and suburbia and staying on the sofa 24/7. Was she going to be getting excited about Tupperware parties next?

  It felt like something had shifted. I felt another stab of guilt for judging Bea’s life decisions so harshly. But we all know the fear that once your friends start to grow their families, you might become less needed and, then, fully redundant.

  4

  2019

  The office is full to the brim today with extra bodies as our largest meeting room has been turned into a makeshift studio for a shoot. We have partnered with a huge fashion brand for the issue, and we’ve roped all the interns into being the models. Gill’s idea, as she says it’ll save us money and show “diversity.” I pop to the sandwich shop directly below the office to get lunch, and to get away from all the hustle and bustle in the office. Bit lazy of me, but it’s nice enough—I just need some peace and quiet. I sit by the window, looking out at all the frantic Londoners, people smoking while speaking on the phone with stressed-out faces, shouting at cyclists. As I go to take a bite of my crayfish sandwich, a baby starts howling behind me. Howling. Wailing loudly and then choking on its own cries. I turn around and see the red-faced baby is in a stroller, seemingly discarded right in the middle of the café.

  “Whose baby is this, please? Whose baby?” cries a waistcoated woman with an Australian accent and short hair. I glance at her chest—ah yes, she has a big badge that says “manager.”

  People look around, confused.

  Short-haired Australian woman shouts through to the kitchen. “Hi, Rodge, we have a stroller here in the middle of the caff, and I’m not entirely sure where the mother is. Seems to have been abandoned.”

  “The parent, you mean, Rach,” a stern disembodied voice from the kitchen replies.

  “Eh?”

  “You assumed the gender of the primary caregiver.”

  “Rodge—not now. I haven’t got the time for this.”

  “Okay, I’ll be out in a sec,” says Rodge.

  Suddenly there is the sound of running feet coming up the spiral staircase that goes down to the extra seating area below, and a tiny woman with a long, swinging blond ponytail appears, panting.

  She suddenly takes the reins of the buggy, keeping her head down, not making eye contact.

  “Excuse me—is this your baby?” Rach asks.

  “Yes! Sorry, I was desperate for the loo,” she says in between breaths. “I couldn’t get the buggy down those stairs . . . and—”

  “Madam, you can’t just leave your baby alone like that.”

  “It was only for a few minutes!” she gasps.

  “Long enough to terrify all of us,” Rach says sternly. “Please make sure you don’t do that again.”

  I shudder. Imagine that, not even being able to go to the loo without causing some sort of chaos?

  I check my watch and realize I need to get back to the office.

  Back at my desk, I lean back on my fancy chair, kick off my shoes, and tuck into a huge wedge of carrot cake to calm my nerves after the baby fiasco. I’m going to Bea’s this weekend with the girls—after much back and forth with calendar checking and WhatsApp chasing. I have my overnight bag underneath my desk, and I keep accidentally kicking it and stubbing my toe. I’ve packed face masks, thick socks, chocolate and a bottle of pinot noir. I can’t deny my disappointment after the failure of our last meetup, so I’m excited to be having a girly sleepover: a cozy night in, where we can all be together, with no distractions or stresses.

  I hear footsteps coming towards me. Gill, the editor in chief, saunters past my desk in thigh-high pleather boots over jeans. She throws a newspaper clipping onto my desk, hands on hips.

  “I think there’s something in this. Maybe we should cover it. You up for it?”

  I look down and see a picture of a girl in a red sweater holding a weird-looking dog—with a bold headline: “MILLENNIALS CHOOSE PETS OVER CHILDREN.”

  I laugh. “Wow—that’s quite an assumption.”

  “I think it’s true, though. Millennials are cash poor and fucked over. Poor sods. Probably can’t afford to do the whole kid thing until they’re in their forties, or even older, and most of them aren’t homeowners, at least in London. But . . . they could have a pet in the meantime and feel like they are moving towards something. Maybe you could interview some people about it? I reckon it’ll get a lot of clicks online and retweets.”

  “Do you think people might get offended that we’re sort of suggesting that millennials are too immature to have kids?”

  “Sure! Ruffle some feathers with it.”

  “Okay,” I say, picking up the newspaper to look more closely.

  “Great! Have a good weekend, Ol.” She lingers, probably waiting for me to ask her what her plans are. She tells me anyway: “I’m off to a sex club this weekend.”

  Too much information, Gill.

  “Lovely! Have fun!” I say, forcing a smile before logging back into my computer. I don’t quite feel like finishing my carrot cake anymore.

  I have a couple of gins-in-a-tin from M&S on the train to Bea’s, trying not to slurp too loudly. I feel a bit wobbly when I step off the train—I’ve always been a bit of a lightweight. Bea lives in Surrey, and her house overlooks some beautiful countryside. I love walking from the train station to B
ea’s because you have to go through a big park to get there, and it’s gorgeous: ducks on the pond, kids flying kites, and today it has an extra-special glow because the daffodils are out. I look up at the clouds. Even though it’s a short train ride, I suddenly feel far away from London’s rush.

  I always feel so relaxed in Bea’s fun, chaotic home—it is the most higgledy-piggledy, disorganized, yet joyful space. There is truly nowhere like it. It is difficult not to trip over all of the unhung framed artwork that leans against the hallway walls, and the mini-sculptures that lie in the middle of rooms. I always stub my toe on a random trophy that holds the kitchen door open. I associate Bea’s life with growing up, finding myself through art and books, feeling that youthful sense of excitement, escapism, and exploration. Her parents were as wild and carefree as she is now, and they used to let us run riot around their family home when we were kids. Bea’s parents, Sonya and Mikeal, were a big deal in the theatre business, and they always had famous dancers and actors seated ’round their dinner table. They had huge oil paintings of iconic ballerinas and original poster artwork from shows like Les Mis. Bookshelves heaving with novels and scripts. Bea ended up working as a gallery curator near Mayfair, a job she got through a family friend, and she’s now freelance and works a lot from home or consults over Skype. I still find it bizarre that this is now Bea’s life. I live in a “for now” flat. She lives in a “for life” home. For so long I had no idea she even wanted kids—or perhaps I’d just never thought to interrogate her—let alone that she’d become a mum of three so young. It’s not that she hid her feelings or dreams from me over the years, just that we never really thought to discuss it too much when we were young. I remember the day everything changed; the hopeful pregnancy tests and then the announcement of her first child, Andrew. I was in a state of shock, and now: she has three! Three kids. To me it seems insane.

  Everything about Bea’s lifestyle is madly colorful and vibrant. All her crockery is handmade, and she paints smiley faces on all her vases. She has so many pets. It’s the sort of home where you wouldn’t be surprised if a Shetland pony trotted through the kitchen. The beds are never made, the kids’ clothes are always a tinge of pink from mixed-up washing loads, but her home is one where you can’t help but feel safe and comforted when welcomed inside. She’d recreated the freedom and vibrancy of her own childhood home. It was at her parents’ house that I kissed my first crush at a party in the basement; it’s where I tried weed for the first time; it’s where I first danced until 5:00 a.m. to Fleetwood Mac and smoked my first cigarette out of the window. I dropped my cigarette butt, still lit, and burned a hole through her sofa, but Bea just shrugged and said it would be fine. That was the family’s attitude towards pretty much everything—there was a sign hanging in big bold letters above the front door that read, “Home is where the art is.” Bea’s mum, Sonya, gave me my first expensive red lipstick to wear. Her parents would play the piano and offer us posh canapés while letting us run around the spare rooms with water guns, shrieking. I sometimes felt bad about having so much fun while my mum was sitting at home sending me strict texts, constantly on medication for her headaches (which made her both snappy and drowsy), sitting in that bare house after my dad left us. My home life was bleak, and Bea’s house was my place to escape and feel totally and completely free. I often wonder who I’d be now if I hadn’t met Bea.