Olive

by Emma Gannon

  “The next time I see you, you’ll be . . . a mum!” I say.

  “I know, eeeeek! Love you. So nice to see you, Ol. Remember . . . I’m here if you need me.” She smiles and hugs me before waving me off—she’s a ball of excitement.

  I walk down the street to Barons Court Tube station with tears prickling in my eyes. I’m so happy for Cec; she’ll be a brilliant mum, I know she will. But I can’t help feeling that her moving forwards is just a reminder that I’m only moving back.

  I sit on the Tube, get my notepad out, and start writing before my brain even feels connected to my hand. My old drinking buddy, Cec. My wild friend. The one who would always dance on the tables and never wanted to go home. Now, she stays in all the time, she’s pregnant and burns scented candles. But she seems to like her new life, the choices she’s made. So, what do I really want? Perhaps there is a different future out there that I’m taking for granted. I stare into the distance and struggle to refocus, the baby/no baby dilemma rearing its head.

  Pros for having a baby:

  1.I’d get invited to stuff more-such as, but not limited to, mothers’ meetings, children’s birthday parties, picnics in the park, etc.

  2.I would feel part of the gang and not like a total gooseberry (see point one)

  3.I would feel this “different kind of love” that people always talk about

  4.I would feel more “normal” in my life choices and wouldn’t have to make up fake life milestones at reunions

  5.I know what my future would look like “on paper”-and I would feel part of a bigger family unit

  6.I could find a way back to Jacob. Maybe.

  Cons for having a baby:

  1.NO SLEEP!! (I LOVE SLEEP)

  2.I would be constantly unsure if I truly did actually want the baby-like is it peer pressure? Wouldn’t that be an awful reason to have a baby?

  3.Life would be sort of ruined (my bank balance would struggle A LOT)

  4.I would feel trapped in general, and I wouldn’t be able to put myself first or make spontaneous travel plans

  5.Long, stressful, screamy airport visits and flights

  6.I could regret it and be one of those anonymous mums on Mumsnet pulling her hair out and saying she wants to give it back

  I look down at the list. Six pros, six cons. Oh. Crap. Maybe I’m “on the fence.” Am I on the fence?

  “It was around puberty that I became consciously aware that I didn’t want children, and I haven’t changed my mind since.”

  Michelle, 27

  7

  2011

  “Let’s see the ring then!” I grabbed Bea’s freshly manicured hand. “Oh, Bea—it’s lush! Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, I love it. It’s a bit different, I guess!” The ring was a deep blue sapphire with small diamonds around the outside. “Well done, Jezza; he nailed it,” I said.

  Bea’s parents were throwing Jeremy and Bea an engagement party dinner at a gorgeous restaurant in Covent Garden. There were about twenty people altogether on a long trestle table, and the restaurant was loud and full of noisy atmosphere. Cec, Isla, Bea, and I were there, plus a few other friends and around ten family members, including Jeremy’s parents and brother. The four of us girls were sitting down one end of the table. Cec had dyed her hair even blonder for the occasion, Bea was wearing a bright headscarf, and Isla was wearing a cashmere beret with her signature bangs poking out. I was wearing a pair of velvet dungarees, hoping they wouldn’t give me thrush. Jeremy was at the other end with his family. I liked the fact that Bea had chosen to sit with us. It was a sign, however small, that she wasn’t quite “leaving us.”

  “I’m not doing the whole bridesmaids bullshit, by the way, but will you guys please sleep in the room with me the night before the wedding, and we can get ready all together in the morning?” Bea asked, folding out her napkin.

  “Hell yes,” Cec said. “I’m so excited. Weddings are such fun. What do we wear? Nothing too slutty, right?”

  “Whatever you want!” Bea said.

  “Should we coordinate, though?” Isla asked.

  “Nah! I find it really weird when brides make grown women wear a lame pastel-colored dress. I wouldn’t want to do that to you,” Bea laughed, ripping off a piece of sourdough from the bread basket.

  “Such an exciting next step, Bea. I can’t believe you’re getting married,” Cec said.

  “I know, but marriage changes literally nothing. Just an excuse for a piece of bling on the ol’ finger and a big old to-do with my favorite people! But it feels so nice to know Jeremy wants all the same things as me. We want to get on with it—build a family, you know?”

  “Yeah, yeah—but it’s also about the party!” Cec said excitedly. We all knew Cec was going to go wild—she had been known to lead many a conga around a marquee.

  A cold bottle of champagne arrived in a silver cooler, and everyone was poured a glass by a good-looking waiter in a suit. Bea’s mum, Sonya, tapped a fork on the side of her glass, getting a folded piece of paper out of her pocket to do a little speech.

  “My darling Bea! It makes me so happy to see you blossom, to find so many things that bring you joy. The galleries, your best girlfriends, and—of course—the lovely Jeremy . . . You have built all of this yourself with your spirit, energy, and the way you summon such positivity into your life. I’m so proud to be your mum.”

  I started welling up. Sonya might be a bit woo-woo, but she was right: just knowing that Bea was on her own brilliant path to happiness, and with her best friends very much beside her through it all, was a lovely feeling.

  The whole table carried on eating and laughing and sharing anecdotes, clearly the loudest group in the restaurant. Sonya presented Bea and Jeremy with some crystals that would “guide their marriage.” We finished our mains, waiters continued topping up our glasses, and a giant dessert was brought out, complete with sparklers. We cheered and whooped, and Bea and Jeremy waved the sparklers around, smiling the biggest smiles as we all looked on and clapped. The night ended with loud music and dancing on tables, and the restaurant staff seemed to love it just as much as we did, pouring us free shots straight from the bottle into our mouths. Mine and Bea’s song suddenly came on—“Red Red Wine” by UB40—and we grabbed each other and started singing from the top of our lungs, like we were the only two people in the room.

  Even though this was a turn in the road, a new chapter, Bea was still my Bea.

  8

  2019

  I’ve decided to go and see a Reiki healer today because I am a millennial cliché with a free afternoon. I have accepted the fact that since the breakup I haven’t really been looking after myself that well. I haven’t been to the gym in months, and I haven’t cooked any nice food for myself in ages either. Cec sent me a huge box of frozen chicken broth in the post, which is very thoughtful. The note read: “Some nutrients for you! A bit of self-care please. Cec xx.” It doesn’t feel very “feminist” to admit that I am struggling now that I don’t have a boyfriend, but it’s my truth right now. What’s so wrong with enjoying being looked after by someone? Jacob kept me on the straight and narrow. He often encouraged us to cook good meals from scratch; he was fairly healthy and didn’t love takeaways; his best mate had started a healthy delivery service, and he had free membership; and he’d make us get out of the house on weekends. He even dragged me out to go on runs with him. Without any of that, without any of these small lifestyle nudges, I am immediately back to my natural state, aka filth and laziness. I’m back to being the woman I truly am, who eats noodles in her underwear on the sofa and orders Nando’s every other night on Deliveroo, even though she can’t really afford it now that she’s paying double rent. I have no one to impress, no one to suggest ways I could take better care of myself, no accountability. I am being half-arsed with my cleaning—I’ve definitely not cleared the crumbs from und
er the toaster for a while. The other day, I ordered extra pizza just to keep some cold for breakfast the next day. My teeth hurt from eating badly, and pimples have erupted on my chin, giving my secrets away. Those fitness blogger gurus always say you should “tenderly prepare a meal for yourself, like you would for a loved one!” and “caringly sprinkle some seeds or chili flakes onto every meal.” Oh piss off!

  As I sank into my sofa I’d noticed an old copy of .dot magazine on my very cluttered coffee table, under the half-drunk cups of tea and hardened porridge bowls, and flicked through to see that a colleague had written a feature on the “Ten Best Modern-Day Reiki Healers.” I’m at that point where I’m willing to try anything. I have always been quite cynical of Reiki (what exactly is it? How do they “heal” you without even really touching you? Is it a rip-off?), but from scanning the article I gathered it’s an ancient spiritual healing practice, and it sounds fairly legit—so I’ve decided to give it a go. I also have very low expectations, so it’s always possible that I might be pleasantly surprised. I go with the recommendation at the bottom of the article: a woman named Seal. In the article it says she was trained by one of the “original masters.” I’m not sure what that means, but it certainly sounds impressive. I don’t want to put all the pressure on this poor Reiki woman to heal all of my life’s problems, but it would be great if she could. Then the £65 price tag would work out to be quite reasonable. I text her. She happens to be free this afternoon, so I have a quick shower and head off to her address.

  Seal’s house-cum-health-spa is a twenty-minute walk from my flat, in a very leafy residential area on Holyrood Road. I’m just turning the corner to her place when I spot an old school teacher, Mrs. Rudd, walking up the road towards me. I squint. Is it her, here in London? What are the chances. She is wearing a velvet beret and a red Mac raincoat and carrying some canvas shopping bags. I haven’t seen her since I was about seventeen years old when she would tell me off for talking too much in English. She did acknowledge on the last day of term that I didn’t actually talk the most, but my voice was “the most distinctive.”

  “Olive . . . Stone?” she says now, moving her glasses slightly, trying to place me. “Hi!”

  Ugh, why do teachers always have to say full names?

  “Mrs. Rudd—it’s been so long, what brings you here?” I say, zipping up my coat.

  “Oh—please, call me Rachael. We’re both adults now! I live just around the corner. We moved about five years ago to be closer to Alistair’s sister when she was unwell. How is everything with you?”

  “Great, thanks, I’m a writer now. I work at .dot magazine; do you know it?”

  “I don’t, but oh, that’s just fantastic. You were always a good writer. Even if you did distract the others in my class!” Her laugh sounds like a honk.

  “How is your husband?” I ask. Mr. Rudd—Alistair—also worked at the school. There were always rumors that he was cheating on her with the new biology supply teachers, but I always thought they seemed like a sweet couple, and I always hoped it wasn’t true.

  “Oh he’s great, thank you—and our kids are just entering their twenties now. Scary, really, how quickly they grow! What about you, Olive—husband, any kids?”

  “Um . . .” I pause. “Yes! Yes, both.” I do a big smile.

  “Oh how lovely! How old are they?”

  “I have a daughter, she’s two. She’s perfect,” I say.

  “How lovely. So happy for you. The best thing ever, isn’t it? Being a mum. Take care. Safe onward travels.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Rudd . . . Rachael,” I say flatly, with an attempt at a smile. I don’t feel in control of my words. Why did I lie? What was I saying? I know that was a weird thing to do, but I just couldn’t bear for my teacher to see me fifteen years after leaving school, with hardly any major changes in my life.

  Feeling distinctly unsettled, I reach a gorgeous house at the end of the street. It’s painted white with ivy trailing the walls and windows; the blue dot on my Google Map matches with the destination. I look up at the green door. Yes, this is it. Seal’s abode. I knock, and a woman with a thick gray braid over one shoulder quickly opens the curtains at the front window and peeks out to see who it is. Then I hear her undoing about four different metal bolts on the door before opening it.

  “Olive, is it?” Seal asks, looking me up and down.

  I look down at her scrawny bare feet painted intricately in henna patterns. “That’s me,” I reply, stepping inside and wiping my shoes on her doormat.

  “Lovely to meet you, Olive. Please remove your shoes and come on through.” I follow her down her carpeted hallway and into a small room opposite her living room. The appointment room has a huge bookshelf, and in front of it is a portable massage table covered in towels.

  “The toilet is here, if you need it,” she says, pointing to a box room further down the corridor.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I reply nervously.

  “Now if you just lie down on the bed, under the top towel, I’ll be back in a moment,” she says.

  I kick off my dirty socks and lie on the table layered with navy towels that smell of lavender. Seal comes back in carrying some chamomile floral extract in a glass of water and asks me to drink it, as it will relax me. I hope she isn’t drugging me. I look around the room: there are faux candles flickering, jars of multicolored sand everywhere, and a large twinkling chandelier over my head. Her bare scrawny feet are lightly tapping the wooden floor as she walks, her long braid swaying from side to side. She is wearing khaki harem pants and has a large pastel-pink flower in her hair. Yes, I think I like Seal. She has a very relaxing accent—a hint of Spanish, I think.

  She tells me gently that she’s going to put on some calming music, and suddenly Sade’s “Smooth Operator” booms from the speakers above me, and I jump out of my skin.

  “Sorry—woops, wrong CD!” she says. “Now lie back . . .” She pushes me down with her palm as the track changes to something more soothing, classic spa music. It sounds like bells ringing very gently. Then some water lapping against a coast.

  “That other song was Sade, wasn’t it? I used to pronounce Sade’s name wrong. For ages I didn’t realize it was actually ‘Shar-day.’ I used to just say ‘Sade’ like ‘shade.’”

  Seal ignores me and turns the lights down lower.

  I blather on: “Also, I used to think Richard E. Grant was called ‘Richardy,’ for like my whole life.”

  “Okay—you have too many thoughts.”

  “Hmm,” I agree, closing my eyes.

  “I also used to think that people were actually stacked on top of each other during University Challenge—it’s actually just edited that way.”

  “Sshh,” she says quietly.

  She tells me she is going to concentrate on my crown chakra first. Sure . . . no idea what that is, Seal, but you just work your magic.

  “This is where I channel energy through your body to mine and try to help you to get rid of any of the fast-moving and intense thoughts swimming around your head. It might feel tingly.”

  I try my hardest to stay awake and soak up the vibrations of the relaxing music.

  “You have a lot of ideas; you are a very confused person.”

  “Hmm,” I nod.

  “Very tangled. A web. You need to let it all go. Breathe in with me.”

  In. 1–2–3–4–5.

  And out. 1–2–3–4–5.

  “There is such a thing as too many thoughts.” She pauses. “To be happier, you must try and have less, okay?”

  I realize I’m frowning, and so I readjust my face. I just nod politely.

  She then moves down to my ribcage, aka my “heart chakra.” After five minutes of nothing, I feel a tingle. She is telling me that my heart is very, very full. You have a big heart, she says. She says it over and over again. You have a big heart. It is so big, my heart�
�s energy is taking up my entire upper body. My ribcage is vibrating. Then, she moves down to my womb chakra. After ten minutes or so, I start wildly hallucinating. She has her hands on my belly. I feel an energy move around inside around my womb area. I am lightly dreaming now, trying to imagine myself with a bump. But I can’t do it. Every time I imagine it, after a few seconds it disappears. I imagine myself, five years into the future, getting on the Tube, meeting the girls for dinner in a long, flowery dress and with a full, rounded pregnancy bump . . . The picture in my mind evaporates. I wake up to the sound of myself crying.

  “It’s okay to cry,” Seal says gently.

  I open my eyes and look around the room, trying to find her.

  “It can be quite overwhelming,” she says, her face appearing over mine.

  “I feel weird,” I say, slightly embarrassed. My mouth is twitching, and my whole body feels so awkward and uncomfortable. I feel like I want to move, but I can’t.

  “It’s perfectly normal; just ride it out; you’re just getting rid of some things. Always better out than in.” She smiles at me kindly, and then her face vanishes out of sight again.

  “It feels like you know what I’m thinking,” I say. I don’t like how Seal seems to be so in tune with what my body is saying. I feel totally see-through, exposed. It doesn’t matter that I’m wearing clothes; it feels as though there is only a thin, frail piece of plastic wrap stretching over me and my insides.

  “You have some knotty energy in your womb chakra. Something isn’t quite aligned,” Seal says gently. “Is there something that is confusing you, or on your mind—to do with fertility?”

  “I don’t know.” Tears squeeze out of my eyes, dripping onto the pillow.

  “Are you trying?” Seal asks gently.

  “Huh?”

  “For a baby?”