by Emma Gannon
“That’s rich coming from Steve.”
He tries to touch my hand again, but I recoil.
“Look, Jacob . . . Your family—your mum, your brothers—it’s all they talk about. Asking us about babies. I’ve found it so hard. I never know what to say to them!” I pause and take a deep breath: “I’m scared that if we stay together, I will get pregnant. I’m scared I will just do it for you because I still . . . love you so much. And I’m scared it will be the worst decision of my life and I will never forgive you for coercing me into it.” I close my eyes. The realization that I will always love him sets in like a rising tidal wave. What if I feel this awful and sad forever?
The waitress plonks our coffees down on the table.
After she moves out of the way, he grabs my hand. “Olive, I love you too.”
“Don’t, Jacob.”
“I would never force you into it,” he says desperately but gently.
“No, I know. I just . . . this is all going to end in tears.” I edge my stool away.
“Please.”
“We both know you will be happier . . . without me.”
I know that, deep down, Jacob understands how awful the situation will become later down the line if we don’t end it now. But this still feels physically painful, saying goodbye to someone you still love so deeply. We’ve already spent years sweeping it under the carpet. Years deferring it. Years doing the whole “ah, we have loads of time.” But it has got to the point where we can’t continue to sweep. If I get pregnant, I won’t want to have it, and that would absolutely kill Jacob. He is desperate for kids, and I am actively hurting him by holding them back from him. I’ve surprised myself with how adamant I’ve become. I just know being with him would be unfair to us both.
“Okay,” Jacob breathes in sharply. “Well . . . I’ve changed my mind then. I want to be with you. I don’t care about anything else. I am willing to miss out on the other things.” Jacob’s eyes are welling up.
“No, Jacob.” I push back my stool. I replay what Zeta said to me not long ago: remember, Olive, it’s cruel to be kind. “It’s over. We’re over. I don’t want to be with you anymore.” I steel myself. “I’m not in love with you anymore. Babies or no babies. It’s right that we end this now.”
I fight against every natural impulse in my body to kiss him and just forget it all—pretend it was just another silly argument. But, for once, it wasn’t a silly argument. For the first time ever, we were both really hurting one another. It would be pointless to go back to normal; we’d only find ourselves in another café a few months down the line, putting ourselves through all this again.
“You know what, Olive? I will probably look back on this moment one day in the future and love you even more for having the strength to do something I couldn’t,” he said, tears balancing on the ridges of his eyes. One falls then and starts to gently trickle down the side of his stubbly face. I lift my hand instinctively and touch his arm and then wonder if this will be the last time I ever touch him.
He knows that this needs to happen, and so do I. Our path together has reached a dead end. We both have a new chapter to embark on, but the beginning of it will feel as if we’re being dragged through a forest of thorns, jagged rocks, and stinging nettles, bleeding everywhere for everyone to see.
The waitress comes over again and takes our empty glasses, placing a voucher for a free coffee on the table. I put it in my pocket. Jacob politely packs up his bag, pays the bill, and then gets up to leave.
“Right.” He coughs, straightening his shirt, like he’s trying to rid himself of any last remnant of emotion. “I’d best be off then.” A cold goodbye. A hard goodbye. A stranger’s goodbye.
And, before I have a chance to respond, he walks right out the door. I feel physically sick; it feels finally, in some way, finished.
When I get back to my flat, I stop outside Dorothy’s door and rummage inside my handbag for a pen. I pull out an old ballpoint pen and lean the voucher against my leg to write on it: “For your next cappuccino, Olive x.” I post it through Dorothy Gray’s bright-orange letterbox.
“Finding child-free friends does get harder as I get older.”
Emilia, 36
15
I walk into my kitchen absolutely exhausted from staying up all night on my laptop, deep-diving into online hate forums where “mum bloggers” rip each other to shreds. All for my article at work, of course. I’m trying to understand why these parenting forums encourage so much competitiveness and insecurity, and whether or not they alienate child-free women (or indeed reinforce their decision not to get involved!). I went down so many rabbit holes and woke up with random scribbles in my notepad that now don’t make much sense.
I open my fridge and realize I have run out of milk and need to pop to the shop. I pull on my coat, pop on my shoes, and as I open my front door I’m nearly deafened by a motorbike that screeches past. As I’m about to shut the door, I catch sight of Dorothy out of the corner of my eye. This time she is not watering her plants; she’s lying in the middle of the road, motionless.
“Dorothy! Oh my god, Dorothy. Are you okay?” I rush over to help her back onto her feet. “Quick, up you get. A car might come. Jesus.”
“Oh, thank you sweetheart! Silly me! Thank you for helping. I will even forgive you for blaspheming,” she says, heaving herself up against the weight of my arms. “I felt extremely dizzy—and then before I knew it, I was on the floor!” She starts laughing heartily.
“Gosh, I’m glad I saw you. Are you all right? Do you want me to call anyone for you?”
“No, it’s okay. I wouldn’t want to worry anyone. I’m alive and kicking,” she says cheekily, back on her feet.
“Do you have a walking stick?”
“I do, but I hate it. Reminds me of how old I am. I don’t want to look old, darling.”
“I think you should use it; you’d probably find it really helpful.”
“Oh, I suppose I should,” she sighs huffily.
“I was just thinking, Dorothy, I should give you my number in case of emergencies.”
“Oh that’s very kind, Olive. I promise I won’t pass it on to any young chaps I know.”
We both chuckle.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute? I should give you mine too. I don’t know my number off by heart. I could write it down, though.”
I want to say no. I have things I need to do. But there’s something about Dorothy, and she’s obviously vulnerable at the moment. “Yes. Of course.”
I follow her into her house. She has an old patterned carpet in the hallway. It smells of antiseptic, a smell I find comforting as it immediately reminds me of my grandparents’ house. Dorothy opens a creaky drawer on a table next to the stairs with a very old-looking phone sitting on it. She takes out a tiny piece of paper with some numbers scribbled on it and puts on some very thick-lensed glasses to read it out.
I scribble down the numbers as she reads them out slowly, her hands shaking as she holds the piece of paper.
“Would you like to stay for a cup of tea, dear? After all, it was so lovely of you to post the coffee voucher,” she says, beaming.
I don’t have the heart to say no to her. “Sure! I can’t stay too long, though.”
We both walk into her front room, and I sit on an old, small circular futon, a piece of furniture that looks like it might once have been the height of fashion. She has six different clocks, all making different tick-tocking sounds. How does she not find that irritating? How does she sleep? I notice she has stacks of old VHS tapes piled up high next to a big old TV. She also has piles of stuffed address books next to her sofa, and stacks and stacks of thick envelopes with letters inside. There are picture frames perched on every surface, relics of Dorothy’s past. It’s like I’ve tumbled into an Alice in Wonderland of memories.
“So many videos! What a collec
tion you have,” I comment, pointing at the pile as Dorothy potters in the kitchen, clanking mugs together.
“Oh, you know! Doris Day! Betty Grable! Gene Kelly! The classics!” she says enthusiastically. “My favorites. My generation!”
“I’ll have to watch some of these old films one day,” I say.
“I watch them on repeat,” Dorothy shouts from the kitchen.
She wanders back in, her hands shaking again, nearly spilling tea everywhere. I jump up. “Sorry, Dorothy! I should have helped you,” I say, taking the cup and saucer and placing it slowly onto her glass coffee table.
“So, what’s your favorite thing about these old films?”
“Well, I suppose they remind me of being young! The stars in them were young when I was young. Very good-looking too. I love the clothes—oh, the wardrobes were magnificent.”
“And these framed paintings on the wall. They’re beautiful,” I say, looking up at a row of painted ladies in different-colored dresses, all wearing cloche hats. Funny to think I might be rewatching old episodes of Girls or Sex and the City when I’m older. I think those will be the shows that will remind me of being young. My version of Doris Day.
“Thank you, I love dresses,” she says. “Even this one I’m wearing today holds so many memories.” She looks down at the floral buttoned-up dress she’s wearing. It’s faded, but beautiful.
“Did you used to collect them? Dresses?”
“I used to make them, dear—for the stars. In Hollywood.” Her eyes light up as she speaks.
“Wow . . . really?”
“Yes . . . I traveled the world, dressmaking—it was the dream job. And my lovely husband was so understanding. I was the breadwinner, which in those days seemed very odd to our friends and family.”
As Dorothy goes into the kitchen to get a slice of lemon drizzle cake (she won’t take no for an answer), I google her quickly. Because I am nosy. Her Wikipedia page instantly comes up.
“Dorothy Katherine Gray was known for her stylish and iconic garments, including the famous strapless diamond leotard worn by Betty Grable in the 1946 film Diamonds. She designed a selection of couture gowns and coats for many of Marilyn Monroe’s film premieres, which are currently immortalized in a photo gallery in the Palm Springs museum.”
I’m slightly blindsided. I feel a twinge of guilt. I’d somehow put Dorothy into a small box of tradition and convention. It’s just what I’d associate with her generation. Her little life across the road. But I suppose it goes to show, people can surprise you all the time. There doesn’t have to be one given path for anyone.
We finish our tea and cake, and I gather my bag to go. I’m meeting Isla, and I don’t want to be late, but I’m realizing that I could stay all day listening to Dorothy’s stories. I want to know more about her life.
I say goodbye and thank her for the tea—she definitely put too many sugars in it, and with the cake too, I am on a slightly buzzy high.
“Have a good day, Olive: seize the day! And thank you so much for helping me earlier,” she says, jiggling her bad arm at me. “I hate to think what might . . . well, thanks for helping me.”
Our conversation from earlier replays in my head, her voice ringing in my ears: no choice is the wrong choice because it’s the one you make at the time with the information you have.
“It was lovely to chat to you. And remember to use your stick. Bye, and see you soon!” I find myself giving her a big hug as I leave.
Turns out it’s the kind of day where it really does matter if you leave the house and forget to wear deodorant. It’s four in the afternoon, and my iPhone tells me it’s still boiling. It’s like “yay, shorts weather” slash “oh shit, global warming.” The shade of London’s parks looks like an old, faded sepia Polaroid, like those stained photos that have been passed down in an old dusty jewelry box from grandparent to grandparent. The parks are brown, dry, and crispy already, and it’s not even May yet. I’m scared of it getting any hotter. I don’t feel quite myself if I’m not wearing big baggy sweaters and woolen beanie hats.
I get the Tube to Green Park station; it is pretty disgusting in this heat and results in droplets of sweat dripping down the backs of my thighs and into my socks. I hope no one notices. I’ll assume everyone is too busy worrying about their own sweaty crevices.
Isla and I have decided to meet for an afternoon picnic in Green Park, in a nice patchy bit of grass near Buckingham Palace. We decided earlier this year to do more “London things” together. But this sunny, La-La-Land weather is bringing far too much pressure to be sociable. I know I’ve been too busy moping around of late, hiding away from the world in my flat, but I sense Isla really needs some support. She’d been ignoring all of our calls while continually posting old photos with long, waffly captions to Instagram, which is really unlike her.
I meet Isla by the Tube, and we go to the M&S food shop. We buy a soft French baguette, some cheese, some olives, a bottle of wine, and some alcohol-free beer for Isla. We scan the park and find a spot with some dappled shade under a tree. A group of young boys is kicking around a ball. Two teenage goths are on a date, and they sit flirting and flipping through a magazine about tattoos and piercings. We sit near a young hot dad and his toddler daughter, who are reading a David Walliams book together. He is doing different voices for the characters, and she’s laughing along encouragingly. It’s very sweet.
Isla and I like doing nothing together. We mainly just lie in silence or read books in restaurants together, and if we’re outdoors we will listen in to everyone else’s conversations around us, and one of us will occasionally pipe up with a deep, existential question for us to interrogate. One of our favorite games to play is coming up with someone’s whole life story based entirely on their style and choice of shoes: Clarks shoes = accountant with a mistress; Russell & Bromley boots = stay-at-home mum running a secret illegal business; Stella McCartney flatforms = retired artist who once shagged Mick Jagger; metallic Converse sneakers = tattoo artist or body piercer who used to be a policeman. You can tell a lot about a person from their choice of footwear. Sometimes we would elaborate wildly on these stories, as it would distract Isla from her pain, even if it was only for a few minutes.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask her gently, as I waft out an old picnic blanket for us to sit on. It feels like awhile since we’ve sat down, just the two of us. She looks sad, as though she needs a chat. And I feel deflated from thinking about my lonely cat-lady future. I don’t even like cats; I am totally screwed.
“Not good, to be honest, Ol,” Isla says, noticing me sizing her up. She looks pale, and her posture is awful. “I’ll tell you in a sec. Pass me one of those fake beers, will you, please?” She gets herself comfy and crosses her legs. “God, I wish I could just have a glass of wine, but my doctor would kill me.”
I pour my wine and her beer into plastic cups, splashing the drinks slightly onto my jeans.
“I feel awful. This is the first time I’ve been outside in days.” Isla puts her sunglasses on. Same here, I think. For different reasons, but hey. I try to quiet the anxious thoughts that are fighting for room in my own head. Isla will be my sounding board, but for now she needs to off-load.
“We don’t have to stay out very long if you don’t want to,” I say.
“Thanks,” she takes a sip from her plastic cup. “So, I’m about to start IVF round two soon, but I have to wait, and I don’t know how long for. The question is: Can I handle the strain on my mental health, my body, the unknown, the potential disappointment again?” She lies down on her side, sighing, taking another sip of her drink. “The amount of people who are telling me to ‘think positive.’ I want to punch them all.”
“Oh Christ, poor you. Here, take this.” I give her a small pillow I packed in my bag.
“You’re so sweet, Ol. Thank you.”
“So what happens now?”
“I have to wait a couple of months, have two normal periods before trying again. I guess I feel stupid for thinking it might happen during the first round.”
“Oh, you’re not stupid.” I lean across and hug her. But I feel so conscious of not holding her too tightly, scared to hurt her more, like she has a “fragile: handle with care” label on her body.
“And if that’s not shit enough,” she starts saying after we pull away from the hug, “it is hurting so much to have sex with Mike. He’s being so good and nice about it all, but it’s kind of affecting our relationship. He knows it’s not him and I still fancy him and everything, but it’s just super frustrating. It was our anniversary the other day, and it just ended up with me crying endlessly and him lying there until I fell asleep. I’m just so exhausted. All the time!”
“You poor thing.”
“Sex has sort of weirdly changed a bit for me now, because of all this,” Isla says. “So much pressure.”
“That’s understandable,” I say.
I don’t know what the right thing to say is. I often feel like the worst person in these awful situations. I laughed very loudly at a funeral once, not out of malice, but from sheer awkwardness. This time, though, I instinctively just know to sit close to her, our cross-legged knees touching as I listen.
“You know, a few years ago I wasn’t actually sure I wanted kids,” Isla says with a sigh, “until I realized that I might not be able to. And now I feel like something’s been taken away from me. It really wakes you up. How silly of me to think I could just click my fingers.” I feel surprised hearing this from Isla, and guilty that I didn’t know. I used to have the “will we/won’t we” conversation with Cec a fair bit growing up, but for some reason Isla and I never really discussed it. Isla’s attitude towards kids always felt like a mystery to me.
I feel a twinge of ickiness in my stomach. I technically have a choice still—babies could be in my future—and I’m choosing not to use it. I have access to something she wants. The big, fat, inappropriate elephant in the room.