Olive

by Emma Gannon

  “So do you. I haven’t seen you since we left school! I kept asking Cec to arrange a reunion, but we never got around to it. Our parents are friends, so we’ve stayed in touch.”

  “Gosh, school was so long ago now. You’re making me feel old now,” I say, pointing at my face.

  “We both need a top-up!” Rose reaches for a fresh bottle of champagne on one of the side tables and pops it open, filling us up. Both glasses overflow and spill onto the floor. “Woops!”

  “So what’s new with you?” I ask, swallowing a big mouthful of bubbles.

  “Oh, you know. Life. I’m feeling pretty shattered, to be honest. I just had a baby.”

  Just like everyone else, I think.

  “Well, six months ago now,” she continues. “A little boy. He’s over there with my husband.”

  I look over reluctantly. I see about five men with babies in papooses.

  “Oh, congrats! He looks lovely,” I say.

  “Can I tell you something?” She lowers her voice. “I hate it.”

  I laugh nervously.

  She continues: “Seriously, Olive: don’t do it.”

  “I’m sure it’s not so bad!” I say awkwardly.

  “It’s bad. It’s fucking bad.” Her lip wobbles a bit.

  “Oh, Rose . . .”

  “It’s okay. My husband, he loves it. He’s a total natural. I suppose that makes me lucky; it’s not like I have to do everything on my own, but . . . I . . . I just feel weirdly flat about it all really.”

  She’s glugging down the champagne pretty fast and pours more from the bottle, almost missing her glass. She pours me another overflowing flute.

  “Shall we go and sit down over there?” I point towards the corner of the kitchen where there are two comfy velvet chairs in a bay window. We squeeze past some people who are lingering and drinking around the kitchen island, nodding and smiling blankly to strangers until we get to the seats.

  “So, what is so bad exactly?” I ask, drinking more and more with every question. I realize I’ve picked up the wrong glass—it’s not mine; it has a different-colored lipstick mark on, but who cares at this point?

  “Oh lord, where do I start?” She is speaking in a hushed tone. “We didn’t bond at the beginning, me and the baby. I suppose that’s normal, though, is it? But I just miss my old life. God, I miss it so much. I miss having five minutes to myself, to gather my thoughts, to send an email, to just think for a second. I am so sleep-deprived. I feel like I am going totally insane . . .” She gulps.

  “It sounds hard,” I say, feeling genuinely intrigued.

  “Mmm-hmm. The other day—don’t tell anyone—my husband was out and I just turned the baby monitor off. I just left the baby to cry in the other room. I ignored my own baby. For ages. I just couldn’t face it.”

  “I mean, I’d probably do the same.”

  “I just can’t help thinking that I’ve made a huge mistake. How terrible is that? My husband barely looks at me now that the baby is here. I don’t even get a cuddle or a kiss. It’s all about the baby. Which is fine, but—like—I exist too!”

  “That must be weird.”

  “I recommend not having one, or at least waiting for another ten years.” Rose knocks back another huge mouthful of her drink, and I follow suit, getting more and more tipsy.

  “You know, you should speak to Cec. She hasn’t said too much, but I’m noticing that she seems to be finding it hard too. I think that is totally normal. I know she looks like a swan swimming around on the surface, but her legs are really splashing around underneath.”

  “Oh, maybe I will. Sounds like me. We mums have to stick together.”

  “Indeed,” I say.

  “I’m guessing you are a godmother then, Ol? Cec is lucky to have you girls around to help.”

  I feel slightly wounded, a pang in my chest. “Oh, we’re not, actually . . . I don’t think she decided to do the whole godparent thing.”

  “Ah, fair enough. Just assumed you girls, as you’re so close, would have been given that sort of role. Well, thanks, Olive. You’ve actually made me feel so much better. Just being able to talk to someone who won’t judge me makes a change.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ve given me a lot to think about too.”

  She air-kisses me and excuses herself, making her way over, reluctantly, to one of the many men bobbing babies up and down on their chests.

  I neck half of my drink and look again at this odd assortment of people I don’t recognize. I then spot Cec standing with Bea and go bounding over, knocking a wineglass off a table and onto a man in a papoose.

  “Hey, Cec, I have a question for you!” I say, tugging on Cec’s arm. I realize my breath smells of champagne.

  “Okay, Ol,” Cecily says, eyeing me suspiciously.

  I am swaying a bit now.

  “Why are we not godparents? Are we not good enough for you anymore? Is that why I feel like I barely see you?” I’m right up close to Cecily’s face. Bea’s mouth is hanging open.

  “Sorry, what, Olive?” Cecily hands Oscar to Tiff and shoos away all the nosy people standing around, including Tiff.

  “I just think . . . Isn’t a baby shower about godmothers and stuff?” I am slurring now.

  “We’ve decided not to do it, actually.” Cec watches as I step backwards. I realize one of my bra straps is showing because my jumpsuit has come off my shoulders.

  “Okay. Fine. I’m heading off now, then. I just . . . I thought I’d be godmother material, to be honest, considering all the history we have.” I pick up my bag and stagger—with as much dignity as I can muster—out of her £1 million home, scuffing my shoes as I walk.

  “Who needs a velvet couch anyway? And I hate that duck-egg color you’re clearly obsesssssed with,” I shout behind me.

  I make my way outside. My phone is blurry. I press Uber. I sit down in a small patch of grass outside Cec’s house and suck on my vape.

  “No vaping on the property,” a voice comes out of nowhere.

  “Eh?” I look up and see a very hot man with a beard and a checked shirt.

  “Only joking.” He waves his vape at me.

  “Right,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Are you okay? Can I help with getting you a ride home?” says Checked-Shirt Guy.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Just wanting to check you get home safely. It’s pretty late, and you seem a little—”

  “I’ve got an Uber coming, thanks.” I gesture out towards the road. “Wait, I seem a little what?” I slur.

  “Nothing. Cool.” He takes a puff of his vape.

  The Uber rocks up, and a woman in a baseball cap puts her lights on and hollers “Olive?” out of the window.

  “That’s me!” I shout back at the car. I turn around to this random guy. “I don’t need a man, or a baby!” I tell him as I trail awkwardly across Cecily’s front lawn, trying to reach the Uber.

  “Sorry?” the man shouts, not hearing me.

  “Nothing!” I giggle and burp, finding myself hilarious.

  Hot Checked-Shirt-Beard Guy does a little salute. I get in the cab and frown through the window at him before he gets smaller and smaller and is eventually out of sight. Bit disconcerting when people are randomly really nice like that.

  I pull out my iPhone and open my “notes.” I write: “I’d rather freeze time than my eggs.” Sounds poetic. But then again, I am very drunk.

  20

  The next day, I wake up with an excruciating headache. When was the last time any water touched my lips? My tongue is furry, my throat is sore, and my stomach is rumbling, even though the thought of food is making me want to vom. I am only able to open one eye as the light seeping from the blinds in my bedroom is so bright, adding to the throbbing pain in my temples. I pick up my phone from the floor: 10:03 a.m. T
here is a wineglass next to my bed; I faintly remember getting a bottle of wine from the fridge and finishing that in bed. Oh dear, oh dear. I see there’s a notification in the group WhatsApp chat, making my stomach lurch. I go and make myself a cup of tea before crawling back into bed to face up to the damage I did last night.

  12:30 a.m.

  Bea: Ol, did you get home OK? Pls let us know.

  12:34 a.m.

  Bea: Hello? text us when you’re home.

  08:02 a.m.

  Bea: OL?

  10:30 a.m.

  Me: Sorrrrrry just seen this. I’m alive. Just woke up. Feels like a diseased pigeon has died in my mouth

  Isla: What happened last night after I left? You OK?

  Me: Sorry to anyone I offended. I don’t remember the last hour or so of the night

  Isla: I missed the ending. Sorry again for leaving early Cec. Such a great night :)

  Me: What did I do?

  Bea: We were just worried about you

  Me: That’s a first

  Bea: Huh??

  Cecily is typing

  Cecily is typing

  Isla: It’s OK, Olive

  Bea: Ol. Please don’t alienate yourself from us

  Cecily is typing

  Cecily is typing

  Cecily is typing

  There is a long pause.

  Cecily is typing

  Cecily: I’m so disappointed in the way you were yesterday, Olive. I’m already feeling vulnerable, at home all day, missing my career and old life and I just wanted a day to celebrate my new baby, as it’s not been easy. At all. And somehow, somehow you managed to make it about YOU. As usual. WHEN WILL YOU REALIZE THAT NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!!!

  Monday. And I’m feeling the full effects of a two-day hangover; I’m exposed and vulnerable. I look in the mirror in the .dot toilets and can’t see the strong Olive I thought I’d built up. I don’t think Cec has ever been this angry at me. Not even that time when I accidentally lost her entire handbag on a night out. I feel terrible. I am a shell, and I know exactly what I am about to do.

  I look under the toilet stalls to check for earwigging employees and press my phone to my ear. It starts to ring. The knots in my stomach feel tighter and tighter, and I feel as if I might be sick. He picks up straight away.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I croak, and then cough. “Jacob, it’s Olive.”

  “Oh . . . hi!” he says, a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Everything . . . um . . . okay?”

  “I know we haven’t spoken in ages. I wanted to pick up on our last conversation.”

  “Okay . . . what exactly?” he asks. I can hear him fidgeting around, trying to find somewhere for a private conversation, probably.

  “I don’t know. Just the idea, that, we could . . . one day . . . patch this up or find a way around it.”

  “Oh, Olive . . . I . . .”

  “You said you wanted to make it work, and I just wanted to call you to say I’m willing to have a more open mind. About us. All relationships are different.”

  “Olive.” He sounds serious suddenly. He coughs. “Olive, I’ve actually met somebody.”

  I am now sitting on the sofa watching Sister Act for the 172,282nd time. I don’t know what to do with myself. I contemplate calling Zeta, but I can’t muster the energy. I wrap a fleecy blanket around me and wish it would swallow me whole. I put my WhatsApp groups on mute to try to forget they exist and scroll mindlessly through Instagram:

  @Jamie Langdon

  I have asked this amazing woman to #BeMyWife. She is #MyRock, my #OtherHalf, my #DreamWoman. I will treat you right forever soon-to-be Mrs. Langdon!

  @Katie Michaels

  Welcome to the world little guy! You have changed our lives forever and forever! Our life before will never compare to this amazing moment! WE LOVE YOU!

  @Lucy Lominer

  I have started a crowdfund for donations for mine and Michael’s honeymoon. Even if I haven’t spoken to you in a while, I would really appreciate anything you can spare for our dream holiday :-)

  I need a break from the dreaded scroll and other people’s stupid lives. I decide it’s time to have a social media detox because it is driving me up the wall. The pregnancy ads. The announcements. The bumps. The engagements. The constant couple selfies. The “I said yesssss!” staged pics. I put on my big camel coat over my unwashed pajamas and walk to the local corner shop. I pick up some milk, crisps, measly bits for dinner, and a random glossy magazine, and tuck it under my arm. When I get back upstairs, I flick through the magazine and begin eating crisps out of the big bag, getting crumbs everywhere. As I turn the pages, it’s mostly inane celebrity gossip and questionable agony aunts giving young people questionable life advice (“Just stop buying avocados and then you might be able to get on the housing ladder!”). And, then, in the back pages, I see her. Like a magic poof of smoke, she appears. A photo of Cyril Snow. A smiling woman with wonky, glistening teeth and long, thick gray hair, sitting on a clean white sofa next to a huge plant and wearing bright-red sneakers. My eyes widen with intrigue as I read the advertisement.

  ARE YOU LOOKING FOR FERTILITY ADVICE?

  For the first time in YEARS, renowned homeopathic fertility expert Cyril Snow is opening her doors to new clients. Having only taken on a small number of repeat VIP clients for the past few years, Cyril is looking for a handful of new private clients, on a first-come, first-served basis. Cyril Snow is an award-winning female health expert with over thirty years of experience within the well-being and fertility sector. Are you struggling with your fertility or personal well-being? Cyril wants to see you. Go to CyrilSnow.co.uk for more information. First appointment is a one-off “chemistry session” to test the waters. Get in touch ASAP to avoid disappointment.

  I look down at my “I Woke Up Like This” stained T-shirt and smell the stench of cigarettes in my hair. You know it’s bad when you’re ditching your vape and drunkenly buying a pack of twenty Marlboro Reds. Since I split with Jacob, I haven’t been looking after myself—not beyond token yoga classes and shellac manicures—and I know something needs to change. Something deeper. Seeing Cyril’s friendly looking face in the magazine ad feels like a sign. Her eyes look welcoming and kind and empathetic. I think of my article on millennials and motherhood, and the angle that meeting Cyril could add to my work. But, deep down, I know this is more personal. Closer to the bone. I’d love to know if she has clients who feel similar to me, women who are apathetic towards motherhood, or struggling to navigate their future life choices. If I got back with Jacob, I could have my old life back. I wouldn’t be stinking of stale smoke, I wouldn’t be sitting here alone feeling helpless and desperate, and I want someone to just take over the reins of my life—Cyril feels like as good a bet as any. I open my laptop and place it on my stomach as I lie down on the sofa. Biscuit crumbs fall out of the keyboard.

  To: CyrilsPlace@CyrilSnow.com

  From: only.olive@gmail.com

  Dear Cyril,

  Noticed your ad in a magazine and would love to book a chemistry session. What is your next availability? I am struggling with some negative thoughts to do with my future and would love to get your opinion.

  Best,

  Olive x

  To: only.olive@gmail.com

  From: assistant@CyrilSnow.com

  Hi Olive. You’ve come to the right place. Can you do next Wednesday at 8:00 a.m.?

  Please note there is a no cancellation or refund policy and you will need to pay for the consultation up-front, as soon as possible. Thanks.

  Money money money. I suppose women’s fertility (like everything in life) is still a business, isn’t it?

  I pick up my phone to WhatsApp the group but put it back down again. I stare at its screen, hoping to see a notification. I want someone to offer an olive branch. Someone to
check in. I know I’m being stubborn, but I can’t help it. As much as I try to ignore it, I feel so bad about how I’ve treated Cec, especially in her vulnerable just-had-a-baby state. We’ve had fights before. We’ve not spoken and then made up before. But for some reason, this feels different. A bigger fish. It’s rattling me.

  “People my age be on baby no. 3, and I’m still on ‘Mambo no. 5.’”

  Instagram meme

  21

  2010

  Jacob and I first met when we were working in a bookshop on Broadway Market. Funnily enough called Broadway Bookshop. We both had low-paid junior roles at big companies during the week (him at a film-editing agency, me as an intern at an online magazine), so we both needed the extra cash from the weekend job too. I guess that’s how we first bonded. Both knackered, young, and broke. You get to know someone very quickly when you work with them in a tiny bookshop (or: you end up wanting to murder each other). And soon, with us, I began to question whether I just saw him as a friend, my bookshop pal—or something more.

  The bookshop had a small coffee shop attached to the back, which I loved. I would have about four coffees a day, and although it was probably bad for my health, it made me very productive. During the summer, Jacob and I would put some of the sale items or secondhand books on display on the shelves outside on the street and sit on little chairs drinking our iced lattes in the sunshine. It was a really great place to work, plus being around books all day seemed to have a good effect on my soul.

  “Did you know six minutes of reading can help reduce stress levels by up to 60 percent?” Jacob said, reading this information from a small book propped up on the register. “That’s 68 percent better than listening to music, 100 percent better than drinking tea, and 300 percent better than going for a walk.”

  “Did not know that,” I said.

  “No wonder we’re quite happy here,” he mused, tapping his fingers on the counter.

  Jacob and I had been working together for a few weeks, and it all felt very easy. We just got on; we loved discussing the books we were reading. And then little things started to happen: the odd touch of the hand, brushing past each other between the bookshelves. And then more personal—we began to leave notes for each other behind the register on books we thought each other would like. This went on for weeks, with the notes getting more and more intimate. Then one morning Jacob came in, dumped his bag behind the register, and looked at me suspiciously.