by Emma Gannon
“Olive—really random question. There’s this Facebook page called ‘Hot Dudes Reading,’ where people submit pictures, I’m guessing, of err . . . men reading . . .” he said.
“Oh, right?” I replied, innocently.
“And my mate Steve has just texted me to say that I’m on there.”
Oh God. I went all hot. Full-on sweaty back. Bea had recently pointed out that I spoke about Jacob nonstop and that I must fancy him. We’d got really drunk and posted a pic of Jacob on “Hot Dudes Reading” as a joke. I’d forgotten all about it, until now.
It was technically Bea’s idea. She’d posted it. But how did I explain that?
“Really!” I laughed, while rearranging a table display.
“Yeah . . . weirdly it’s a photo from the other night when we were packing away some stock and I was reading something quickly behind the register . . . Did you take this photo?”
“Erm, let’s see.” I grabbed his phone, wondering if I could just delete the whole thing.
“Yeah . . . I suppose I took that,” I said anxiously.
“Did you . . . submit it? To the page?”
I paused and considered lying. “Yeah, I did. Sorry. I was in the pub with my friend, and we were just being silly. Bit of a laugh really,” I said, bracing myself. He would have every right to think that was very weird.
Instead, his face softened, and he was smiling at me. “So . . . does that mean . . . you think I’m hot then?”
I turned bright red. My cheeks were like red-hot coals.
“Well,” I said. “Um, I guess I do.”
Admittedly it was a very strange way of us “breaking the ice.” But, from then on, we were inseparable. Every Saturday, after our shift at the bookshop, we’d go for dinner or drinks, or a walk around the park. Then we started seeing each other in the week. Then we met each other’s colleagues. Then we were introduced to the family. We were fully joined at the hip. He was my person, and I knew I wanted to hang up his Y-fronts on the washing line when we were both old and wrinkly.
Our favorite thing was to get a roast dinner together on a Sunday afternoon around 4:00 p.m., and drink red wine and eat crispy potatoes until it was dark outside and we could roll home together, hand in hand. One weekend we went to our favorite pub in Islington, The Duck’s Arms, with pattern-carpeted floor and grand fireplaces and a bright-green bar. We sat at our usual table by the window, and it was starting to get dark outside already. We were both wearing oversized cozy sweaters.
“It’s on afternoons like this when I actually do love the winter,” I said, as I reached for Jacob’s hand.
“Me too. I mean, winter can be nice when you have someone to share the cold nights with,” he said, smiling at me.
“We’re lucky, aren’t we?” I said. “To have each other.”
“Ol, there’s something I need to tell you that I can’t believe I haven’t already said.” Jacob looked serious for a moment.
“Oh?” I said, trying to ignore the worry in my gut.
“I . . .” he paused for a few seconds, “love you,” he said, smiling widely, staring into the black centers of my eyes.
I almost choked on my red wine with relief.
“I love you too.” We leant over the table and kissed, our noses scrunched up against each other. If I had been a stranger looking over at our table, I would probably have been sick. But to us, it was the best feeling in the world, and we were in our own little bubble.
I suppose if I knew back then all the pain that was to come, perhaps I would never have set foot in that bookshop at all.
22
2019
I go through my work emails next door to the .dot office in a new coworking space on a big squidgy sofa and drink a latte from a paper cup, which is kind of gross, but it’s sustainable and blah-blah. I love the flexibility of my job. Today I’m planning next month’s editorial pieces for the website and commissioning some of our favorite freelance writers to put together articles about polyamory. I’ve arranged to go over to Bea’s this evening, so as soon as it hits 5:30 I leg it across London to get to Waterloo and then nip into Foyles and buy an interesting book that’s advertised in the shop window—a new novel about a luxury surrogacy farm. I sit down on the creaky train to Surrey and pop the “Baby on Board” badge on again, as I can’t bear anyone bothering or bumping into me. I feel a twinge of guilt, as it’s become a bad habit, but I’m not too worried about it yet.
I realize I’m still wearing my badge as I ring Bea’s doorbell and quickly scramble to remove it. She answers the door dressed in art overalls.
“Hello, gorgeous!” Bea says chirpily as she answers the door.
I hand her a bunch of flowers, a belated birthday gift. “Happy birthday for the other day. Sorry it’s late,” I say, wiping my shoes on her doormat.
“Ohh, thank you, they’re gorgeous.” Bea is covered in paint, her hands are dry and coarse from the many years of using them to cook from scratch, roll pastry, sculpt pottery, paint, and use needles and threads. Her hands look ten years older than she is, but they’re still beautiful. Her hair is balanced haphazardly in a bun on top of her head, with stray hairs everywhere.
I follow Bea through to the kitchen, and she starts arranging the flowers, snipping the stems and running them under water as she starts chatting away. She doesn’t mention the whole Cecily Baby Shower Fiasco from the weekend, which I’m grateful for. Bea is a good listener. Sure, she is constantly shouting Don’t eat that / Don’t touch that / Get off that / Be nice to each other / Stop doing that / Don’t break that / Where have you put that piece of LEGO? to her kids, but all while having a genuine conversation with me. Her ability to actually listen to her friends while maintaining her mad life is a real skill. She is like a dolphin; they sleep with one side of their brain wide open as a defense mechanism as they drift through the deep sea. A rare breed: a successful multitasker. She can genuinely talk with you on any topic and still have one side of her brain on kid-watch. Maybe she isn’t 100 percent present (who is?), but she isn’t like other mum friends who only pretend to be listening to me. Ah-hmm. Right. Oh yes. Oh poor you. Depression? Oh dear. Sounds nasty. One minute. While literally looking straight over my left shoulder at what the kids are doing. I get it, you have to keep them alive, but you also have to keep your friendships alive.
Bea places the flowers on the middle of her big wooden dining-room table in a large hand-painted vase. White, pink, and yellow lilies—her favorites.
“They look lovely. Thanks, Ol,” Bea says, finessing the stems so they spread equally in the vase.
I brush my sleeve past them as I sit down at the table and get orange lily-pollen powder on my sweater. “Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry, I can get it out; just need a bit of sticky tape to lift it off. Just don’t rub it.”
“Thanks . . . and well, thanks for not making a big deal of me being a dick at Cecily’s at the weekend,” I say after a sharp intake of breath.
“Ah, it’s fine, you’re always a bit of a dick,” Bea says, winking and rummaging around for sticky tape in a broken kitchen drawer.
“But seriously, I don’t know what came over me. It felt like something was building up, and I snapped. And poor Cec got the brunt of it. I feel awful.”
“It’s okay. I get it. It’s a strange time, Ol. We’re all going through some big changes, and it can feel scary,” Bea says, carefully dabbing at my sleeve with tape.
“Yeah. That must be it. I just feel very removed at the moment. A little lost,” I say.
“And you think Cecily has it all together?” Bea asks, with an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, I do. Cecily has it all together, and I don’t. So I said some things I didn’t mean.”
“I think you have more things in common than you think; it’s just accepting that your situations are different. Cec definit
ely doesn’t feel like things are all together,” Bea says.
“But she has everything. The husband, the baby, the house. The fucking roll-top bath.”
“Come on. You’re a grown-up, Ol; you know those things don’t equate to magically having all your shit together. She’s finding adjusting to her new role as a mother really hard. We all have things we are finding hard, and those things might come at different times for each of us. The important thing is, we need to be there for each other. Life isn’t a race. For all you know, she could be jealous of your life, your freedom, your glamorous job.”
“You’re right.” I look around at her living room; it’s like Toys “R” Us has exploded everywhere. “I cannot believe you keep three small humans alive every day,” I say, looking around at the stack of toys in every corner of every room. “It’s just so . . . impressive.” What I really mean to say but don’t is: your life is so alien to me, and I don’t understand how you do it.
“Thanks. These bags under my eyes wish they were going on holiday, though. Ugh, I look haggard.” She goes over to the big mirror by the dining table and pulls her fingers down her face. “I look old as fuck.”
“Don’t be silly . . .” I throw a stuffed rabbit with one creepy eye at her.
“I suppose I miss having a bit more time for myself, but sometimes I actually think I would get really down in the dumps if I had too much spare time—you know? Too much time to think. Sometimes that is a curse in itself. But maybe that’s just me.”
“Zadie Smith once said something like being a mother and being busy makes her more creative, not less. Like, the fact that she can’t sit around all day is a good thing.”
“Yes, exactly! So, update me on your life, please. How’re things, how’s work? What exciting things are you doing while I sit at home making papier-mâché masks, Play-Doh spaghetti, and get toys thrown at me?”
“Well, hunkering down with takeaways most nights is hardly the high life. Oh, Bea, I have so much to tell you.”
I am just about to open up about the Jacob breakup when Amelia gallops in wearing a huge Liverpool FC football shirt and muddy rain boots, and hands me a small fresh daisy from the garden. “This is for you,” she says, handing me the crumpled flower in her sweaty palm, “because you are very nice and priitttty.”
My face melts into a smile. I gasp overdramatically, “Aww, Amelia, thank you, you sweetie.” I take the flower and give her a big hug, picking her up.
Bea has to take an urgent call in her home office; it’s her nanny, apparently. She says sorry a million times and promises she won’t be long. I walk over and stand at Bea’s deep farmhouse sink with chrome taps. I wash up some of the mugs that are lying there, stained with tea. I look through the big window that overlooks a huge garden, full of swings, a treehouse with fairy lights, and beautiful flowers—chaotic, like everything at Bea’s, but the perfect family tableau. It’s raining outside. The window is smudged with trickling water, and my eyes start to well up, making the view even more glazed over. This love and devotion that my friends have for their children, this undying, never-ending sense of love, why don’t I want it?
When Bea comes back into the kitchen, she is glancing down at her Nokia 3310, which we love to mock her about—along with all her other nineties tech.
“I’m so sorry,” Bea says, looking flustered. “Our nanny is really ill, and it’s fucking absolutely everything up. I really do rely on her.”
“It’s okay. You’re spinning so many plates. Don’t apologize.”
“Also, Ol, I’ve made a terrible mix-up. I just got a text reminding me—I totally forgot I have another friend coming over today. A mum friend. She’s a darling, though. I think you’ll like her.” Bea smiles at me a little nervously. “We can have lunch all together?”
My heart sinks slightly, but I smile reassuringly. “Great! The more the merrier then,” I say. I don’t want to make her feel bad for double-booking—she’s a mum, she’s already consumed with guilt on a daily basis, so the last thing she needs is a dose from me.
The doorbell rings, and I go to answer it as Bea is finishing off some final things in the kitchen for lunch. She is also baking banana bread, and the house is filled with a warm and toasty smell. It drifts down the corridor and under our noses just like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. When I answer the door, a woman with very voluminous hair smiles and says hello before grabbing my shoulders and kissing me on both cheeks.
“Hi! I’m Belle!” Her face is radiant, her cheeks peach with expensive-looking blusher. “Are you Bea’s lovely nanny?”
“No—I’m Bea’s best friend, Olive.”
I thought it best to lay down some facts. Best friend.
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. So lovely to meet you. This is my daughter Florence. Or Flossy as we call her. Flossy, say hi—don’t be rude to the lady!”
The lady? I look down, and Flossy is picking her scabby nose. I bet she wipes bogies on sofas.
Belle is wearing a beautiful cashmere sweater, and her hair is immaculately blow-dried. When she pulls back from the air-kissing, I get a whiff of her perfume; she smells amazing. She looks like a walking, talking filtered photo.
I move back and signal with my hand for them to come in. Belle smiles at me again and walks through to the kitchen, holding Flossy’s hand. She follows reluctantly, like a small, lazy dog.
Belle gallops into the kitchen to find Bea. “Ahh, Bea! Long time no . . . Flossy, please stop tugging my sleeve—so good to see you!”
“Thanks for traveling to me this time!” Bea says, hugging her, holding a spatula.
“Of course, my pleasu— Flossy, I already gave you a tissue—what a lovely house this is!”
“Thank you—tea? Breakfast or Earl Grey? Just making up a pot.”
“Breakfast, please, wow this view—Flossy, stop that noise, darling, please—it’s a little slice of heaven, this location!”
I stand there like a lemon. Flossy has snot running onto her top lip. Belle smiles at me again. Your kid is gross, I think to myself, smiling back.
It is quite unnerving, this feeling when I am in the company of two—or more—women who are mothers. They have this unifying, unbreakable bond that I can’t compete with. It’s as if they have an invisible thread that ties them so closely together. A thing, a secret code, that they know about, and I don’t. Bea has only known this woman for a few months, I have known Bea since we were five, but it’s not a simple comparison or equation anymore. In some ways, Belle and Bea clearly have a deep-rooted connection; they inhabit a different territory that I wouldn’t be able to elbow my way into even if I tried. Literally the closest thing I can compare to being a mother is cat-sitting for Cecily and having to put some food out on a tray a few times a day. I don’t even look after plants. I only have cacti and aloe vera, because you can ignore them and they don’t die.
“Your names sound quite similar,” I say awkwardly by the sink, struggling with what to say.
“Ha, yes! ‘Bea & Belle’ sounds like some cool restaurant, doesn’t it! One day, eh? When we grow older and run away to Malibu?” Belle jokes, taking a seat at the wooden dining table and de-robing her scarf. I smile through gritted teeth. As if you’re taking my best friend to Malibu. I look down at Flossy, who is sucking on a strand of her own hair.
“Do you want to play with Amelia, sweetie?” Belle crouches down and talks to her like she’s a puppy about to fetch a ball. Flossy nods.
Jeremy is apparently looking after the kids in the living room. On his days off from being a glamorous film director, Bea’s husband hardly ever leaves his armchair, reading the newspapers and watching the rugby. He’s quite quiet and reserved; I like him. I notice that Flossy is holding a baby doll by a clump of its faux hair.
“That’s a cute little doll,” I say to Flossy. “I used to have one just like it!”
“You are the baby’s mummy, aren
’t you, Flossy!” Belle says. Flossy nods manically.
“I used to feed my doll this weird powder, and it would poo it out,” I blurt.
“Olive!” Bea laughs.
Belle takes Flossy’s hand and takes her to the room next door where Jeremy and Amelia are playing with plastic bowling pins. The room is a mess.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of creepy that we start programming little girls into being ‘mummies’ from such an early age?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Bea says.
I do find it strange that little girls are given miniature strollers and fake kitchens. They have the rest of their lives to be adults and constantly do things for other people, but we start teaching them their “role” as soon as they can walk.
“How old is Flossy, Belle? Three?” I ask.
“Actually she’s four,” Belle says, sounding affronted as she walks back into the kitchen.
“Right,” I say. Same difference, I think.
Bea takes off her apron and puts it in a big drawer.
“Right, now that Flossy and Amelia are all settled in the next room. Hurrah—a chance for some ‘us time’! Anyone for a mid-afternoon drink, if you know what I mean?” Bea gets out a bottle of malbec. It has some dust on it, which suggests that it might be an expensive one. Better than my usual from the co-op bargain bucket. “This is what Sundays are for!” she says, pouring from the heavy wine bottle.
“So how are you, Belle?” Bea asks.
“I’m good, actually. Work’s going well, and the kids are blossoming! I still fancy my husband. You know, can’t complain honestly,” Belle says, flicking her hair over one shoulder.