by Emma Gannon
“How many kids do you have?” I ask, sounding politely intrigued.
“I have six,” Belle says.
“Fucking hell,” I say before I can get control over my mouth.
Bea looks at me with widened eyes.
“Ha-ha. That’s a fair reaction. I know, it’s a lot!” Belle says, brushing her long silky blown-out hair over one shoulder.
“Right, here you are,” Bea says, handing us both a glass of red. “Cheers, to us!” Clink.
“So how do you do it then—balancing six kids and working?” I ask, taking a sip.
Bea gives me a look that says I should stop grilling her mate.
“Sorry if I’m being nosy,” I continue. “I’m a journalist, and sometimes I can come across a bit strong, a bit like I’m interviewing someone instead of talking! Terrible habit!”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” Belle says, wiping some red wine from her chin.
Here’s the thing: most people love to talk about themselves.
“You know, we just make it work. My husband works full time too, but he will do what he can to help. I just . . . we find the time, I guess. It’s amazing what you can fit into one day. I do the drop-off, and my husband picks them up. What’s that saying: we all have the same amount of hours in a day as Beyoncé!”
“I actually find that saying really depressing,” I say.
“Oh?” Bea says.
“Well, like, yeah, we all have twenty-four hours in a day, but Beyoncé has caterers, personal trainers, chauffeurs . . .”
“Yeah, I know what you mean—I guess I just make it work with what I’ve got,” Belle replies.
“It’s super interesting to hear about other people’s routines, though . . . I’m in awe.” I laugh nervously. Six kids. Six!
“I love how you just get on with it,” Bea pipes up. She is now restocking the fridge on the other side of the kitchen.
“Yeah, well maybe we are just lucky. The kids are bright, they’re doing well in their exams, very sporty too. You know, I genuinely think I might turn the spare room into a trophy cabinet room. They bring some new award home most days!”
I look over at Bea, who is smiling at her. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows.
“Every day is a bit mad; things can and do go wrong. It’s not perfect, but we just have a really good system in place. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know, people say you can’t have it all. But you can! You can have whatever life you want.”
I watch Belle as she speaks: she doesn’t have any bags under her eyes; her nails are freshly shellacked; her hands look soft and perfectly manicured; her hair is glossy and clean; she smelled nice when I greeted her—of fresh flowers and clean linen. She speaks slowly; she doesn’t seem frantic at all: she is calm. I mean, what the fuck? I can’t even look after myself. How do you dress yourself and dress six kids, and go to work, and feel calm at home, and do all the kids’ admin, and your own admin? And the next burning question on my lips is: how do you make dinner for eight people every night? That’s effectively like running a small, inner-city restaurant! I can’t get my head around it. Belle is the living, breathing real-life version of the stock image photos that I scoff at, or the “mamas” on the cover of Goop magazine. I didn’t know these women actually existed. But here I am, sitting across from one. I feel like David Attenborough, eyeing up a rare new breed.
“How do you look after all your kids and still have good hair?” I ask, tilting my head to one side.
Bea laughs and rolls her eyes at me.
“Ha-ha, you’re so sweet!” Belle says, stroking her perfect hair. “But you know, there are so many apps now. You can basically order anything to your house—massages, pedicures, hairdressers. A total godsend when you are housebound.”
Belle has her shit together, and there is no denying that it is making me feel a few rungs lower down the ladder in the race of life. Am I awful for judging another woman like this? Bad feminist. I should be happy that this woman has found a good balance that works for her. And yet I long to find a big ugly smudge in this perfect oil painting.
“Anyway, enough about me,” Belle says. “Bea has told me so much about you, Isla, and Cecily. You’re a writer, aren’t you? I’ve heard some incredible things about your work. You’re practically famous!”
“Ha. Well, I’m lucky that I find my job fulfilling. I love writing and telling stories; it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do and a great way to spend my days, to be honest,” I say, smiling. I do love it, but it does also get to me a bit that I’m often labeled as Career Woman™ in the friendship group because I don’t have kids.
“Wow, that does sound wonderful—not many people can say they make a living from writing. And you’re in a relationship? Married?”
“Well, no . . .” I look over at Bea, who is mopping up a spillage on the table.
“No boyfriend on the scene?” Belle presses.
“No . . . I’m actually not with anyone,” I say. I look over again at Bea, whose mouth is now hanging slightly open.
She gasps. “What? Why? When?”
“Well, actually,” I take a big breath. “Ages ago now. Like . . . a couple of months. I’m okay now, though. Really.”
“How could you not have mentioned this to me sooner? What happened exactly?”
“Well, we disagreed about a lot of things, but well . . .” I gulp down a huge mouthful of wine, Belle in my eyeline. This is so not how I imagined having this conversation with Bea. “I suppose the main reason is because I don’t want kids. That was a deal-breaker for him, sadly.” I’ve just said it, ripped it off like a plaster.
Belle looks shocked and sad.
“God, Ol, I can’t believe it. I feel awful that I didn’t know. You’ve been dealing with this all on your own?” Bea says gently, putting her arm around my shoulder.
“Well, Zeta and Mum knew.”
“I can’t believe this, love.”
“It’s fine. You guys have had your own stuff going on. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up, and I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Bea slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Oh, Olive. I am so, so sorry. I had no idea you needed us. I really regret how we all left that evening at Jono’s. Is that what you wanted to talk about that night?”
“It’s okay, Bea. It’s actually been quite good for me, in the deep end on my own. At least I didn’t drown.” I know what I’m doing. I’m trying to make Bea feel guilty, even if I’m not entirely sure why.
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better. Still plodding along, I guess.”
“But, Ol, you’ve got so much going for you; you’re doing brilliantly with your writing.”
“Is that enough, though?”
“Of course. Your life doesn’t matter less because you don’t have a boyfriend or husband. Come on.”
“I know.” I wipe a tear away from my eye and wriggle my body slightly on the stool so that they move away from me a bit. They have dragged their chairs too close.
“And I mean, who knows, Ol, you might just be going through a phase with all the baby stuff. Hey, weren’t you looking into child-free women for an article at work? Maybe these doubts are coming from all that research. Obviously if you did decide to have kids—one day—you’d be a great mum!”
And there it was again, the old “if you change your mind.” This is the classic response to the statement: “I don’t want to have children.” It’s almost a reflex, a safe word, a way of softening the blasphemy. I know we haven’t spoken about it properly, but I sort of expected better from Bea. I can feel my body itching with frustration. I can understand random strangers delivering that line without really thinking, but from my best friend? Who knows me better than anyone?
I open my mouth to reply but then quickly close it. I have no response. Belle is playing with h
er jewelry on her fingers, spinning her engagement ring around. She looks at me stiffly, smiling with her mouth closed.
“I don’t hate kids, by the way,” I joke in Belle’s direction.
“Oh god! Of course not! I would never think that,” Belle says, almost choking on her wine.
“I just feel really paranoid that people think I hate kids just because I don’t want them. I love kids. Well, I love some kids. My friends’ kids.” Oh shut up, Olive!
“Of course,” Bea and Belle both say in unison.
There’s a silence.
“While we’re opening up here, I suppose I have a confession to share,” Belle says. “I do this weird thing where I sort of feel like I have to show off when I meet a new person, in case they’re a better mum than me. I wasn’t sure if you had kids or not.”
“Well, even if I did, it’s definitely not possible that my lifestyle would beat yours in any way,” I snort. “There’s clearly no competition here.”
“That’s not true! I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Belle laughs back. “It’s silly, but my walls go up. I’m a bit embarrassed now.”
“Hey, don’t be hard on yourself, love,” Bea says.
“I guess, the truth is, I might have it all on paper, but I do have help,” Belle says.
“It’s good that your husband helps you,” I say. “So he should.”
“No, I mean, I have a lot of help—Bea, promise you won’t judge me?”
“I would never!” Bea protests.
“I have two nannies and a night nanny,” Belle blurts out and clasps a hand over her mouth.
“So?” I say.
“Exactly,” Bea says. She refills our glasses, and we clink them together again. “I sometimes let Amelia watch stuff on her iPad for hours. When Arnold was born, I sometimes used to put him in another room in his basket and leave him to cry. Sometimes I buy ready meals! Sometimes I let them fully attack each other because I am so tired and I don’t have the energy to intervene,” she says guiltily.
“Bea, you are allowed to do all of this and more,” Belle says, cupping Bea’s hands.
“Can we just do a little cheers to giving ourselves a bit of a break, please?” I say, holding out my glass. The others join in. Clink clink. We’re acting normally in front of Belle, but there is an edge of tension between Bea and me lingering in the air, which neither of us can ignore.
23
I open one eye, which takes ages to adjust to my surroundings. My neck is sore from sleeping awkwardly, and I’m being abruptly woken up by my alarm, which is going off loudly next to me, but I can’t remember why. I roll over and grab my phone. Oh crap. Appointment with Cyril, 8:00 a.m. Shit. I totally forgot. Why did I book an appointment so bloody early? I quickly shower, get dressed, and jump on the number eight bus. I forget my badge and have to stand like the other nonpregnant muggles, dammit.
When I arrive at Cyril’s clinic in a posh bit of Central London, Adam Street, I stand awkwardly outside for a bit, checking my phone. I suddenly feel a little silly and exposed. I’d booked this on a real down, hungover moment, wallowing in the messiness of the Jacob situation, and now I’m wondering: Why am I here?
I’m a little bit surprised when I step inside. I don’t know what I was expecting. Something a bit more . . . clinical? I suppose I was imagining some kind of doctor’s surgery, but this is very different. The walls are a bright-coral color, with framed photos of beaches lining them. Cyril’s awards and placards are also scattered around (“Winner of The Family Future Awards, 2017”), but mostly she’s hung up seashells and old fossils. The reception table is in the corner of the room, and it has dream catchers dangling over it. There is an essential oils diffuser wafting out a light lavender aroma. There are books and magazines on the table with titles such as The Heart Manual and Your Spirit Guide, which have huge stickers over them saying “DO NOT STEAL THESE FROM THE CLINIC.” I go over to the water machine, fill up a paper cup, and accidentally spill water over the carpet.
“Hi, hun, can I help?” the receptionist asks, swooping in beside me.
It sounds a bit passive-aggressive, and I feel as though I shouldn’t really be here. She has train-track braces and wavy hair.
“Hi, it’s Olive Stone. Here for an appointment with Cyril Snow.”
“Yes, lovely. Cyril is running a tiny bit behind schedule with another client but will see you soon. Please, take a seat.”
As I sit and wait, I scroll through my phone and pop Isla a message. It’s been ages since I’ve spoken properly to her, weeks since I’ve seen a message with the two blue “read message” ticks on WhatsApp. I hope she’s okay.
“Excuse me, hun, but Cyril doesn’t like phones being used in her sacred space; the radio waves interfere with her practices. Do you mind switching it off? Thanksomuch.”
“Oh, yes, sure.”
“Maybe you could read one of Cyril’s books instead? She likes it when her patients take an interest in her work.” She nods in the direction of the books.
I notice the little pager clipped to the receptionist’s belt. It beeps.
“Cyril is now ready for you, hun.”
“Howdy! Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting there.” Cyril appears in the doorway to the reception, dressed in a long white tunic with floral embroidery around the collar. She is wearing dangly earrings, mini dream catchers, has long blondish-gray hair up in a messy bun. She has multiple silver rings on each finger, big sandals, an anklet on each foot, and unshaved legs.
“Hi! Not at all. Lovely to meet you,” I say, getting up from the waiting room sofa.
“Come in, come in!” She leads me down a short corridor, down some steps, and into her room. “I replaced all the chairs in my office with these yoga balls because they are good for the hips and the pelvic floor! Please, do sit down,” Cyril says. I feel a bit silly as I rock backwards and forwards awkwardly on the ball. Trying not to fall off.
“So, dear, tell me everything. I am so happy to meet you! It’s been awhile since I’ve had any new clients in the building. It’s very exciting, for me and the team. Your name is . . .” She looks down at her iPad. “Olive! What a lovely name.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“So, Olive. What is your story?”
There’s a comfortable, easy vibe about Cyril’s room. There are plants all around, pictures of her family on the wall, and her handbag on the floor. It feels laid-back and intimate.
“Do you mind if I record the session on my phone? I often suffer with short-term memory loss and like to listen to things back again,” I say. A little white lie. I want to record the conversation for myself, but maybe for a future article too.
“Of course, dear. Whatever works for you,” Cyril says calmly.
I click record.
“Well, I don’t know what exactly brought me here. I suppose I was intrigued and wanted to discuss my current situation. A feeling of indecisiveness.”
“You followed your intuition, darling. You came here for a reason. You must always give yourself credit for the decisions you make.”
“I guess my issue is not the usual one your clients come to you with, though.”
“All stories are welcome.” Cyril puts her hands in a prayer position and leans her chin on her fingertips before closing her eyes. I wait a minute for her to open them. I continue.
“Well, I’m not actually trying for a baby at all. It’s the opposite really. I wanted to ask whether you’re coming across a growing number of women who are opting out of having children? Ya’know, deciding the whole baby thing isn’t for them. It’s just, well, when I try to picture myself with a baby, with a kid, I feel . . . nothing.”
Cyril’s eyes ping open.
“Oh! Olive, my dear,” she coughs. “Are you suffering from any recent trauma? Anything that has made you feel this way?” Cyril reaches for her iPad again, l
ooking concerned.
“Umm no, I don’t think so. I have never wanted to have children, in fact, but for some reason it’s all I can think about at the moment. I feel consumed by it, by the decision to not have them. Perhaps it’s because my friends’ lives are filled with babies at the moment.”
“Ah, yes. It makes sense that it is all you are thinking about.” Cyril raises her hands upwards. “We often repress our deepest desires, and they come out in our dreams. Have you been dreaming about children at all?”
“I have, yes—but they’re usually nightmares.”
“We often think nightmares are reflecting the things we don’t want. But often we have fearful dreams about the things we want deep down and secretly desire.”
“I guess I just feel quite abnormal compared to my friends. It used to be a level playing field, but now it’s like we’re all veering down different paths. Plus I’ve broken up with my boyfriend over it. I wanted to seek your reassurance—do many women feel like this?”
“Of course, many women go through these phases.”
“Phases?”
“You may have a hormone imbalance. You may be estrogen dominant and naturally have low progesterone. It’s only biology—it’s not you! You mustn’t put yourself down because of this.”
“I suppose I’m wondering from your research and experience with other women, if these feelings might be normal, and whether you think . . . I might change my mind one day,” I say.
“From my experience, you will most probably change your mind,” Cyril says, not skipping a beat.
“I will?”
“Oh, yes,” Cyril sighs. “I have heard thousands of these stories, stories just like yours. You must not let this worry you. Some women repress deep feelings of desire for children at first. It’s fear. This is how we often deal with fear—we shut it down, shut it off, bury it deep down, and teach ourselves to hate it. This is when we have to dissect it, explore it before your brain connects to your body. It’s just about coming to terms with the idea before your body takes action and releases all of the chemicals to make you feel ready. Perfectly normal.” She taps her iPad again.