by Emma Gannon
Iris is clapping politely and looking around the room, checking that no one is offended.
Colin nudges me, suddenly recognizing someone in the crowd. “Hey, Ol, look!” He subtly points across the room, clutching his chest: “I fucking love her. Kweeeeen!”
“Who is she?” An old friend from school? A colleague? Who?
We then hear whispers and muffles from all around. Ohh, shit, it’s Jemima Jenkins, a real British actress, standing right there. She starred in Six Women, a popular Channel 4 sitcom portraying the cosmopolitan dating lives of women in London. And here she is: in a leather jacket with a faux fur collar and chunky boots, hugging Iris like she’s some long-lost sister. She settles down on a bar stool and is handed a tall glass of prosecco by Iris’s helper, who is also wielding a clipboard.
Iris strides into the middle of the crowd again with the mic. “Hi, everyone! I hope you’re enjoying your drinks and meeting new people. Now, we have a really special guest here tonight. Please don’t overwhelm her; I know you won’t!” Iris glances over and gives Jemima a reassuring smile. “Up you come, Jemima! You can intro yourself—as if you need to!”
Jemima shrugs her jacket off; underneath she is wearing a top that glitters like a seventies disco ball. Her boobs are suspiciously high up and unmoving. Her shiny top reflects sparkling shards of light all around the room.
“Hello. I’m Jemima. I’m a TV actress, and I’ve had the pleasure of working with HBO on a few different sitcoms, some of which you might have watched. They were the best few decades of my career, actually—the absolute time of my life. I don’t do public speaking by the way, so bear with me! I hardly ever do interviews; I just don’t like the nosiness. The press, the paparazzi—they are all intrusive idiots as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, I’m here because I care deeply about this community. This amazing safe space that Iris and her team have created. Thank you, Iris. Let me tell you a bit about my story.”
Jemima clears her throat. Every woman in the room is totally captivated, hanging on to every word. I grab my notepad and a pen from my bag. A famous actress is standing right in front of us—I think of how much Gill would love this scoop.
“I’m sure there’s loads of you, especially you young women in the room, who just know, you know, you don’t want kids. That’s the young woman I was too. I was snapped up by the film and TV industry at a relatively young age; I studied in the UK at an acting school and got my big break in theatre before auditioning for Six Women. I became very famous, very quickly. I had the best time, made the best memories. But at one point I also blamed that show for what it robbed me of too. I’d accidentally left it so late—putting the effort in to try and start a family. But then I thought to myself, I have twenty-hour days working on this sitcom. My mornings would start at 3 a.m., I’d nap in my trailer for a bit, and then work through until 1 a.m. some nights. How would that work? How could I do that and be a good mum too? Years later, I started letting dark thoughts slip through. Had I let some TV producers take away my chance to have kids? But, no, the truth is I clearly didn’t want them enough. I could have made it work, or made the time, or worked less if I’d really had a desire to have children—just like I made time for everything else in my life that I wanted—but I didn’t. I now mentor young actresses, and I get to be maternal in a different way. I just want everyone in this room to remember to look deep inside and know sometimes we don’t have to stifle ourselves with the pressure. We don’t have to build up this huge, unanswerable question in our heads: Do I Want Kids? It hangs over us, but why? Sometimes we can just roll with it, make smaller natural decisions as we go along, and follow what makes us happy daily, and in doing so we will make the right decision for us in the end, without turning it into something so pressurized. Do you know what I mean?”
This is the first speech that has deeply resonated with me. Some of the others felt a little forced, or something just didn’t quite add up. But Jemima’s story felt so heartfelt and real. She hadn’t chiseled the fact that she didn’t want kids into stone; she came to it naturally, gradually. It was just something that made sense for her as she lived her life. Sometimes we don’t “know” for sure, and maybe we never will, but we just have to live each day in the way that feels most natural to us. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.
Everyone in the room starts nodding and clapping. Bea puts her fingers in her mouth and blows a whistle. “I like her,” she whispers to me. “She’s right—it’s not as binary as two sides of a coin; we all just make decisions as we go along.”
“Yes, exactly,” I say. Maybe we’re having a breakthrough here; I feel another wave of relief that Bea seems to understand.
“Thank you, Jemima,” Iris says. “On behalf of everyone here, I just want to thank you for coming along tonight and making so many of us feel seen and supported. Please can I ask that no one asks Jemima for a photo or autograph tonight.”
Well, that settles that then. I put my phone away. What’s wrong with me? I never usually get starstruck like this.
“Right, next up we have Laura. Let’s give her a huge clap, please!”
Laura appears on stage, quickly ties her hair up in a high bun, and pushes a pencil through it to hold it in place before speaking.
“Hello, everyone! It’s actually my birthday tomorrow—forty-four years old! All my life I’ve known I didn’t want kids, but things bed in a little easier as you get older: One, you know yourself better! And two, people don’t ask you as much! Once you reach a certain age as a woman, it seems like society just kind of forgets about you anyway. Where are the over-forties and -fifties on billboards, or on the covers of magazines? We’re kind of invisible, apparently. At least we stop getting nudged. I fucking hated my thirties; there was so much pressure! But I guess I should also say this: I am the CEO of a corporate child-free support network, a network I founded in my early twenties as an adamant child-free woman. And, well . . . I’m expecting.” She places both her hands on her belly, looking a little sheepish but proud.
The room is silent. Iris looks around, and I sense she’s going into crisis-management mode. Everyone’s mouths are hanging open. I look over at Bea and Colin and shrug. Someone drops a glass. Smash. The silence continues; time seems to stop still. Iris goes up and gently edges Laura off the stage, while the people in the crowd whisper among themselves. Laura looks as though she’s in a world of her own, stroking her belly.
Then one woman shouts: “But think of the environment, Laura,” and tuts loudly.
Colin, Bea, and I share an Uber home at around 10:30 p.m., gossiping in the back. So much drama in one evening! I get my Dictaphone out:
“Olive checking in, recording part 1 of notes from Child-Free By Choice evening. Ask Bea and Colin thoughts, will add to part 2 later. Do research on women who spoke tonight, see if there’s anything on Google. Write down bullet-point themes. Freedom. Money. Judgment. Work. Environment. Emotion. What felt weird about the club? What felt empowering? Where do I stand now? Pitch profile of Jemima separately to Gill. Follow up with Iris tomorrow.”
Colin smirks at me; he mocks me when I do my Dictaphone voice. Then, Bea’s phone goes off loudly—it’s Isla calling. The radio isn’t on in the Uber and the roads are quiet, so we can all hear the audio coming out of Bea’s phone as clearly as if Isla was sitting here next to us.
“You all right, lovely?” Bea asks warmly.
“Yes, I’m okay—just really needing to talk to someone. Are you free now for a quick natter?”
“Of course, darling. Just been out with Olive and her colleague Colin.”
“Cool—where did you go?”
“Oh, just a club thing.”
“What kind of club?”
“Well, it was for Ol’s work, for research—we were keeping her company.”
“Sounds interesting, what was it about?”
“Well,” Bea pauses, “it was a club night for
child-free women.”
“Right,” Isla replies curtly.
I lean forward and glare at Bea, who raises her shoulders in an I-couldn’t-help-it-what-was-I-supposed-to-do kind of way.
“It was interesting,” Bea glances over at me, showing her gritted teeth.
“But why did you go?” Isla sounds shocked and upset.
“I just said, love, to keep Ol company. She was a bit nervous.”
“Bit weird, Bea.”
“Why?”
“You pretended to be childless to get in?” Isla says, sounding appalled.
“It’s child-free, actually,” Bea says.
“I . . . sorry. I just . . . it’s a strange move, and I could really use some support at the moment, myself.” Her voice wobbles a bit.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I know I was meant to call you yesterday; I got distracted making a bumble-bee costume for Amelia for that thing at Rainbows, and my day went out of the window.” Bea slaps her head.
“No, it’s okay. I suppose I just want my old self back. Is Amelia okay?”
“She’s fine, love. At home with Jeremy, on the mend. How are you, Isla? What’s going on?”
“I’m . . . it’s just . . . I can’t afford another round of IVF. My uncle has said no to giving me more money, think he’s embroiled in some legal fees with his ex-wife or something. He’s cutting me off, basically. And I feel like a total monster because I need the money, and I am so jealous of Cec and Oscar. I can barely stomach the photos.”
“Oh, Isla. It’s totally understandable that you’re feeling low.”
“I know I’m being sensitive. I just feel a bit lonely and left out.”
“I’m sorry, tonight was just a silly thing. No one was taking it seriously; it was just a random thing for an article Ol’s working on.”
“It’s okay.” Isla’s voice is really shaking; it’s obvious she’s about to cry.
Colin and I look at each other. Just a silly thing? Just a laugh? I hadn’t realized my life choices were so ridiculous to Bea.
“I am sorry, Isla, I hope you feel a bit better tomorrow,” says Bea.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call back another time.”
“Okay, I love you. Have a good rest tonight. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow,” Bea says gently.
Bea looks over at Colin and me, and mouths “sorry” as she hangs up.
I can’t hold back; anger is coursing through me. “Tonight wasn’t some joke thing, Bea.” I feel my voice cracking.
“I know, I know, Ol, I just said that to Isla to make things easier. I know it’s not.”
“You must have thought it, a bit?”
“No! I was just trying to make Isla feel better. And you were here for a work thing, right? I was just giving Isla the facts.”
“Why are you clinging on to that? I’ve told you, Bea. This was more than a work thing for me.”
“Okay, Ol, I’m sorry. Look, if I’m totally honest, I guess I always just presumed you would settle down one day. Maybe that’s wrong or naive of me. I suppose on some level I just always imagined us raising kids together, doing the same stuff like we always have, you know? I don’t want you to rule anything out.”
“Bea, if I wanted to settle down, I’d still be with Jacob. No one is understanding my pain at the moment—no one!”
“But look at it from a different angle: What if Jacob wasn’t the right guy?”
“He was, Bea; he was the perfect guy!” I break down in tears. “It’s not that hard to believe, is it? That I don’t want a family? I feel like you literally don’t know me at all.”
“Ol, please, don’t do this. We need to support each other,” Bea says desperately. “I promise I’m hearing you.”
“Come on, Olive,” Colin says quietly.
“Can you pull over, please?” I ask the driver.
“Really, now, love?” he says, surprised.
“Yes, now. Please.”
“Ol, don’t do that,” Colin pleads.
The CFBC was not a silly thing at all. Far from it. The driver pulls over to the side of the road on Shoreditch High Street. I grab my bag and slam the door, hard. I know I’m drunk. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But I can’t stop myself.
“You childless people, you have no idea! What’s the biggest drama you have to put up with?”
Michael McIntyre, Live at the Apollo, 2013
26
My phone rings loudly. Phone calls make me anxious; voicemails even more so. No one actually calls anymore, and if they do, something’s most likely up. So it’s no surprise that I don’t leap for joy when Bea’s name pops up on my screen. I’m still annoyed with her. I pick up with a “Hello” that has the perfect amount of bluntness and maturity. I think.
All I can hear is hysterical shouting and screaming in the background. I can barely hear Bea. I recognize Cecily’s voice. Why is she screaming? Bea speaks quickly, panting in between sentences.
“Oscar is locked inside the house.”
“What?”
“Cec accidentally shut the door, and it locked automatically. With the baby inside.”
“Fuuuuuck . . .”
“Yeah, can you come here and support? She’s really panicking.”
“Yes, yes I’m coming now.” I hang up. Whatever’s happening between me and Bea, it sounds like Cec needs me more.
Luckily, Bea had been doing a recce for work, eyeing up a warehouse space for a new exhibition that happened to be close to Cec’s house in London. Thank god she’s there. I run to the Tube, putting my coat on as I jog; my “Baby on Board” badge is still stuck onto my top coat pocket.
“All you lot are too busy staring at your phones to notice this pregnant woman!” A very old and wrinkled lady is pointing her walking stick aggressively at a row of men in suits on the Tube. “You ought to be ashamed.”
“So sorry, so sorry,” one of the huge manspreading men splutters, scrambling to his feet. I turn bright red and realize they are all making a fuss over me.
“And while you’re at it, you can move for me too. I’m eighty fucking seven!”
The men look shocked, and most of them move out of the way at the speed of light.
The old woman takes a seat. “Much more comfortable sitting down, isn’t it, dear?” she says to me, smiling sweetly now.
When I finally arrive, sweating lightly after running from the station, I see Cec sitting on the ground in her front garden, howling.
“My baby is inside. Somebody get him out, please!”
Cec and I still haven’t properly resolved anything since the bust-up at the baby shower, but when big shit hits the fan, everything else fades in comparison. We have bigger fish to fry.
Bea is on the phone pacing, and it looks like a tall, built guy with stubble has decided to take control. He has lots of tattoos, and he’s wearing a navy hoody with a skull and crossbones graphic on the back.
“Everyone calm down. I am going to climb to the top of your garage, and I can easily get into your top window from there. I might have to break it,” Skull Guy says.
“Break anything; just get my baby out!” Cec cries, her hands resting on her forehead.
“Don’t worry,” Skull Guy says, flexing his muscles. “Where is Oscar exactly?”
“He’s in his car seat, just by the front door. Please don’t scare him,” Cec sobs.
“Who is that guy?” I ask Bea, pointing at Skull Guy.
“He’s Cec’s neighbor, apparently; he ran over when he heard all the commotion.”
As we talk, Skull Guy strips out of his jeans and stands in just his boxers—the heavy jean material would only hold him back, apparently; he needs to be able to “maneuver.” He then runs and jumps onto a ledge on the side of Cec’s house, stands on the garage roof, jumps over onto the top of the
conservatory, and smashes open a window on the middle floor with a hammer. Bloody hell.
Cec starts hyperventilating again.
Skull Guy climbs in through the broken window and nearly cuts himself on the shards of glass. We watch, squirming. He throws the hammer off the garage roof, and it flies through the air, nearly hitting Bea.
“Jesus!” she shouts.
Then we all cheer because Skull Guy is finally inside and has given us the thumbs-up. He emerges a few minutes later at the front door holding Oscar, who actually seems fine, not even a tear in sight.
I feel physically sick. Cec is now holding Oscar in her arms and is shaking from head to foot. That was the worst half hour that we have ever witnessed.
Cecily’s husband, Chris, arrives soon afterwards; we hear his red sports car pulling up. I’ve never been a fan of his at the best of times. Perhaps it’s unfair to judge your best friend’s partner, and maybe it’s rare to completely understand what your friend sees in them—after all, you’re not the one shagging them. Perhaps Chris was cracking in the sack. (I highly doubted that, though.) He was a top-dog lawyer in the City, and perhaps he could be accused of being a little too performative when it came to his “wokeness,” if you know what I mean. He always pulls out the “I’m a male feminist” card, a modern-day liberal Lothario, talking about how women are equal and quoting facts about the gender pay gap over a canapé at a dinner party. Yet the way he treats Cecily is often questionable—and this time he completely loses it and starts going mad. Sure, he’s a dick, but we’d never seen anything like this before.
“You locked our son inside the house? How the hell could you do that? You stupid woman! What’s next—leaving him on the side of the road while you drive off?” Chris bellows in Cecily’s direction.
“Chris, please, let’s just focus on the fact that everything is okay now rather than apportioning blame,” Bea bellows back, standing in front of Cecily in her usual protective manner. Cec doesn’t say anything; she just stands there, looking shell-shocked, expressionless, and clutching Oscar tightly in her arms.