Olive

by Emma Gannon

  My buzzer rings, and it’s Isla, waiting on my doorstep with a big leather overnight bag and a squishy travel pillow.

  “What’s up?” I ask as I let her into the flat, taking her coat and guiding her to the sofa. Her face looks puffy and her eyes sore from crying.

  “Mike and I have had a massive bust-up. This horrible pressure to get pregnant is really getting to us, clearly. We aren’t in a good place.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I give her a squeeze. She feels smaller than usual.

  I know she was annoyed with me after the CFBC night and that phone call with Bea, and—although she is here, needing me—I can feel a simmering tension still there. An invisible barrier between us. But her arriving here speaks volumes about our friendship. At the end of the day, she knows I will always give her a roof if she ever needs it, even if things feel far from resolved.

  “Our lives have turned into apps and spreadsheets and calendars and meticulous planning, and we just aren’t getting on at the moment,” she continues.

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t storm out or anything. Can I stay?”

  “Of course, stay as long as you need to. I’ll get the sofa bed out.”

  After a few nights of Isla staying, though, she is starting to drive me up the wall. She’s cooked for me every night, which is nice, but she’s taking over my space. I can’t boot her out, but this has made me realize how much I like living alone now. Funny how you can get used to things when they are forced upon you.

  “I’m off out tonight,” I say to Isla as I grab my keys from the hallway table.

  “Oh cool—a date?”

  Why do people in couples always assume that newly single people are constantly dating?

  “Nah, not ready for that kind of shit yet. I’m doing an improv class.”

  “Really! You’re so great, Ol, trying new things. Can’t wait to hear how that goes,” Isla says from the sofa, swinging around the remote control.

  “Yeah, we’ll see! Have a nice evening.”

  “Thanks again for having me, Ol,” Isla says sweetly.

  “No problemo!”

  The improv class is above a pub called The Chesterfield in Islington. I’d been there before with Zeta for a pint. It’s one of those recently revamped hipster pubs with pastel-colored walls that serves pretentious craft beers with long names. Accidentally Wes Anderson. Anyway, perhaps this class is exactly what I need. I can disappear into being someone else and wear zero makeup and baggy clothes while doing it.

  I walk into The Chesterfield, and a man called Areeq with a long, very dark beard and a turban greets me. He immediately makes me feel welcome and ticks my name off a list. He tells me to go up the stairs to the top floor. I make my way up them, feeling as though they could crumble beneath me at any moment. What am I doing? Going deeper into a darkened basement? Am I about to get murdered by wannabe comedians? I walk in and gasp.

  A woman with gray curly hair turns around. I cannot believe who is in there, in the center of the room. It’s—Iris. I almost leap onto her.

  “Iris!” I kiss her on the cheek.

  “Darling! We meet again.” She’s wearing a different-colored kaftan this time—with pink and orange swirls. She looks fantastic. I think it’s fake tan, or she’s been away somewhere hot in the time that has passed between now and the CFBC night.

  “I didn’t know you did improv?”

  “Yes, I’m teaching the class! Been a qualified improv teacher for years; I discovered it when I was finding healing practices. Did you know that improv classes are great for helping with anxiety?”

  “Good to know,” I laugh nervously.

  “I had a break from it, but now I’m back. I’m having a whale of a time rediscovering lost parts of myself through different artistic mediums. Improv, open-mic nights, singing, dancing! I’m going to discover poetry-writing classes next. Looks like you’re doing the same; it’s no accident that we meet again! Are you rediscovering yourself?”

  “Rediscovering myself?”

  “Well, yes, are you?”

  “I suppose. I recently went through a bad breakup with someone.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, good for you. Most people would be moping around, but here you are! Ready to explore and meet new people and show yourself to the world; you should be proud of yourself. For refusing to let life trample all over you.” I smile. She doesn’t know that I’ve literally been moping around the house for weeks on end, crying in the bath.

  “Thanks, Iris. I’m trying.”

  Iris steps back, puts her hand on her heart, and clears her throat:

  “The time will come / when, with elation / you will greet yourself arriving / at your own door, in your own mirror / and each will smile at the other’s welcome.”

  I stare at her, a little baffled.

  “It’s ‘Love After Love’ by Derek Walcott. Beautiful piece. A reminder to feast on one’s own life. Let go of your guilt, Ol. Women are made to feel guilty for everything. The food we eat, the bodies we have, the relationships that don’t work out. We must accept the challenge and refuse to take on this guilt.” She is looking me dead in the eyes.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I say, slightly confused but feeling motivated. “I’m a newbie to all this,” I add.

  “Darling, you will be great!” Iris starts twirling around the room. “Just like you were at the CFBC event.” I glance around the room wondering if anyone heard. It still feels like a swear word to announce that I am a member of the CFBC. But I bet no one here knows what it is anyway.

  I find my nerves starting to fade, mainly because I don’t know anyone here. Being surrounded by strangers feels weirdly relaxing. “Right!” Iris claps her hands above her head. “Over here! Please, come here and stand in a circle. Thank you! That’s right.” We all shuffle awkwardly around her. There are about twelve of us. A tall man wearing a checked shirt, a brother and sister (I think twins), a woman with blue hair, and several others.

  “Right, hello!” Iris rubs her hands together like she’s rubbing in moisturizer. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Iris. I’ve been leading improv classes for years, and it’s all about getting back to your childlike self. We will be learning about the acting craft and comedic timings, but mostly everything will be unplanned or unscripted—created spontaneously by you guys, the performers. It is about unlearning all the bullshit in the world that tries to squash us down and force us to become smaller. Kids are joyful! Kids don’t get creative blocks; they just pick up the crayons and draw! We must reconnect with our younger selves. When we grow up to be adults, we don’t have fun anymore. We are so self-conscious! So embarrassed! So British! In these classes, you will leave your self-consciousness at the door. I want you all to take a piece of paper from this hat.” Iris walks around with an upside-down straw hat. “That’s it, take one and pass the hat on. Here are some pens. I want you all to write down the one thing you hate about yourself, or are self-conscious about, and then we are going to burn them.”

  We all look around at each other nervously.

  “It’ll be hard to choose just one thing,” I say, and most people laugh under their breath.

  “Same,” says Checked-Shirt Guy.

  I realize that something about him looks really familiar.

  I write down: “Being jealous of my friends.”

  I fold the piece of paper into a tiny triangle.

  Iris kneels down to burn all the bits of paper in a little copper incense burner on the floor, and all the tiny bits of paper go up in flames.

  “There is no need for us to read them out. The important thing is that you each know what you wrote down.”

  Then Iris puts everyone in pairs, and I’m joined up with the tall guy in the checked shirt, who introduces himself as Marcus. He looks around midforties and has salt-and-peppe
r hair. He puts his hands in his jeans pockets and stands next to me.

  “I know this might be a bit weird, but . . . you don’t remember me, do you?” says Marcus.

  “Uh, no? Oh god, how do I know you?”

  “You’re friends with Cecily, right?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I was at her baby shower. My mate Tom works with her, and I was his plus-one for moral support. You were outside and—”

  “Oh shit,” I laugh. My mind flashes back to the drunken haze. How embarrassing. I was outside with my vape, shoeless, slurring, waiting for a cab. “Sorry, god knows what I said to you,” I say, cringing in front of him.

  “You were fine,” he laughs kindly. Crow’s-feet appear around his eyes when he smiles.

  “Now, guys! In your pairs, I want you to link arms. That’s it, get quite close to each other please. Get cozy!” Iris shouts across the room.

  We all do as we are told. We are scared not to, as Iris’s enthusiasm is enough to knock you over. The room suddenly feels quite hot.

  “Now, we are going to be doing another icebreaker called ‘Conjoined Twins.’ I want you all to pretend you are twins joined from the waist up. You must move together and even speak together in unison if anyone speaks to you.”

  Oh my god. I am dying. I link arms with Marcus, and we both burst out laughing.

  The good news is that absolutely nothing could be worse than having to pretend to be a conjoined twin with a hot man when your armpits are really sweaty on a day when you have forgotten to wear deodorant. The bad news is that Iris wants us all to go to the bar downstairs afterwards, so I can’t go home and scream into a pillow with embarrassment. I have to ride it all out. A group of around seven of us go for a drink. We all order pints, and it feels really good to have bonded with a group of new people: people who don’t know the real me, people with whom I’ve only had a stupid laugh, new people who aren’t sharing their emotional baggage.

  Iris comes back with a tray of beers and plonks herself down next to me, her earrings jangling.

  “That was fun. Cheers! To Iris, and everyone who made it until the end!” Marcus holds his drink up in the air, and we all clink in unison.

  “I’m still dying inside, honestly. This has put me so far out of my comfort zone,” I reply.

  “You were great.”

  “Thanks.”

  There is an awkward silence, and even though we have been “breaking the ice” all afternoon doing cringe exercises, sitting here exchanging small talk suddenly feels rather personal.

  “How did you end up here then? Doing this class?” I ask.

  “Oh, my kids bought it for me as a birthday present. I think it was a sort of joke present, but I’ve actually really enjoyed it.”

  I surprise myself by feeling a bit gutted to hear about his kids. Having any sort of romantic feeling for a guy right now could not be further from my mind. Of course he’s married, with kids. I obviously read too much into it—I don’t know what counts as “flirting” these days anyway. So out of practice.

  “You?” Marcus takes a sip.

  “Oh, you know, escaping my life by trying to learn how to become someone else for a bit,” I say, also taking a sip of beer. “One big cliché.”

  “Of course. An improv course reeks of a midlife crisis,” Marcus replies. “Sorry, quarter-life crisis for you.”

  “And, midlife crisis—for you?”

  “Well. Do you want the long story, or short story?” he replies.

  “Hmm, what about a medium-length story?”

  “Okay. Well . . .” He pauses. “I am . . . living the second chapter of my life, I suppose. I am . . . enjoying myself. Part one feels over.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I reply.

  “My wife died, ten years ago now. Ten years ago tomorrow, actually. . . . But, you know, I’m finally feeling like my old self again. The loss will always be there, of course, but I’ve finally come out the other side.” We both smile gently at each other. I do like a man who can open up unprompted. A rare breed.

  “I think that deserves a little cheers. To coming out the other side, I mean.”

  “Yes, it does.” We clink our glasses.

  “I’m so sorry,” I add.

  “Long time ago now.” He breathes in, pushing his chest up and out and coughs away his emotion.

  “And your kids? How old are they?” I ask, changing the subject.

  His face lights up again. “I have two kids. Magical kids. They are fifteen and seventeen now. Very independent, strong young women. So, now, I am free! Sort of,” he laughs. “Although I feel like a one-man taxi company. Weekends going all over the place dropping kids off, picking the kids up from parties. I enjoyed looking after them, but, oh my god, I am so glad to have some time back for myself now. Rediscovery, as Iris calls it.”

  “Do you think people judge you for saying that? That you kinda want your life back now?” I ask.

  “Maybe. But I’m getting the impression you won’t judge me.” Marcus laughs. We lock eyes, and it feels awkward, intrusive, too deep almost.

  I look away, a slight blush in my cheeks, and change the conversation. But I’m excited that someone—someone new—is making me feel like this.

  When I get home, Isla is there stretched out on the sofa, watching a David Attenborough documentary. Something about penguins.

  “All right?” I say, placing my keys on the table, slamming the door shut, feeling a little tired from the walk home.

  “S’pose—still feeling a bit meh. Sorry I’ve eaten all your kettle chips.”

  “Ha, that’s okay. What’s yours is mine. How you feeling today? Have you spoken to Mike yet?”

  “Here and there. He’s being very understanding and sweet. Says it’s totally normal that I might need some space. I think he needs some too.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’m not annoying you by being here, am I?” Isla asks.

  “No, it’s okay. I do have some work I need to do tonight, though.”

  “That’s fine! Shall we cook some dinner together, like the good old days? Ooh, we could cook a roast.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, I was going to order something and just do some work at my desk in my bedroom,” I say. It’s true. I need to crack on with various unfinished assignments.

  “Oh, okay. I just thought we might be able to spend some time together, maybe tomorrow instead?”

  “Yeah maybe, I’ll have to let you know.”

  “Is something wrong, Olive?”

  “No—not at all. I just . . . I suppose . . . I have a lot going on, and I guess I’ve just got used to being a bit more independent, with you guys always being busy.”

  “Right.” Isla folds her arms and crosses her legs.

  “Look, I’ve been worried about you, and I’ll always be a sounding board, Isla. But I can’t help feeling that you haven’t properly spoken to me about the fact that I broke up with Jacob. No one has really.”

  “Oh sorry, you just didn’t really open up about it; you were getting on with things. I just assumed you were fine.”

  “Isn’t that the problem, though? Everyone assumes I’m bloody fine all the time. I’m really not. We were together for nine years; what makes you think I’d just be ‘fine’?” I say, exasperated.

  “Sorry, Ol, I should have asked more questions. I assumed you were busy finding yourself with the child-free club stuff.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’re spending more time on work than seeing your friends.”

  “That’s not fair, Isla. You know my work and life blur. Plus, you guys never spend any proper time with me anymore. You’re always late, or tired, or distracted by other things.”

  “Distracted? By what? My fertility issues? Or perhaps it’s the immense amount of s
tress being put on my relationship? Wow, thanks, Olive.”

  “I don’t mean it like that. And it’s not a competition.”

  “You think we are all self-obsessed, just admit it. The only self-obsessed one here is you,” Isla says with a piercing look. “Time to grow up, Olive.”

  “If that’s how you feel, I think you should go home.”

  “Yeah, I think I should too.”

  Isla quickly gathers her bag from the sofa bed in the next room, and I hear the door gently slam shut as I stand in the kitchen, boiling the kettle, tapping my fingers on the counter.

  “I think society secretly envies women like me who live precisely the way they want to without buckling to outside pressures or expectations.”

  Sarah, 43

  29

  2014

  We had arrived at the airport super early, checked in bags, slowly made our way through security, and Isla was now pacing up and down the perfume aisle in Duty Free, getting more and more anxious.

  “I just hate flying. Ugh, I should know better; I’m a bloody therapist,” she said, rubbing her arms and then rummaging in her bag. “And I’ve forgotten my Rescue Remedy,” she sighed.

  “Hey, you’ll be fine. We’re all sitting together, and we can distract you,” I said. Every year we’d go away together as a foursome, somewhere hot and sunny, and every time Isla would have a meltdown in the airport because of her fear of flying; it was almost part of the tradition.

  “Just think about the lovely sunshine we’re about to have, Isla!” Bea said, wearing her big sunhat, testing out a new Gucci scent.

  “And the fact that statistically you’re more likely to become president of the United States than die in a plane crash. Or something,” Cec added, picking at her nail polish. I give Isla’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.