Olive

by Emma Gannon

  Once we were on the flight, and inevitably hit some crazy turbulence, Isla yelped from underneath a scarf she had placed over her head.

  “Here,” I said, taking Isla’s wrists and spritzing some lavender spray to calm her nerves.

  We touched down at Faro airport and hopped in a cab for a forty-five-minute drive to Lagos. Despite having our luggage in tow, we asked the driver to drop us off at the beach, and we immediately plonked ourselves down on the sand, feeling its warmth between our toes and the sun on our SPF-covered faces.

  “This is just what we need, isn’t it?” Isla said, breathing in the sea air.

  “God, seriously,” Cec said, stripping off her top and lying down in her bra.

  “Can we promise we will always go on holiday together, like, every single year forever?” Isla said.

  “Absolutely. Always. We’ve not missed one year so far,” I said, as Bea handed each of us a Calippo ice lolly that she’d bought from a man on the beach.

  Later that night, Isla and I sat on the balcony of our hotel, gin and tonics in hand, looking out to a pink-purple sky. I loved these little moments with Isla—the two of us linking arms, feeling close, and reflecting on life. The very attentive barman kept coming out and bringing new drinks. It was happy hour, so we obliged.

  It was late now, and we could hear Bea and Cec splashing around in the pool below. They’d had a few different cocktail concoctions from the hotel bar and were doing that thing of trying to “whisper,” but doing so very loudly. They had decided to skinny-dip, had thrown their wet bikinis up at us in celebration. Despite their efforts, the bikinis didn’t quite land on our balcony, but on the neighboring hotel’s sloped roof. Isla and I were bent over laughing, already imagining them having to tiptoe back into the hotel fully naked.

  A few drinks later, Isla suddenly started spinning out. “I think . . . I’ve had one too many,” she said, trying to hold back the sick building in her throat.

  “Oh dear,” I said. I knew full well how much of a lightweight Isla was. Drinking often brought out a vulnerability in her too. Oops, I should have gone easier on the drinks. I texted Bea and Cec to say I was taking Isla back to the room.

  I walked her slowly through the hotel lobby and then into the lift. Her eyes were closing and opening each time the lift made a “ding” as we ascended from one floor to the next. I slid our key card into our door lock and went straight towards the bathroom. I slid the glass door across, and she practically slid down the wall onto the tiles and was almost sick on the floor before I turned her towards the loo seat. She chucked up her seafood dinner and all the gin. I brushed her hair back out of her face, like I had done countless times before, and found one of Bea’s hair bands next to the sink to tie it back.

  “It’s okay. Let it all out,” I said, rubbing her back gently as she coughed up the last bits of vomit.

  “I love you . . . Ol,” Isla said. “You always know how to look after me.”

  “I love you too,” I laughed, hugging her close.

  She then flopped onto me, leaning her sicky face on my shoulder, and fell asleep.

  30

  2019

  I’m on my way to meet Bea for a drink at our favorite cocktail bar near the V&A museum. She has just had a meeting at a gallery nearby, and any time she is in central London we try to get a quick drink in before her train home. I’m trying not to bump into anyone as I walk, simultaneously checking my phone because I have a message from Marcus and obviously need to read it immediately. I don’t know why, but it makes the insides of my stomach do a little dance. I feel fourteen years old again. It’s an old-school dopamine rush.

  Hey, Olive, look, I’m not getting any younger. I think the kids call it “yolo,” but do you fancy going for a drink?

  He had clearly got my number from the group improv team WhatsApp group (it’s called “Mission Improvable”). I decide to ignore the cheesiness of his message. It’s hard out here for new daters—I should know. I reply saying yes and asking when and where. He replies: tomorrow, Barbican, 1:00 p.m.

  I quite like this decisiveness. It’s refreshing.

  Bea is sitting at the bar by the window. She has bought us two margaritas and is already licking the salt off the rim of the glass. She waves.

  “Hey, hey—sorry I had to order, was desperate for a drink,” she says.

  “Good idea,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek and taking off my coat. “You okay?”

  “Fine, thanks. Just life, eh?” she says with a half-smile.

  I notice she seems a little glum, and I assume it’s because of our little spat in the taxi on the way home from the CFBC event.

  “Life indeed. Cheers to the ongoing messiness of it,” I say. We do a little clink and put our drinks back down. I decide to bite the bullet. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night, by the way, at the CFBC. It all got a bit intense, didn’t it.”

  “No, Ol, it’s me who should be apologizing. Let’s just put it behind us, shall we? I think we both know it was a misunderstanding.”

  I’m not sure if that’s strictly true, but I just want to make peace with my best friend. I hate all this group tension; it’s not like us.

  “Agreed. But really, everything okay?”

  “Kids are doing great. Touch wood it stays that way.” She touches the table.

  “And Jeremy?”

  “Well.” She coughs and takes a massive sip of her margarita. “I cannot believe what I’m about to tell you.” There is a long pause. She closes her eyes and inhales, and then opens them again slowly. “Jeremy . . . he’s been cheating on me.”

  “What?”

  “For a whole year.”

  “What?” I feel like my eyes are going to jump out of my head like in a cartoon.

  “Yeah. I know. It’s just awful at home at the moment—if we’re in the same room we start arguing, and the kids are now noticing, so we just need to be apart from each other as much as we can while we sort this all out.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bea. When did you find out?”

  “Last week, although I’d had suspicions before then. It didn’t sink in. Still hasn’t. I suppose I didn’t want it to be true? I was in shock. I knew he was working away a lot, but I never thought he would jeopardize our relationship. I found emails and texts on our shared iPad.”

  “Jesus. I can’t believe it either. What a fool. How dare he?” I’m enraged, and to think we all liked Jeremy; he seemed like one of the most genuine guys. I might expect this from Chris, but not Jeremy.

  “It’s like suddenly my biggest insecurity has come true. I’ve been feeling unlike myself recently, my body has changed so much since the third kid. And he’s been hooking up with his twenty-three-year-old intern, of all people. It makes me feel like a sack of spuds.”

  “What a fucker. You do not deserve this. I mean no one does, but especially you. You do so much for him and those kids and your home and—”

  “I suppose it’s not been great for a while.”

  “But still!”

  “I wonder whether I was just too eager to chase the marriage and kids thing so early and didn’t really put much effort into the maintaining of it all. He clearly felt trapped—it goes some way to explaining all the traveling. And, well, I could never be bothered to have sex. And even when we did it, he was always the one to initiate it.”

  “But this is not your fault, Bea. Please. Don’t go there,” I say.

  “I just feel like I’ve pretended everything is fine for so long, to the point where I’ve almost ended up convincing myself that it was,” she sighs.

  Bea’s body language is so different. She is slumped over, slouching. A far cry from the Bea we are used to, who always stands so solidly and confidently, normally taking on other people’s problems and devising solutions.

  “Anyway,” she sighs. “How are you? Let’s change
the subject. Distract me.”

  “Oh, Bea.” I squeeze her knee. “What are you gonna do next? How can we help?”

  “I don’t know. He’s going to move out for a bit. Have some time apart. I suppose it’s going to depend on whether I can forgive him. But I don’t think I will be able to.”

  “That’s understandable; I suppose you’re going to have to give it time. I’ve heard some marriages can be better after a bad shake-up, or . . . perhaps it is just unforgivable. What do you want to happen, do you think?”

  “I do still love him, Ol. But, I think it’s just run its course now. I don’t know. How can it ever be the same after this?” Her eyes look tired. “Please tell me about you; my brain hurts from it all.”

  “I’m okay.” I almost feel bad now sharing my news, but I can tell she’s also desperate for some escapism. “I’m actually going on a date tomorrow.”

  “Oh my god! That’s exciting. That’s crazy. What’s he like? Where did you meet him?”

  “At this random improv night. He’s quite a bit older. He’s really sexy. I know it sounds weird, but I am relieved that I actually fancy someone. I thought I never would again.”

  “You really deserve some good vibes in that department. Come on, Cupid.”

  “I know. I’m up for it,” I say, smiling. I catch my reflection in the window in front of us and see that I feel and look so much better. If only I could say the same for Bea.

  I look in the bathroom mirror, comb my hair through, and clip it so that one side of my hair is pulled back behind my ear. I put on a creamy, glittery eye shadow I got free at work and then immediately wipe it off. What am I doing? I am going on a daytime date; I do not need glitter. God, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a first date, and it shows. I decide to wear a floral dress and white high-top Converse shoes. Marcus has decided we should meet at the Barbican arts center for an exhibition and a coffee. He has a lifetime membership pass. Honestly, my first thought was thank fuck he hadn’t booked crazy golf.

  As I approach the building, I see him waiting in the lobby area wearing an oversized denim jacket. Hands in his pockets. A man self-confident enough to wait on his own without needing to scroll on his phone. His eyes light up when he sees me.

  “Hey!” He walks over and gives me a hug. “So, I got us tickets for this exhibition all about AI.”

  “This series will explore the relationship between humans and technology,” I read off the ticket. “Sounds intense for a date. We’ve skipped the crap film and bowling bit?” I pause. “I’m into it.”

  “Great. Let’s go and pretend we’re intelligent and then have a nice big drink after.”

  We wander around the exhibition, and it is a little strange. There are half-eaten robots, big metal talking dogs, self-driving car simulations, USBs plugged into skeleton heads, and holograms that feel so real, I flinch. One of the digital projections on the wall reminds me of a mix between nineties Windows Media Player and the eyes of Kaa, the snake in The Jungle Book. The next projection makes a huge, unexpected bang and emits some fake smoke, and I find myself grabbing Marcus’s arm.

  “It’s a weird time we’re in, isn’t it? We’re so close to having self-driving cars, but then also have a government tax website that is so slow and shit and politicians who don’t know how to tweet properly,” I laugh.

  “Ha. I gotta say, I do hate how much time my girls spend on their phones. Art-directing countless selfies,” he says, shuddering.

  “Yeah, I bet. It must be hard to know what’s doing damage and what stuff is actually a positive influence on them.”

  “True.”

  “I’m not perfect. I am glued to mine,” I say.

  “It’s just difficult to know what they do all day on their phones. I can’t monitor them that closely anymore. They are nearly adults, and it feels wrong to ask what they look at.”

  “You need a secret squirrel,” I say.

  “What’s that?” Marcus laughs.

  “A secret squirrel is the James Bond of the rodent world,” I say, sticking my front teeth out over my lip.

  “You are so weird,” he says, taking my hand.

  We go to the bar, sit on stools. I awkwardly climb onto one, making a squeaking noise.

  “That was the chair,” I say. I cackle. I notice it’s a sound I haven’t made for a while.

  “Sure,” he says, laughing. “Two small beers, please,” he says politely to the barman, who nods.

  We cheers our glasses.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “What for?” I ask.

  “You’ve put a smile on my haggard old-man face.”

  “You’re not that haggard,” I say with a grin.

  We both laugh and hold each other’s stare a little longer than usual before resuming our strange, rambling conversation. Is this what people mean when they give you cheesy advice that there will be a light at the end of the tunnel? The dark cloud above my head is still there—but it’s feeling lighter now. For the first time, I can actually imagine it disappearing altogether. Today feels like a sort of fresh start.

  31

  Isla is in hospital looking frail. She is sitting up in her bed, the white covers draped over her. She is whispering to me, so I go closer.

  “What can I do?” I ask desperately, kneeling at the side of her bed.

  She starts talking but goes mute. I can’t hear her.

  “What are you saying, Isla?”

  She is babbling, but no words come out.

  She curls up into a fetal position in the bed, sad and vulnerable. A female doctor knocks gently and comes in, holding a clipboard to her chest.

  “She’s a thief! You’re a thief!” Isla shouts at the doctor in a hoarse voice. Her voice is coming back. I have a notepad on my lap, and I start asking Isla questions.

  “Stop writing, Olive.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Please stop doing that. This is my story. Not yours.”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone is stealing from me. Thieves!” she shrieks.

  The female doctor puts black tape over Isla’s mouth.

  I wake up suddenly, sweating. A bad dream again. I sit up in bed and glance around in the dark, waiting for the tightness in my chest to loosen. The dream has shaken me to the core. I reach over to my bedside table and pick up my phone. My last conversation with Isla on WhatsApp was a week ago. It shouldn’t feel surprising at the moment, given the trajectory and how we left things, but it still feels like a long time.

  I don’t want to generalize “about women,” but I do think that we just know when something is up. That female intuition. We have pure gut instinct. We don’t need to ask for an explanation or scientific reasoning. We just know, we get a whiff, and then most of the time we are proved right. For example, if you ask most women, they will probably tell you that they knew way before any evidence surfaced that their partner was cheating on them. We are not paranoid, or silly, or hysterical; we have intuition. A deep-rooted emotional compass. So, I knew something was up with Isla.

  As soon as it feels like a sociable hour, I pick up my phone and ring her. No answer. I suddenly feel sick and don’t know if it’s just worry or hunger. I root around to prep something for breakfast and realize I have no food in the house. I need bagels and milk and some fresh air in the form of a walk to my local corner shop down the road. I think about pulling on my new navy onesie out of habit, but actually, I’m feeling different. Brighter. I can see a speck of a silver lining. I decide to get properly dressed and pull on a pair of jeans that are frayed along the bottom and an old black-and-white-striped woolen sweater. I put my Bluetooth headphones in, and Emma Thompson’s Desert Island Discs episode blares out into my ears as I cross the road by the pub and pass the train station. I go into Tesco and pick up a copy of the Times and walk to the bread section at the back of the
store. Bagels presliced, only one bag left. I then go to the wine section and pick up a cheap but okay-ish one for later—a claret. Then I put it back. I don’t need to get drunk on my own tonight. I start wandering towards the register and spot a woman who has the same hat as Isla looking at the biscuits. It’s a red cashmere beret I bought her from Reiss for her birthday years ago. I realize quickly that it is Isla. She is walking quickly away towards the exit.

  “Isla!” I shout.

  She carries on walking away.

  I stride after her, and my walk turns into a bit of a gallop.

  “Isla . . . !” I grab her arm. She turns around reluctantly.

  “Oh . . . hi,” she says. Clearly she’d seen me. She looks at the floor. I notice how tired she looks.

  “Are you okay? I was getting worried; I hadn’t heard from you. I’m so sorry things have been so awkward between us. I really hated leaving things like that.” We step to the side, by the magazines, so as not to block the entrance to the store. I set the alarm off. It goes off loudly, and the security guy gives me side-eye.

  “I’m okay. Can’t stay and chat, though,” she says.

  “Of course. Sorry, it’s just . . . I don’t know what to say.” This feels so alien to me. Not knowing what to say to one of my best friends. I feel nervous, like I’m going to put my foot in it.

  “Yes, I’m sorry if I have been a bit distant lately. Not feeling myself, I guess.”

  “Can we talk? Sort things out?”

  “I can’t stay and talk about this here,” she whispers.

  “Okay. I don’t want to be paranoid, but I’d really like to know what’s up.”

  She pauses and rolls her tongue around the corner of her cheek. “Honestly? Having a child is all I can think about at the moment. And I feel like not having a child is all you are thinking about. It’s okay. It really is. But I personally can’t hack it right now.”

  “I’m . . . sorry,” I say, surprised and deflated.

  “Maybe it’s me being selfish, or maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s neither of us? But it’s all-encompassing, and it’s painful, and I’m just really trying to make this reality happen for me.” She gestures towards her lower body.