by Emma Gannon
I don’t know what to say.
“I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but it’s just the truth. I don’t want to be around someone who speaks so openly and cynically about motherhood right now.”
I’m glad she is being honest, but also it feels like a sharp little dagger being sliced into me multiple times.
“I’m so sorry. For what you are going through and the things that you feel are out of your control. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Fuck, I should have said sorry for upsetting you. Not if. Semantics, Olive.
“It’s fine. I’m just feeling shit about everything. And the worst thing? I know this is probably jealousy or something. But you don’t care—you don’t need this to feel complete. I do. You might never have to go through all of this shit.”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.
“I feel like it’ll never happen for me. And I don’t want you to feel like you’re treading on eggshells because of me. You’re allowed to do what you need to do. So, I just need a break.”
I’ve never had a friend “need a break” from me before.
“Okay. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Yeah. Well. I dunno. I know you’re not actually trying to hurt me. I know that one person’s choice isn’t a personal attack on someone else. I just need to protect myself right now, okay? I have to go.” Isla readjusts the handbag on her shoulder and leaves the store. I just stand there, and then accidentally drop my packet of bagels. We are so close to the exit that the bagels trigger the store alarm to go off again, loudly. My face turns bright red, and the security guard follows me to the register.
One thing is for sure, Marcus has taught me how to sort my shit out. My flat is much tidier now, with homemade food in the fridge. He made pastry from scratch the other night and baked a lemon tart. There is a huge vegetable lasagne in the freezer with a handwritten sticker on it. He bought me a new fluffy rug for the living room. Marigolds under the sink. He bought me two massive cheese plants and told me to talk to them so they grow. I never thought a fairy godmother would be a forty-something man with a beard.
“Do you think I like Marcus because he like . . . ‘fathers’ me a bit?” I ask Zeta on the phone as I lie hanging upside down off my bed.
“Calm down, Sigmund. You might just like him because he’s a proper adult, not a dick, and has experienced a bit more of life than you,” Zeta replies, with a vacuum blaring in the background. She turns the vacuum off.
“I’m just worried that I like him because he’s a bit older and wiser or something.”
“Why are you worrying about this? Oh, wait . . . it’s because it’s your birthday soon. You always get really weird and intensely introspective around this time of year.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you have a massive freak-out, every year. But really, you’re doing just fine, babe.”
“Thanks, I feel good at the moment, actually. I finally feel like I’m in the right lane. That following my gut has ultimately been a good thing.”
“I’m proud of you,” Zeta tells me before carrying on with her vacuuming. My phone calls with Zeta were never about anything crazily exciting; they were just normal, everyday chatter—and I have begun to realize that they have been the extra piece of tape holding me together all along. The little, mundane, lovely bits of life.
My phone flashes with Bea’s name while I’m out having a cigarette break at work. I stump out my cigarette and pick up.
“I’m excited for Friday!” she says, while telling one of her kids to be quiet. “Thirty-three, eh! Girl, you’re getting old.”
“I know. Me too, excited to see you. I was worried you were calling me to say you couldn’t come,” I laugh nervously.
“I knew you’d say something silly like that. Birthdays have always made you so paranoid, ever since you were little!”
“God, you’re right. Zeta was saying the same thing. They really do turn me a bit loony, don’t they?”
“Well, I’m glad you are actually celebrating this time and not just hiding away in a cave like you usually do. I’m looking forward to meeting Marcus!” Bea lets out a little squeal.
“Yes, I can’t wait for you guys to meet,” I say, sort of meaning it. My nerves are fighting to take over.
“And, Ol, it’s lovely to see you so happy again,” Bea says in her motherly tone.
“I’m feeling good. Even though thirty-three sounds really, really old. Did you know Jesus apparently died at thirty-three?”
“Oh shush. I reckon you’ll outlive all of us, to be honest.”
Statistically I probably will, I think, if I don’t have kids.
“Ha. Do you think Isla will come?”
Bea pauses. “I hope so.”
“Me too. Okay, I better get back to the grindstone. See you later, Bea . . .”
“See you then, Ol. Can’t wait. Mwah.”
Cecily offered up her house for the birthday party, which I really appreciate, especially as her garden is the biggest. The space is big enough for a medium-sized marquee, which is lucky as the weather is predictably rubbish when the big day rolls around. Bea has brought a wheelbarrow full of booze and huge packets of ice, and she and Cecily got up early to put bunting all around the garden, which has letters spelling out “Olive.” Fairy lights are strung up too, ready to twinkle later. It does look amazing.
The kids are now on the trampoline singing “Happy Birthday to You” in a very high-pitched, out-of-tune way. I look around and realize that the fourteen brilliant people in this garden are the only people I need. Zeta, my friends, Colin, some .dot colleagues, and then some additions: Marcus and some of Marcus’s pals who I’ve started to get to know recently.
“Cec, this is the loveliest thing, thank you,” I say, scanning the garden. “How are you feeling?” My question was deliberately vague, but I’m all too aware it hasn’t been too long since the OAP locked-in-the-house incident.
“Much better, thank you, Ol. My therapist has been teaching me some ways to ‘forgive myself.’ Blips happen, I suppose. I’m doing better; each day is a little easier.” She starts cooing at Oscar, who is strapped to her chest in a cute papoose.
“I’m really glad to hear that. Oscar is very lucky to have you as his mum.”
I look over at Marcus, who’s in charge of the barbecue. He’s wearing a novelty apron that says: “I cook as good as I look.” I can only assume it was a joke Christmas present. He is singing to himself while turning over the vegetarian sausages before looking up as the garden gate creaks open. It’s Isla.
She looks around sheepishly and creeps through the gate.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late. I’ve brought drinks,” she says, holding up a tote bag. “You must be Marcus; I’ve heard so much about you.”
I appear behind Marcus with a gin-in-tin in hand. “Isla! You came. I’m so happy to see you,” I say.
“Great to meet you, Isla. I would hug you, but I’m covered in barbecue fat,” laughs Marcus.
“It’s cool. It’s nice to meet you in person, finally.” She nods.
“Thanks for the drinks—just pop them in the wheelbarrow that’s filled with ice. Glad you could make it.” Marcus smiles.
“Hey, Isla, you’re here!” Bea says, as Colin also appears next to us. We do a group hug.
“Yeah, of course. Good to see you. I like this,” Isla says, tugging on Bea’s new gray cashmere Acme sweater.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t you just love how Ol’s boyfriend takes control?” Colin says, looking over at Marcus.
“You crack me up,” I say. “I’m just going to fill up the snack bowls, back in a sec.”
As I’m about to head inside, we hear Marcus clanking a glass with a fork. Ding ding ding! He’s standing there looking a little nervous, his silly apron still on.
�
�I’d like to make a toast,” he says tentatively. “If that’s okay!”
“Yesssss, love a speech!! Gather ’round, everyone!” Colin says, ushering everyone closer and opening another bottle of white wine.
“Oh god.” Isla and I look at each other and grimace slightly.
“There she is! Birthday girl!” He smiles in my direction. “I know this is a bit bold, but I’d like to say a few things about Ol.” He coughs nervously. “I checked with her friends, and they reassured me that Olive wouldn’t die of embarrassment and she likes speeches.”
Bea and Cec look over at me and smirk, raising their glasses jokily. I might kill them. I do not like speeches.
“I know we’ve only known each other a short while in the grand scheme of things,” he laughs. “But it’s been the best few months of my life.”
To my absolute amazement, I am not grossed out. My cheeks are not that red.
He continues: “There are so many things I like about you, Ol. I admire how strong and independent you are, the way you put yourself first. I think it’s something society envies: someone who doesn’t people-please or do things ‘just because.’ You really are unapologetically YOU! Never change. Happy Birthday, Olive!”
“Happy Birthday, Olive,” all my friends say in unison. Except Isla, who I notice has just slipped back inside.
I kiss Marcus and take a few minutes to enjoy the moment. “That was lovely; I’m just going to pop inside for a minute.” When I get to the kitchen, Isla is leaning over Cec’s big kitchen island. The one she broke down on just a few months ago when she was making Cec’s baby shower bunting.
“Isla—what is it?”
She sighs. “Let’s go into the living room.” I hate how serious her voice sounds.
We sit on Cec’s squishy sofa. It feels eerily quiet. Everyone else is outside in the sunshine.
“What have I done? Have I murdered someone in your family without remembering?”
“Okay, let me get this off my chest. I’m really sorry it’s your birthday, but I’m just desperate to clear the air. And before I do, I know you are going to think I am bonkers.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a deeper reason why I’ve responded to things so badly recently—your journalism about being child-free and, you know, antibirth—”
“I’m not antibirth,” I laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Birth is pretty necessary for the human race to carrying on surviving. I don’t want a kid, but that doesn’t mean I want the whole human race to die out.”
“Okay, but you’ve been writing a lot about how you find the idea of birth and motherhood traumatizing.”
“Yeah, I do, though. That’s how I feel about it; that’s just my point of view. I am entitled to that, Isla. I don’t judge you because you want a baby, so why are you judging me because I don’t?”
“Okay, well, I don’t know if you remember, but a couple of years ago, on a drunken night out, we were discussing . . . my options. And I know it perhaps wasn’t a totally serious conversation, but I remember you saying that if it ever came down to it and I couldn’t have kids that you’d be a surrogate for me.”
Did I? What what what?
Oh my god, maybe I had watched that episode of Friends. The one with Phoebe and her brother. She made it look really easy. It would not be appropriate to joke about this right now, Olive.
“Isla, I’m so sorry, but I really don’t remember that.”
“It’s okay. I feel really weird bringing it up after all these years.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“We were in that pub on George Street, and I was talking about my health issues and how, one day, I might need to use a surrogate. How it’s a totally feasible thing these days. Obviously, Bea and Cec were trying for their own, but you said . . . you said something that I took to mean you would be open to it. You said you’d do that for Mike and me. I know this sounds a bit crazy, and it was such a long time ago, but it just really stuck with me. You sounded supportive.”
Sounds like I’d had one jar too many that night.
“I can’t believe I’d offer up something so huge and not remember it. I’m sorry, Isla.”
“It’s okay. I’d just latched onto it. . . . And now things are looking incredibly unlikely for me, and so when I kept hearing you talking so negatively about everything . . . about how much birth grosses you out . . . I mean, you went to that child-free meetup, and pretty much all your articles at .dot are centered around this topic nowadays.”
My eyes widen. “I know I’ve been slightly fixated on it over the past few months, but can you blame me? I’ve had a massive life overhaul after breaking up with Jacob—I’ve been questioning everything while feeling behind everyone else! I’m really sorry, but I also really needed this.”
Isla sighs and looks down at the floor. “This is all such a mess, and now I feel totally weird for even saying anything about the surrogate thing.” She stands up and takes a step back.
“You’re not weird. You’re in pain right now. There’s a difference.” We stay there awkwardly, and I make the first move. She lets me hug her, and we hold each other tightly. It feels good. Like things might start to go back to how they should be.
“You will get through this, Isla,” I say. But of course, we don’t know for sure. Isla doesn’t look up; she doesn’t look at me. I can’t help but fear an invisible wedge has grown between us. What if there’s no way back?
“Here, I got this for you.” She passes me a small box, tied with gold ribbon.
“Happy birthday, Ol,” she says.
“Oh wow, Isla.”
I open it, and a gold chain with a green olive-leaf pendant sits on a velvet cushion.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Sorry that it’s been so tense,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry too.”
Bea and I stay the night at Cecily’s after the party. No sign of OAP as Chris’s parents are looking after him for the weekend. Isla decides to go home. We leave things on a good note, but I am too embarrassed to tell the others what happened. Am I mad, or is Isla mad? Cec shows each of us in our couples to her fancy guest rooms, complete with folded White Company towels and lavender sprays on the pillows. Cec’s house is modern, but it is still cozy and has all the fancy tech: press a button to lower the blinds; press a button to lift the bed up, dim the lights, or play some music when showering. Before bed, we all watch a film on her big corner sofa under cashmere blankets. We put the electric fire on, finish off the last of the red wine, and I flick luxuriously through some magazines that line the coffee table. I love snuggling into Marcus. My friends seem to like him too, which I am happy about. Bea clutches her heart dramatically whenever she spots us holding hands.
The next morning, we all sit around drinking coffee in our dressing gowns. Marcus has gone off for a morning run. I call him a crazy fitness freak.
A text appears from my mum. Love how she is texting a day late.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLIVE!
Thanks, Mum.
HOPE YOU HAVE A LOVELY DAY WITH YOUR FRIENDS AND NEW PARTNER. SORRY I COULDN’T ATTEND. M x
ps. SO LOVELY RE JACOB’S NEWS ISN’T IT?
What?
What news?
I can’t help myself.
BABY NEWS.
I throw my phone on the floor. Then, I pick it back up. I can’t breathe. And I do a bad thing. It could practically be classed as self-harm. I go onto Jacob’s Instagram account. He hasn’t updated his account for months, but I go through everyone he is following. And find her. A girl called Julia. My brain ticks. I feel that triggering, uncomfortable feeling that I thought I would have moved on from. After all, I’m happily settled down now.
“What’s up?” Cecily asks. She can tell when I start getting tetchy; I start to twirl the front pieces of my ha
ir. Apparently, the color has sort of drained from my face.
“Nothing . . .” I reply, manically looking into my phone.
“It’s the weekend; you’re not meant to be working,” Cecily says, trying to snatch my phone from my hand.
I turn away: “I’m not.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Searching for—”
“What?”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I go into the kitchen. Cec follows me.
“Olive?”
“Jacob. His new girlfriend.” I pause. “Pregnant.”
“Oh . . . god.”
“I know,” I say.
“Well,” I can see Cec’s brain cogs do the mental arithmetic, “do you care?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were always going to feel this way, whether it’s now or in five years’ time. It was always going to hurt when Jacob moved on.”
I check. Yes, my heart is fully intact. I haven’t exploded. The ground is still sturdy beneath my feet.
“I thought he might have told me,” I say, “considering the reason we broke up.”
“I suppose you haven’t written to him about Marcus.”
“I know. I don’t know. It’s just—you know, I’d finally managed to push him from my mind. But now, he’s right back there. And I’m happy for him. But I’m also sad. Jacob’s getting what he wanted, finally, and he deserves that. No one deserves that more than him.” I feel something knot up inside me. “I suppose it’s just a reminder that, it could have been me. That was supposed to be me, but it was never really going to be.”
“Yes, Ol, because you didn’t want that. You could have had it, and you didn’t want it. Look at your life now. You’re happy. Please don’t distract from that.”
“I’m actually . . . happy for him.” I blow my nose into a tissue. “I think it’s hay fever.”
“Come here.” Cecily pulls me into her. Bea’s kid Andrew wanders in and hugs my legs while I cry. Then Marcus comes in, hair scruffy and his face all red from his run. He doesn’t ask why I’m crying, but he just strokes my hair anyway. He stretches his long arms and hugs all of us. A conga line of hugs. I have so much, right here.