by Emma Gannon
“The positives [of a child-free life] for me are more time and money, to do all the things I want to do in life.”
J, 32
32
Marcus and I are sitting side by side with our laptops on his small kitchen island, going through emails and other bits and bobs for work. He’s wearing a pair of light-brown glasses that he only wears when at this computer and a big knitted sweater—I keep looking up just to catch a glimpse. He’s deep in thought, with frown lines across his forehead. He then looks up, takes off his glasses, and turns to me.
“Ol, I’ve been thinking,” he says.
“Yeees?” I reply, clicking “send” on an email to Colin.
“You should meet my girls soon.”
“Really?”
“Yeah!”
I gulp, feeling caught off guard. “Okay, I would love to.”
“It just feels wrong now to be tiptoeing around them. They’ll love you,” he says. The only reason I am sitting in Marcus’s house right now is because they are both away on holiday with some family friends.
“That would be wonderful—just let me know when,” I say, smiling.
“Okay,” he nods. He makes us both a cup of tea while singing to himself, and I tell him to “sshh” because I’m trying to write. A sign of closeness.
The idea of meeting Marcus’s two girls is, of course, terrifying. It’s a relief that they’re old enough to hopefully welcome new people, but they’re also old enough to really analyze me and question me in ways I’m not sure I want to be questioned. For once, the tables will turn, and I’ll be the interviewee. When we first started going out, Marcus would call his kids “the fifteen-year-old” and “the seventeen-year-old,” I assumed as a distancing technique so that I wouldn’t start getting too attached in the early stages. They didn’t even have names until recently. Now I know: Caitlin and Sally.
When I get back to my place, I pick up my keys and bag to leave the house and find a note wedged in my letterbox. It’s written in old squiggly writing; I can hardly make out the letters:
Happy Birthday OLivE—thank you for being a great friend to your old neighbor. Dorothy x
I smile and fold up the note and put it in my pocket. The air outside is warm, and everything finally feels like it’s moving along just how it’s supposed to.
The following weekend, I follow a pebbled path in Hampstead and finally arrive at the Mason’s Head, a big gray pub with foliage growing around all the windows. There are orange lights framing the arch of the doorway and a festive feeling in the air. Old lampposts flicker like a scene from Mary Poppins. I push open a heavy wooden door, and the barman, cleaning some glasses, says hello.
I can see Marcus waving; he is sitting at the back at a corner table. A girl with a dark-brown bob is seated in front of Marcus, with her back to me. She turns around and waves coyly. That must be Caitlin, the seventeen-year-old. She is wearing a leather jacket, which has “God Is a Woman” painted in gold on the back. On closer inspection, she has bits of blue dye on the tips on her hair. Sally, the fifteen-year-old, has longer, darker brown hair and heavy winged eyeliner. She is seated next to Marcus and is wearing a long black dress, a black cashmere beret, and Doc Martens. Her head is resting on his shoulder.
“Ol! Over here.” Marcus scoots up out of his chair and comes over to kiss me on the cheek. I am a ball of nerves.
“Sorry I’m a bit late! Traffic was bad! Hi,” I say towards the girls, my voice suddenly sounding a bit squeakier than usual.
Sally smiles at me. Caitlin doesn’t.
“What do you fancy to drink?” Marcus asks me, rubbing my back.
“A white-wine spritzer would be great,” I say. My armpits are sweating a bit.
“Dad, can I have a white-wine spritzer too?”
“Sorry, Sal, not yet; you’re nearly there! Few more years, I’m afraid or . . . do it behind my back.”
“But I think I look old enough,” Sally says, flicking her hair.
Caitlin gives her a playful punch on the arm. The girls clearly get on well with each other, but Marcus said they used to be awful to each other when they were little, which reminds me of Zeta and me. He said they used to have the most vicious fights, and even cut each other’s ponytails off while the other was sleeping. Zeta once broke my arm by pushing me so hard that I fell over a football and smacked into a brick wall. Young girls can be brutal.
“Did you guys have a nice walk on the heath?” I ask Marcus.
“Really lovely. You should come with us next time.”
“Would love to.” I had made up an excuse that I was working this morning, when really I just needed a lie-in and a lazy “me-time” morning . . . books, bath, moisturizer. There are just some things I’ll never sacrifice, even if I’m in a relationship.
Caitlin comes back with a tray of drinks, piping up: “Dad, you have to join us on the march on Saturday.”
“What’s this one about?” Marcus asks, taking his shandy from the tray.
“It’s to support a campaign about lowering the voting age! So younger teens can vote. Please come. You can’t say you support it if you don’t turn up. Honestly, it drives me crazy, people tweeting a hashtag from the warmth of their sofa,” Caitlin says.
“True that,” I say, nodding.
“I understand, Caits. I’ll definitely try and make it,” Marcus says.
“Will you come, Olive? Look at this banner I made.” She gets a big piece of rolled-up paper out of her rucksack.
“Yes, of course!” I say. “Wow, that’s really good.”
“Do you ever go to protests or anything?”
“Yeah, sometimes! I work at a magazine, and we do lots of write-ups about that sort of thing.”
“Oh cool—Dad said you were a writer,” Caitlin says, sipping her Diet Coke and crunching small cubes of ice.
“Yes, I am—I’m an editor at .dot magazine. Do you know it?”
“No way—I love .dot magazine,” she says, no longer playing it cool.
“Really? Some of the team are going to the march; if we meet up, I’ll introduce you. They’re a fun bunch.”
“Oh my god.” She looks interested, and I want to hang onto it. “What is it like working there?” she asks, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands.
“It’s really fun—I head up the lifestyle and culture section; we’ve got so many amazing writers. I love writing the stories and features. Scrolling through social media is sort of part of the job these days too, but I kind of hate that bit. Maybe I’m getting old.”
“You’re not that old. Dad’s quite a lot older than you,” Sally says, cracking open a pistachio nut.
“All right, all right,” Marcus says.
We order food, and everyone goes for a cheeseburger except Caitlin, who orders a vegan burger. It arrives quickly. Too quickly, if you ask me. Pub life.
“I like your name,” Sally says as she squeezes some ketchup onto her plate.
“Thank you.”
“Is it short for Olivia?”
“Yep, but only my mum calls me that when she’s angry with me, which is most of the time, to be honest.”
Sally flinches slightly at the word “mum.” I hope I haven’t made a big faux pas.
I look over at Caitlin, and she’s moved her two pieces of burger bread to one side, nibbling only on the salad.
“And how’s school going, Sal?” Marcus asks.
“It’s okay. Writing an essay currently in my English class on why Disney films are incredibly sexist. I mean, Ariel from The Little Mermaid—she literally loses her voice for a man and is also at the beck and call of her weird, controlling, bearded father,” Sally responds.
“Nothing wrong with a bearded controlling father!” Marcus says jokily, in a deep, booming voice.
“You’re the opposite of that, thank god,�
�� Sal laughs and nudges him lightly on the arm. “Mr. Totally Laid-Back.”
“Shall we go back to ours for another drink after this? The wine is a bit of a rip-off here; I’ve got better ones at home,” Marcus says.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
Seeing just how much Marcus’s daughters adore him has made me like him even more. We finish our drinks, and I feel so warm and loved up, knowing that I get to go back to their family home with them, and that I’ve been accepted. I feel welcome. I feel relieved; I was expecting the worst.
We hop into the car and listen to The Greatest Showman soundtrack on the drive. Sally starts belting out “This Is Me.” She is very out of tune, but I can’t help but take it as a compliment that she is comfortable enough around me already to sing so loudly (and badly). Caitlin is resting her arm on the car door and daydreaming out of the window. I get out of the car, and the girls walk ahead towards the front door. Marcus kisses me. His sweater smells cozy, of bonfires and aftershave.
When people say “You will meet the right person when you least expect it,” I want to rip one of their arms off and beat them with it. It’s the most fucking annoying phrase in the world. But. It is kind of true. That is what makes it even more annoying.
Later on, when I get home, I rummage around in my bag to get my keys out and notice Dorothy’s light is off; it’s odd, as she usually leaves it on throughout the night. It’s part of my routine to look up at Dorothy’s light and know she is there. It’s a comfort. I hope she is okay. The next day, when I wake up and draw my curtains, Dorothy’s light is still off. I make a coffee, add sugar, and sit at my kitchen table, scrolling through the Guardian app. I tap the table nervously. Something doesn’t feel right—perhaps it’s that female intuition again. I pull on some jeans, use some deodorant, spray some dry shampoo in my hair, and throw on a big sweater. I knock on Dorothy’s door. No answer. I try peering through the letterbox. The door opens, and a woman with a bob and a hi-vis jacket stands there, probably wondering why I’m crouching down weirdly.
“Hi, can I help?” Hi-Vis Woman says.
“Hi, I’m Olive, Dorothy’s neighbor . . . and friend. Is she in?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Haven’t you heard?”
“No?”
“Dorothy was found unconscious yesterday. Poor lady. We heard this morning that she died in hospital overnight. The postman noticed her lights were off—which was unusual—so he flagged it, thank goodness.”
“No.” I feel a lump forming in my throat. “Was anyone with her?”
“Her friend Rupert was there; she died very peacefully.”
“Oh my god. Poor Dorothy.”
“I’ve been told to pass on that Rupert is planning the funeral. Do you know Rupert?”
“No, I don’t. How can I contact him?” I ask. She passes me a piece of paper with Rupert’s number on. Sadness overcomes me, and I feel physically sick.
Olive: Hi, Rupert, this is Olive. Dorothy’s neighbor? I’m so sorry to hear the news. It’s such an awful shock. I’d love to attend Dorothy’s funeral. Do you know the details? O x
Rupert: Hi, Olive. It is in three weeks’ time, St. Martin’s Crematorium. I’m sure Dorothy would love that.
His words hit me hard, like a physical blow to the stomach. It sounds as if Dorothy is still here. I didn’t know my neighbor for very long, but I felt close to her. Like we understood one another. She softened my heart again after my breakup with Jacob. She helped me to heal.
33
“I hope your girls are starting to like me,” I say.
Marcus and I are in Sainsbury’s, looking for some inspiration on what to cook. We go past the fruit and veg, and I toss some lemons into the basket.
“Stop fishing for compliments,” Marcus says.
“I’m not! I wanna know,” I say.
“Of course they do. They’re not judgmental girls. I’m proud of that.”
“So they won’t judge my cooking next week then?”
“Well, I can’t promise that,” he laughs.
“I mean, it’s fajitas. How wrong can it go?”
“But seriously. They are old enough now to accept meeting someone outside of the three of us.”
“Have they ever met anyone else you’ve dated?”
“I haven’t really dated anyone else in a serious sense. I was scared to meet someone when they were younger, and I didn’t ever want to lie to them or sneak around.”
“Like Jude Law in The Holiday.”
“Not seen that film.”
“We must rectify that immediately.”
I can’t help but feel slightly relieved that there’s not been anyone else serious before me, or at least recently. It makes things slightly simpler.
We push the cart around, and I stop by the oatmeal wraps.
“Would you want any more kids, do you think?” I ask, reading the back of a packet.
I can’t believe how casually I just dropped that in.
He frowns, and then looks at me. “Wow, that’s a big question.”
“I know, sorry.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. No,” he says sheepishly.
“Interesting,” I say.
“Is that the wrong answer?”
“Why would that be wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know, why were you asking?”
“My last relationship broke off because I don’t want kids.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you told me you didn’t want kids the first time I met you, so I suppose I knew that already.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did, on the lawn at Cecily’s. You shouted.”
“Yes, okay, I don’t need a reminder on what I shouted.”
“Having children is . . . the most magical thing in the world,” Marcus says, and I can hear him swallow down a lump in his throat. “But also, I understand where you’re coming from.”
“Yeah, as it turns out . . . it’s not very me.”
“That’s fine, Ol. Your body, your rules. Not for everyone.”
“Well, quite.”
“C’mon, we need to get some sour cream,” he says, putting his arm around me and pushing the cart at the same time.
I sit on the loo, scrolling through Twitter. I realize, suddenly, that I need to call Bea and check in with her. I wonder how she’s coping with the Jeremy situation. I press her number in my favorites, and Bea’s face flashes up on my screen, just a picture, saying “calling.” For a moment I thought that she could see me on the loo. I mean, it wouldn’t matter if she did, but still—boundaries.
“Hi!” she answers quickly.
“Hey!” I say, pressing the flush.
“You on the loo?” Bea laughs. “You call people at the weirdest times. I hope you wipe down your phone with an antibacterial wipe afterwards,” she says.
“Sorry we didn’t get the chance to talk properly at my birthday. Are you okay?”
“Honestly, Ol? Everything has been totally flipped upside down, and I feel absolutely horrendous. The kids have heard us shouting at each other, and they keep crying. I think it’s really affecting them, so he’s gone to live with his mate for a while.”
“Oh, Bea.”
“It’s horrible seeing him now, living in a shoebox with a friend while I’m in our family home.”
“Yes, but Bea, he did this. Not you. He fucked up,” I say.
“I know,” she sighs. “I do still love him, despite everything. But I honestly don’t think this can be repaired. Our whole relationship was built on trust, especially as he goes away so often; now I just don’t know what to believe. Has he cheated once, or more than once? Am I a total mug?” Her voice cracks, and she starts crying.
“You are not a mug. You do absolutely everything
for that family, and he’s a total, total idiot for throwing it all away. This just doesn’t seem like the guy you married, or the guy we know.”
“I thought so too,” she says, sniffing.
“Maybe some things, no matter how right they were at the time, do change. Maybe nothing is actually within our control, and we can’t prepare for anything.”
“I miss the old days. The old Jeremy,” she sniffs.
“We are here for you, Bea. And that’s something that will never change. I promise.”
“Thank you, Ol. That’s actually exactly what I needed to hear,” Bea replies, blowing her nose into a tissue.
Later that night, after my sort-of-successful fajita cook-in with Marcus and the girls, he and I are sitting in the living room watching a film on Sky Cinema. We have some crisp white wine with ice cubes in, and the fairy lights around my window are giving off a soft, golden light.
“I was thinking,” Marcus says, reaching for a handful of peanuts, “that you could maybe take Caitlin out soon, just the two of you?”
I feel a pang of fear in my belly. I’m not good at this stuff.
“Oh, er, sure. Any reason?” I say.
“I think she’s a bit low at the moment.”
“Oh. Really? Oh god, poor thing.”
I haven’t been the best person around sad friends recently. I’ve cared, but I know in hindsight I probably said the wrong things. I once read a list online of “the top ten things you shouldn’t say to a depressed person,” and I had been guilty of them all. Like, “Don’t worry, the sun is shining!” Or, “Don’t be sad; just cheer up!” I suppose I’m worrying that I will accidentally make things worse. I think about Isla too.
“I think that spending time with you might make her feel a bit more inspired about what she could do with her life, and her career.”