by Emma Gannon
“Me? That’s really nice, but—”
“I think she needs an older female figure around, just to observe and learn from a bit. No pressure, maybe I shouldn’t be asking you this. It’s just she tells me nothing, and I thought she might be more open with you.” He sighs, and I see the worry in his eyes.
“You want me to be your secret squirrel?”
“Yes, I want you to be my secret squirrel. If that’s okay and if it doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable. I just need to know she’s okay. You don’t have to tell me what she says or anything.”
“That’s good of you.”
“I would never ask you to betray her trust—that’s like reading her diary! I just need to know she’s okay. That she has someone, other than her old man, who she can talk to if she needs to. I’m sorry, Olive. Is that too much? I don’t mean to overstep the—”
“No, don’t be silly. It’s fine. I’ll talk to her.” I smooth his cheek and kiss him. We go back to watching the film in silence, my head on his chest.
The next day, after Caitlin comes back from a jog, I knock on her bedroom door and poke my head around into the room.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” She doesn’t look up from her phone, curled up on her bed in pajamas, postshower.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“Sooo, I was wondering. I have two free treatments at a new spa in central London. Do you fancy coming with? Could be fun?”
“Is Dad going?”
“Just us. I thought that would be nice?”
She hesitates a little. “Okay, sure. Thanks.” She goes straight back to her phone. Success. Ish. I’m so happy she’s agreed to come with me, but I’m also nervous. What if we have nothing to talk about? What if she doesn’t like me?
I go downstairs, excited to tell Marcus that Caitlin has agreed to hang out. Sure, our exchange was short, but she said yes! I bounce down the stairs, and he is sitting at the kitchen table, glasses on, doing a crossword.
“She’s in. Next Saturday. Hopefully some bonding time.”
“What? No way! You squirrel fast.”
“Yes, well, I had some treatments at a really nice spa and was going to invite Colin, but it would be lovely to go with Caitlin instead. Don’t tell Colin!”
“Great. By the way, she struggles with any sort of public transport now, and she will probably ask you for a step-by-step description on how to get somewhere and then home again—just warning you before she starts asking you endless questions.”
“That’s totally fine. Good to know,” I say, ruffling his hair.
“I took her to a therapist a few years ago. They said her anxiety comes from a fear of change and being out of control. It’s apparently something to do with the rug being pulled from under her when her mother died, and so now she fears change.”
“Yep, I get that,” I say. I think about how Dad left suddenly, all the bruises from that.
“I’m really glad she’s agreed to go out with you. I was pretty sure she’d find a way to say no.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll be okay. I’ll talk to her too and check that she’s not struggling.” It felt good to help. To have a new task at hand.
We arrive at the spa the next weekend. It’s called Glow Up, which sounds tackier than it looks. A woman wearing big, pink furry slippers greets us at reception and gives us a key to a locker, plastic flip-flops, and a folded-up white robe each. She plonks it all into our arms.
“Press a four-digit code to lock the lockers, and don’t spend too much time in the sauna—fifteen mins max; otherwise you’ll pass out, okay?” she says sternly.
“Okay!” I say.
“So, you’re both booked in for the seaweed wrap bath and a full-body massage, correct?”
“That’s right,” I say, feeling upbeat.
“Okay, great, I’ll just ask you both to fill out these forms, change into your swimsuits, and then come hang out in the waiting area in your robes. There’s a lovely selection of herbal teas in there too.”
“Lovely, thanks.”
We go into the changing rooms.
“How’s school at the mo?”
“Rubbish.”
“How come?”
“Don’t really like anyone.”
I’m really aware that all my chat with Caitlin would be classed as small talk. I hate small talk, so kind of hate myself for it.
“I used to feel that way at school,” I say.
“I don’t really want to wear these flip-flops; I might get a wart.”
“You don’t have to,” I say chirpily.
“Bit nervous about the wrap massage. I have some bruises.”
“Don’t worry, Cait. They’ll be gentle with you,” I say, trying not to act taken aback by all of the signs pointing in the same worrying direction.
We get changed, and when Caitlin re-emerges, she is in a red crinkled swimming costume that is hanging off her. We go into the waiting room and then shortly afterwards go in for our treatments. There is no greater chance for self-reflection than looking out onto a rainy London road while covered in green slime.
“How was your seaweed wrap?” I ask her afterwards, sitting in front of the changing room mirrors, my hair in a toweled turban.
“Nice . . . bit slimy. Bit . . . seaweedy?” Caitlin replies, combing her hair.
“I never know if these beauty things are a massive con. Or whether we’ll wake up tomorrow with dazzling mermaid skin. Shall we go in the sauna for a little bit?” I ask.
“Sure,” Caitlin replies flatly. She’s still being reserved with me, which is understandable.
We sit on the warm wooden seats, and I put some more water onto the coals.
“Mmmm, it’s nice to be warm,” Caitlin says, closing her eyes.
“Feels good to get all the bad stuff out of my pores. Mainly gin,” I say, laughing.
We sit in silence for a bit, my wet bikini bottoms occasionally squeaking against the bench. I once read somewhere that it’s important not to steer the conversation too much with teenagers. Even if it’s awkward, it’s best to occasionally go quiet and let them come to you with what they want to say.
“Dad seems really happy.”
“Does he?” I say, smiling.
“Yeah. I was kind of wanting to hate you. That’s the easiest narrative when your dad finally meets someone like you.”
I wondered what she meant by “like you.”
“But it’s hard,” she continues, “you know, to hate you, when my dad is always in such a good mood. You really do seem to make him happy.”
“That is honestly so nice to hear. Thank you.”
“He’s not always this jokey and smiley, you know. It’s a recent thing.”
“I am really grateful, Cait,” I say, breathing in, “that you’re allowing me in.”
“I’m grateful too,” Caitlin says. She gives me a smile.
My eyes well up.
We return our items to Fluffy-Slipper Woman and go outside to head home. It’s clear the temperature has really dropped. We can both see our breath in front of us. I try to order us an Uber on the corner of Tottenham Court Road, but it’s too busy. We walk on a bit, and I link arms with Caitlin. It’s always best to order a cab down a quieter road than risk getting piled up in a bundle of honking cars. I notice how frail her arm is; she is like a tiny Polly Pocket. She is cold, shaking slightly. We shelter under a bus stop until an Uber finally arrives, and I make him blast the car with hot air. We both stare out of the window as Magic FM plays.
When we get home, I pour Caitlin a cup of tea. I offer her a Rocky bar—milk chocolate with biscuit and caramel goodness inside. She takes it.
“Dunk it in your tea. It melts, so yummy,” I say, showing her the technique.
She slowly un
wraps it and nibbles its edges.
After what feels like ages sitting in silence, she speaks.
“What were you like at seventeen, Olive?” she asks, still nibbling.
“Oh god, that’s a question!” I say. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying that you’re one of the most clued-up seventeen-year-olds I know . . . I, on the other hand, had no idea who I was or what I wanted. Truly no clue. I thought I was mature, though—now I realize I wasn’t. I was very, very self-conscious. I remember, once, I threw a footballers and WAGs party, and I went as a WAG—thought my worth was based on how many boys would look at me. Now, it’s funny, but appearance is the last thing I base my value on.”
“Must take awhile to get there. To . . . actually . . . like yourself,” Caitlin says, stirring her tea. “That seems like a totally distant dream to me.” I notice she’s unwrapped but barely touched the chocolate bar.
“Oh god, it really does. I remember—around your age—breaking up with my first boyfriend, who was so wrong for me, and just starting afresh. I love how many times you can reinvent yourself in life. You can experiment with anything.”
“I just don’t really know what I want to do with my life.”
“You have tons of time, I promise.”
“People always say that.”
“I know, it’s probably an annoying thing to say, because it doesn’t really mean anything until you’re older and on the other side.”
There’s another long pause. I hold my tea, staring out of the window, up at the very few London stars I can see.
“Olive?”
“Yes, love?” I say, zoning back in.
“I’m scared.”
“What about?” I turn to face her. Focused.
“My periods. They started a few years ago, and now they’ve just . . . stopped.” She clutches at her thin silver chain necklace; it’s like she keeps forgetting to breathe.
“Oh, darling, it’s okay.” I take her hand, which is resting on the table. “Have you been to the doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“I can come with you.”
“Do you think it’s . . . really bad?”
“We will get you better again. I promise.”
I once read in some “advice” article that it’s important to say “we.” It’s important she knows she’s not going to go through this alone. We will get through this.
“Thanks, Olive.” She hugs me. I can’t believe she’s hugging me.
I feel honored that she’s opened up to me, but now I am responsible for it, and her. Marcus said I only need to tell him when it’s crucial to, and I know that time is now. I really don’t want to screw it up.
34
Life could not be better right now at .dot magazine. Gill has basically hinted that I’m getting promoted because she wants to go on a sabbatical to “find herself” and try ayahuasca. So that would make me editor in chief, which is one of the hardest-ever promotions to get in this industry because editors hardly ever leave. They normally have to die first. I am on cloud nine—my absolute dream job is finally mine. For the first time I feel like both sides of my life are evening out. My professional and personal are matching up with my idea of “success.” Even my mum was delighted for me when I rang her, understanding the magnitude of it all. The seesaw is finally becoming evenly weighted.
The sun is shining, and I am sitting on the .dot rooftop terrace, a recently renovated space that overlooks the London skyline, feeling full to the brim with possibility. It’s a team-building day, but mainly training for junior staff. I have therefore managed to wriggle my way out of it, and there’s no one else up here. I have the terrace to myself. I have just Skyped a creative agency that’s helping us out with some billboards for the big relaunch of .dot. We are plastering bold feminist statements across London’s bus stops and Tubes, which I’m really excited about.
I go to close Skype and realize that Jacob’s icon is still in my contacts—and that he is online. Texting and calling would seem so incredibly personal, but for some reason Skype feels like the right medium through which to message him. Formal, yet friendly, like a softer version of LinkedIn. I stand up, with my headphones in and my laptop balancing in my hand. Without taking a moment to think, I press “call.”
There is a dial tone, but after a few minutes, I hang up. No answer. I feel nerves in my stomach, but it’s fine. It could have been an accident—one of the interns playing around on Skype. I turn around to go and sit back down, and then my laptop starts making a noise. He’s calling me back. I make sure my camera isn’t on. I can’t do that.
“Hello?”
“Hi . . . Olive?” Jacob says, sounding inquisitive. His face appears on my laptop. He obviously has his camera on. I see that he is sitting in a home office, with some paintings on the wall behind him. Must be where he lives now.
“Hi!”
“Hi.” He laughs at the back and forth. “Did you . . . ring?”
“I think it was by accident,” I lie. “But . . . how are you?”
“I’m . . . good. It’s been ages. It feels really weird to hear your voice.” He laughs nervously.
“I know. It’s always going to feel weird, isn’t it?” I say.
“What’s new with you?” he asks, scratching the back of his head.
“The usual, really. But, I’m good. It’s taken awhile, but I really am,” I say, meaning it. I pause momentarily. “Mum . . . told me. About your news.”
“Oh.” He gulps. “Yes. Yes, it’s . . . exciting. I didn’t know whether to say anything or how . . . or . . . whether you’d care or . . . or what to say really. It’s all happened rather quickly, to be honest—bit of a surprise.”
“It’s okay, Jacob. I’m not ringing you to be weird with you. I just wish in some alternate universe it could have been me.” My voice tightens. “But . . . you’re going to be a fantastic father.” I want to ask about his new partner, but I bite my tongue.
“Olive, what we had was really special. That doesn’t just vanish. Maybe it never will.”
I sniff. “I’m glad this is happening for you.”
“Thank you for everything . . . over the years, Olive.”
“You too. We had fun, didn’t we?” I smile.
“We did. It’s hard to know if we could ever be friends; maybe you think that would be impossible. Or, maybe I would. But, you know, I’d love you to meet the baby when it’s here.”
Tears start to form.
“I would love to. But let’s see,” I say.
We say goodbye, using work as an excuse. I close my laptop. I look over the London horizon as the sun starts to go down and realize that two things can always be true at once. I can still love Jacob, in a different way, from a different angle, and still love my new, uncomplicated life with Marcus. I can still accept that my path with Jacob was intense and wonderful and special, until we reached the fork in the road and had to change direction. I can be happy and sad. I can be happy for him and sad for the circumstances. I can mourn the past and be excited for the future.
It hasn’t gone unnoticed with Marcus that I don’t see my best friends as much as I talk about them. He made a passing comment the other day that I hadn’t seen them since my birthday. I should message them. I could be bitter and passive aggressive and mention the fact that it is always me trying to get us together, but the truth is, I want to see them more than I want to prove I’m right. Yes, I am usually the one to instigate things in the WhatsApp group, but I also don’t want to sit around just waiting for them to call; life is too short. I feel the need to bite the bullet now. Our friendship might have been changing and wavering and blowing around in a stormy wind, but I know it needs some grounding. WhatsApp is the worst for communication. We need to get in one room together, facial expressions, body language, awkward atmosphere, and all. There have been so many times when I have be
en tempted to cut it all off, to run away, to shrug and say, “Perhaps we aren’t the friends we used to be.” But I am absolutely determined to set it right again. Our friendship means too much.
I sit on my bed, take a sip of tea, and open WhatsApp, trying to block out the possibility of a tumbleweed-shaped rejection.
Me: Hi guys
Me: Can we go to Jono’s next week? Would love to see you all
A few hours later, some replies trickle in.
Cec: Course! Great idea. Chris can babysit x
Bea: Would love to Ol—long overdue
Isla: Sure
Cec: It’s been too long
Bea: I miss you all x
There is something about returning to Jono’s—our old haunt, full of so many memories—that highlights how much we’ve each changed and how far we have drifted. When I arrive the next week, I try to hide my surprise that everyone has actually made it. We each drag our chairs out from under the table, and they squeak awkwardly along the floor. Then, the silence feels quite deafening. This feels very awkward suddenly. There is so much unsaid, so much hanging in the air.
“Girls!” Jono says enthusiastically, placing down menus in front of us. “Been so long!”
“I know, but we’re back—so good to see you,” I say.
“Work good?” Cec asks Bea. Clearly skirting around the elephant in the room.
“All good. Lovely review in the Times for the recent exhibition, which is great. You been going back to work a bit now? How’s Oscar?” Bea asks Cec.
“Yeah, been checking in. He’s fine, and I’m doing okay,” Cec replies, twirling her ring around her finger.
“And . . . everything okay . . . at home?” Isla asks Bea. We’re all relieved she’s asked.
“Well, it’s still over. He’s renting a flat in London.” Tears prickle in Bea’s eyes.
“We’re so sorry, Bea,” Cec says.
“You’ve dealt with it all so well. Must be so hard, but sounds like it’s for the best,” Isla adds.
“You’ll be okay, Bea,” I say gently.
“Yeah . . . I will. It’s just hard on the kids,” Bea says quietly.