Olive

by Emma Gannon

  “Is there anything we can do?” Cec says.

  “Honestly, no.” Bea wipes away some tears and looks away, a cue she wants us to change the subject.

  “Everything okay with you, Isla?” Cec asks.

  “Yeah, still working from home a lot. Officially on my next round of IVF—our third time now, so we are just hoping for the best! I’m not telling anyone apart from you guys,” she replies.

  “That’s amazing!” I say.

  “Oh, Isla,” Bea says, squeezing her hand.

  “Got everything crossed for you, darling,” Cec says.

  “And you, Olive?” Bea asks.

  “Oh, I got a promotion. Editor in chief. Gill’s gone!”

  “Oh wow, Olive! You’ve always wanted that,” Cec says.

  “That’s incredible—but what happened to Gill?” Bea asks.

  “She’s booked a trip around the world. Eat Pray Love vibes. Off to find herself and do some ayahuasca,” I say, laughing.

  “Good for Gill. She was always a bit of an odd nut,” Bea says. “And amazing for you, Ol. You deserve it.”

  Luckily now that Gill’s gone, I don’t actually have to publish that “millennials vs. kids” article, and I don’t have to include anything about the CFBC either. Thank god. I realized I didn’t want to write about those women and expose them for the sake of a headline. I want their stories to be kept private. I want them to be respected and understood beyond a few hundred words. I know better now, though, than to raise this subject again in front of Isla. There’ll be a time and a place for us to talk about this kind of thing. Right now, it’s too sensitive.

  I twiddle my thumbs and breathe through my nose deeply. Why is this next bit so hard? “I just want to take this chance to say . . . I’m really sorry for the way I’ve been acting, if I’ve caused anyone any hurt or upset. Or, if you feel like I sort of disappeared with Marcus for a bit during the whole honeymoon period thing,” I say.

  Isla stays quiet.

  “I don’t think you have, Ol,” Bea says, unfolding her napkin on her lap.

  “Well, I guess I felt pretty alienated when you guys went to that . . . child-free event together,” Isla says tentatively.

  There goes keeping quiet. “Isla, we didn’t invite you for obvious reasons. And, the CFBC really helped me. I might not be signing up anytime soon, but being around like-minded people made me feel less alone. I was in a really bad place after all the stuff with Jacob,” I say. “It meant a lot.”

  “Well the bullshit problems I’ve been having with my fertility mean a lot to me,” Isla replies, getting more heated.

  “Both things can mean a lot to both of you,” Bea snaps. “Come on, let’s put this all behind us, please.”

  “Agreed, we are four very different women. Very different from when we first met,” I say.

  Jono comes over and takes our wine order. He obviously senses the awkwardness.

  “Everything okay, ladies?”

  “Hmm,” we all sort of murmur back.

  “Would you like to order?” Jono gets his notepad out.

  “Ah, I’m not ready yet, sorry,” I say. The theme of my life.

  “Yeah, few more minutes please. Thanks, Jono,” Cec says.

  “Girls!” Jono flaps, putting his pen behind his ear. “I don’t know what’s going on here, bu tall I know is that you have all been coming here for almost ten years. I’ve never known four women who are as close as you four. Come on! I’ll be back in five!”

  “Look, Jono’s right. Our friendship is worth more than all these silly fights,” Bea says.

  “Let’s go around the table and each apologize,” Cec says.

  “That’s stupid,” Isla says.

  “No it’s not. It’s adult,” Cec says.

  “Okay, go on then,” Isla says huffily.

  “I’ll go first,” Bea says. “I’m sorry for not being honest with you, Isla, when I went to the CFBC with Olive. I’m sorry I joked about the importance of it, Olive. I’m sorry I didn’t open up to you guys properly when I found out Jeremy was cheating on me.”

  “Bea—we get it; it’s been horrible and hard,” Cec says.

  “I know, honestly one day I might laugh; it’s that much of a cliché to run away with a younger, hotter woman. Anyway, I’m slowly, slowly getting my head around it. But look, my point is that none of us ’round this table has a perfect life, none of us will make identical choices—let’s just be a little bit gentler on each other, okay?” Bea says softly.

  I nod.

  Cec speaks next. “And I’m sorry, Isla, for making you feel like shit at my baby shower by putting demands on you. For being distant since I’ve had Oscar. For rejecting your help, Bea—I just felt like a weirdly different person once I became a mum; my mental health was in a really rocky place. It was so scary; I didn’t know how to just be ‘me’ anymore,” she says solemnly.

  “We get it, Cec. And look, I’m sorry too. I feel like these past few months I’ve been a total self-obsessed monster. I’ve been awful to you, Cec, especially when you were pregnant with Oscar,” Isla says.

  “You weren’t that bad,” Cec says.

  “And I’m sorry, Isla,” I say, “for being insensitive to what you’ve been going through. I’m sorry I called you selfish at my house. Bea, I’m sorry for pushing you away when you were trying to help. Cec, I’m sorry again for making a scene at the baby shower.”

  “It’s okay. I often assume you are doing fine, Ol, and I shouldn’t,” Cec says. “You can stop calling the baby OAP now, though,” she adds with a half smile.

  “I’ve been the worst,” I sigh.

  “Olive, we understand. You really don’t have to make it into a huge deal that you don’t want a kid. It doesn’t change how we feel about you—it really changes nothing, as long as you’re happy,” Bea reaches for my hand.

  “I know. I see that now. And I am happy. I really think I am,” I say, relieved.

  “Have you ever questioned that maybe nothing was wrong with you in the first place? That nothing needed fixing? That you are right where you are meant to be? There are so many ways to live a fulfilled life. What you do, the people you impact; it’s all so valuable.”

  I reach for a napkin, lean my head back, and blot away my suddenly runny mascara. “I guess I’ve just been on a bit of a roller coaster, and it was difficult to reach you all because it felt like there was this ginormous chasm between us. I just don’t want to drift away from any one of you.”

  “Ol. None of us want that either.”

  “I am feeling so much better in general now, though, and I want to just say sorry and put all that icky stuff behind us.” I really believe what I am saying for the first time in ages. I am happy with who I am. Where I am. With my life choices.

  Bea is now holding my hand over the table and squeezing it. The girls reach out and squeeze it too.

  Our food arrives. The atmosphere finally settles. The air feels clear. Or at least clearer. I am starving. All of that confrontation has made me ravenous.

  Just as we start chatting normally, with the dark cloud lifted, my phone starts buzzing in my bag. I’ve been ignoring it during our heart-to-heart. I have a look before tucking into my pizza. Eighteen missed calls! Jesus. It’s Caitlin. My stomach lurches.

  What’s going on?

  My heart pounds, and I call her back straight away. No answer. I ring again. Still no answer, so I text her:

  Me: You OK? Have you sat on your phone?

  My throat is suddenly dry. Bea pours me some water. They all notice something’s up.

  My phone pings, and it’s a text from Caitlin:

  Caitlin: I’m sitting on the floor in Paddington Station. I just had a massive panic attack. Can’t swallow or breathe properly. Please help. Not sure where Dad is :(((

  I grab my bag and stuff
my phone inside. “Guys, I’m sorry to leave, but it’s Caitlin. She’s not very well.” I throw down some money on the table.

  “It’s okay, babe, you go. Just text us later, and please let us know everything is fine, okay?” Bea says.

  “Take your pizza with you in a box!” Cec says.

  “See you soon, Ol,” Isla says.

  I leave with a thrilling feeling of purpose.

  I feel needed.

  Caitlin.

  I want to be there for her.

  “It makes me a little sad sometimes to think that I won’t have anyone to take to Disney for the first time, or read Harry Potter to for the first time. But that’s a flash of sentiment that in no way endures, or has any impact on my decision to not have kids.”

  Sienna, 39

  35

  I sit on the edge of the bed, with my hand on Caitlin’s forehead. She is very warm and clammy all over, and I hang a thermometer out of her mouth. She is still feeling anxious and has been in bed for a few days. I have bought her one of those “heavy duvets” from John Lewis; they are meant to help with anxiety, as the weight of the blanket can make people feel comforted.

  “We won’t be long, Cait,” Marcus says, kissing her forehead.

  “I’ll bring you back some sausage rolls in my bag,” I say, leaning down to hug her. I realize, with a jolt, that I love her. It feels scary. A double-edged sword of love. I have let her in now, and she relies on me for support. There’s no turning back. Now I have to carry around this constant worry for her. I can’t just turn my phone off for hours like I used to. I might get something wrong. But Caitlin has given me a newfound responsibility, something I’ve been forever running away from, but with her I don’t seem to mind too much. It has surprised me.

  “Sally is downstairs, okay? And she knows to text me immediately if you need us,” Marcus says. “We’re not going far.”

  “Yes, let us know if you need anything,” I say, gently squeezing her shoulder.

  I’ve asked Marcus if he will come with me to Dorothy’s funeral. He never met her, but he could see how upset I was, so it’s nice that he’s coming today and I won’t be a lemon. Marcus is wearing a black T-shirt with a black jacket and trousers and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses—he looks a bit too hot for a funeral, in my opinion. I’m wearing a thin black polo-neck cashmere sweater, tight black jeans, and a PVC black coat from Topshop over the top. We look as if we are going to a swanky fashion show, not an elderly woman’s funeral, but they’re the only clean black clothes we have. The details of the funeral were posted in a Facebook group called “D’s Funeral.” I didn’t know old people used Facebook. They do now, apparently. I copy and paste the address from the Facebook group into Google Maps—it’s at a crematorium next to the cemetery where Dorothy’s husband is also buried.

  We get off the train and jump in a cab. We then walk up the sloping hill towards the large funeral room where the service will take place, and everyone is waiting outside, standing around with paper cups of coffee. I’m holding a bunch of flowers, and the water in the little plastic bit at the bottom is starting to drip all over my black boots. I look around at all the varying gravestones, all the messages and birth dates engraved. My heart lurches when I see a date that is too short, too young to be on a grave: 1991–2003 RIP. I shudder, and link arms with Marcus. I am aware that this must be awful for him; no one likes being reminded of death. But his body is like a radiator right now, warming me up.

  Funerals are funny things. These sorts of enclosed environments always make me nervous that I’ll say something super inappropriate, or I’ll look too happy at the wrong moment. Everyone is so formal in their posh, stiff, black clothes, but underneath it all, people are screaming out for a bit of light relief. When we go inside, we sit three rows back, out of respect because we hardly knew Dorothy and we’re sure her nearest and dearest might want to sit at the front. We are among the first to arrive, and I’m wondering how many people even knew Dorothy, or that she’s died.

  “If no one turns up, we should move to the front,” I whisper to Marcus. He nods politely.

  Before we know it, the rows are filling up, and when I turn around, we see people standing at the back, squeezing in. I hear someone gossipy murmur in front of me—something about Dorothy’s son turning up. Someone subtly points as he walks down the aisle to sit in the front pew. He is around six feet tall with dark, floppy hair; he is holding a baby in his arms, and his partner is walking slowly behind him wearing a black pashmina and thin-framed glasses. My heart beats fast, and I feel both sad and happy that he is here. Dorothy had always seemed quite down that they hardly saw each other. I understand that Australia is far away, and perhaps time does run away with all of us. But you know what they say: funerals bring people together. I keep staring at him as he bounces his baby up and down, dwelling on the sadness and the irony.

  It’s suddenly quite hot and crowded in here. Hundreds of people are piled into one room. The celebrant does his spiel. It’s not very religious, which surprises me. Just upbeat, celebratory, and reflective. Mary, Dorothy’s eighty-five-year-old cousin who’s sitting next to me, tells us she is doing a little speech. When her time comes, she takes ages to get to the stage with her walking stick, and her son helps her hobble up to the podium. She puts on the tiniest reading glasses and reads off a tiny scrap of paper.

  “Life is not a dress rehearsal. Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain. You should be nice to those on the way up, because you don’t know who you might meet on the way down. You can’t be an everything to everyone. After all, it’s not the number of breaths we take, but the number of moments that take our breath away. Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, and today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present . . .”

  Marcus and I try not to laugh. I mean, she’s literally googled and read off some inspirational quotes. But, you know, the thought is there. When the service is over, everyone slowly makes their way out of the room, smiling solemnly to each other and muttering “great woman,” “a really lovely woman.” I manage to catch Rupert as I leave, overhearing others greeting him.

  “It’s Rupert, isn’t it? I’m Olive. I texted you about coming to the funeral. I am—was—Dorothy’s neighbor.”

  “Oh, hello, Olive. Thank you so much for coming. I know Dorothy would have appreciated it. I remember her speaking very fondly about you.” Seeing the way Rupert’s eyes light up when he talks about Dorothy makes me wonder whether he might have been her boyfriend. It makes me smile to know she had so many people who loved her.

  “Really? That’s so lovely. You know, I always thought of Dorothy as a bit lonely,” I say. “But there are so many people here, celebrating her life.”

  Rupert laughs. “Why, what made you think that, dear?” he asks warmly.

  “I don’t know. She once gave me her number as she was worried about falling over.”

  Rupert laughs lightly. “I think Dorothy thought you were a bit lonely.”

  “Really?”

  “I remember her saying you seemed a little sad, and she said she wanted you to know she was there if you needed her.”

  “That’s . . . really lovely,” I say, and reach for the note she wrote to me a few days ago but realize it’s in a different coat.

  “Dorothy had lots and lots of friends, Olive. And you were one of them.”

  At this, I burst into tears. Marcus, shocked, scrambles for a tissue in his suit jacket. Rupert says goodbye, and Marcus and I sit down on two wooden chairs nearby.

  “That is the sweetest thing, because Dorothy was right. I had been sad. I was really sad and lonely. She must have seen me stumbling home late and watched me taking the bins out in my tracksuit after another long weekend in the flat on my own.” I laugh through the tears. Marcus hugs me tightly.

  Some people die too young. Some people die old. Some peopl
e get what they want. Some people never get what they want. Some people have different priorities, different dreams. Some people change their minds in small ways, some do a total 180. We’re all out here, making up our lives as we go along. There is no “better” path. There is no “worse” path. Each of us tries our very best to get through the weeks, months, and years using what we have and what we were given, and the rest of it is just down to sheer luck. We make our own family—kids, friends, pets, neighbors, strangers, passions, memories—and we can shape other people’s lives in so many ways.

  Leaving something behind isn’t just about having a child who will roam the earth after you’ve gone. A legacy is made up of everything you’ve ever done. It’s everything you leave behind. It’s every choice you make. It’s every person you meet. It’s every feeling you’ve passed on. It’s every story you tell.

  Epilogue

  2025

  Marcus and I have moved further into the city. Further in. Not out. First, I moved out of my flat and in with him, but this was always going to be our natural next step: a place of our own. Ours. He sold his house, and his girls were upset at first, understandably. But they were okay with it in the end, and I feel their genuine happiness for us, which is more than I could ever have asked for. It’s not easy to sell a house with so many deeply engraved memories embedded in its walls. Instead of feeling like we needed to “upgrade,” or buy somewhere with lots of space, we decided to downgrade—a cozy flat for just the two of us above a family-run Swedish furniture shop in Soho. What responsibility do we have? None, really. We wanted to take advantage of this and live freely, in the heart of the city we love. We are next to one of our favorite French restaurants, and we can walk to the Curzon Soho cinema to watch films, or go to the theatre whenever we want. I work from home most days now and sometimes sit on our little veranda with my laptop, overlooking the London cityscape. I feel so happy and contained in the rhythm of our daily life together. We have a small spare room for Caitlin and Sally, of course, but they are busy living their own independent lives now. Caitlin has moved in with her boyfriend, a lovely tall boy called Callum, who was also a family friend (so Marcus approves, which makes things a tad easier). Her health is back on track—has been for years now—and her relationship with food has been reframed through an entirely different lens with the help of a therapist and Callum’s ongoing support. She is healthy and happy, but we still check in often. Sally is studying history of art in Bristol. She lives with a big group of girlfriends, who work hard and play hard. It feels like Marcus can relax now, knowing that his babies are settled. Of course he will always worry a bit, but everything feels . . . in place.