Olive

‘Do you think people might get offended that we’re sort of suggesting that Millennials are too immature to have kids?’

‘Sure! Ruffle some feathers with it.’

‘OK,’ I say, picking up the newspaper to look more closely.

‘Great! Have a good weekend, Ol.’ She lingers, probably waiting for me to ask her what her plans are. She tells me anyway: ‘I’m off to a sex club this weekend.’

Too much information, Gill.

‘Lovely! Have fun!’ I say, forcing a smile before logging back into my computer. I don’t quite feel like finishing my carrot cake any more.

I have a couple of gins-in-a-tin from M&S on the train to Bea’s, trying not to slurp too loudly. I feel a bit wobbly when I step off the train – I’ve always been a bit of a lightweight. Bea lives in Surrey and her house overlooks some beautiful countryside. I love walking from the train station to Bea’s because you have to go through a big park to get there, and it’s gorgeous: ducks on the pond, kids flying kites, and today it has an extra-special glow because the daffodils are out. I look up at the clouds. Even though it’s a short train ride, I suddenly feel far away from London’s rush.

I always feel so relaxed in Bea’s fun, chaotic home – it is the most higgledy-piggledy, disorganized, yet joyful space. There is truly nowhere like it. It is difficult not to trip over all of the unhung framed artwork that leans against the hallway walls, and the mini-sculptures that lie in the middle of rooms. I always stub my toe on a random trophy that holds the kitchen door open. I associate Bea’s life with growing up, finding myself through art and books, feeling that youthful sense of excitement, escapism and exploration. Her parents were as wild and carefree as she is now, and they used to let us run riot around their family home when we were kids. Bea’s parents, Sonya and Mikeal, were a big deal in the theatre business, and they always had famous dancers and actors seated round their dinner table. They had huge oil paintings of iconic ballerinas and original poster artwork from shows like Les Mis. Bookshelves heaving with novels and scripts. Bea ended up working as a gallery curator near Mayfair, a job she got through a family friend, and she’s now freelance and works a lot from home or consults over Skype. I still find it bizarre that this is now Bea’s life. I live in a ‘for now’ flat. She lives in a ‘for life’ home. For so long I had no idea she even wanted kids – or perhaps I’d just never thought to interrogate it – let alone that she’d become a mum of three so young. It’s not that she hid her feelings or dreams from me over the years, just that we never really thought to discuss it too much when we were young. I remember the day everything changed; the hopeful pregnancy tests and then the announcement of her first child, Andrew. I was in a state of shock, and now: she has three! Three kids. To me it seems insane.

Everything about Bea’s lifestyle is madly colourful and vibrant. All her crockery is handmade and she paints smiley faces on all her vases. She has so many pets. It’s the sort of home where you wouldn’t be surprised if a Shetland pony trotted through the kitchen. The beds are never made, the kids’ clothes are always a tinge of pink from mixed-up washing loads, but her home is one where you can’t help but feel safe and comforted when welcomed inside. She’d recreated the freedom and vibrancy of her own childhood home. It was at her parents’ house that I kissed my first crush at a party in the basement; it’s where I tried weed for the first time; it’s where I first danced until 5 a.m. to Fleetwood Mac and smoked my first cigarette out of the window. I dropped my cigarette butt, still lit, and burned a hole through her sofa, but Bea just shrugged and said it would be fine. That was the family’s attitude towards pretty much everything – there was a sign hanging in big bold letters above the front door that read, ‘Home is where the art is’. Bea’s mum Sonya gave me my first expensive red lipstick to wear. Her parents would play the piano and offer us posh canapés whilst letting us run around the spare rooms with water guns, shrieking. I sometimes felt bad about having so much fun while my mum was sitting at home sending me strict texts, constantly on medication for her headaches (which made her both snappy and drowsy), sitting in that bare house after my dad left us. My home life was bleak, and Bea’s house was my place to escape and feel totally and completely free. I often wonder who I’d be now if I hadn’t met Bea.

When I arrive, her back door is already open. They never lock it. Apparently people are nicer to each other in the countryside. They even say ‘hello’ to random passers-by – strange.

‘Hi!’ I yell, as I enter through a plant-filled conservatory and kick my trainers off next to a pile of muddy wellies.

‘Oh hello, love!’ Bea smiles at me from across the kitchen.

I sit down at her big oak table, covered in Emma Bridgewater mugs and plates and scattered newspapers. Bea’s kids are all watching TV from a frayed sofa at the other end of the large kitchen.

‘Tea?’ Bea asks, flicking the switch of her kettle. I go over and give her a hug.

‘Yes please! So good to see you,’ I say.

‘Same! I’m so happy you’re here. How are you? Two sugars as usual?’

‘Yes please. I’m OK. What’s new?’ I start eating a biscuit on a plate in front of me.

‘See that woman outside the window?’ Bea says, subtly pointing towards the window behind the kitchen sink, as she pours the tea. ‘She’s just moved in next door, did I tell you about her? She’s brought up her kid as a vegan apparently, and now the kid has rickets. It’s really sad.’

‘Jesus – how does that happen?’

‘Not enough nutrients, I guess.’

‘That poor kid.’

‘I know. I feel so sad when I see them, it looks pretty irreversible … I mean look, I don’t believe in reading parenting blogs or anything, but I think parenting is pretty simple, or at least instinctive.’

‘I’m not sure, but that’s a bit of a cock-up, isn’t it? Giving your kid rickets.’

‘Yeah.’

I pause for a moment. ‘How do you cope with it all, Bea?’

‘What love?’

‘The endless pressures of parenting. All the potential mess-ups.’

‘Well at the end of the day I suppose all children need is love, education, a goodish balanced diet and some fresh air – that’s literally it. It is hard, don’t get me wrong. But you get the hang of it,’ she says.

This is the biggest difference between us. Bea is just naturally good at life. Good at running a household, good at organizing and planning and preparing. She enjoys it. She has never really understood why I find these things so hard in comparison. Perhaps I keep kidding myself that my friends and I are more similar than we actually are – than we were.

Bea just isn’t as highly strung as I am, she doesn’t get as fixated on things. She believes the answer to a problem is always solved in nature: a walk, a kick around a field, the petting of a soft animal. In Bea’s book, you embrace the madness of life and stop trying to control everything by keeping your life clean and orderly. You let the dog sit on the new sofa. You drink the expensive wine. You use your best moisturizer instead of just leaving it to gather dust in a drawer. This was one of my favourite things about Bea: her ability to just go with it, and get on with it. She was always the person who looked after me and swooped in with solutions when life was feeling too hard. Like the time I was feeling low for months at university because I was worrying about my mum (the first time she had told us she was on anti-depressants) and she bought us a house rabbit! We called him Mr Peterson. He chewed my wires occasionally, but he also would snuggle with us on the sofa when we felt sad.

We slurp our tea and hear the roar of a car engine outside: it’s Cecily. She slams her car door and walks past the kitchen window, bump first. We get up from the kitchen bench and race over to her, cooing.

‘You are glowing,’ Bea says.

‘You really are. Wait … Are you wearing Ugg boots?’ I say.

‘Yes – hahaha, they are so comfy.’ Cec bursts out laughing.

‘You look a lot better than I did at this stage. I remember practically melting into the sofa – no one could move me. I’m so glad you could make it.’ Bea kisses Cec.

‘I didn’t want to miss our last sleepover before I’m chained to my new baby,’ Cec says. She gives me a sideways hug.

‘Thanks for travelling all the way here. You still got insomnia?’ I ask.

‘A little bit, god, it’s been awful. I’m feeling much better now though – Bea, thanks for your recommendation on that sleeping app. What an idea! Celebs reading bedtime stories. I’ll tell you what, it’s really helped falling asleep to Matthew McConaughey’s voice.’

‘Oh yes, it was a godsend when I was having Amelia. I was like a zombie I was so tired – and that was before she even arrived!’

‘I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without your advice,’ Cec says, sliding herself onto a stool.

They carry on discussing and comparing pregnancy notes. Their different symptoms, private jokes, funny moments, advice and anecdotes.

I open my mouth to say something but realize I have nothing to add.

I’ve noticed that Cecily and Bea have got closer recently; they’ve been bonding via late-night discussions on babies. Cecily is currently in full-blown preparation mode. She is hoovering up all the parenting blogs, magazines, and any ‘advice’, which people seem to love dishing out to her. She wants to make sure everything is done correctly. She has paid an obscene amount for an interior designer to Laurence-Llewelyn-Bowen-up her baby’s new nursery. It feels a far cry from my carefree Cec, who used to dance around our student house in a thong.

We go to sit down in Bea’s spacious but messy living room, Moroccan rugs hanging on the walls, half-used scented candles everywhere, and cushions all over the floor from the kids making a den. Cec shows me a picture on her phone of the monogrammed blanket for Oscar Arnie Pinkington – aka, OAP – and I can’t help but laugh. Everything related to the baby has been personalized with initials.

‘Cec … sorry, but you’re naming your kid after a pensioner.’

‘Oh Ol, you overthink these things,’ Cec says, snatching her phone away grumpily.

‘OAP though,’ I snort.

‘Piss off.’

Bea giggles behind her cup of tea.

I burst out laughing some more and Cec rolls her eyes before her face softens into a smile. She’d picked his name before she’d even conceived. It was always going to be Oscar.

‘I can see you’ve left the price tag on – £75 for that? Ouch,’ I say.

I can’t help thinking that you could get a cheap flight to somewhere sunny in Europe for £75. That is a lot of money for a miniature blanket that will soon be covered in sick and shit.

‘I want everything to be nice for him! It’s his first muslin.’

How did our lives diverge so quickly? Every tiny moment of OAP’s babyhood is going to be scrapbooked and diarized and Instagrammed to within an inch of his life. The first time Oscar touches his thumb and forefinger together! He’s so clever! The first time Oscar does a smelly poo! The first time Oscar screams the house down! The first time he eats a bogey!

‘It’s so weird, being pregnant now and immediately getting all this attention, you know,’ Cec says. ‘I feel like Mother bloody Teresa or something. People talk to me on the Tube! They stop in the street to let me walk past; people actually smile at me. In London! Can you believe that?’

‘Must be quite nice,’ I say, running my fingers through the front strands of my hair.

‘It is, but it’s also a bit sinister. Without a bump I’m just someone else to elbow out of the way and stamp on, and now suddenly for a few months I’m a radiant goddess who can do no wrong.’

‘Yeah, I noticed that too. I still keep my “Baby on Board” badge in a drawer in the kitchen to remind me of those times when I felt like a superstar,’ Bea agrees.

‘Me too,’ I say, jokily. They both ignore me.

‘At least it’s one good thing about being up the duff. I am hating that I can’t wear my own clothes at the moment, though. I’ve been wearing this same grey dress for weeks. It stinks. I do miss my old wardrobe,’ Cec says, pulling at the fabric of her dress.

Our phones beep in unison. It’s Isla messaging the group chat to say she can’t make it. We had kind of anticipated that, as she’d not been replying much when we were organizing timings. She says she’s feeling poorly, which might be true, but we all know she’s been really down for some time now. The crux is that her and her boyfriend Mike have been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years, and she’s now trying IVF. She’s been keeping herself to herself, and doing her classic self-defence manoeuvre of withdrawing from everything and everyone. At university, she would withdraw quite often, bolting her bedroom door and putting loud music on. We used to slip handwritten notes under the door, asking gently for her to come down for a cup of tea and a cuddle.

All cosied up on the sofa with more cups of tea spread out on a tray on the ottoman and blankets over us, we arrange to videocall Isla instead on Skype. As the call connects she appears propped up in bed wearing a black beanie and dark kohl eyeliner. Her dark thick fringe looking greasier than normal.

‘You OK, love?’ Bea says, tilting the screen of her MacBook so we can all see, and turning up the volume.

‘Hi guys, I’ve felt better. Sorry to miss out on tonight, god I miss drinking wine. Thank you for understanding. What are you all up to?’

‘Oh, not much! We miss you,’ Cec says quickly, leaning back on the sofa in her pyjamas, holding her protruding bump.

‘I miss you guys too. I have major cabin fever. But it definitely feels good to be resting and just having some time to reflect. Cec, how are you feeling?’

‘Good thanks. The nausea seems to have subsided. Bit uncomfortable now, though.’

‘I bet. So soon though! Exciting,’ Isla says, forcing a smile. I can tell it’s taking a lot for Isla to ask Cec about her bump so chirpily.

I turn the laptop slightly and poke my head into frame. ‘What’s going on, Isla? We could have cheered you up if you were here.’ Bea looks at me, frowning. I return her stare as if to say: ‘What? I’m just asking.’

‘Oh, hi Ol. It’s our IVF – the first round, it hasn’t worked … my body hasn’t responded very well to it.’ Isla looks down at her lap. ‘We’re going to give it another go, but, well …’ She trails off.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

‘Oh Isla, love,’ Bea says.

Isla puts her head in her hands and starts crying.

I sit there wishing I hadn’t asked – I hate seeing my friend in pain – but, then again, she needs to talk to someone about this and we’re her best friends. She’s been keeping everything so quiet.

We all feel like we are trying to do an impossible thing: comfort someone through a screen.

‘It’s OK, guys. I just need some … time, to wallow. Alone.’

‘Of course you do,’ Cec says.

‘Darling, you can’t beat yourself up about this,’ Bea says. ‘It’s not you.’

‘It feels so … personal,’ Isla says. ‘Like my body is betraying me.’

‘But it’s not your fault. I have plenty of friends who have had such positive results from their second or third time. I know it’s expensive but please don’t lose hope.’

‘Thanks Bea,’ Isla sniffs.

Bea and Cec seem to know exactly what to say to Isla in these scenarios. I feel helpless and muted. How can I not know what to say to one of my best friends?

‘What have you got planned for tonight – something relaxing?’ Bea asks softly.

‘Nothing. Mike is just cooking a lasagne.’

‘Nice. We’re just gonna curl up and watch a shit film, can’t move much …’ Cec says, holding her back.

‘Cool. I’d better go now. Food’s ready actually. Have a good time though, guys, I miss you,’ Isla says, sounding forced. She hangs up.

‘Poor Isla,’ I say.

‘I feel terrible for complaining about how uncomfortable I feel in front of her,’ Cec says, rubbing her bump.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Bea says, snapping her laptop shut.

We snuggle back into the sofa. ‘So, guys … I …’ I take a deep breath, gearing myself up to get a few things off my chest. The break-up with Jacob has been swirling around in my brain and now seems like a good time to get their advice, or at least a little pep talk. Round two.

‘Aw, I just felt a kick!’ Cec yelps, stroking her bump with both hands, her mouth curved upwards with glee.

‘No way!’ Bea rushes over. ‘Let me feel!’

‘Come and feel this, Ol,’ Cec says, laughing.

She lifts up her jumper, revealing her soft, silky skin. I place my palm on her tum alongside Bea and feel a little upwards push.

‘I think it’s a foot,’ Bea says, smiling.

I smile and stroke her belly, feeling unexpectedly bottled up.

Later in the evening, we settle down to watch a Drew Barrymore film on Netflix and Bea gets out a bottle of red from her fancy wine cabinet. I end up drinking mine and Cec’s share. It goes down so easily these days. Bea has ordered us so much takeaway pizza and the boxes are spread out all over the floor. Jeremy, Bea’s husband, is looking after their kids in the next room, but Arnold keeps wandering in to show us his new Lego set and six-year-old Amelia wants to play her violin to us. No offence, Amelia, but you’re not very good. Arnold, the three-year-old, wanders in and hands me a Lord of the Rings action figure that has some sort of dried crust on it. I love you, I think, but please don’t touch me with your snotty face and hands.

I’m glad I don’t have a hangover, otherwise I wouldn’t have survived. Bea shoos the kids out of the room and we are alone again.

‘When do they go to bed?’ I ask.

‘Ha, by eight p.m. normally, but it changes.’ There is a noticeable strain in Bea’s voice. ‘It’s so nice when Jeremy is home because I get to hang out with you guys all night.’ I get the sense that when Jeremy is around he ‘owes’ Bea – he can be quite absent. I pour Bea and myself more red wine.

‘So guys,’ Cec says, clearing her throat. ‘Can I read you my list of “the worst things people have said to me whilst pregnant”?’

‘Of course,’ Bea says, intrigued, turning down the sound levels on the TV.

‘I’ve got a list typed out on my iPhone and I add to it every time something annoys me,’ Cec says.

‘Go on,’ I say, glugging down some more wine.

She clears her throat, smooths down her bob and puts her glasses on.

‘Right. Are you all listening? Here’s the first one. People coming up to you and just saying, wow you’re big. Are you sure you’ve just got the one in there?

‘Number two: when people text me just saying ANY UPDATES?? Like, obviously I will tell people when I’ve given birth.

‘Three: Is that all? You look so much further along!

‘Four: How much more do you weigh now?

‘Five: Are you eating for two?

‘Six: Good luck! My labour was absolutely awful!

‘Seven: Better get all the sleep you can now!’

I squirm. Before having pregnant friends, I’d definitely been guilty of saying such things. I’ve been that person who touches a stranger’s bump, rubbing my hands all over it and going ‘Ooh, it’s sooo weird, isn’t it?’ Cec has made me realize that it was technically akin to reaching out and squeezing someone’s boob without asking. Definitely encroaching on personal space.

‘So, that’s my list,’ Cec says, leaning back and rubbing her belly. ‘But I’m sure I’ll add to it. In general it seems that being pregnant means being stared at and touched more than usual. But then also sort of ignored by men because you’re off the table, too. Like one big oxymoron?’

‘I felt that too! Like obviously it’s not great to be sexually objectified, but also I kind of missed it,’ Bea says.

Cec starts yawning loudly. ‘Right guys, I think I’m gonna hit the hay. Me and Oscar need our beauty sleep.’

‘OK, night Cec, come on, let’s fill these up,’ I say to Bea, waving my wine glass at her. ‘Seeing as Jeremy’s got the kids, eh!’

‘Ah, I really shouldn’t, Ol. I’ve got to take them to football and swimming tomorrow morning,’ Bea says, now also yawning. ‘Sorry …’

She hugs me goodnight and asks me to turn out the lights in the hallway when I come up. I hear their footsteps upstairs as they brush their teeth. I grab another bottle from Bea’s wine cabinet and tuck it under my arm, then nip outside for a cigarette. I stand outside Bea’s porch in pyjamas, wellies and Jeremy’s big coat, watching the patterns of the smoke coming from my mouth. As I inhale, I feel a gnawing unease. A sense of loneliness settling over me. I want to hear about how Cec and Isla are feeling, I really do. Isla’s been struggling for months now and I’m worried about her. But I also want to tell them about Jacob – the exact reason why he and I broke up. I want to tell them how I’m really feeling. I wanted them to stay up past 11 p.m., for god’s sake. Everyone else seems to have exciting or important news, while my only update is that my relationship has come to an end.

I sigh and pace up and down on the grass, trying to stamp down on my anxiety and the niggling feeling in my chest that I can’t quite make sense of. Perhaps I acted selfishly this evening, perhaps not. We are all at a crossroads, that much is clear, but things are about to change even more. With Cec’s impending baby, she and Bea will have even more in common as they talk nonstop about kids, and then if Isla’s IVF works out, I will officially be the odd one out. What if I have nothing to talk about with them any more, drifting further and further away? My friends have always formed a part of my identity; they make me me. But without them, who will I be then?

I wake up abruptly the next morning, feeling as though my eyes have been closed for all of ten seconds. Shit, why hasn’t the alarm on my phone gone off yet? Bea sneaks in and puts a cup of tea beside the blow-up bed.

‘It’s 11 a.m., babe,’ she whispers.

‘Oh fuck, really?’

In that moment I feel like I might be Bea’s teenage daughter.

‘Cec’s already gone, she didn’t want to wake you. Do you want some pancakes?’

There’s the Bea I know and love: a feeder, a mother hen. And right now, to be honest, I’m more than happy to be taken care of.

5

I sit down at my desk at work holding a mint tea in a chipped mug that says ‘World’s Best Wife’ on it. The communal mug cabinet really does have some atrocities in there. Colin wanders over, holding a mug bearing Paris Hilton’s face.

‘Morning babe. Good weekend?’ he asks, taking a sip.

‘Yeah, was all right I s’pose.’ After I got back from Bea’s I just lay horizontal on my sofa for hours watching Queer Eye, while Bea was running around a football pitch with her kids and Cec was baby-proofing her house. ‘Is it just me that finds weekends actually quite annoying and draining?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dunno, just the pressure of it. Having to face up to real life without the distraction of work,’ I say, sighing.

‘I know what you mean actually. The stuff you cram to the back of your mind during the week really comes out to play. I pulled a really fit guy this weekend, though, so I’m happy,’ Colin says proudly.

‘Good for you! You deserve some good news in that department.’

‘My trouser department? You bet I do!’ he says, knowing full well not to broach the topic of my love life right now.

‘I’m just happy it’s Monday, to be honest. Sometimes I think .dot is the only place where I actually feel like myself. Like I’m moving forwards.’

‘Well quite – .dot would be nothing without you.’

‘Thanks, Col. Right, well I’d better live up to my reputation and get on with a few things.’

He air-kisses me and floats off back to his reception desk.

I open the Google home page and crack my knuckles. I need to properly start this assignment from Gill about Millennials choosing pets over motherhood. Let’s start with a broad search. I take a deep breath and type ‘Do Millennials Want Kids?’ into the toolbar.