OLIVE
Emma Gannon

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Emma Gannon 2020

Lines from Love After Love by Derek Walcott, from The Poetry of Derek Walcott 1948-2013 reproduced by permission from Faber and Faber Ltd

Jacket design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Jacket illustration © Shutterstock.com

Emma Gannon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008382728

Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008382711

Version: 2020-05-28

Praise for Olive

‘This tale of four young women trying to sort out the dilemmas of motherhood […] will bring relief and recognition to many. It’s a lovely book – thoughtful, searching, funny and (most importantly) honest’

ELIZABETH GILBERT

‘Funny in parts, painful in others, thoughtful throughout, it explores many dilemmas, with characters who feel utterly real’

SOPHIE KINSELLA

‘A profound issue wrapped inside an accessible, highly engaging novel … It’s wonderful’

MARIAN KEYES

‘Honest, relatable and incredibly real, Olive is going to resonate with an entire generation of young women’

LOUISE O’NEILL

‘Fresh, funny and utterly distinctive, and so loving and insightful about friendships and the way we grow and change within them’

EMMA JANE UNSWORTH

‘Emma Gannon’s novel raises important questions about women’s lives – important themes explored by a true champion of women’

NINA STIBBE

‘An unflinchingly honest and thoughtful piece of fiction … In Gannon’s capable hands, women are not so much divided along their disparate lines – but united’

PANDORA SYKES

‘Olive is a delicate, heart-breaking and delicious story that will bring a pang of delightful recognition to every woman who reads it’

SCARLETT CURTIS

‘Incredibly warm and loveable, you won’t be able to put Olive down’

Bustle

‘Olive’s story is big and bright and beautiful and holds up a much-needed mirror to society. I can’t recommend it enough’

LUCY VINE

‘I loved Olive. How I wish she had been around when I was thirty to reassure me there was more than one way to live a life’

SAM BAKER

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Olive

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Three

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Editor’s Letter

Published 18 January 2020,

from issue #24 of .dot magazine

‘The Mother of all Choices’

by Olive Stone

I am the same age as my mother when she had me. Thirty-three. If I turn my face a certain way in the mirror, I can see her looking back at me – we have the same chin, thick dark hair, and a mole more or less in the same place above our lip. But I am miles away from who she was then. We might look the same, but in all other ways we are not. I was told when I was little by my grandmother, Pearl, that when you turn thirty, you are suddenly gifted a new kind of respect for yourself. ‘You will care less, as if by magic, my dear,’ she would say. ‘Being young is terribly confusing. Quite awful really.’

It’s true that as you grow older, you know yourself better. You leave bad parties slightly earlier. But then, the downsides: your bones are slowly beginning to disintegrate, a natural decline in bone mass, though consuming vegetables, protein and collagen might help. You start to realize exercise is no longer about vanity, but necessity. Your metabolism changes too, sadly starting to slow down. You start to realize you ‘should’ go easier on the cheese boards, but you won’t because brie is everything. Then there are the hangovers! Drinking two bottles of Prosecco doesn’t feel like having a beaker of lemonade any more – it fizzes and pops and aches in your head the next day; but fortunately you have more willpower now to ‘get on with it’. Rumour has it your libido changes too; it ebbs and flows and tends to dry up a bit, and of course you’ll start noticing a few more lines on your forehead and around your mouth that seem to be slightly more prominent than before, but you also think it looks cool. A sign that you know more stuff. You might feel the need to chuck out your entire wardrobe and start again, to reflect a new chapter in your life, a new confidence, a new relationship with your body. You slip into your new skin like a snake who’s finally come home. On the whole things start to seem easier and plus, you have a bit more cash now. This is everything grandmother Pearl foreshadowed.

And then bam – even though I should have seen it coming – babies are suddenly on the brain. There is an abrupt tap on the shoulder from friends, family, society and suddenly it’s the number one topic of conversation. Babies. Babies. Babies. When. When. When.

When I was twelve, in 1999, I remember being obsessed with snipping cut-outs from my mum’s old Argos catalogues and sticking them into the blank pages of my notepads. Notepads were the only present people bought me or put in my stocking, because I was always doodling as a tiny kid. I would have stacks of them: beaded ones, velvet ones, bright pink ones, furry ones, holographic ones, and secret diary ones with a lock and key. But I had stopped writing and started making collages instead. I would neatly cut around pictures of products I found interesting from the flimsy thin pages of Argos, and Pritt-stick them inside the blank pages. Navy-blue patterned plates. A big wooden rolling pin. Hand-painted tea cups. A garden slide. A stylish armchair. A woollen throw for the sofa. A picture frame designed for four landscape-shaped photos. I would trim carefully around each one with big kitchen scissors, in circular motions, around the plates, bowls, crockery. I would stick them into the blank pages, designing my life in detail from an early age. I believed I would have these perfect little things in my home when I was older. I would have a garden. I would live in a big house, bigger than my mum’s. I would have a husband. I would have a baby too, probably. Or two. Or three! Because that’s what you do. My friends would come round with their babies. They would all play together. We would go to the beach and tell them not to eat the sand, while we drank tea in flasks and reminisced about the good old days. That’s what grown-ups did. When I am an adult, I would think, everything will be good. I will finally be free. Adulthood = Freedom.

I painted a picture of my Big Bright Future through the lens of an old Argos catalogue, and today I am inside that distant future; in the painting, living and breathing it. But I don’t have the hand-painted tea cups, or the navy-blue patterned plates. I don’t have a garden slide. And I don’t have the baby either.

Looking back, perhaps the baby thing was always more of a blurry idea; one that I could never totally zoom in on. I could only really imagine it hypothetically. The idea of becoming a mother was something passed down to me – from my mother, and her mother’s mother, over centuries and centuries of social conditioning. It seemed like a no-brainer. Like all the other milestones in the how-to-be-a-person manual.

Turns out that you can’t Pritt-stick a life together as a child and then hop inside it when the time is right like Bert from Mary Poppins.

And so now, sitting here in 2020, typing this, I realize that I imagined a different thirty-three-year-old to the one I have actually become. This woman who has no sign of ‘twitching ovaries’, or fertility flutters, or random broodiness. I hold babies and, sure, they’re cute, but I give them back and don’t feel any biological shifts or urges. I see pregnancy announcements online and press the heart button but feel zero jealousy. I picture myself twenty, thirty years into the future, with silver in my hair, walking on a beach with a partner, writing in the evenings with a glass of wine, and multiple nephews and nieces visiting me in my cosy home. There might be no children of my own in my future, but why should this cause me any worry?

So why am I telling you all of this? Last month’s issue was all about exploring different variations on adulthood and motherhood. This whole issue of .dot is dedicated to exploring what it means to be child-free, by choice, and all the other myriad ways we might decide to live our lives. We hope you love this issue as much as we do, but we realize this is the tip of the iceberg: we aren’t done talking about these issues! The decision to have kids might be one of the biggest choices we ever face, and we should be talking about this in all its complicated, nuanced depth.

Thanks as always for choosing to read .dot, and we look forward to reading your letters and tweets.

See you next month,

Editor-In-Chief, .dot

Olive x

Part One

‘You know what gets to me? The knowing, smug smirk that so often accompanies the words: “You’ll change your mind.”’

Kym, 35

1
2008

‘WAKE UP OLIVE.’ Bea jostled me awake gently, and I drifted from my dream into the vibrations of her deep, velvety voice. She had plonked herself down on the bed next to me, her curvaceous body cushioned softly on the mattress. Through half-opened eyes, I could make out the outline of her head of huge, tightly curled hair. I had an unused face wipe stuck to my forehead and a pounding headache. I peeled it off and the sunlight streamed into my eyes. Bea had waltzed on in and opened my blinds again. There was no such thing as privacy in this house, and to be honest, that’s the way we liked it. The real world was a maze offering too many choices, too many narrow alleyways, too many wrong turns. Everything in this old and painted-over Victorian semi-detached house felt safe. We paid bills together, we ate together, we ran errands together, we were partial to a group nap. This was our much-loved university student house, and we would be leaving here forever in a few short hours.

‘Ugh?’ I said, moaning. I picked up my phone with one crusty eye open and saw my ghastly reflection looking back at me on the screen. My skin was still clear and smooth but my face looked puffier than usual and my green eyes were blackened, like a panda’s, with eyeliner smudged all down my face. My long black hair was knotted on one side, and there were sticky drink stains along my pale arms. I sniffed. Yes, it smelt like Sambuca. I had obviously attempted to clean my face with the wipe and failed miserably. I looked at the packet on the floor and realized it wasn’t even a face wipe, it was one of those kitchen wipes that you clean surfaces with.

‘Have you definitely packed everything?’ Bea asked, as she picked my underwear up off the floor and flung it into a carrier bag. She lay down next to me, so both of our heads were on my pillow.

‘Yes. Everything is done. Just a few tiny bits left in a few drawers. Oh my god,’ I croaked, ‘I sound like Deirdre Barlow. I must have smoked.’

‘I did try and stop you. Those horrible Marlboro Reds,’ Bea told me, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

‘I had such a good time last night …’ My voice shook, I was about to cry. ‘I don’t want us to leave, Bea. I don’t want this chapter to be over.’

‘Oh Ol. You just need a perspective change. This isn’t the end. This is the beginning,’ she said, and stroked my unwashed hair.

‘I want to stay here for ever.’ I nuzzled into her big comfy bosom. ‘It’s the end of an era. Us four, in this house together. They’ve been the best years of my life.’ I put my hand on hers. She smelt of Ghost perfume. Her cashmere jumper felt so soft. I just lay there, and inhaled her, my best friend. Past boyfriends had sometimes commented on how touchy-feely my friends and I were. We’d often pass out almost naked in each other’s beds. They never seemed to properly understand the intimacy of women.

The four of us had gone through the same phases over the years: like wearing all black because it seemed more chic; sporting the same gold friendship jewellery; we even got the same tattoo of a slice of pizza under our left boobs on a holiday in Australia (I know, what?). We all passed our driving test the same year, lost our virginity within a few months of each other, grew up with and quoted the same TV box-sets. It definitely felt like the stars had aligned when we all ended up going to University College London to study together. We had made a pact, as a four, that UCL would be our first choice. We all wanted to go to the big city together. But we had to get the right grades at A level first, and that was going to be tough because we had spent so much of school pissing about, going to house parties with boys and smoking too much weed. But results day turned out to be one of my favourite days ever. We ripped open the envelopes together, and screeched when we knew we’d be staying as a close unit for another three years. Maybe fear really is the only motivator in life.

We’ve shared all the same big milestones, the highs and the lows of new boyfriends, break-ups and family dramas. Our lives have pretty much mirrored one another’s exactly; with peaks and troughs, like lines on a graph.

‘It’s been an amazing chapter, babe. But … it’s time.’ I could tell Bea was sad, but she was also being optimistic. That’s Bea all over – the glass is always half full. The constant exhale of everything will be fine. She patted me, and then unclasped my hand, peeling herself away from me. Her presence always felt so motherly, so safe.

‘I know, but let me wallow for a bit, Bea. Zeta isn’t coming to collect me for ages yet.’ My older sister Zeta was driving down from teaching a workshop in Bristol in her battered old Mini, so she would be late. She always was – she was notorious for it. It wasn’t that she was scatty, just that she was an intensely dedicated charity volunteer, and if someone needed her for something, she would be there for them. She never felt as if she could say no, even if it meant saying no to her own family sometimes. I was glad my big sis was going to come and get me and help with my bags, but it wasn’t exactly her priority.

‘C’mon. Have a shower. I’ll take that big suitcase downstairs for you,’ Bea said, as she rolled up her sleeves.

‘Don’t take it down yet,’ I said, tears glistening in my eyes.

‘Ol. Look. It’s OK. I’m sad too. We all are. But c’mon, you need to get showered.’

I suddenly had a flashback to the previous night. The barman had given us all endless free shots because he fancied Cecily, Bea had ended up doing the worm on the dance floor, and Isla had stolen someone’s sombrero.

‘How are you not hungover?’ I heard a moan from outside the door, directed at Bea. ‘Are you an alien?’ Cec had appeared in a T-shirt and a lace thong, sucking on a straw in a water bottle. Her blonde bob was still magically intact. Her long legs had streaks of fake tan left on them.

‘I am hungover. But you know me, I can’t lie in,’ replied Bea, shrugging.

Cec took a running jump and landed on my bed. On top of me. Her naked bum cheek touching my leg.

‘Bea, you’re so odd,’ Cec said, and threw Henry, my cuddly toy, at her. It ricocheted off her chest and squeaked. ‘God, I feel rough.’ She snuggled in under my armpit, laughing and then said: ‘Olive you reek!’

‘Make room for me,’ Isla croaked at the door, her dark blunt fringe flopping over her eyes, and her glasses wonky on her freckled face. ‘Guys, I have the fear. Seriously, did I say or do anything weird last night?’ She walked across the room, kicked off her slippers and curled up underneath the duvet with us, spooning Cecily. Isla always gets ‘the fear’, ever since our sixth-form days when she got hammered at our leavers’ do on Bacardi Breezers and asked our only male teacher (poor Mr Simmons) ‘to dance’, as if she was a character in a Jane Austen novel.

‘While you’re there, Bea, can you take my suitcase down too?’ Cec said, pushing her luck.

‘Piss off. I’m not your mum,’ Bea laughed, rolling her eyes.

‘I don’t remember much from last night, you know. We really went for it, didn’t we?’ said Isla. ‘I do have a faint memory of us breaking into that park on the way home.’ Oh my god, she was right, we had scaled the walls, and it was all Cec’s fault. Her and her wild ideas.

‘I swear it was the one where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts hung out in Notting Hill,’ Cec said, trying to hold down a burp. Living in London as students regularly allowed for these strange night-time adventures.

‘You can pretend it was, love,’ Bea said, lifting a heavy bag out of the room.

We had sneaked into a park (could have been someone’s private garden, to be honest) and sat on a bench together, underneath some twinkling fairy lights, and reminisced about the last three years living in our special little home. We had played ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ by Toploader on my iPod and danced with each other. We sang like out-of-tune cats.

‘Guys,’ I gulped, then paused. ‘Can we always, always make time for each other – no matter what happens?’

Cec swung her arms around me. ‘You’re not getting rid of me, mate.’

‘Of course, Ol, you are such a worrier!’ Bea said.

Isla nodded along like a Churchill dog.

As I lay there, hungover in bed, the reality was dawning. We were moving out. Moving on from the disgusting kitchen, the mice, the creaky radiators and the creepy landlord. There was no happier feeling than four of us in the bed. Four young sweaty bodies, entangled, feeling fragile, but excited for the future. They were my home. Home with a capital H.

There was a knock at the door, it was Bea’s boyfriend, Jeremy – we could see it was him through the frosted-glass panelling on the front door. Tall, lanky, ego-free Jeremy. Bea had never let anyone in until now; she’d had her fair share of bad boys who she’d kick to the kerb when it all got a bit too real. Jeremy was arty like Bea, an ambitious film student who had already got an internship lined up at Working Title. They were a sweet couple, but we hardly saw him. Apparently Jeremy never complained if she prioritized us over him and she would only see him and stay at his house on Sunday nights, even though he had a giant TV, way better than ours. He never stayed over here either, so the majority of the time she was still ours. Maybe that was why I liked him. But now, she was leaving, and I knew there would be whispers of them moving in together. And the rest.

‘Hi girls, so great to see you all,’ Jeremy said politely, and swooped down to kiss each of us on the cheek. He then wrapped his long arms around Bea and squeezed her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground. ‘Sad day?’

‘It really is,’ I sighed before Bea could reply, and flinched as he picked up one of Bea’s huge duffel bags with ease, swinging it over his shoulder.

‘Sorry to be a pooper, but we’d better get going, Bea, you know, to beat the traffic,’ he said.

‘Good point,’ Bea said, looking at us, glumly.

The three of us, the remaining ones, did a last lap of the house, saying goodbye to all the rooms. The kitchen, where we’d made countless disgusting drinks; we had followed that hideous trend of putting Skittles in vodka for a time. Then Bea’s downstairs bedroom, with a door leading onto the garden patio (covered in bird poo and old bin-bags ripped apart by foxes), which she’d proudly decorated with one of those giant dreamcatchers hanging above the bed and where we’d often watched back-to-back episodes of Friends. The living room, where once we’d staged a private karaoke party; we’d invited everyone we’d met in the night-club queue that evening and the neighbours had complained and almost called the police. Isla’s bedroom, on the floor of which we’d eaten many a Domino’s pizza, and Cec’s room, where she had once dressed up as a giant banana and, having got wedged in the door for hours, ended up wetting herself.

And finally, my room, the biggest, with an old fireplace and wooden flooring. My bed seemed to be the place we all gathered when we were sad. It was the room we’d get ready in before a night out because it had the most floor space. The room where we would sit on the floor and chat for hours. There were nail-varnish stains on the walls and burn stains on the rug from hair straighteners. I loved this room – our communal room.

The doorbell went again. Isla was collected by her second cousin Sarah, who also lived in London. Isla had lost her parents in a freak road accident at a young age, and depended on the kindness of her friends and extended family who had wrapped a web of love around her over the years. Cec was the last to leave, picked up by her mum and dad, Tiff and Todd, in their brand-new Land Rover. They would be going back to their large house in the countryside to warm themselves by the fire. I always felt a pang of jealousy thinking of Cec’s family and their luxurious lifestyle, but instantly shook it away. Cec hugged me closely, as she always knew to do when I was feeling vulnerable.

‘Are you going to be OK here until Zeta arrives?’ she asked me.

‘Yes of course,’ I said, knowing her question was rhetorical, as Tiff had her hand on Cec’s shoulder, and Todd was waiting in the car. They were ready to leave.

‘Sure?’ She lowered head and scanned my face with her eyes.

‘Yes, go on, I don’t want to hold you up,’ I said, and ushered her outside. I squeezed Cec, and shivered. She got inside the car in the back seat and waved with a sad, tight-lipped smile. Tiff and Todd were in the front, beaming, clearly happy to be reunited with their daughter. I went back inside and shut the green front door behind me, the one we had all opened and closed thousands of times, and it suddenly felt cold, with no people warming up the house.

I sat on the stairs, waiting for Zeta like a lost puppy. The minutes turned into hours, and I didn’t enjoy having that much thinking time, alone in a house full of memories, reflecting already on a period of time with friends that I would never experience again.

2
2019

It’s been six weeks now since Jacob and I broke up. It feels like a quick snap of the finger, and yet absolutely ages, all at the same time. It’s been horrible and everything feels uncomfortable and sticky. My brain keeps going around and round like a broken record: nine years down the drain. Nine whole years.

I close my windows and put my bedroom fan on to the strongest setting. A cheap one from Amazon that makes an irritating buzzing sound. It’s a muggy day, and my flat suddenly feels boiling.

I have heaps of washing-up that needs doing. Heading into the kitchen, I turn on the red digital radio that stands on the shelf above my sink, and it blasts out BBC Radio 4. I listen while I put on my Marigolds. The tap splashes some water on my face, and I realize I’m crying a bit too – at least I’ve held off longer than I did yesterday.

‘According to papers today, Millennial women are suffering from the paradox of choice. They have a multitude of options that can problematize decision-making! Too much choice! Tweet us – do you feel like having too many options is holding you back?’

I turn the radio off. What an annoyingly chirpy voice.

I have the Sunday blues, but I also feel glad that I have an office to go to tomorrow after a depressingly quiet weekend. I posted some old photos of me sitting in the park on Instagram so that people might think I was busy. In reality, I’m not quite ready for human contact. I’m also ninety-five per cent full of booze and chocolate orange and didn’t move all weekend except for occasionally putting a cold glass of gin to my lips. I am bigger since the break-up – I feel like a woman made of Play-Doh but it feels strangely comforting. I can grab hold of parts of myself I never could before. My body has changed and morphed, and now I’m my very own teddy bear. My skin is blotchier than usual too. I’m needing half a bottle of something to sleep each night. But I think I’ve gone through the worst of it. At first I spent many days festering in bed in my own juices, distracting myself by watching Netflix documentaries about climate change, serial killers, and how the world is totally fucked beyond repair, and surprise, surprise, it didn’t really help. Then I tried reaching for some positivity: old movies, reading my favourite erotica books, and watching old episodes of MTV Cribs on YouTube. I even forced myself to get a haircut, to try and make myself feel better, and the new hairdresser guy gave me a head massage at the sinks that felt so good I burst into tears. Because the only intimacy I can get at the moment is a hairdresser touching my scalp. I messaged the girls about inane things on WhatsApp – I haven’t told them about the break-up yet. Telling them would make it real, and I want to talk it through with them in person. But everyone seems a bit preoccupied; no one really replies on the WhatsApp group beyond a few quick emojis these days anyway.

Bea always says to ‘give yourself a wallowing deadline’ whenever you feel down, meaning that you should wallow intensely, feel it all properly and then decide when to stop. My deadline is up. It’s been long enough now. I have to face life again, whatever that means. I start with having a clear-out. My flat is not dirty, but it is certainly messy – there is stuff everywhere. I have ornaments and vases covering every surface, faux plants hanging off every shelf; there is a fruitless fruit bowl full of receipts, bills and paper clips. I have a pile of books gathering dust next to the TV and torn-out recipe clippings from old magazines stacked up on the end of my kitchen counter that I am not planning to read again. I grab two blue Ikea bags and start loading them up with books, old jumpers, pieces of painted crockery and vases that I no longer need. Giving away things to a charity shop every now and again always makes me feel better, like I’m in control of what I let in and out of my life. I call up the shop at the end of my road, owned by a lady called Mrs Farnham who does next-day charity collections. It rings a couple of times.

‘Hello?’ A croaky man’s voice answers the phone.

‘Er … hi …? I’m looking for Mrs Farnham,’ I say.

‘Oh – nah she’s not in, sorry love. The shop’s not doing collections for a few months while Mrs Farnham is on maternity leave.’

‘Oh, I see! Is there no one else there that might be able to help?’ I ask, politely.

‘No, love, I just told ya. Shop’s shut while she’s off. Shouldn’t say “off”, should I? Sounds like a holiday.’ He laughs.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Ring back in a few months, I reckon.’

I groan, and hang up.

The following day, I pick up a takeaway coffee in my favourite little café, Kava in Soho, next to the .dot offices. It’s my usual morning routine before work. I quickly check my emails at the end of the bar. The press releases I receive get more and more bizarre by the day:

• Amal Clooney Gets Bunions, So Now Everyone Wants Them

• Four Steps to Having Skin Like Paul Rudd

• The Best Bacon-Scented Sex Products (Including Lube!)

• Home Remedies to Grow Back Those ‘Barely There’ Nineties Eyebrows

Delete, delete delete.

I have a quick scroll through Facebook while my latte gets frothed. Who are all these people? I don’t recognize any names. A girl who I remember being really fun at school is now married to a boring basic banker. Another friend from university who I vaguely remember as sleeping with the entire football team has now become a nun and has written a painfully long caption to explain her ‘difficult’ exit from the online world. Everything is changing. I scroll past photos of five different toddlers, their faces covered in yoghurt, chocolate mousse and baked beans.

I have a quick cigarette outside on the pavement with my coffee in my hand and lean back to relax for a moment, my old faux-fur turquoise coat touching the brick wall behind me. I take big puffs of my cigarette and inhale loudly through my teeth – going against orders from my dentist who has recently told me off for smoking. An anti-fur fashion campaigner suddenly strides up to me with stickers and a placard. He waggles his finger at me and says I shouldn’t be wearing fur.

‘It’s faux fur actually – from a charity shop in Copenhagen.’ I exhale some smoke and tuck my long black hair behind my ear.

He wafts the smoke away and opens his mouth to begin his unnecessarily worthy spiel. ‘Well, actually—’

‘You’ll find I am quite ethical, as a person,’ I interrupt, tapping my ash on the floor. I know I’m being spiky and defensive, but this is not what I need this morning. I’m going through a break-up for god’s sake. People have no manners.

‘I’m afraid it’s not good enough. Faux fur is made up of synthetic microfibres that never really break down or decompose. Worse than real fur, in some ways. And don’t get me started on sequins.’

‘Well, are you perfect? I bet you wear leather.’

‘I don’t wear leather, I’m a vegan.’

‘I bet you secretly eat bacon sandwiches when you’re hungover.’

‘I don’t, actually.’

Jesus, what is happening? I’m just trying to drink my coffee and have a cig before I go to work. Life’s hard enough without a vegan campaigner banging on and on.

He continues: ‘Please take this leaflet and read more about it and please consider your life choices.’ He wanders off, to go and find someone else who’s doing life totally wrong.

‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t!’ I call after him, ripping up the leaflet.

This is living in London. No rest for the wicked. No physical boundaries. Constant interruptions. Everyone is so on, on, on. Everything is up for debate and you are always in someone’s way. Having said that, I might moan about London, but I also couldn’t live anywhere else, ever. Growing up in the countryside in Somerset was idyllic in many ways, especially as I met Bea, Cec and Isla at school, but I also found it incredibly boring. Zeta, Mum and I would cook every night together, eating dinner in our small conservatory overlooking the garden, and knew all of our next-door neighbours and their business maybe too well. The air was fresh, and the days were quiet. But, for me, the countryside seems like somewhere you go to disappear and die. Fast-paced city life is in my blood.

A young girl with a long green tartan coat and reddish curly hair walks slowly past me, then turns on her heel, pauses and then comes up close.

‘So sorry to bother you, but are you Olive Stone?’ she asks, half whispering.

‘Yep, that’s me.’ I take a slurp of my warm coffee, trying not to act totally surprised that I’ve been recognized. This never happens.

‘Sorry, I just wanted to say, your recent piece in the .dot, was … amazing. Really fascinating.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ It feels sad to admit, maybe, but this has really puffed me up. I had written a cover story for .dot magazine called ‘Are Men OK?’, which had just yesterday been further dissected by a journalist at the New York Times. It was a proud moment for me to have my work discussed by other journalists. I had written about the trend of men faking going to work, based on true stories of people’s husbands who had pretended to go to work for a whole year (putting on a suit and everything). They would go and sit in the park or sit in a café all day, while running up huge debts on credit cards to cover up their desperation and deception. Some of their partners hadn’t known until it was too late and it had totally ruined their lives. It was genuinely worrying. I found thirty-five different case studies – even one that was linked to a friend of a friend.

‘Would I be able to email you and send you my CV? If there is ever any work experience?’ Curly Hair Girl asks.

‘Yeah OK,’ I say, with my cigarette hanging out of my mouth, writing down my email address on a scrap of paper, balancing it on my knee.

‘Thank you so much. Meeting you has made my day.’ She pauses and tilts her head to look at me. ‘You know, some people, like my friends who read your writing, often say you are quite unlikeable. But I like you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, I think it’s really inspiring. That you put yourself out there. And that you don’t care about the reaction.’

‘Right. Thanks … I think!’ I say. I didn’t know I was unlikeable. Back-handed compliments really mess with my head.

.dot magazine launched just under two years ago; a new feminist-focused online magazine for younger women that was the brainchild of the founder of a big tech giant in America to try and fill the gaping void left by so many mainstream glossy magazines suddenly going bust. Every viral story that puts .dot more firmly on the map gets more mentions and click-throughs. And for every big story I write I seem to get another promotion, which sort of feels addictive.

I can get away with murder these days – but only because I’ve worked really hard to climb the ladder at .dot over the years. I’ve lost count of the number of days I’ve walked in with unwashed hair, latte in hand, forty-five minutes late. Gill, the editor-in-chief, is normally out of the office and as I am the second most senior to Gill, no one would ever say anything to me about my lateness. I almost wish someone would, to be honest. I’m doing well at work, getting to the point where I’ll soon be more than happy with my pay cheque, and it often seems like the only part of my life that I’m sailing through with some element of ease. I think I am in that rare and temporary point in life where I am an ‘old young person’ and a ‘young old person’. I’m bang in the middle: young enough to be cool, old enough to have some experience of how shit life can be. I know I won’t be this age for ever, but right now it’s working out for me – career-wise, anyway. Now all I have to do is figure out how to freeze time.

I walk into the office, the freshly hoovered soft carpet beneath my Converse trainers. Someone has tidied all the papers on my desk into a neat pile. Everyone in the open-plan office notices me walk in and immediately looks more preoccupied with their work. This still weirds me out. I feel so out of control in my personal life, and yet, in this office people are somehow intimidated by me. Having any sort of influence or power at work is still a huge novelty. I pause. What is that music blasting through the speakers? I have it, it’s R. Kelly’s ‘Ignition’.

I walk over to Judy, a junior subeditor who is wiggling in her seat and bopping her head to the music.

‘Judy – R. Kelly is a sexual abuser. Can you turn it off, immediately please?’

Judy stares at me blankly, and turns the volume right down, but not totally off.

I go and sit at my desk, kicking off my shoes. Bloody office politics.

‘Here are some packages, Ol,’ our receptionist Colin says, chipper as usual, dropping a heavy pile of parcels onto my desk. ‘Feels like clothes inside.’ He presses down on it with his thumb.

‘Yeah. Thanks Colin,’ I say, not looking up from my desk.

‘Not excited about your new garms?’ he says, sitting down on a swivel chair and crossing his legs.

‘No. I ordered them from this American website, they took months to arrive, and … well, now I don’t even need them any more.’

I’d ordered them for Jacob’s brother’s wedding, months ago when we were still together. These clothes arriving is just another sad reminder of everything that’s changed.

‘Fair enough. Hey, wanna know something depressing?’

‘Not really.’ Read the room, Colin.

‘It’s not proper depressing – more like, funny-depressing.’

‘All right, go on.’

‘I’ve just downloaded this app that tells you how many books you could have written if you calculate all the tweets you’ve written over the years. I’ve tweeted 5,000 times,’ he tells me. ‘So that’s 700,000 characters. So that’s definitely like two books.’

‘Why would you do that?’

Colin gets out his phone and goes onto my Twitter page.

‘Wow—’

‘No. Stop.’

‘You’ve tweeted 52,000 times. So, you could have written, like, fifteen books by now,’ he says, deadpan.

I want to whack my head on the desk. I imagine blood going everywhere, splashing onto Colin.

‘Can I make you a tea? Also, this new eye cream got delivered today for you all to test out.’ He hands me a gold cardboard box. ‘You do look a bit tired my love.’

‘Cheers,’ I say, blankly. ‘And yes, two sugars please.’

I’m seeing Bea, Isla and Cec tonight. Maybe I’ll take a few boxes of freebies from the office for them; they always seem to love free beauty bits and bobs. I can’t wait to see them. I feel like a shell of my usual self. I guess I haven’t fully processed the break-up yet. I need some perspective from my mates.

Suddenly my eyes fill with tears. I’d given myself a good talking-to in the mirror this morning. I’ve done my crying, enough’s enough. But clearly the well’s not empty just yet. I take myself off to the best place to have a shameless cry: the .dot toilets. They are the newest and fanciest part of the whole office. I take a box of tissues with me and try to cry quietly on the seat of the loo. Twenty minutes later, there’s a tap on the glazed glass door.

‘Ol? Ol … it’s Colin.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, Colin – not now.’

‘Sorry love, it’s just … your tea is cold and Gill has said she needs you for a meeting.’

‘Oh crap.’ I look at my phone. Yes, it’s 10 a.m. already, time for our weekly features meeting.

‘Can I come in?’

‘How do you know I’m not doing a poo?’ Colin and I have this type of oversharing relationship. We’ve become quite close friends over the years; he often plays a role in cheering me up or lightening the mood and I have been there to listen to his terrible dates with awful men.

He laughs gently. ‘Oh babe, I could hear you crying from outside.’

‘OK.’ I sniff. I let Colin in and he wraps me up in a big hug.

‘Are you OK? Is it Gill? Is she being horrible?’

‘No … no. It’s … me and Jacob. We have … well, I have … ended things.’ I sniff.

‘Oh no. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Is it … OK?’

‘No, not really.’ I wipe my nose. ‘I mean, I just can’t stop crying. I’ve been coming in these loos for a sob every day since it happened; can’t believe no one’s noticed yet.’

‘Do you wanna talk about it?’

‘Maybe soon. Not feeling up to it right now.’

‘I get it. Don’t worry. Shall I tell Gill you’ve got something else on? I’m sure she’ll understand.’

‘Actually, that would be great, yes please. Thank you. I just need a bit more time in here, getting myself together.’

‘Of course.’ Colin squeezes my hand and gives a sympathetic smile.

Grief can knock you sideways. I miss Jacob so much. I feel almost sick at how much I could do with a hug from him right now. I’m constantly trying to fight back tears. I can’t imagine anyone ever loving me in the same way. Or seeing me naked, for that matter.

After another thirty minutes, sobbing and squeezing out tears, I look in the bathroom mirror and blot away at my face with toilet roll, removing any signs of dampness. Then I apply more kohl liner around my eyes. Since the break-up I’ve felt so worried that we’ve made the wrong choice by ending it. I guess this is being human: we can never be 100 per cent sure about any decision we make.

Jacob moved out ‘officially’ only recently, after living in his brother Sam’s spare room for a month. The idea was that we’d try living apart at first as some sort of ‘break’. But it sounded a lot like a break-up from the start. It’s been the shittiest time of my entire life. I am stewing in it, sitting in the negativity and depression like a big squishy chair that I can’t get out of. Every meal I cook reminds me of him. Everything on TV. Even replacing the loo roll or making the bed in the morning. Everything. I wish I could just delete everything and start again, like picking a brand-new player in a video game.

I leg it out of the office at 5.30 on the dot, itching to get to tonight’s dinner. I desperately need to feel the safety net of my best pals, who will allow me to rant and shout and cry and snot bubble. That’ll make me feel better. They have always stood up for me. Once, back in the day when you could still smoke inside, they all tapped ash on my ex-boyfriend Billy’s head on the dance floor. He was a horrible, verbally abusive arsehole. All the ash just piled up in his hair while he danced. I bet it stank for days.

I’m sweating slightly on the Tube on the way to our usual dinner place, Jono’s, a family-run Italian restaurant in Clerkenwell. We stumbled across it one drunken night years ago at uni, and it quickly became our go-to. We always have the same table, a big corner booth looking onto the street. The atmosphere is warm, busy and friendly. We love Jono, the owner, who is always there with a massive smile on his face. He knows us so well now after a decade of the same orders: spaghetti alle vongole (Bea), risotto ai gamberi (Cecily), gnocchi (Isla) and capricciosa pizza (me). We have had countless heart-to-hearts inside, plus countless arguments, countless tears and laughing fits. There are so many trendy new hipster restaurants opening all the time in London, but Jono’s will always have our heart. If I’m ever late I know the girls will have ordered my drink (a glass of Fatalone, large), and it will be waiting for me when I get there. The others are never late. Compared to my friends, I guess I do feel a bit … behind. I think it’s a metaphor for my life.

I rush through the streets of Holborn, panting a bit and stomping past slow tourists who mindlessly dawdle along with no sense of direction. I try not to get run over by an angry cab driver with a cigar hanging out of his mouth who very nearly turns my entire left leg into a squashed pancake. Then a bus goes past me very slowly, wafting toxic fumes up my nose and splashing through a giant puddle which sprays dirty water onto my Converse. ‘Arseholes!’ I shout. Then, an old woman goes over my foot with her wheelie suitcase, leaving a line of dirt on my shoe.

As I approach the familiar doorway to Jono’s, I realize my heart is pounding slightly and my skin prickling – that old underlying anxiety flaring up. It hits me that I haven’t seen the girls in a while, and it feels weird. I breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth a few times. Everyone has just seemed slightly less available, a creeping sense of busyness and life admin and to-do lists, of time being squeezed.

When I arrive, the three of them are sat there, and something immediately feels off. Jono is pouring some tap water into their glasses. They all look like someone’s died. Has someone died?

‘Hi guys,’ I say, panting and whipping off my coat. ‘Only fifteen minutes late this time, I’m getting better! Sorry. Everything OK?’

‘Hey Ol …’ They all give me big smiles as I go around the table kissing them, saying how lovely it is to see me. I can’t help but notice how tired they all look.

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just … we’re not quite on top form tonight, Ol,’ Isla says.

‘What’s up?’ I say, putting my coat over the back of my chair, and sitting down.

‘Well …’ Bea takes in a deep breath. ‘Cec is obviously about to give birth any day now, I’m absolutely knackered from being up all night with a vomiting child and Isla has really bad cramps … we’re not a fun bunch, I’m afraid!’

Cec is in the loo right now. She is weeing every five minutes, apparently.

Isla has suffered with severe cramps and endometriosis issues all her life. Bea has three wild kids who are always plagued with something. This latest ailment sounded like the actual bubonic plague. And Cec, to be fair, is about to pop.

‘OK,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘That’s fine! Sorry to hear the kids are still poorly, Bea. Shall we have a quick bite then, and maybe just one quick drink?’

‘Well,’ Bea looks awkwardly at the others. ‘We’d actually just decided that maybe we should give this one a miss and head home. Sorry, Ol.’ Jono sheepishly puts the bill on the table: £3.00 for some olives, £0.00 for the tap water.

I try and hide it, but I feel winded. ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

‘I know but,’ Bea’s phone lights up, ‘there’s some drama going on at home and I really have to leave. We’re all pooped.’ I look around the table at their forced smiles.

‘My doctor has told me to rest,’ Isla says.

‘Poor you, of course,’ I say, squeezing her hand.

Cec walks slowly over to us from the direction of the toilets, and Jono shouts, ‘Bella mamma!’ at her as he waves his hands towards her ginormous bump.

‘Hey Ol,’ Cec kisses me on the cheek, bending awkwardly.

‘We’ve told Ol that we’re gonna give tonight a miss,’ Bea says.

I know I should be understanding, but we haven’t seen each other properly for ages and I really needed some advice and support from my best friends.

‘I’m so sorry, babe, I will make it up to you,’ Cec says. ‘Chris is driving over to pick me up right now, bless him. I’m not feeling great. Does anyone need a lift my way?’ She plants a kiss on my cheek and puts her cardigan on.

I hope Cec’s husband Chris doesn’t come into the restaurant. He makes my skin crawl.

‘No worries, guys. I appreciate you all dragging yourself out after work. We tried, eh?’ I keep my cool and, once they leave, Jono orders me a big glass of wine on the house. Funny how Jono can pick up on my emotions, but not my own friends. But to be fair, they do have a lot on their minds.

Despite life’s strange twists and turns, the four of us used to be glued together. We had always been there to lift each other up and out of everything: depression, break-ups, redundancies, you name it. We’d never missed a date at Jono’s until recently. Jono’s was our time – except for when Isla randomly brought her online date along, who wouldn’t shut up about himself and his recent adult gap year before trying to pay for the entire meal in Bitcoin. But still, on the last Thursday of every month, for over a decade, we’ve gone to the same restaurant and sat at the same table. So why were things starting to slip now? It had felt so simple when we’d first laid down the rules in our twenties, on the day we left our shared house: that no matter what happened, we would make time for each other. Many people make the mistake of kicking friendships aside for the other seemingly more important strands of life, but we all know it’s friendship that really keeps you afloat. We weren’t going to be those people who let friendships slide. Or were we?

As I go to leave, I look over at another table and see four girls – younger versions of us – sitting, cackling, in shiny dresses, with no wrinkles, their heads rolling back, eyes sparkling and not yet tired by life. That used to be us.

I take my jacket from the wooden coat stand by the door, right next to our window-side table.

‘You OK?’ Jono says, putting his large hand on my shoulder.

‘Yeah,’ I sniff. ‘Sorry Jono, for taking up your best table and not even ordering anything.’ I gesture towards our empty seats.

‘It’s OK, Olive. You will always be special customers to me.’

‘We wasted a booking – sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve come here for a long time. You girls have a long special friendship. I’ve seen it. Hold on to each other.’

‘Thank you. I just feel like things are weird at the moment.’

‘You must move with the tides: life is full of pushes and pulls.’

‘True, Jono. True. I just need them right now.’

‘Of course you do.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘And remember, they need you.’

‘I hope so,’ I sigh.

‘Come back very soon, yes?’ he says, wiping down the table and taking away the glasses.

Instead of going home, I reroute to the bar down the road called Mizzi’s, and proceed to tell the barman – who coincidentally looks a bit like Gunther from Friends – my life story like a weirdo in a film, while slowly getting red-wine teeth. I don’t realize how much I resemble a vampire until I see my reflection in the mirror of the sticky-floored bathroom, and stare with horrified fascination at my bright purple mouth, my lips stained in the corners.

I know how much they all have going on, but I still can’t shake the feeling that the girls have let me down. I’m bursting with the need to talk to someone about the break-up with Jacob. Stumbling out of Mizzi’s, I sit on a doorway step. I reach for my phone and try to drunkenly call Colin, but his phone is switched off. I type in Zeta’s name, but she is on a charity work trip and I know she only has occasional access to Internet cafés. I can’t bear to ring Mum and tell her yet, as she just won’t get it. I put my phone back in my bag.

When I finally stumble home around 1 a.m., I have a terrible, drunken urge to text Jacob. I type out a message and instantly make a typo. A reminder of how much wine I have consumed.

No. No. I can’t.

Maybe I should?

Maybe he’d want to hear from me?

No. Olive. Stop it.

Standing by my front door, trying to fish my keys out of my bag, I notice that Dorothy Gray’s light is still on. Dorothy is my eighty-eight-year-old neighbour. Everything else is dark but I can see her fuzzy TV screen; it looks as if a black-and-white film is playing. I’ve met her a couple of times at the local residents’ meet-up or while taking out the bins. She lives in a big house directly opposite my block of flats, and we have a nice old chinwag if we’re ever going inside or leaving home at the same time. Her house is ginormous, with its own driveway. She never seems to sleep or, at least, turn out her lights. I hope she’s all right. Maybe she just watches TV all night (like me). Each to their own. My curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin stream of bright light coming from her house into my bedroom. Perhaps it should be annoying, but I feel some warmth from it. Perhaps I’m not alone.

‘I always compare the cost of a year’s worth of nappies to how much travelling I could do instead.’

Katie, 29

3
2009

I was squatting down, in a sort of ‘twerk’ position, my knees creaking and trembling. I hadn’t done a squat since gym class at school in the late 1990s and it showed. ‘Dip’ the stick delicately in your ‘urine stream’, I whispered back to myself, as I held the (now soggy) fold-out instruction manual. Pee in a perfectly straight line? That was like a policeman asking someone to walk along a painted straight line after one too many tequilas. Like that scene in Bridesmaids with Kristen Wiig and Chris O’Dowd. It was impossible to ‘dip’ anything neatly at this moment, mainly because I was a bag of nerves. I was terrified by the situation. The pregnancy test was tacky and flimsy, and I didn’t really trust it. It was purple and white and looked like it could easily snap in half. I was already worrying that it wouldn’t be accurate and that I’d have to go back to the store and do this whole shebang again and again. We bought two, Bea and I, in a ‘Buy One Get One Free’ deal. So here we were, doing it together, sitting side by side in the toilet cubicles in the loos at Foyle’s bookshop (of all places). We always joked that our wombs were ‘n sync’, Justin Timberlake style, but this time we really were. I felt so anxious, hovering awkwardly over an off-white stained loo seat that wasn’t my own. I had just peed all over my hand by accident. It was warm and looked syrupy. Quite disgusting really.

‘You all right in there?’ I shouted sideways to Bea. I didn’t hear anything, so I knocked on the partition.

‘Mmmm,’ she replied, unsurely. I could hear her heeled boots scuffling around on the tiles next to me.

I couldn’t even bring myself to wash the pee off my hand because I had to wait for the stupid plastic gadget to show me a result. Germs were lingering everywhere, I thought, bacteria probably climbing the walls. If I was a proper grown-up, I would have anti-bac in my bag – but I forgot. Hurry up, hurry up. On the cubicle wall someone had scribbled, ‘Life is beautiful’. And someone has replied ‘fuck off m8 this isn’t Tumblr’ underneath. I shook the plastic stick (like a Polaroid picture?) but I wasn’t sure it was doing anything to hurry up the process. It was just flicking small specks of urine onto the floor tiles. Gross.

‘Bea?’

‘Yeah?’ she said, impatiently.

‘Remember one line means not pregnant, and two lines means you are pregnant,’ I yelled, hoping nobody else was in the toilets with us.

‘Keep your voice down, Ol. I know what the lines mean,’ she said.

I laughed. We’d done many lines together, in old skanky party toilets. Now look at us.

Rewind a couple of hours, and Bea and I were having lunch at Fall & Well, a little coffee shop on Denmark Street run by three hot brothers, catching up on life as we normally did on any other Hump Day Wednesday. It was our thing. We used this midweek session to sit and bitch about our jobs (and our bosses) for an hour. I was interning at a celebrity gossip magazine and Bea was a gallery assistant. Both our bosses were similar in their contempt and behaviour towards us: for some reason they wanted to make our lives hell. My boss was called Amie (a pretentious way of spelling Amy, if you ask me). Her nickname behind her back was Amie Hammer because she was as hard as nails. She wore these tasselled, heeled shoes to work, and every time she marched towards you to tell you off, you heard the tassels swishing first. It was a warning sign to get ready for a bollocking. My job was to get ‘scoops’, to find out if so-and-so was pregnant so we could ‘break’ the news first. I basically sat on Perez Hilton’s website and made sure we copied (paraphrased) the hottest (or grimmest) American news stories onto our site – and I hated it. I wanted to be a writer, and this seemed like the logical first step in ‘getting my foot in the door’, according to all the career advisers at university. Just go for any old job, they said, as long as you can publish something! Writing horrible stories about reality TV stars really wasn’t what I had imagined for myself, even if I did seem to have a knack for it.

‘It feels like the better I perform at work, the more Amie Hammer hates me,’ I sighed, drinking from my coffee cup.

‘Oh Ol, don’t worry. It’s not you. I guess we just have to suck it up during these early years. The older women up the chain seem to have been told that the only way to “get ahead” is to scream at everyone.’

‘You’re right. Being the intern is just so hard sometimes.’

‘You can’t take it personally. They grew up in the “one seat at the table for women” era. Amie Hammer is threatened by you.’

‘Ha! I highly doubt that, Bea.’

‘She is. You’re young. You’ll take her job one day,’ Bea said confidently, piling more sugar into her coffee.

Mine and Bea’s lives have always paralleled, almost exactly. The four of us in the friendship group have gone through most things together, but Bea and I are something else. Our birthdays are just a few days apart, we started our periods at the same summer camp together, we both tried to insert our first tampon in the same bathroom together, we started our very first jobs years later in the same local pub pulling pints; and now we both had jobs that made us cry in our respective company toilets. For so long, we’d moved up the same ladder and our friendship had become more and more solidified on this basis. But today we’d found something brand new in common! Sitting in Fall & Well, we were both complaining about the same bodily annoyances: change in appetite, sore boobs, being grouchier than normal, having annoying headaches and a little bit of nausea thrown in for fun. Oh, and (er, most importantly) a very late period. Upon announcing this, we looked at each other through gritted teeth and realized we should probably check it out, together. We didn’t really have time to discuss how we felt about it emotionally – never mind what our boyfriends would think – as we had less than half an hour before we needed to traipse back to the office, aka our prison cells. So, we walked in silence to quickly find some answers. And the answers to modern life’s big questions were normally found in Boots.

We walked in and headed to the ‘family planning’ area at the back of the store – walking past life-size posters of catalogue model babies in shiny nappies smiling creepily at us – and popped the tests in our baskets. I took them to the till. I find it strange that at times of such great personal uncertainty, the cashier knows more about the intimate details of someone’s life than their partner or anyone else close to them. Fanny rash? Pregnancy? Fungal infection? They scanned your life’s secrets. Beep. Bea went off to look for some mouthwash. The older woman serving me, with two long earrings in the shape of cacti, gave me a wink as she put them in the bag as if to say ‘good luck’, which was weird, because how could she possibly know what I wanted? Fine, I clearly looked of an age at which buying a pregnancy test was something totally normal and something I might be excited about, but still.

‘I’m not happy about this, you know,’ I said to the presumptuous cacti-earringed cashier, pointing to the pregnancy tests.

‘Er—’

‘Yeah, this purchase,’ I said, pointing at the offending item with my eyebrows, ‘is the opposite of exciting.’

‘Oh I see – OK! Well, then. Have a good day.’

Bea and I left the store, and I put one test in each pocket of my big coat. Where should we do them? This felt the same as buying cigarettes back in the day, needing to find a good hiding place to stash our new goodies and consume them privately.

That’s when we duck into the flagship Foyle’s bookshop on Charing Cross Road, because we knew they had some spacious toilets in there, next to the café on the fifth floor. Whilst everyone else was queuing up to buy their jacket potatoes with salad and coleslaw and skinny lattes, with shiny new hardback books stashed in their bags, we scurried off to the loos to see if our lives were going to change for ever.

When we entered the women’s loos on the fifth floor, a little boy – who couldn’t be older than two – popped out from behind the door. I let out a scream. Terrifying! Like something out of The Shining. He started crying and his mother appeared, with her wet soapy hands still dripping, rubbing them on her jeans. She huffed and puffed and tutted at me, checking her watch dramatically and swiping at his face with a wet wipe. He was inhaling quickly, still crying.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. I literally screamed in the child’s face.

‘It’s OK,’ the mum replied abruptly. I stood there like an awkward lemon. This kid’s chubby little legs were stuffed into his tiny Converse shoes. I guess he was quite cute. My hand clamped around the pregnancy test box in my pocket.

Time ticked on frustratingly slowly. I waited for the purple line to become a little clearer. I brought the test up close to my face. My eyes crossed over and blurred. Why do seconds seem so stretched out when you are waiting for something important? Bea always told me to ‘zoom out’ when I became too overwhelmed with daily life. ‘Like you would do with your fingers on a photo online, Ol, just breathe and use your two fingers to adjust, in and out,’ she’d say. I often get so anxious that I can’t find a logical way out of my own muddled-up thoughts, like a spider spasming in its own cobweb. That’s why looking at the sky and out to the sea scientifically relaxes humans – because when we look into that deep, deep blue we realize we are insignificant specks. I sometimes found my brain racing around and around like a merry-go-round, and I felt like I was going to be sick but couldn’t find a way to jump off safely. Breathe. Zoom out. Switch to bird’s-eye view, Olive. Breathe. It’s OK, I told myself. This was a Sliding Doors moment, but whatever happened, it would be OK.

I heard Bea shuffle out from her cubicle, the door gently closing. When I eventually emerged myself, the door accidentally slammed loudly behind me. I looked over at Bea, who had red cheeks with mascara-stained tears streaking down them.

‘You OK?’ I asked.

‘It’s … negative,’ she said, sniffing.

Oh … shit. She actually wanted it to say she was pregnant? Were those tears of disappointment?

I looked down at my hands cupped around the pissy plastic container. ‘Me too. Negative,’ I said. I couldn’t help but sound relieved. I thought of Jacob then, and I tried to imagine what he’d say. If I told him.

Two women, one result, two totally different responses whirring around in our heads, I could feel them clashing in the air. I thought we were in this together, Bea and I; I thought we wanted the same thing. We always did. I felt my utter joy and relief deflate slightly. I was well and truly off the hook – not pregnant! Yes! We could carry on living our sweet, sweet lives. Wahoooo! But I couldn’t bounce up and down, I had to pretend to look sad. Also: Bea’s reaction had really knocked me for six. How did I not know she was trying for a baby? We knew absolutely everything about each other.

Pfft. This was ridiculous. We didn’t want kids. We were only in our early twenties. And I thought Jeremy was away all the time for work. She’d be really screwing herself over if she got pregnant now. We hadn’t even been out of university that long, and there was so much time stretched out ahead of us to do big crazy things before we settled down. We had parties to attend, careers to smash, hangovers to indulge in, impromptu cinema trips and dinner parties to throw. I had a work acquaintance who had just had a baby and she said that even a trip to the cinema cost her over £50 because they had to book a babysitter on top of the tickets, snacks and car parking. Was that really what we wanted, so soon? Our lives to be put on hold?

After a slow afternoon back at work we went to a small bar just off Soho Square – we both needed a drink after all of that lunch-time palaver. We ordered a bottle of rosé. Then another one. After that we ended up in a dingy basement club nearby, where the barman gave us a free bottle of champagne – I lied and said it was Bea’s birthday.

‘This is the silver lining eh, Bea – if you’d had a different result you wouldn’t be able to drink this delicious ch-champagne!’ I slurred, sloshing my glass around.

‘Oh sshhhh,’ she said, smashing her champagne flute into mine. Luckily they were plastic.

Part of me wanted to ask her about the test, her disappointment: why a baby now, Bea? And why couldn’t you tell me? But the bigger, more selfish part of me kept quiet.

So, there we were, marking a real milestone together. Me celebrating – Bea commiserating.

I drunkenly called Cecily on the way home, around 11 p.m., from the night bus. I got off a few stops early so I could get some fresh air. Cec always worked super-late, as a paralegal, so I knew she’d be up reading through a pile of documents that her boss couldn’t be bothered to read. Sirens seem to blast past me every ten minutes. Motorbike engines pierced my eardrums. I sat inside a bus shelter to get away from the noise and replayed the whole ordeal to her, my leather jacket perched on my shoulders, with a cigarette in my hand. I was a bit drunk and I realized too late into the conversation that I was being a bit bitchy.

‘I mean thank god my test was negative, Cec. And Bea being pregnant would be so weird, it’s too early! But she did look very gutted though,’ I said, exhaling smoke. I suddenly felt guilty, remembering the intense disappointment on Bea’s face.

‘Well, I think Bea and Jeremy have mentioned wanting kids one day, but yeah, I agree that it’s very early …’ Cec replied. It sounded echoey where she was; clearly her office was pretty empty as it was so late.

‘Yeah. I guess I just assumed we’d both be freaking out. We were both so nervous buying the pregnancy tests because, you know, it was an accident. Well, at least for me? So I was totally taken aback when she looked upset at it coming out negative.’

‘Wow,’ Cec gasped, joining in. ‘I suppose I’d be shocked too. It’s a huge change and responsibility.’

‘We’re only twenty-two,’ I said, tapping ash on the floor.

‘There’s no rush. I’m personally not ready at all. I’ve only just got properly going at work. It’s bloody competitive in my office as well.’

‘Same! I mean, do you think you will have one, one day though?’ I asked.

‘Dunno. Not until I’m much older, I think. I reckon I’ll have one when I’m like thirty-eight or something? When I’m bossin’ it as a lawyer with millions of pounds,’ Cec said, laughing.

‘That sounds good Cec – and there’s no doubt you’ll be bossing it. I guess we can just wait and see, can’t we?’

‘Exactly. And anyway Ol, don’t worry about today, and keep me posted. Right, I’d better sign off, I’ve got to get through a mountain of stuff and wanna be home by 1 a.m. God help me. Love you.’

‘Love you – bye Cec.’

I loved Cec’s ambition, her general go-getting attitude. She was a party animal at the weekends and worked super-hard in the week. I loved that we both weren’t in any rush to settle down. I was suddenly worried about losing Bea. Terrified that this was the start of the downhill slope. The downhill slope to adulthood and suburbia and staying on the sofa 24/7. Was she going to be getting excited about Tupperware parties next?

It felt like something had shifted. I felt another stab of guilt for judging Bea’s life decisions so harshly. But we all know the fear that once your friends start to grow their family, you might become less needed and, then, fully redundant.

4
2019

The office is full to the brim today with extra bodies as our largest meeting room has been turned into a makeshift studio for a shoot. We have partnered with a huge fashion brand for the issue and we’ve roped all the interns into being the models. Gill’s idea, as she says it’ll save us money and shows ‘diversity’. I pop to the sandwich shop directly below the office to get lunch, and to get away from all the hustle and bustle in the office. Bit lazy of me, but it’s nice enough – I just need some peace and quiet. I sit by the window, looking out at all the frantic Londoners, people smoking while speaking on the phone; with stressed-out faces, shouting at cyclists. As I go to take a bite of my crayfish sandwich, a baby starts howling behind me. Howling. Wailing loudly and then choking on its own cries. I turn around and see the red-faced baby is in a pushchair, seemingly discarded right in the middle of the café.

‘Whose baby is this, please? Whose baby?’ cries a waistcoated woman with an Australian accent and short hair. I glance at her chest – ah yes, she has a big badge that says ‘manager’.

People look around, confused.

Short-haired Australian woman shouts through to the kitchen. ‘Hi Rodge, we have a pushchair here in the middle of the caff and I’m not entirely sure where the mother is. Seems to have been abandoned.’

‘The parent, you mean, Rach,’ a stern disembodied voice from the kitchen replies.

‘Eh?’

‘You assumed the gender of the primary care-giver.’

‘Rodge – not now. I haven’t got the time for this.’

‘OK, I’ll be out in a sec,’ says Rodge.

Suddenly there is the sound of running feet coming up the spiral staircase that goes down to the extra seating area below, and a tiny woman with a long swinging blonde ponytail appears, panting.

She suddenly takes the reins of the buggy, keeping her head down, not making eye contact.

‘Excuse me – is this your baby?’ Rach asks.

‘Yes! Sorry, I was desperate for the loo,’ she says in between breaths. ‘I couldn’t get the buggy down those stairs … and—’

‘Madam, you can’t just leave your baby alone like that.’

‘It was only for a few minutes!’ she gasps.

‘Long enough to terrify all of us,’ Rach says sternly. ‘Please make sure you don’t do that again.’

I shudder. Imagine that, not even being able to go to the loo without causing some sort of chaos?

I check my watch and realize I need to get back to the office.

Back at my desk, I lean back on my fancy chair, kick off my shoes and tuck into a huge wedge of carrot cake to calm my nerves after the baby fiasco. I’m going to Bea’s this weekend with the girls – after much back and forth with calendar checking and WhatsApp chasing. I have my overnight bag underneath my desk and I keep accidentally kicking it and stubbing my toe. I’ve packed face masks, thick socks, chocolate and a bottle of Pinot Noir. I can’t deny my disappointment after the failure of our last meet-up so I’m excited to be having a girly sleepover: a cosy night in, where we can all be together, with no distractions or stresses.

I hear footsteps coming towards me. Gill, the editor-in-chief, saunters past my desk in thigh-high pleather boots over jeans. She throws a newspaper clipping onto my desk, hands on hips.

‘I think there’s something in this. Maybe we should cover it. You up for it?’

I look down and see a picture of a girl in a red jumper holding a weird-looking dog – with a bold headline: ‘MILLENNIALS CHOOSE PETS OVER CHILDREN’.

I laugh. ‘Wow – that’s quite an assumption.’

‘I think it’s true, though. Millennials are cash poor and fucked over. Poor sods. Probably can’t afford to do the whole kid thing until they’re in their forties, or even older, and most of them aren’t home-owners, at least in London. But … they could have a pet in the meantime and feel like they are moving towards something. Maybe you could interview some people about it? I reckon it’ll get a lot of clicks online and retweets.’

‘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.

I love that I’m technically paid a monthly wage to fall down crazy Internet rabbit holes and ask people nosy questions. I love that my Google algorithm has no real idea who ‘Olive’ is, or anything about my personality, as my searches are always related to the varying topics of my articles. My online search quickly leads me to a blog post called ‘Sterilize Me: My Mission to Never Have Kids’ written by a young Millennial woman, who goes by the name of Ariana. No surname, no picture. Her profile is anonymous. But it’s honest and open, as most anonymous-ish blogs go.

Welcome to my blog. I’m Ariana, and I don’t want kids!

[EDIT: You might have seen this blog post get picked by some national news outlets; for any snooping journalists, I am not interested in doing mainstream interviews, or sitting on the sofa next to a certain horrible argumentative man on national TV. I wrote this blog to speak out to other women, I did not do it for online fame.]

I’m 24 years old, and I have been researching ways that I can get sterilized since I was 18. I can’t explain it more simply than this: I know, deep deep in my bones that I never ever want to create another human being. It does not appeal to me, my life, my plans. No one will listen to me! They think I will change my mind! Why? The NHS have said over and over that they won’t perform the operation. The doctors have said no, because I am so young and ‘might change my mind’. But I know I won’t. Also: there’s a strange double standard going on. If you do decide to have kids, you can’t change your mind then, can you! Seems a little one-sided that argument. I feel really unheard right now. And that not wanting kids still feels like a huge awful taboo. The doctors were shocked by my request, and the word got out in the small village where I live, and I have had really horrible notes slid under my door. People are saying that hospital money should be spent on other issues, not my selfish act. Becoming a mother is a very, very serious decision, and so is *not* having them. I wish that I could choose what to do with my own body, and that is to make sure I never have them. Some people are desperate to have kids. I am desperate not to. Please, please, tell me I’m not alone.

@boyo21 Well done for openly admitting that you’re selfish.

@sunshine_girl: I used to feel like this too, Ariana. But, I am 43 now and little Gracey came into my life and I’ve never been happier. I never thought I’d change my mind. Please, don’t rule it out.

@planethappy1: Yes it is a very big responsibility but by far the best thing that happened to me. You might hate other people’s kids, but seriously you will never feel love for anyone as much as you will for your own child.

@sammy15: lesbian

@lookmum156: fair enough ariana but i think you’ll change your mind one day. Doctors are right not to do it.

@saladlover100: bitch whore

@julie_smith: I’ve known from the age of about 12 that I never wanted kids. I’ve always found children irritating, even when I was a child myself. I hear you.

@james_smith_90 MUPPET!!

I take in a deep, slow breath. I feel sick at the judgement that people have towards women like Ariana. It still feels like such a dirty topic, a dirty confession. I realize I’m not shocked by her words, even if I’ve never read anything like this before. And there’s no hiding it: I feel intrigued. It’s a rush. My face gets closer and closer to the screen until the comments begin to blur. I start typing out a comment: ‘Ariana, I just love your honesty. Would you be open to meeting up for a coffee?’ Then I notice my username is set to my real name – @olive_stone_ – and I immediately delete it. I also do a quick check that no one is looking over my shoulder.

6

After work, I WhatsApp Cecily and ask if I can come over. I feel as if we didn’t really speak properly at Bea’s and I’m worried that I was being too jokey and mean.

Me: Hello babe are you free this eve for a visitor?

Cec: ooh that’s a LOVELY idea. Yes please. Chris is out with the lads, I’m on the sofa, feeling like a whale in thick socks.

Me: Not a whale. Yay see you v soon.

I have to see her properly before the baby arrives. Nothing beats one-on-one time. I nip home first, and grab a giant frozen tub of home-made macaroni cheese that Zeta made me when the break-up first happened and I couldn’t quite stomach anything. They say the best gift to give any pregnant woman, or new parent, is food. Not flowers, because that’s just one extra thing to keep alive. I realize on my way over that this is probably the last time I will see her before she is a mum – Cec, being just Cec, on her own. The thought makes me feel a bit teary but then she answers the door and I push out a smile.

Cecily and her husband Chris live in a big Georgian terraced, high-ceilinged, West London house – the kind with sleek white columns in front of the door. The elephant in the room is always that Cecily’s house is much nicer than the rest of ours. Bea’s is gorgeous but also a kid-infested circus. Cec’s looks like an Architectural Digest photoshoot. She has a roll-top bath with a marble floor, for God’s sake. Her hallway is big enough that it has room for a blue velvet sofa on one side as you walk in. I try not to be too jealous that Cecily’s casual sit-down-and-take-your-shoes-off hallway sofa is nicer than my main living-room sofa that took me five years to pay off. It can be awkward when your mate has way more money than you. But she is an award-winning lawyer. I am a not-yet-award-winning writer. We made different choices so it doesn’t really make sense to be jealous. But still, it’s the easiest thing in the world to compare yourself to others – especially your best friends and their velvet hallway sofas.

She answers the door in a red stretchy maternity jumpsuit and gives me a huge hug, excitedly taking the tub of macaroni cheese from my hands. I hang up my faux fur jacket on her wooden coat stand and kick off my trainers. Cec walks down the hallway; from the back, she doesn’t really look pregnant, then she turns to the side and it’s like she’s suddenly swallowed a giant beach ball. It amazes me how flexible she still is as she squats down to pick up a plate from the lower cupboard in the kitchen.

‘Want me to get those?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s all good. I’ve been going to this yoga class thing,’ she says, straining. ‘It’s good, except for the fact that it’s full of mummy bloggers.’

‘How do you know?’ I laugh.

‘I don’t. I’m just being a judgemental bitch.’

‘You’re allowed to be, you’re pregnant.’

‘What will be my excuse for being a bitch to people after I give birth?’ She winks.

‘You’ve had a whole nine months of getting away with anything and everything,’ I say, putting my arm around her.

‘Yep! And that is the only thing I’ll miss about pregnancy.’

She is so rotund now, as if the weight of the huge bump could topple her over, but she’s flexing and stretching and bouncing her legs on the floor in a sort of frog-like position.

‘Wanna see the Baby Room?’ Cec asks, excitedly.

‘Yes of course. And, look Cec, I’m sorry if I was a bit off at Bea’s at the weekend. I don’t mean to make it about me. I just don’t want to drift away from any of you.’

‘I understand, Ol. There’s a lot going on with all of us at the moment. I promise I’m not going anywhere, though. If anything I’ll be imprisoned in this house for months and will be desperate for grown-up chat.’ She laughs.

We walk down the corridor with her fluffy cream carpet beneath my bare feet and I can already see a big sign on the back wall of his bedroom, lit up, and spelling out OSCAR in pink neon writing. Piles of stuff are folded and stacked up by the cot: nappy bag contraptions and milk thermometers and some really techy-looking stuff.

‘Jeez, how much did all this cost?’ I say, doing the mental arithmetic, looking at all these miniature designer objects and freaking out.

‘Oh, I don’t know! Do you like it though?’

‘It’s very cute.’ It looked like an IRL Pinterest board.

‘I like the fact it’s pink. Fuck the “boy” and “girl” colour norms,’ she smiles to herself, admiring the room she’s created for Oscar.

‘It’s very cool. God Cec, I still can’t get my head around it. You’re going to be a mum.’ I reach down into the cot and pull out a small, soft bunny.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s a new beginning for sure, but things won’t change too much.’

‘But who am I going to call now at 2 a.m. when I’m in the middle of a panic attack?’ I laugh. ‘And who’s going to try out the latest supper club with me? Go dancing and get filthy takeaways?’ I’m trying to sound upbeat, but my voice starts to shake slightly.

‘Oh, Ol, I’ll still be available. I’m not disappearing off the face of the earth.’

‘I’m excited for you. I am,’ I say, rubbing her arm.

‘Thank you.’ Cec looks so content. ‘C’mon, let’s go downstairs. Ooh, I can make you a posh hot chocolate with my new drinks kit from Liberty. It was a gift from Chris’s mum: she drives me insane, but at least she gives good gifts.’ She winks.

Seated in Cecily’s kitchen, I slurp at my hot chocolate, having eaten all the miniature marshmallows that were floating on top in record time. Suddenly, now feels as good a time as any to broach the break-up.

‘Talking of new beginnings …’ I say, with marshmallows still in my mouth.

‘Oh yeah?’ Cec asks, excitedly.

‘Oh, it’s not a good thing …’

‘Oh right, sorry.’

‘I don’t really even want to say it, to be honest.’

‘Go on …’

‘Jacob and I broke up.’

‘Huh?’ Cec can’t hear as her noisy kettle is making a weird sound and I guess I did have my mouth slightly full.

‘Jacob. And me. We … we split up,’ I say, more loudly this time.

‘No?’ Cec’s eyes widen in shock.

‘Oh god, I don’t want to stress you out; you’re with child.’ I fold my arms on the table then and hang my head.

‘Ol! You’re not stressing me out. When, what, why? When did this happen?’

‘Oh, really recently,’ I lie. ‘I didn’t tell you because, well, I wasn’t sure if it was definitely over. I mean it definitely is now. Haven’t heard a peep for weeks.’

‘Weeks? And you didn’t tell me?’ She looks genuinely hurt.

‘Sorry, I just … It didn’t feel like something I could say over a message, and I didn’t want to be annoying when you’ve been busy preparing for the baby.’

‘Oh fucking hell, Ol. Having a baby doesn’t mean I will forget that everyone else exists.’

‘OK, sorry.’

‘What happened?’ she says, handing me a piece of homemade cake.

‘We just realized that … we want different things.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I look down at my mug. Cec’s Siamese cat Harvey wraps his tail around my leg, as if he knows I need comforting.

I take a breath. ‘Well, I guess we just had one last bad argument that seemed to be the final blow. The last available opportunity to get all those feelings off our chests, but we both knew there was no coming back from that. He accused me of having no emotions, using the people closest to me for story ideas to pitch to the magazine. He would often joke that – when something really terrible or really great happened – he could see the cogs of my brain turning immediately to come up with a headline or caption.’

‘Woah, yes, that is harsh.’

‘Do you think I do that? Mine people for their stories, for .dot?’

‘Not really. Not in a malicious way, anyway. You write what you know.’

‘Exactly. He complained a lot about how I was never truly “in the moment” or “living my life”. He started sounding like a Buddhist monk and it really started to piss me off.’

‘It does sound a bit smug.’

‘Very smug! Like, mate, you’re not a bloody guru.’

‘Olive, was there anything else?’ she asks gently. ‘I mean, it sounds like a disagreement, but not something to throw away nine happy years for. Is there something else going on between you two?’

‘Well … actually, yes.’

‘Go on.’

‘He’s ready to have kids,’ I say bluntly.

‘And?’

‘I’m not.’

‘OK,’ she says. ‘And do you know when you might be?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I close my eyes and try to imagine myself as a mother but, for whatever reason, I just can’t.’

‘Each to their own, Ol. I remember when we used to chat about the big “baby” question. We both weren’t sure for a long time.’

‘But then most people move on and decide to do it. I mean, look at you. Can I ask – how did you know, that you and Chris were ready to have a baby?’

‘Hmm, well, I always sort of knew deep down, I think. I thought I’d be a much older mum, though, because I wanted to be a partner in my firm before I did the baby thing. But my body sort of took over and I started obsessing over the idea, I guess. Sometime around the end of last year, I woke up one morning and it was like my body wanted it. Craved it like sugar. Like I didn’t have a choice. It was weird; I was as surprised as you, honestly. Then, you know, it just happened quite quickly.’ Cecily laughs, and runs her hands over her bump.

‘Wow. I just feel like everyone’s always so surprised when I say I don’t think I want kids. Like they’re sad for me.’

‘Babe, it’s your life. I’m proud of you for staying true to yourself even though you must be hurting right now.’

‘Thank you.’ I hug her. I miss her, even though she’s right here.

‘Oh Ol. Let’s put on a film and get the blankets out.’ Cec waddles over to her big wooden cabinet and gets out cosy things like candles, hand cream, room scents and extra cushions. Time to nest. Each moment we have alone together now is a ticking time-bomb before OAP comes. The minute she has this baby, nothing else will matter. She says it will, but it won’t. I’ve already experienced it with Bea: our friendship suffered massively when she had her first baby. We didn’t speak to her or see her for six months, maybe even a year. None of us anticipated how much of a shift it would cause. It was like losing a family member – and in some ways perhaps that triggers me. Cec will have a new love, a deeper love. And that’s the way it should be. But it won’t be the same between us after that. I hug into her closely on the sofa that evening and, when I go to leave later, I linger by the front door awkwardly.

‘The next time I see you, you’ll be … a mum!’ I say.

‘I know, eeeeek! Love you. So nice to see you, Ol. Remember … I’m here if you need me.’ She smiles and hugs me before waving me off – she’s a ball of excitement.

I walk down the street to Barons Court Tube station with tears prickling in my eyes. I’m so happy for Cec, she’ll be a brilliant mum, I know she will. But I can’t help feeling that her moving forwards is just a reminder that I’m only moving back.

I sit on the Tube and get my notepad out, and start writing before my brain even feels connected to my hand. My old drinking buddy, Cec. My wild friend. The one who would always dance on the tables and never wanted to go home. Now, she stays in all the time, she’s pregnant and burns scented candles. But she seems to like her new life, the choices she’s made. So, what do I really want? Perhaps there is a different future out there that I’m taking for granted. I stare into the distance and struggle to re-focus, the baby/no baby dilemma rearing its head.

Pros for having a baby:

1. I’d get invited to stuff more – such as, but not limited to, mothers’ meetings, children’s birthday parties, picnics in the park etc.

2. I would feel part of the gang and not like a total gooseberry (see point one)

3. I would feel this ‘different kind of love’ that people always talk about

4. I would feel more ‘normal’ in my life choices and wouldn’t have to make up fake life milestones at reunions

5. I know what my future would look like ‘on paper’ – and I would feel part of a bigger family unit

6. I could find a way back to Jacob. Maybe

Cons for having a baby:

1. NO SLEEP!! (I LOVE SLEEP)

2. I would be constantly unsure if I truly did actually want the baby – like is it peer pressure? Wouldn’t that be an awful reason to have a baby?

3. Life would be sort of ruined (my bank balance would struggle A LOT)

4. I would feel trapped in general and I wouldn’t be able to put myself first or make spontaneous travel plans

5. Long, stressful, screamy airport visits and flights

6. I could regret it and be one of those anonymous mums on Mumsnet pulling her hair out and saying she wants to give it back

I look down at the list. Six pros, six cons. Oh. Crap. Maybe I’m ‘on the fence’. Am I on the fence?

‘It was around puberty that I became consciously aware that I didn’t want children, and I haven’t changed my mind since.’

Michelle, 27

7
2011

‘Let’s see the ring then!’ I grabbed Bea’s freshly manicured hand. ‘Oh Bea – it’s lush! Absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Thank you, I love it. It’s a bit different I guess!’ The ring was a deep blue sapphire with small diamonds around the outside. ‘Well done Jezza, he nailed it,’ I said.

Bea’s parents were throwing Jeremy and Bea an engagement party dinner at a gorgeous restaurant in Covent Garden. There were about twenty people altogether on a long trestle table, and the restaurant was loud and full of noisy atmosphere. Cec, Isla, Bea and I were there, plus a few other friends, and around ten family members, including Jeremy’s parents and brother. The four of us girls were sitting down one end of the table. Cec had dyed her hair even blonder for the occasion, Bea was wearing a bright headscarf, and Isla was wearing a cashmere beret with her signature fringe poking out. I was wearing a pair of velvet dungarees, hoping they wouldn’t give me thrush. Jeremy was at the other end with his family. I liked the fact that Bea had chosen to sit with us. It was a sign, however small, that she wasn’t quite ‘leaving us’.

‘I’m not doing the whole bridesmaids bullshit, by the way, but will you guys please sleep in the room with me the night before the wedding and we can get ready all together in the morning?’ Bea asked, folding out her napkin.

‘Hell yes,’ Cec said. ‘I’m so excited. Weddings are such fun. What do we wear? Nothing too slutty right?’

‘Whatever you want!’ Bea said.

‘Should we coordinate though?’ Isla asked.

‘Nah! I find it really weird when brides make grown women wear a lame pastel-coloured dress. I wouldn’t want to do that to you,’ Bea laughed, ripping off a piece of sourdough from the bread basket.

‘Such an exciting next step, Bea. I can’t believe you’re getting married,’ Cec said.

‘I know, but marriage changes literally nothing. Just an excuse for a piece of bling on the ol’ finger and a big old knees-up with my favourite people! But it feels so nice to know Jeremy wants all the same things as me. We want to get on with it – build a family, you know?’

‘Yeah, yeah – but it’s also about the party!’ Cec said, excitedly. We all knew Cec was going to go wild – she had been known to lead many a conga around a marquee.

A cold bottle of champagne arrived in a silver cooler, and everyone was poured a glass by a good-looking waiter in a suit. Bea’s mum Sonya tapped a fork on the side of her glass, getting a folded piece of paper out of her pocket to do a little speech.

‘My darling Bea! It makes me so happy to see you blossom, to find so many things that bring you joy. The galleries, your best girlfriends, and – of course – the lovely Jeremy … You have built all of this yourself with your spirit, energy, and the way you summon such positivity into your life. I’m so proud to be your mum.’

I started welling up. Sonya might be a bit woo-woo, but she was right: just knowing that Bea was on her own brilliant path to happiness, and with her best friends very much beside her through it all, was a lovely feeling.

The whole table carried on eating and laughing and sharing anecdotes, clearly the loudest group in the restaurant. Sonya presented Bea and Jeremy with some crystals that would ‘guide their marriage’. We finished our mains, waiters continued topping up our glasses and a giant dessert was brought out, complete with sparklers. We cheered and whooped and Bea and Jeremy waved the sparklers around, smiling the biggest smiles as we all looked on and clapped. The night ended with loud music and dancing on tables, and the restaurant staff seemed to love it just as much as we did, pouring us free shots straight from the bottle into our mouths. Mine and Bea’s song suddenly came on – ‘Red Red Wine’ by UB40 – and we grabbed each other and started singing from the top of our lungs, like we were the only two people in the room.

Even though this was a turn in the road, a new chapter, Bea was still my Bea.

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