by Emma Gannon
We were in the sixth form at school, and one week, a girl in our class called Charlize suddenly dropped out. The deputy head teacher, Mrs. Paterson, had broken the news to us in assembly. She seemed nervous when reading off her piece of paper, and she kept moving her glasses up her nose as they kept slipping down. “Hi, everyone. Charlize is pregnant and has decided she doesn’t need to finish her A levels,” she said sternly. We were all quite shocked that it had been publicized in this way, such a formal announcement. I’d have expected the school to keep it all hush-hush. The baby was due in a few months, and we were welcome to send gifts or notes to her home address. It was the talk of the classroom for a while. It was widely known that Charlize’s boyfriend, the father of the child, owned a chain of popular hotels in the area and was going to inherit the family business soon, so they would be fine, apparently—financially, at least. It was weird that the finances were such a talking point.
“I can’t believe Charlize is gone!” Bea said, getting a Twix from the common room vending machine. “Never coming back. I really liked her.”
“I know, so sad. She really should finish her exams, don’t you think?” I said.
“I mean, she was in the yearbook as ‘most likely to get pregnant and settle down,’ remember? But I think that was supposed to be ironic . . .” Bea said.
“I don’t see why she has to totally drop out. It’s still good to have some qualifications up your sleeve, isn’t it?”
“Totally. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Her boyfriend is rich as fuck, but you’ve also gotta protect yourself. I personally intend to always have a backup plan.”
“Same,” I said.
“I really, really can’t imagine having a baby,” Bea said, laughing and pushing her stomach out.
“God, me neither,” I said. “Let’s just run away when we’re older, Bea, go off and travel. No boys, no babies. Can we just make sure we stick together, whatever happens?”
“One hundred percent,” Bea said, linking arms with me and pulling me tightly towards her.
When I got home, I called Bea from our home landline. This is what happened most days: we spent all day together at school and then called each other every night. For hours. My mum was often totally baffled that we never seemed to run out of things to say. I liked to sit inside my wardrobe, nestled among my clothes, and chat to her in there. It had been my cozy phone spot for years.
“Did your parents get a letter about the Charlize sitch?” I asked.
“Yeah, they seemed quite laid back about it! Said it’s lovely news. Bit of a weird reaction, really. What about your mum?” Bea said while chewing a piece of gum.
“She went mental,” I laughed nervously. “Said I shouldn’t be hanging out with boys. Started quizzing me about what I get up to. She full-on panicked.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. She started drilling into me how much pregnancy and kids will screw everything up. Explained to me all the different ways Charlize’s life is ruined. Which was . . . nice,” I said.
My mum’s reaction had shaken me, how angry she was. But I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t washed over me too. What was happening to Charlize was so alien, unfathomable. But it wasn’t just the topic of common room gossip—it was affecting someone else’s actual life.
Part Two
“I’ve grown apart from friends who have had kids, although I do have one friend that has a kid who I’m still close with.”
Kelly, 40
12
2019
I am working in the sky today, traveling on a flight back from LA, using the free onboard Wi-Fi. I often have to fly there for work, but the trips are never long enough—which can actually be a good thing because I never fully adjust to the time zone and can’t get too jet-lagged. I had to oversee a cover shoot for the first edition of the new ungraded print version of .dot, which just meant checking everyone knew what they were doing and then going back to my hotel room to order room service on the company card.
I love the freedom that these trips bring me. I feel a sense of purpose—I love the feeling of being needed by the team. I love the impromptu nature of my life—all I need is my laptop and to chuck a pair of underwear in a tote bag, and I can work from anywhere; any hotel room or hotel lobby, preferably with G&T in hand. I know that this is the part that could earn me the stereotypical “footloose and fancy-free childless friend!” label, which I suppose is, to some extent, true. Weirdly, though, one of the hardest bits about the breakup with Jacob has been that I have no one to text when the flight lands on work trips. I still go to text him when the wheels of the plane hit the runway, to tell him I’m safe; it’s still a reflex. That’s the strange thing about grief—you often have to remind yourself it happened. Even the little things still bring Jacob to mind; the smell of his aftershave still seems to linger in the bathroom sometimes. I don’t know if I’m fabricating senses from memory or if I really can smell him. The other day I spotted one of his old sports socks under the bed. The sofa seems so much bigger and lonelier with just me on it. I now sleep in the middle of the bed, instead of the one side I’d slept on for years. The bills and letters are still addressed to us both. The money situation is really starting to worry me now too—instead of £750 each month for rent, I have to pay the full £1,500 now. I will either have to push for another pay raise at work or get a housemate soon. I don’t really want someone else in the flat because I love lounging around naked under my dressing gown, ordering takeaways.
Society rewards couples so much. Life is just so much easier in a couple. Cheaper, easier, more logical: take couple-discounted train tickets, for example, or splitting bills, or tax benefits! It’s also someone to share the mental load of household admin, someone to share the driving with on a long journey, someone to share a holiday with and be a plus-one to boring parties and weddings. I glare at the couple in the seats next to me; they keep nudging my laptop while snuggling into each other, making the most disgusting slurpy kissing noises. I actually can’t believe I was one of those smug couples for so long.
I check the time, and I still have another two hours of this flight left. I ask the stewardess for another mini white wine. Then, my phone pings. A WhatsApp from Mum.
Jacob has been in touch with me darling. Shall I 4WRD MSG 2 U?
MUM x
I message back immediately.
Me: WHAT?
Mum: One second darling, I’m just pouring myself a cup of tea.
I feel the fury burning in my chest and take a moment to try to calm myself down. This isn’t her fault. The fact that she is the most infuriating woman on the planet to me—also not her fault.
Mum: Sorry. Here now. Just needed to put tea bag in bin. Yes, darling, he wants me to pass on a MSG. He says you’ve blocked him and no MSGS are getting through?
Me: Yes, I did block him Mum.
(I didn’t want to drunk-dial him.)
Mum: He’s been in touch with me quite a lot over the past few weeks. Asking me this & that.
(He what???)
Me: Oh my god Mum, what has he said?
She doesn’t reply for a minute or two.
I wait.
Me: Mumm????
Mum: I didn’t want to disturb U with some of the other messages. I did tell him to stop, and to not think about going around to UR flat. But this time, the boy seems a bit desperate, Olivia.
I hate it when my mum calls me Olivia. Yes, it’s technically my full name on my birth certificate, but I hate it. I am Olive. By refusing to call me Olive, she refuses to embrace who I am. I don’t have time to call her out on it. I can’t help but feel a sense of relief from this news, a surge of happiness. He wanted to visit the flat? This makes me feel ... weirdly ... better.
Me: Jesus. Can’t believe you didn’t tell me all this. Yes you can send on the message, Mum.
Mum: How do I do it, dar
ling? I’m just putting on my glasses.
Me: Copy and paste it, Mum.
Mum: How?
Me: Highlight the text with your finger. Then copy. Then open up my text and paste it.
Another few minutes pass.
There is a long, long pause. No typing.
Mum: Oh.
Me: What?
Mum: I just copied and pasted it back 2 Jacob.
Me: MUM. I CAN’T COPE WITH YOU.
Mum: Sorry darling! He won’t know! I’m sure he’ll just ignore it.
Me: To be fair, he’ll probably just think you’re being a weirdo with technology, which is the case.
Me: Mum???
Mum: Yes.
Me: Send me the text!!!
Mum: I am doing it.
Me: God . . . hurry up.
I immediately feel bad and add “Love you.”
Eventually, my phone pings again. She must have finally figured it out. I start fidgeting, flicking through the pages of my book, and then fiddle with my seat tray, annoying the passenger in front who keeps grunting. I sit on my phone so I can’t look. I’m good at distracting myself on the internet. I’ll do that. I put some searches into YouTube.
Why did Geri Halliwell leave the Spice Girls?
Best moments of Gavin and Stacey
A look inside Mandy Moore’s new multimillion-dollar LA home
Can you be allergic to sperm?
Am I depressed or just lazy?
Are we in the Matrix?
Oh fuck off Clearblue adverts.
I look for further distraction. I’m not ready to look at Jacob’s message just yet. My journalist instinct takes me to Twitter, and I scroll and scroll, immediately reminded what a bizarre place it is.
@leana_scott
Young people, stop saying YOU’RE TIRED. I get major mum rage when they moan about being tired. YOU ARE NOT TIRED, I’M TIRED, PARENTS ARE TIRED.
@writer_kate
Please DM me if you know anyone that has fallen in love with an inanimate object. Better still, got married to it. E.g. a brick wall. Thanks all #journorequest
@__colin01
Never make eye contact with someone while eating a banana. JUST DID THO lol.
@Jane_At_TheDOT
This article is fucking disturbing. Women: read, share, be mortified. This is the world we still live in.
I click on the link to the article that Jane has shared. My fingers tremble as the page loads. Maybe I’ve drunk too much coffee.
Of course, it’s about motherhood. Everything. Conversations with friends, overhearing strangers’ discussions, seeing strollers and “Baby on Board” badges everywhere, and it’s the same on the internet and in the news. It’s like when you learn a new word and you then start seeing it everywhere. The more I panic about being abnormal, the more I think about it, and the more I see babies everywhere. I’m horrified to find that I’m reading an article about a state in America that wants to make it mandatory for women to have a baby. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Republicans, empowered by the Supreme Court, move aggressively toward forcing childbirth on women.”
Have you ever seen a more frightening headline? I suddenly feel so lucky: to know that I personally would have the money, emotional support, and family network to get an abortion if I needed to. I imagine women without the same rights as me, who for many different reasons might not want a baby but are forced to have it regardless. They have nowhere to turn, and it’s expensive and long-winded to find a solution. Despite my disgust, the journalist in me forces me to keep reading: “In some states in America, if you want to have an abortion, even if it is only a few weeks in, they make you name it, and bury it.” I feel a wave of sadness and anger ripple throughout my entire body. I read a quote in the article from a (surprisingly female) senator, and then read it again and again, letting the words haunt me as my chest starts to tighten:
Motherhood isn’t easy but it’s necessary.
Motherhood isn’t easy but it’s necessary.
Motherhood isn’t easy but it’s necessary.
Motherhood isn’t easy but it’s necessary.
My eyes are going blurry from looking at my laptop for so long. I look around and realize that the lights are all off in the cabin, the people around me sleeping uncomfortably in their seats. I pick up my phone and stare at the text message from Mum. Okay, okay, I need to face this now.
I breathe in sharply and click “read.”
HERE IS THE JACOB MSG 4 U, BELOW—LUV MUM.
Hi Olive,
It’s Jacob ... Hope you’re well.
I’m sorry for messaging. I’ve really tried not to, I promise.
I really really need to talk though. Please.
I was wondering if you’re around tomorrow afternoon?
I can’t stop thinking about our last conversation, there’s so much left unsaid.
Please let me know asap if you’re about. I can come to the flat, or somewhere near you?
Let me know.
Jacob
Isn’t it strange how ex-boyfriends suddenly become more formal the minute they’re placed in the “ex” category? The inversion of how close we once were. This was the guy who once squeezed the blackheads on my shoulders, and now he’s dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, putting capital letters in all the right places, with a new, blunt sign-off. His message seems strangely urgent. I don’t know what to say. I need time to think. I always longed to be Sabrina the Teenage Witch for this reason, because she could point her finger and freeze time. I want that. Imagine freezing time for an hour or two so you could sort your shit out. If I could have some time away from work, my phone, my responsibilities to just think, maybe all of this would be easier. I glance back down at my phone. I know I owe Jacob a reply. I stroke my phone screen pensively, and hesitate. I write out the text slowly.
Yes, pick a place and I’ll meet you there.
Olive.
I hover my finger over the send button. I reread it a few times. I wait a few more seconds. 1–2–3 ... Sent.
“Everybody with a womb doesn’t have to have a child any more than everybody with vocal cords has to be an opera singer.”
Gloria Steinem, Chelsea Lately, October 2011
13
2017
It was Friday night. Jacob and I both got home from work around 6:30 p.m. That was early for me; Gill loved to dump last-minute work on me in the afternoon. Jacob went to the gym (we have a small one downstairs in our building), and while he did that I wrote ten pages of the weird crime novel I was experimenting with in front of the TV. It’s called Blue Assassin, and centers around a kidnapped dolphin: Splash meets Killing Eve. I was typing, deleting, typing, deleting. I heard the lock turn in the door, and Jacob appeared, huffing and all sweaty from an intense session. He came into the living room, planted a kiss on my lips, and sat down next to me.
“Jacob! Don’t sit on the sofa when you’re gross.”
“It’s only a bit of sweat. You love smelling my sweaty armpits,” he said, laughing.
“Go and have a shower before you sit down; this sofa cost us an arm and a leg. You stink!”
He tried to give me a cuddle, and I jokily tried to push him away.
“Come in the shower with me,” he whispered in my ear and took my hand. I followed him into the bathroom, enjoying the feeling of being wanted by him.
He stripped off. We both got in the shower. We put on some music, shampooed each other’s hair, our faces sliding off each other as we kissed, and then we wrapped each other in huge bathroom towels that had been heated up on the radiator. I enjoyed that warmth of knowing someone else’s body so well. Every nook and cranny. He nodded to the bedroom. We’d done this hundreds of times, of course. From the shower to the bedroom. But that time I freaked out—majorly. These episodes were turning i
nto a bit of a habit, and I think Jacob had started to notice. On the surface, I didn’t know why. But then I unpicked it a bit, and I figured out exactly what it was. I had just come off my contraceptive pill because it wasn’t “agreeing” with me. The side effects were so aggressive: major pimples, mood swings, couldn’t fit into my clothes anymore. I felt as if I’d had a personality transplant, and I didn’t like the idea of not behaving like myself. He walked out into the bedroom, and I followed him.
“You’ve been a bit . . . off lately, Ol. Are you okay?” he said, turning on his feet.
“Have I? Since I came off the pill to change to the other one, I do feel a bit weird.”
“You said it was being on the pill that made you act weird, though,” Jacob laughed.
Why wouldn’t he understand that being on the pill and off the pill and in between the pill all means I have an excuse to act totally loopy?
“Please don’t make me explain my behavior, J. My body is confused right now, as I am fucking around with all these different pills. I find it so unfair that women have to go through all this palaver. Men don’t have to inject their bodies with all these bloody hormones.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just got freaked out the other day because I read that the pill I was just on has given a load of women blood clots and one woman died recently from it. There’s just always something to worry about.”
“You sound like you’re very anxious again at the moment.”
“Maybe I always am.”
I have issues with the pill, and I am also allergic to latex, so no condoms for me. I was floating around in no-man’s-land, in no-contraception limbo.
“Does this mean we can’t have sex at the moment?” Jacob asked gently.
