‘Olive?’

‘Yes, love?’ I say, zoning back in.

‘I’m scared.’

‘What about?’ I turn to face her. Focused.

‘My periods. They started a few years ago, and now they’ve just … stopped.’ She clutches at her thin silver chain necklace; it’s like she keeps forgetting to breathe.

‘Oh darling, it’s OK.’ I take her hand, which is resting on the table. ‘Have you been to the doctor?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I can come with you.’

‘Do you think it’s … really bad?’

‘We will get you better again. I promise.’

I once read in some ‘advice’ article that it’s important to say ‘we’. It’s important she knows she’s not going to go through this alone. We will get through this.

‘Thanks Olive.’ She hugs me. I can’t believe she’s hugging me.

I feel honoured that she’s opened up to me but now I am responsible for it, and her. Marcus said I only need to tell him when it’s crucial to, and I know that time is now. I really don’t want to screw it up.

34

Life could not be better right now at .dot magazine. Gill has basically hinted that I’m getting promoted because she wants to go on a sabbatical to ‘find herself’ and try Ayahuasca. So that would make me Editor-in-Chief, which is one of the hardest ever promotions to get in this industry, because editors hardly ever leave. They normally have to die first. I am on cloud nine – my absolute dream job is finally mine. For the first time I feel like both sides of my life are evening out. My professional and personal are matching up with my idea of ‘success’. Even my mum was delighted for me when I rang her, understanding the magnitude of it all. The seesaw is finally becoming evenly weighted.

The sun is shining and I am sitting on the .dot rooftop terrace, a recently renovated space that overlooks the London skyline, feeling full to the brim with possibility. It’s a team-building day, but mainly training for junior staff. I have therefore managed to wiggle my way out of it, and there’s no one else up here. I have the terrace to myself. I have just Skyped a creative agency that’s helping us out with some billboards for the big relaunch of .dot. We are plastering bold feminist statements across London’s bus stops and Tubes, which I’m really excited about.

I go to close Skype and realize that Jacob’s icon is still in my contacts – and that he is online. Texting and calling would seem so incredibly personal, but for some reason Skype feels like the right medium through which to message him. Formal, yet friendly, like a softer version of Linkedin. I stand up, with my headphones in and my laptop balancing in my hand. Without taking a moment to think, I press ‘call’.

There is a dialling tone but, after a few minutes, I hang up. No answer. I feel nerves in my stomach, but it’s fine. It could have been an accident – one of the interns playing around on Skype. I turn around to go and sit back down, and then my laptop starts making a noise. He’s calling me back. I make sure my camera isn’t on. I can’t do that.