The Impossible Story of Olive In Love Read online

  ‘Olive! Olive!’

  Tom is calling to me but I can’t stop. I’ve stuffed it up. Completely stuffed it up. Bridget is going to tell everyone, Tom’s family will think he’s gone crazy. But there was a girl there! I can hear him insisting. Honestly! You’ve got to believe me, there was a girl!

  There’s no way this can work.

  I consider hurling myself into the harbour, letting myself sink below the surface in a total Virginia Woolf move. But it’s too shallow here and the water stinks of diesel fumes. What a way to go. Besides, there’s no way I’d kill myself, especially not over a guy. I’m not that pathetic and I’m not insane—yet.

  Tom catches up to me, grabs my shoulders and spins me toward him. My face by this stage is a mess of tears and hair is stuck to my cheeks. I’ve been crying without even knowing it.

  ‘I’m sorry! I should have told you.’ My tears are blurring my vision but I can still make out how utterly confounded he is by my outburst. ‘I’ll never bother you again, I promise. I’ll leave you alone.’ I look at his face, it’s so beautiful I can’t help myself. ‘But please, can I just …’ I hook my hand around his neck and pull his bewildered face toward me. Reaching up on my toes I press our lips together. I watch Tom’s eyes widen in surprise, then he’s with me, his arms hauling me close. I’m hard against him; my feet leave the ground. I feel the coolness of his tongue and I’m amazed I actually like it; tongues have always seemed so gross. I shove my own in his mouth, wanting more. Tom almost chokes on it.

  He pulls away, laughing. ‘What was that?’

  I am too ecstatic to be offended, I just want to do it again. ‘A kiss?’ I touch my lips, still warm and wet. It was brilliant. I want to dance, I want to sing, I want to do it again and again. I grin as I hop from one leg to the other.

  Tom watches me with amusement. ‘You liked that?’

  I stop bouncing. ‘You didn’t?’

  A smirk escapes a corner of his mouth. ‘Oh, I liked it.’

  I clap my hands and jump up and down. ‘Do you want to do it again?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no, I mean—maybe after you explain what the hell happened back there with Bridget.’

  ‘Can’t we just kiss?’ I sulk. ‘That would be much more fun.’

  He presses a finger against my jutted out bottom lip. ‘After, I promise. But first—we talk.’

  I sulk, as chances are there won’t be an after. But I suppose it’s better that he hears the freak-show news now before his family start quizzing him on his weird behaviour.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But you’ll need to sit down for this.’

  I pull the backpack off his shoulders and unroll the picnic rug, unpacking all the goodies Rose insisted on, including a thermos of her best coffee. He seems to go goo-goo for the stuff.

  I order him to sit down and he looks incredibly pleased. Maybe Rose is onto something. I amuse myself by pretending to be a geisha. I kneel beside him and offer him food and champagne and coffee, all of which he accepts but leaves untouched by his side. I must be missing something. I rifle around in my head thinking, what would the perfect hostess do now? I come up blank.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him. He’s looking so goofy.

  ‘Can’t eat.’

  ‘The food, is it bad?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I keep thinking about …’ He holds out his arms.

  He wants me! I scramble over the food and leap on top of him, knocking him on his back.

  ‘Don’t try to swallow me this time,’ he mutters before our lips meet. I laugh. It chips our teeth together. ‘Christ, Olive,’ he says, laughing too. ‘You need lessons.’ He rolls us over so he’s on top of me, then he’s kissing me so softly it hurts.

  We kiss for a long time. I am complete mush by the time he pulls away. ‘I like your lessons,’ I say, as he rolls off me.

  Tom’s hair is all mussed up, and his eyes are spooky deep. ‘I like giving them.’ He strokes the hair off my face. ‘But we need to talk, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, feeling my elation slipping away.

  We sit up and Tom bites a strawberry. ‘So, what’s going on? Why did you run away from Bridget like that?’

  I hug my knees to my chest, covering my face with my hands. ‘Oh god. It’s bad. Really bad. You’re going to be so freaked out you’ll leave and call the zoo or a madhouse or something.’

  ‘You are mad but I’m not going anywhere. Just tell me.’ He’s raking my hair back over my shoulders.

  It’s abominable how much I’m going to miss him after he leaves me. A ridiculous fact considering I’ve only spent a few hours with him. But what can I do? I can’t hide it any longer. There is zero chance for us, unless I tell him.

  ‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath and look him square in the eye. ‘I’m invisible.’

  ‘Ha. Ha. Sure you are, Sorcha.’

  How could I expect a different response? ‘No really. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who can see me.’

  Tom takes his hand away. ‘This is not even funny, Olive. Tell me the truth or you’re right, I will leave.’

  ‘I am telling the truth,’ I insist. ‘Rose can’t see me. My parents have never seen me …’

  ‘What?’ His face is screwed up in exasperation. It’s like he’s hearing the words but they’re not going in. So I keep talking, desperate for him to understand.

  ‘Of course, everyone can hear me—but only if I talk.’

  Tom is shaken, he’s pulled away from me as if I’m diseased or something. ‘This is bullshit. Why would you say this stuff? I hate how you do this, cause all this drama …’

  I knew it. There is no use. But I push on. ‘I’m not lying Tom, think about it—Bridget just now, the guy in the cinema, even when we met at the club. Didn’t you think it was weird how that girl at the bar stood between us?’

  ‘You’re telling me none of them saw you?’

  ‘None.’

  Tom exhales long and loud through his nose. Then he’s on his feet. I watch him walk away, he stops at the water’s edge, standing there, arms wrapped around himself as he looks out over the harbour.

  I watch him wrestle with the information. Hell. What if he leaves? I can’t lose him. There is something between us. Even if he wasn’t the only person to ever see me, I feel a connection.

  I try to give Tom time to think it over but it’s too hard, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his shoulder blades. ‘Are you okay?’

  He touches my fingers which are laced around his belly. ‘I don’t … I can’t …’ He shakes his head. ‘It can’t be true.’

  I shut my eyes and cling tighter. Oh god. It’s too much for him. ‘Do you need some time? I can leave …’

  Tom turns, pulling me around into his arms. ‘No. Stay,’ he mutters into my hair. ‘I need to understand.’

  I feel a flood of relief. He’s going to give me a chance to explain. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know.’

  He lifts my chin with his fingers, to look me in the eye. ‘Just promise me this isn’t bullshit.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  His eyes intensify. ‘Promise me.’

  I swallow. ‘I wish it was, Tom. But I promise you, I’m invisible. You’re the only person who has ever seen me.’

  He releases me and his eyes shut as he takes a long breath, his hands sweeping back through his hair.

  I’m worried as I watch him. ‘I’m sorry. It’s heavy cac, I know. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.’

  ‘What is cac? You keep saying it.’

  ‘It’s Gaelic for shit.’

  He laughs once. ‘Kind of an understatement,’ he says. ‘Come on, I need coffee.’ He walks back to the picnic rug and I drift behind, sick with nerves. Does he actually believe me? At least he hasn’t run.

  Tom picks up his coffee and sips seriously. ‘So lay it on me. Tell me how it works.’

  ‘You’re not going to like it,’ I warn him, knowing I have to trust him wit
h the whole messed-up Irish gypsy truth. Hopefully he’s more open-minded than Felix.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It involves black magic …’

  He snorts a laugh. ‘Of course it does.’

  I restrain my desire to punch him and start the story. ‘It started with my grandmother, a long time ago in Ireland …’

  Tom’s eyebrows remain raised in astonishment for the entire telling of the tale. When I finish he says, ‘So you’re invisible because you’re cursed?’ I nod and he narrows his eyes at me. ‘If you tease me later for believing you, I’m never going to forgive you.’

  It is the kind of thing I would do. How does he know me so well already? ‘I promise. It’s exactly what my Ma told Rose and me.’

  He releases a heavy sigh. ‘So … your mother was the baby. What did she do to her? The gypsy?’ He has trouble getting the word out, like it tastes bad or something.

  ‘She was born invisible so only her true love could see her.’

  Tom is shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Your Nan should have bolted. The whole thing is crazy.’

  ‘Nan never forgave herself. She moved to America when she was eighteen because her parents wanted her to “get rid” of the invisible baby. They thought it was a hex on their house. Nan raised my Ma in New York, things are kind of crazy there anyway …’

  ‘But your dad could see your mum.’

  ‘Yes. They met in an elevator.’

  I smile because I remember the story as my father told it. He said my Ma rode elevators because she liked to scare people by jabbing them in the ribs at inopportune moments. When my father got into the elevator he liked her cheeky smile. He rode past his floor trying to figure out which level she worked on, but Ma didn’t get off on any floor, she just rode the lift, up and down. When Ma suspected he could see her, she grabbed his hand and they hopped out on the ground floor together. Dad didn’t turn up to work for a week.

  ‘He was her true love …’ I say, still smiling.

  The words linger between us, Tom considering the implications. I push on before it gets heavy. ‘I don’t expect anything from you, I just want to have fun. No pressure, you know.’

  Tom scoffs. ‘Yeah, no pressure.’

  ‘I don’t even know if the Irish stuff is real.’ I hate myself for sounding like Felix but I need to get him to relax about the true love stuff, given the invisible thing is huge enough. ‘Really, what are the possibilities of a gypsy …’

  ‘Probably as possible as being invisible, I’d say.’

  I swallow and hang my head. I try and remind myself this could be going worse. Tom is still here, he hasn’t left me yet.

  ‘So what about Rose? How come everyone can see her?’

  I shrug. ‘We don’t know. Nobody expected me to be invisible. Everyone thought I’d be fine like Rose. My parents had been living with her for five years. It wasn’t easy, invisible mum and all, but they handled it.’ I have to steady myself. ‘Everything fell apart when I turned up.’ I pull at threads from the picnic rug. ‘I’m sure Rose still hates me for it. Dad too.’

  Tom reaches for me and takes my hand. ‘What happened to your mum?’

  I shake my head. I can’t talk about it.

  ‘What about your dad?’

  I definitely can’t talk about Dad. If Tom’s freaked about me, I can’t possibly tell him about what happened to Dad. I shrug. ‘He’s off finding himself. He left when I was fourteen.’

  Tom goes quiet, he lays his cup down and turns to face me. He gives me an embarrassed little smile.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I’m the only one in the whole world who can see you.’

  ‘Um, yeah. I’m the one who told you that.’

  His grin widens. He elbows me. ‘So I’m your true love.’

  I’m so embarrassed. I roll my eyes. ‘Not necessarily,’ I say. ‘You never know who I’ll meet tomorrow.’

  He laughs and falls back so he’s resting on his elbows. He looks way too smug.

  ‘But I’m happy to use you for practice until the real guy comes along,’ I say, reaching under his shirt. Tom grabs my knuckles through the fabric, inhibiting my exploration.

  ‘I must look crazy now, right? To anyone walking past I mean …’

  I pull my hand out and sigh. I knew he was taking this too well. ‘Sorry. I guess I should let you process all this.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ He glances around the park, then back at me. He licks his lips before he says, ‘But maybe we should, you know, go back to your place?’

  My dopaminergic pathways explode with euphoria. He still wants me! I kick over his coffee cup. ‘Race you!’

  CHAPTER

  11

  When I wake Tom has left.

  It must be mid-morning. My bedroom is the artificial dark of a room cowering from the daylight blazing beyond closed blinds. I’m lying tangled in the buttercup yellow sheets Rose bought me on sale. I would never choose buttercup yellow. It’s just wrong for sheets. A gash of mattress is exposed along one side of the bed; somehow the sheets have come untucked. Well, I say somehow but it’s not that much of a mystery.

  Tom fell asleep here last night and we had to share my single mattress. It was a bit of a squeeze but blissful to be lying against his sweat-slicked skin, his elbow jammed into my ribcage, his cavernous snores reverberating around my room.

  I couldn’t help watching him as he slept; it was such a marvel to have him in my bed; to see his eyebrows dancing as he dreamed. They are thick and dark and definitely unruly. When he is an old man they’ll be monstrous. They already need a trim. I’m glad. I despise perfect.

  So now I’m lying here dazed and open and thirsty. So much of me is shattered—self-doubt, delusions, fears—I’m floating in a saline peace. I watch the clock tick around, its face never tiring; thirteen minutes past ten. How long has he been gone? Hours at least. I unravel the sheets from my legs and try and find my robe in the mess on the floor. I step over the junk, pull open the blinds, recoil from the glare and notice a large piece of paper resting on top of my desk. I pick it up.

  Olive.

  The girl is asleep, masses of dark hair falling over the pillow and tucked behind one pixie ear. Her nose is petite, her eyebrows fine and arched, her face is narrow, her chin almost pointy, her cheekbones high and scattered with freckles, sinking into thin, slightly parted lips. Her body is all angles and slumped in perfect peace, she clings to the sheet. The drawing stops a little above my waist; he’s run out of paper.

  He’s been watching me sleep, too.

  A tear hits the drawing before I even know I’m crying and I wipe it off. It smudges the ear.

  ‘Damn.’

  Rose has the radio on in the kitchen, some cheesy pop is playing. I wish she’d grow some taste. I pull my robe tighter and venture through. Rose is fiddling with her coffee machine, surprise, surprise.

  ‘Morning,’ I say.

  ‘She’s alive!’

  Any response I can muster is frozen by this despot smile which appears to have taken over my face.

  ‘And she is silent—holy moly—what has become of her?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘He took it well with the picnic, I’m guessing?’ She is awarding herself the credit but I’m too happy to care.

  ‘He was incredible.’

  ‘Not too incredible, I hope.’ She gives me a disapproving look. ‘I’m not too happy he stayed the night.’

  ‘Rose! What do you think I am? We just kissed for the first time yesterday!’

  ‘He is twenty, Olive.’ She is looking awkward and it’s making me awkward. I don’t like talking to her about this stuff.

  ‘We just fell asleep, okay? Yes, we kissed and stuff but that was it,’ I say. ‘Not that I have to explain myself to you,’ I mutter.

  Rose looks my way, obviously trying to decide whether to pursue it. After a while she shrugs and smiles. ‘I’m happy for you Oli. I can’t tell you how happy.’

  Again I am grin
ning like a fool. ‘I’m so spoony for him, Rose. Completely spoons!’

  Rose smiles. ‘I can tell.’ She starts plugging away at her machine again, milky froth bubbles in the silver jug. ‘So he’s okay with you being—like this?’ She doesn’t like the ‘I’ word either.

  ‘He’s willing to give it a try.’

  ‘That’s so great, so great.’ You can see all this stress lifting off her, like steam rising from a bath. Her posture straightens, she’s a new woman.

  ‘And you told him how it might change him?’ she asks.

  I perch on the stool by the counter and fiddle with a pen. I wish she was referring to how being with me would make him a better man, but she’s not. ‘It didn’t happen to Dad for years. It might never happen to Tom.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him.’

  I get angry. ‘It was hard enough telling him I’m invisible and he’s likely my true love—do you think a boy wants to hear that so quickly?’ I say. Rose looks suitably contrite, so I calm down. ‘I’ll tell him when I’m sure we’re right for each other. What’s the point saying anything if we’re not?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rose says. ‘So, do you think he is “the one”?’

  I can’t help smiling. ‘I hope so. Check it out.’ I drop the paper onto the kitchen counter. She pours the froth into her coffee and walks over, stirring, to take a look.

  ‘Olive!’ She puts the coffee down and picks up the drawing in both hands. She bites her lip as if she’s about to cry. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  ‘But freckles? My lips look kind of thin too.’

  She shakes her head, her eyes haven’t left the paper. ‘Beautiful. Nothing like what I imagined.’

  ‘You thought I’d look like a banshee.’

  ‘Yeah—to match your personality.’ We both laugh. She sticks the drawing under a magnet on the fridge and keeps staring. ‘You look like Nan.’ She says it wistfully. I feel like I’m intruding on her memories but I ask anyway.