Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  I’ve noticed a thing about the PSMs (Posh School Mums). They all have their car keys in hand. I mean, they have handbags – very nice soft, slouchy ones with room for a bento box and sensory play pack – but their flashy car keys are always on show. I suspect it’s some kind of status symbol or initiation into their secret Mumarati Club. I look down and I’m clenching my own Nissan Micra keys in my pink, cold, unmanicured fingers. To be fair, my nails are usually in pretty good nick – it’s important for my job that I make a good impression on that score – but lately things have slipped a bit. Still, keys are in hand, though; a girl’s got to try.

  I spend most of my life desperately hoping that Lyla is emotionally and mentally nourished. I’m constantly worried that the split from Simon has in some way irrevocably damaged her. What if one day she finds herself in counselling, talking about how unavailable her dating-website-addicted mother was or how much she wished we’d been outdoors more, holding hands and making daisy chains, like characters from an Enid Blyton book? OK, note to self: remove all traces of Enid Blyton from house and replace with more suitable titles like Jacqueline Wilson’s The Illustrated Mum.

  3.15 p.m., and the foyer doors open. There she is, my little brunette beauty! The children don’t pour out and run eagerly into our arms like at our old school. There are strict security measures. Each child must be signed out and ticked off a clipboard by Mrs Barnstorm, the Head of Pastoral Care. I could do with some bloody pastoral care.

  ‘Hello, Lyla’s Mum!’ Mrs Barnstorm is thin and pointy, like a ferret. She greets us with a clenched-teeth, plastic smile. I don’t have a name any more. None of us do. We birthed children, so exist only to be ‘Tabitha’s Mum’, ‘Natasha’s Mum’ or ‘Ava’s Mum’.

  ‘Hi!’ I reply to Mrs Barnstorm with an overenthusiastic wave – not because she scares me. Oh shit, she’s coming over. OK, fine, she scares me.

  ‘Bit of an issue today, Mum!’, she says condescendingly. ‘Lyla was short of some of her PE kit and so was forced to go out in her ballet socks instead of her gym socks.’

  An expectant pause, and a few heads turn our way.

  ‘Oh. Right. Err … I thought they were in there. I did put them in there.’ Did I? I don’t bloody know. They’re both pairs of white socks.

  ‘You didn’t.’ She returns to her forced smile. ‘It’s important the children have the correct uniform on for their own safety. Gym socks next week please, Mum!’ She ticks Lyla off the clipboard and I’m left with a beetroot-red complexion. Undermined in front of the PSMs. Again. I bet they have drawers full of the correct pairs of socks, all in neat little rows, just waiting to be gently tossed into PE kits and placed lovingly by the door the night before, ready for their easy, breezy school run. I bet they don’t have to ask eighteen times, ‘Have you eaten your cereal? Can you eat up, please? Have you finished your breakfast yet, lovely?’

  Screw it, I’ve got this. The day isn’t over yet.

  A slight setback in motherhood, but hey! It’s character-building.

  * * *

  ONCE WE’RE LOADED INTO the car – you’d be surprised how long it takes to get into a car when you have a six-year-old: there’s the argument about which side they’re sitting on, do your seat belt up, do it up now, do the blimmin’ seat belt up! Can she have Frozen on? Can I bring myself to sit through another rendition of ‘Let It Go’?

  I decide that today, I can’t face going straight home.

  The house is a mess, despite Kath’s best efforts, and all day I haven’t dared look at the new ‘organisation system’ in the kitchen. So, to kill time, we head off to visit Lacey for a chat and some reprieve from the humdrum twosome routine of ‘fun’ games and crafts, fish fingers, bedtime schedule and trash TV. At least Lacey won’t know the difference between PE and ballet socks either.

  Lacey is my oldest, dearest friend. We met when she joined my lower school in lovely Miss Ledge’s class and I was made her Playground Buddy – an esteemed job where you had to take care of someone and make sure they had a friend for the entire break, a role I still haven’t let go of, apparently. She’s the kind of friend I feel so comfortable with that we’re almost sisters. Except that she has an actual sister, who I adore as well.

  Piper is six years younger than us and what my mother would somewhat insensitively call ‘an oopsie baby’. Piper wasn’t a planned addition to the Dovington family, but Tina and Michael always told us they were thrilled with their happy surprise and to give their beautiful doe-eyed daughter a sister.

  Lacey is stunning. A petite 5’ 5” with once-bum-length but now a sensible medium-length curly blonde hair, blue eyes and a size eight waist, she’s like a character from a Californian romcom. She’s married to Karl Hunter – handsome (obviously), 6’ 2”, thick dark hair – who works in the City doing goodness knows what in finance, and last year they had the most beautiful wedding in a barn conversion on the outskirts of Cambridge. Think exposed brick and ash beams; white fairy lights at every turn; candle-filled mason jars; hessian and lace adorning every chair; a sweetie bar with sugary poems about love; the works. They are the most Pinterest-perfect couple I know. They take selfies at sunset with golden light and soft-pink skies; they have a wall painted in chalkboard paint for guests to write messages on in their home, and they regularly nip off for romantic city breaks in Europe without arguing over who should have booked the airport parking. They live in Hopell Village, ten minutes’ drive from my house, which suits me perfectly. With Karl working long hours, Lacey has lots of time for tea and chats. Come the evenings, though, she’s happiest spending time with her husband, catching up on their favourite programmes or planning their next mini-adventure, and I’m on my own again. I don’t blame her; Karl’s great, and I’m glad she has found her soulmate and lives so blissfully. She’s a good one. One of the best, actually.

  Lacey inherited her paternal grandmother’s florist’s, Dovington’s, and runs it with the help of a manager, Terri. Lacey’s life skills are organisation and efficiency. There’s nothing she can’t handle. I sometimes think that if we gave Lacey all of the world’s problems she’d have them solved before most of us had made our to-do list. I don’t think she really needs Terri, but she’s been there since the days of Granny Dovington and loves the place. Lacey is happy to have the help. She calls her life ‘fluid’. If she fancies sitting and chatting to me for three hours while happy, easy-going Terri flits about creating displays and serving customers, she can. If she fancies devoting all of her time to arranging and hosting Floral Wreath or Flower Crown workshops, she does. Since Karl is the main breadwinner and the shop pretty much runs itself (thank you, Terri), Lacey is the first to say she has a good life. Ultimately she wants to be fully settled with a household of children, golden Labradors and Joules jersey dresses, but right now – though she’s working on it – she and Karl are a family of two.

  Sometimes Piper, Lacey’s little sister, swings by to ‘help out’ too. She’s recently graduated, is living with Tina and Michael again and, I suspect, bored. She studied in London at Central Saint Martins and came out with a first in Culture, Curation and Criticism and I think she thought she’d walk straight into the job of her dreams. Like so many graduates, she’s found it’s not that simple, and so right now she’s ‘looking’. She’ll pull something out of the bag; she always does. Probably a very fashionable bag, though. She’s easily the most stylish young woman I know, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in her ‘comfies’ or with a slightly grubby canvas tote slung over her shoulder with a load of old receipts, tissues, lip balm and coins at the bottom. She exists on a higher level than that. Like her sister, she’s gorgeous, but she has an air of mischief that somehow only adds to her appeal. Piper is a total babe. She’s one of those people you want to hate, but as soon as you meet her you’re bowled over by her warmth, charm and wit. You can’t help but love her, a problem many men have fallen victim to. Piper loves the chase, but she’s nowhere near her sister in terms of settling down and having
a family. It’ll be a lucky man that manages to tame her.

  ‘Guess where we’re going, Lylielooblue?’ I ask in my falsest, cheeriest voice as we turn onto the main road. Fake it till you make it, eh? I don’t want her to detect how unenthusiastic I feel for life right now.

  ‘Wacky Warehouse?’ replies her hopeful little voice as I see her dark, almost navy, blue eyes light up and her head bob up at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘No …’ Thank God. There’s nowhere I’d like to be less in the world than at an overstimulating, slightly sticky, giant corrugated iron building on an industrial estate with a million screaming children in ball pits inside. My actual worst nightmare.

  ‘Auntie Kath’s?’

  ‘Not quite!’ I think Kath said something about a meeting with Moira and Alan about The Extension. Gordon four doors down is building without planning permission. Moira is absolutely scandalised and Alan is writing a strongly worded letter to the council. Kath just enjoys a good nosy, so she’s tagging along on their ‘research trip’. The research trip will no doubt be a walk across the estate with Mollie, her golden cavalier, and a good look into Gordon’s garden.

  ‘Your special hairstyle salon so I can play on your phone!’ Oh my God, why does she remember that? One time, one time, I had nobody to look after her and no choice but to take her to the wax salon with me for my appointment. I sat her in the corner and let her play a vibrant ADHD-inducing game just to take her focus away from me having the hair ripped out of my nether regions. I explained it to her as Mummy having a special hairstyle in her grown-up place (not that anyone but me has shown my ‘grown-up place’ any attention in a long while), and there were no further questions. And here we are, seven months on and she’s decided to dig it up and discuss it. I really hope this hasn’t been a topic at story time with Mrs Barnstorm.

  Not wanting to give her any more opportunities to delve into her memory banks, I decide it’s safest to just tell her.

  ‘We’re going to Dovington’s to see Lacey! Won’t that be lovely? I’m sure she’ll find something so fun for you to do, and I can have a little chat with her. What do you think to that?’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  Oh good.

  I’m glad she feels such gratitude for the delightful outings she goes on. Like a top CIA agent, I won’t negotiate with her or bend to her will. I will show her I am a strong force to be reckoned with.

  ‘What if I buy you some Smarties on the way there?’

  ‘OK.’

  THREE

  WE ARRIVE AT DOVINGTON’S to find Terri carefully bringing in flowers in tall white vases, ready to start tidying up for closing time. You can tell that, for Terri, this job is a labour of love. If she weren’t being paid, I suspect she’d still be here every day, tending to the plants, offering advice for their care and making up the most beautiful bouquets.

  ‘Hiya Terri, are you all right?’

  ‘Hello, lovey! Yes, thanks. Look at these wonderful camellias we’ve had in! Aren’t they divine?’ Terri is talking about the blush-pink flowers as if someone has dropped off a box of brand new puppies. ‘Lyla, have you seen these? They’re so delicate, and can you see how they look a little like roses?’

  Lyla pootles over to have a look and a stroke while I have a quick scan round for Lacey. It’s hard to detect anything at first, because the space is crammed with botanical paraphernalia – stacks of plant pots; rotating wire racks holding cards to stick in bouquets with special messages lovingly written on; wall-mounted spools of ribbon in all the colours of the rainbow; and, of course, buckets and buckets of beautifully scented flowers – but she’s not here. She must be in the workshop out the back. This room is my favourite. Unlike the large, wide, front-of-house space with its practical concrete floor and bright lighting, this room is cosy and calm, with mismatched rugs, an electric heater and pretty little lamps dotted about to give a warm glow – the perfect retreat on this cold January night. Originally just a stockroom in the days of Granny Dovington, Lacey has turned it into a welcoming craft space to host small workshops for customers who want to make something incredible out of the flowers. Typically Lacey hosts sedate hen dos for those who want to know how to make floral crowns for the wedding, or groups of well-to-do teenage girls who want to learn how to put together a fresh prom corsage. From time to time Lacey hosts seasonal sessions for making Christmas wreaths or Easter planters, but for the most part, the craft room is our space. We sit around the sturdy giant oak table with cups of tea and we chat, laugh, cry and everything in between. And the real beauty of this space is that it’s a creative heaven for Lyla.

  Lacey is like an aunt to Lyla and loves her unconditionally. They’re very easy around each other and hold no airs or graces. Lyla comes in, plops herself down by the smeared, could-do-with-a-wash window and asks politely for the biscuit tin. I always feel a pang of pride when I hear her use good manners. At least I’m doing something right! Out come the custard creams, out come the felt tips and left over bouquet wrapping paper and many a masterpiece is born. Here and there Lacey will let Lyla deadhead wilting blooms or make a floral crown, and so quite often our little house is strewn with flowery artefacts from the shop.

  Thanks to the wobbly start, my telling off at school and the fact it’s such a miserable, sleety winter’s day, today feels especially bleak so it’s with relief that (after the obligatory rummage around the tin for a good biscuit and a flick of the switch on the kettle) we sit down to business.

  ‘I’m a shit mum, Lacey.’ I say as quietly as I can.

  ‘What? No you’re not,’ she says, gesturing to a completely engrossed-in-colouring Lyla. ‘Look at her! She’s great!’

  ‘I ballsed up her PE kit today and was completely dressed down in front of all the other mums. They already think I’m a mess. This is going to tip them over the edge.’

  ‘They don’t think you’re a mess! They think you’re the same as them, I bet. Everyone has bad days, Robin.’

  ‘Lacey, I love you, but no, you’re so wrong. One mum saw me getting out of my car with my coat over my pyjama top just before Christmas and said, “In a bit of a rush this morning?” in the most condescending tone I’ve ever heard. If snobbery were an Olympic sport, these women would be winning gold medals. What makes it worse is that I wasn’t even in a rush, I just couldn’t see the point in making myself look nice or putting in the effort because all I was going to do afterwards was go home, clean the worktops and watch a documentary about weird cults in America.’

  ‘Why do you care about what they think? Surely you don’t give a shit? They don’t know you. They don’t know how funny or caring or talented you are. They’re not anyone special in your life, so they don’t deserve such a high opinion from you!’

  ‘I don’t know. I just want to be a good mum. I’m so worried I made the wrong choice moving her there. I don’t think she’s feeling at all settled yet. I’m not helping her, am I? I thought this would get easier, but it’s getting harder,’ I take a big breath and look at my perfect child. Her dark brown, silky hair is tumbling down her shoulders and onto her arms while she daintily draws the bricks of a house with Lacey’s pens. Her skin, like that of most little girls, is perfect. Not a single spot or blemish. Her lashes are long and dark and create the perfect frame around those eyes that get me every time she looks into mine. She’s neither the shortest nor tallest in her class, but she sits slumped just now and looks smaller and more delicate than she is. Every time I take a moment to really consider her, I feel such a mixture of emotions. I love her and want to protect her and nurture her and keep her close and not damage her or ruin her zest for life or give her insecurities by making her do PE in ballet socks, or all of the other things that whirl through my tired brain on a regular basis. The Emptiness feels almost overwhelming right now.

  Just as Lacey reaches over to squeeze my hand and I’m letting my mind fill with all the ways I’m failing as a parent (is her slumped posture a confidence issue she’s inadvertently picked
up from me not being forthright with people and generally shying away?) Piper strides in like someone out of Vogue. She’s wearing tan skintight jodhpurs (I don’t think she’s ever been riding in her entire life), knee-high chocolate-brown flat boots, a soft cream cashmere jumper and her golden hair in a high ponytail. She is the walking embodiment of country chic perfection. I look down at my fraying jeans and see a little stain from the yoghurt I spilt earlier. Cool.

  ‘Hey Bister,’ Piper says to Lacey, walking towards the biscuit tin and giving Lyla a cuddle on her way past. Lyla takes the cuddle with one hand, so used to the women in her life loving her like this, and carries on drawing with the other.

  ‘Hello Lister,’ Lacey replies.

  Secretly I wish I had a big sister or little sister to do the ‘bister’/‘lister’ thing with. Although Lacey is my very best friend in all the world, I know I can’t compete with the bond she and Piper have and will never get my own special greeting like that. But then I think how lucky I am to have these two in my life, blood relations or otherwise.