Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  Piper sits down and starts picking at a stray petal on the table. ‘Mum’s driving me mad at home; I’ve just got back from a potentially very exciting appointment in London but she thinks I’m wasting my life by not “getting out there and finding a nice chap like your sister”, so I’ve come here to escape.’ She looks up at me with big eyes. ‘Robin, you don’t have a nice chap and you’re OK!’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, look at you! Successful job in something you enjoy, beautiful daughter, lovely little house, freedom, independence – you’re a badass single mum living the dream, doll! I’m stuck at home with moany Mum, still looking for my dream job, despite my best efforts, and actively not looking for a “nice chap” to settle down and be boring with.’

  ‘Hey! I’m not boring,’ protests Lacey.

  ‘You know what I mean. Not boring, but not doing what I want to do. You want to settle down and play happy families.’

  ‘Give it a few years and you’ll yearn for a copy of Country Living and some good upholstery too!’ Lacey says with a grin.

  ‘Please, no! The only thing I want to do right now on good upholstery shouldn’t be talked about in front of little ears!’

  Lacey and Piper laugh and I try to stifle a giggle but change the subject in case those little ears pick up on the excitement and start asking questions. It’ll be the wax salon situation all over again, and Mrs Barnstorm’s blood pressure wouldn’t take it.

  I’m just thrilled that I’m seen as the coolest one in all this. This is exactly what I needed to hear today. ‘Hear that, Lyla? Piper thinks Mummy’s cool! Do you think I’m cool too?’

  ‘Mummy, I think you’ve got yoghurt on your top.’

  Oh.

  FOUR

  STEPPING THROUGH OUR FRONT door at 7 p.m., I wish I’d had the sense to leave a light on before I went out this afternoon. There’s something horribly foreboding about coming home to a dark, silent house. It feels eerie. Despite no evidence of a break-in, while that light is off my brain automatically assumes there is a murderer hiding in the shadows and my heart rate shoots up even higher than the time I was cajoled into a spin class with my boss, Natalie. (Natalie, by the way, goes to the gym every morning at 5.45, so couldn’t understand why I was on the brink of cardiac arrest a mere twenty minutes into the session.)

  Anyway, with the near skill of an octopus, I manage to unlock the door, turn on the hall lamp, put my keys down, drop Lyla’s school bag onto the stairs and dump my phone and keys on the ledge, all while holding a sleeping six-year-old, head on my shoulder, with my right arm. We’d ended up staying at Dovington’s long after closing time and Terri’s departure. The four of us cosied up in the studio and ordered fish and chips. We ate them out of the paper wrapping with the little wooden forks you get in the chip shop, and it was just what the doctor ordered. I know a good, proper mother would have stuck to our healthy Bath, Bed, Story routine. But the thought of coming home to an empty house, cooking alone then sitting by myself for the evening seriously didn’t appeal, so I stayed with them for a bit longer and the company felt good. I would have stayed later if I could have.

  My little sidekick had fallen asleep in the car – I try to ignore the twinge of guilt that I’m the crap mum who selfishly kept her out too late on a school night – and, being careful not to wake her, I carried her in with everything else. It’s a remarkable skill you are gifted with once you become a parent: the ability to hold more than you’d thought possible in your arms in one go.

  It’s time to put my Lyla Blue to bed.

  I used to love this time of night; that special moment at around seven when you clock off from the drudgery of plastic toys, half-eaten fish fingers, pretending to be interested in Peppa Pig and wiping up all manner of bodily fluids, for twelve solid hours, tuck them up in their warm blankets and take a deep breath. You did it. Another day of keeping your child alive (an achievement in itself), and another evening for you to have just one small glass of wine (you won’t have one tomorrow, though; best not make a habit of it). I’d watch trash TV about twenty-somethings having exciting lives like I used to; they go out and snog people and eat worms in jungles. OK, I didn’t do that exactly, but I do like to watch other people do it. The point is, it was my time again. I got my brain back for a while, and it was bliss.

  Lately, though, I haven’t been enjoying the magic hours. I often see friends on Facebook making heartfelt status updates about how their kids are their whole world and how they can’t think of anything they’d love to devote themselves to more. But some days my whole world feels like a huge, dark, empty room, with me and Lyla stood in the corner looking out into the nothing. Does anyone else out there feel like me? I know it’s my job to protect her and love her, and I do, with everything I’ve got, but lately the glass of wine and trash TV aren’t filling up the rest of the dark room as the long nights draw in. I want to offer Lyla so much more than that, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. It plays on my mind.

  After four years of being on my own, the novelty of this ‘me time’ has really dwindled. In the dark January nights, when Lyla was smaller, with fluffy PJs and a fresh new notepad, I’d take a bit of time to write a fantasy list of all the things I want to do in the year ahead. Some of them obtainable, like take Lyla to the seaside for a day, and some a bit more wishful thinking like completely renovate the house or fly off to Vegas. But this January, more than any other, just feels flat. I’ve finally run out of buzz and get-up-and-go, and writing a list of things to do seems pointless. I didn’t even bother buying a new notepad this year. I can’t face looking forward any more than I can face looking back.

  I miss having someone else in the house, even if they’re not sitting or interacting with me; I just miss hearing the sound of another human pottering about. It wasn’t great when Simon was here, but it wasn’t lonely. When he left I was constantly shattered. I’m sure looking after a toddler alone is akin to running a marathon, and each night I’d flop onto the sofa completely exhausted and glad of an evening of nothing. Now, with Lyla at school all day and able to do so much for herself, I have quite a lot of nothing. Nothing for six hours during the day; four hours of play with her when she comes home and then a whole evening of more nothing. The less my body is tired, the more my mind is.

  Amazingly, I manage to heave my sleeping girl up the stairs. When did she get so big? When did my arms get so bloody weak?

  I lay her hot little body on her bed after I’ve pulled back the covers and begin to take off the necessary bits. I unbuckle each navy patent-leather shoe and put them on the baby-pink carpet by her bed; carefully unbutton her tiny grey pleated skirt, gently unstrap the watch she got from my boss Natalie and her husband Martin last Christmas and slowly pull the clips out of her hair. Since she’s already asleep, it seems cruel to wake her up for pyjamas, and so I let her drift further off in her little red school T-shirt. She is so perfect. I’m obviously biased, but when I look at her, even when I search for one, I can’t find a single fault.

  I wonder what goes through her head, and what she understands of the world? Does she pick up on how dysfunctional our lives are, what a crap single mum I’m turning out to be, and how much The Emptiness is consuming me right now? Or am I protecting her enough, shielding her from how hard the world feels to me? Realising that I’m never going to know the answers to these horrible questions, I pull the brushed cotton lilac duvet further up to her neck and give her a kiss on the forehead.

  Downstairs feels a lot better with the lamps on and candles lit. Pouring myself a glass of Malbec is probably not the healthiest idea on a Wednesday night, but I don’t care. Wine helps. It shouldn’t, but it does. Even with Kath, Lacey and Piper in it, today has been grey. Here’s hoping tomorrow will have more to it …

  FIVE

  AFTER SNOOZING MY ALARM for the third time, and realising it’s now gone 7.30 a.m., I get up, take a big breath and resolve that this is going to be a good day. Yesterday was tough. I felt completel
y trapped in The Emptiness, and even though I saw friends and got things done (or Kath got things done on my behalf), I didn’t feel myself. Not today though, oh no! Today is a fresh start, and a chance to make the most of my life and count my blessings. I can’t face another day of feeling as bad as I felt yesterday.

  Robin Wilde, I say to myself in the mirror: something needs to change …

  I can definitely do this.

  Just like Lacey said, I’m as good as everyone else, and today I plan to show the world what I’m made of. Rather than schlepping into school in leggings and an oversized coat, I’m going to release the beauty within and take some pride in myself. (I’m basically just going to pretend I’m Natalie, the most self-assured, successful woman I know. If I follow her lead, I can attain her levels of acing it. Right?)

  Lyla is already awake: she’s a morning person. She sits buidling her Stickle Bricks and playing teachers with her toys; I can hear her instructing them to ‘put the bricks in odd and even piles, please’, patiently waiting for me to lay her uniform out. She gets dressed, brushes her teeth and tells me that today she’d like ‘ninety-ten’ plaits in her hair.

  ‘Ooh, ninety-ten is going to be tricky. I don’t think we have ninety-ten hairbands,’ I reason.

  ‘Make them,’ she demands.

  Jeez, I’m being bullied by a child. What does this say about my life? But no. I’m not going there. Today Lyla and I are going to win!

  ‘Bluebird, I really love how much faith you have in me but maybe we should do just two plaits? We could put ribbons on the bottom and be like Pippi Longstocking!’ I offer, in an overly cheery and high-pitched tone. She surely can’t resist this.

  ‘Who?’

  Oh, yes; sometimes I forget we don’t live in the rose-tinted eighties and read The Secret Seven and suchlike any more.

  ‘Never mind – she’s a character from a story. She has plaits, two plaits, so let’s do that.’

  ‘NINETY-TEN!’ is screamed back at me with a complimentary foot stamp at the same time. Oh my God, I’m raising a monster.

  ‘Lyla! Stop! It’s seven forty-five and we need to leave soon. Let’s do two very beautiful plaits and leave it at that. That’ll look so gorgeous.’

  ‘Storie does lots of plaits,’ she sulks. Good old Storie. Storie is Simon’s new girlfriend. I say ‘new’. It’s been four and a bit years. Of course Storie does lots of plaits. She probably does them while singing to the garden gnomes and fermenting her own urine for face cream.

  ‘Well, I’m Mummy and I’m doing two.’

  Sensing I’m not backing down, she gives up the fight and lets me work two neat French braids all the way to the bottom of her beautifully glossy long brown hair, and stomps off downstairs once I’m finished. Well, isn’t it lovely to feel so valued and appreciated – motherhood is such a gift.

  Once her toast is presented to her in the exact formation she likes (God forbid I’d ever cut it into squares instead of triangles), I nip back upstairs to sort myself out.

  Today is not a day for the usual drudgery, so I pull on my good skinny jeans (not the comfy ones with a worn-thin crotch – why is that bit worn? Is my crotch so fat it rubs when I walk? I should look into that). I pair it with my white Ralph Lauren shirt – the one I bought two years ago in a discount shop and, thanks to the fact that I barely ever wear it, looks brand new and isn’t a faded grey crumpled mess at the bottom of my wardrobe.

  I’m already on to a winner.

  My hair is never going to play ball at 7.55 a.m., so I praise Baby Jesus for the joy of dry shampoo and then put it up in what I consider to be a ‘sleek pony’. When I see models sporting a sleek ponytail I think they look so chic, so effervescent. When I wear one I wonder if it looks like I’m wearing a brown swimming cap with a small plume at the back. Let’s hope for chic and stop overanalysing.

  Make-up time. This is one of the few areas in my life I know I’m good at and feel confident with. Time is of the essence, so I don’t have hours for a full face, but I do have a few minutes for perfectly applied black liquid liner across my lids, a few good coats of mascara, a base of foundation and perfect red lips. (Make-up is something to be eternally grateful for when you’ve woken up with a red-wine-the-night-before complexion). Nothing says ‘I’ve got my shit together’ better than well-applied red lipstick. It’s bold and sexy and as soon as I pout back at my reflection in the mirror, I feel good about myself. It might all be a mask but at least it’s an effective one. And it feels good to be doing something for me.

  We make it all the way to school without any kind of catastrophe. Lyla didn’t trap fingers in doors, zips or seat belt plugs; I remembered her school bag and each and every correct component of her ballet and PE kit, as well as a nourishing lunchbox with proper foods in it like veggie sticks and hummus (not just a sandwich and a ton of things in brightly coloured wrappers). All that, and I look great. Maybe this motherhood deal isn’t as hard as I’ve been making it for myself. Maybe I AM as good as everyone else. To top it all off, we’re on time. We saunter through the gates at 8.50 hand in hand, and I feel overdramatically proud. Good for us.

  Walking up beside us are Finola Brennan with her two children, Honor and Roo. Roo (short for Rupert) is seven already and in Lyla’s class. Three years older than them is Honor. She’s tall and strong and obsessed with the horses and ponies the Brennans keep. Finola is a sturdy sort of mother. She takes no nonsense, and believes in fairness and character-building. I like her a lot and secretly really want her to like me too. I’m also slightly terrified of her.

  Next comes Gillian with Clara, who’s also in Lyla’s class and is a sweet little thing who believes fervently in fairies and magic and unicorns. Gillian seems pleasant enough.

  Finola and Gillian are friends, and strike me as yummy mummy types who went for morning coffee dates in cafés with their babies and who didn’t sit at home, alone, in jogging bottoms and a tangled topknot, resenting the fact that they felt too inferior to go to the mummy groups themselves and make friends.

  ‘Morning!’ I chime in a merry tone, as casually as possible flicking my ponytail off my shoulder in a bid to show off that I’ve brushed AND styled it. Wow, I really do feel great today!

  ‘Morning. Honor! Roo! Go and hang your bags up and then come back for a kiss goodbye,’ Finola orders them briskly.

  ‘Hello! Oh, Clara, poppet, I’ve asked you four times now, can you not pull on my arm like that, you’re really hurting me, darling,’ Gillian pleads timidly with Clara, clearly not having the best morning.

  ‘You want to raise your voice a bit, Gillian. Children are like dogs and respond best to an authoritative tone,’ offers Finola.

  Gillian looks a bit shocked, but thankfully her innate politeness kicks in and she just says to her friend, ‘Oh, er, yes, thank you, Finola, I’ll give that a try next time,’ and blinks quite a lot.

  Lyla sees all the others running for the cloakroom and follows suit, while we mums walk slowly in and stand by the hall doors waiting to walk them through to their form rooms. We always stand here. It’s an unspoken rule that you pick your Foyer Spot on the first day and that’s it for life. If someone were to violate this code of etiquette, all hell would break loose. Where would the now displaced mother stand? Who would she talk to? What if her precious child came looking in that spot and they weren’t there? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I’ve learnt the hard way that there are a lot of unspoken rules to be taken very seriously. Joining the school in Year One instead of Reception was tough for both of us. While Lyla was learning the rules of the classroom and playground, I was tackling the etiquette of the foyer and car park.

  It’s so good to see Lyla running and playing with the others, though I do worry she’s still hovering on the outskirts. I’m hoping that each day, as she settles in further, I can maybe be a bit more pally with these women. They all seem to have their cliques and groups, and aside from my when-I-can-face-it cheery hellos and the odd wave here and there, I�
�ve no idea how to get in.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day today. So good to see a bit of sun shining,’ I offer as a starting point. I’m determined that today I am going to start fitting in. I’m sick of feeling out on the sidelines. My mother always said, ‘You can’t go far wrong with talk of the weather, how well you slept or what you’re cooking for dinner’. Mum clearly has all the bants – in fact, I remember at primary school hanging around at her side at the end of my school day while she talked for England with the other local mums. I’d be dying to go home and hoping she’d stop boasting about her latest Cambridge Front Gardens in Bloom competition win – but in this case, she’s not actually wrong. Weather chat is a winner.

  ‘It’s marvellous. We got all four horses out for a good hack this morning and watched the sun rise.’

  Of course Finola did.

  ‘You do so well to do so much!’ says Gillian. ‘Clara wouldn’t like it if I gave so much of my attention to something else. She still likes to have her special mummy time in my bed in the morning after Paul has left for the City.’

  ‘Aww, I wish Lyla still did that; I’d like the company!’

  Apparently this was the wrong thing to say. Finola and Gillian look at me, then at each other, then both appear stuck for what to say next. Perhaps we’re not supposed to admit we’re so lonely, our children are our friends?

  ‘You look really glamorous today, Robin, are you off somewhere special?’ Gillian asks nicely, conversation inspiration clearly striking.

  ‘Or husband-hunting in Sainsbury’s again!’ I hear Val’s seething voice from behind me. She’s head-to-toe in designer clothing and tottering over on her high-heeled ankle boots smiling to herself (definitely not at me). Valerie Pickering is the worst of the PSMs. Mother to six-year-old Corinthia (who I suspect is a little cow, because they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree) and married to Roger, who’s eleven years her senior, severely balding and absolutely loaded. Val is brutally competitive and, for some reason, hates me. I’ve never done anything at all to her, but not once has she been able to say something to me that wasn’t loaded with sarcasm or an attempt to put me down in front of everyone else. My only form of defence with this woman is to ignore her or, through gritted teeth, play nice and be polite. She makes me feel like shit.