Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  ‘You are looking very glamorous today,’ she laughs. She’s clever; she’s saying it like a compliment but I can feel the sting in it.

  I’m not going to let her dampen my spirits. After that miserable solo night on the sofa yesterday, I’ve made a bloody good effort, and I’m not going to be derailed.

  ‘Yep. Thought I’d treat myself to a bit of me time this morning,’ I say as curtly as possible.

  ‘Ahh, yes. Being on your own you must have quite a lot of “me time” to spend dolling yourself up, eh?’

  Wow. That was a low blow. I’m taken aback for a few seconds.

  To my surprise, I catch Finola puffing her chest out and gearing up to rescue me. ‘Valerie, lovely to see you! Edgar tells me Roger has been staying in Huntingdon since Christmas. I expect you’re rather enjoying an increase in “me time” too, aren’t you?’

  Val’s eyes widen in shock and Finola continues to give her a steely glare until Gillian meekly chips in, breaking the tension. ‘That’s a lovely shade of lipstick, Robin,’ she says.

  I’m so overcome by how perfect Finola and Gillian were just then that I’m blinking back tears. It’s been a long time since someone stood up for me like that.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me what make it is so I can pick some up myself,’ continues Gillian. ‘You look really nice.’

  Before I can thank them both, the bell rings and the foyer descends into chaos. All the children zip back to us like magnets; mothers are rushing through to classrooms issuing orders to their little cherubs as if they’ll never see them again. ‘Make sure you wear your gloves!’ ‘Your judo kit is in the blue bag!’ ‘Don’t you dare fight with Hugo today!’ And we’re swept away in the commotion before Val has a chance to retaliate to Finola’s revealing shutdown. I’m sure that won’t be the end of it; it never is with Val, but for now I’m grateful not to have to deal with her. And still a bit in shock that Finola stood up for me … Maybe she’s not as much of a cold fish as I thought.

  Once the children are settled with their oh-so-smiley teachers (how do they manage to be that happy at 9 a.m.?), we make our way out to the car park. Val is nowhere to be seen. She’s obviously shot off ahead of us.

  ‘Thanks, Finola, I didn’t know what to say to her. I can never think of something in the moment. I really appreciate you stepping in there.’

  ‘Not a problem, Robin. Women like that are like pack dogs; once they know who’s boss, they soon settle down.’

  In Finola’s world, everyone is like a dog or a horse.

  ‘Edgar and I are always available for a good canter if you want to get some air in your lungs of a morning. Does you a world of good.’

  ‘Thanks, Finola. Thank you,’ I say, and walk off swiftly in the direction of my car before she sees the tears in my eyes. The thought of me going for a ‘good canter’ on a horse is ridiculous, but the offer was there and that felt good.

  ONCE HOME, I DOUBLE-CHECK that I’ve got everything ready for next week’s job on the set of the fruit-infused tea commercial. Mostly, The Emptiness doesn’t touch my job. The occassional jobs I’ve been doing have, more and more, been like a holiday for my brain. Instead of feeling stuck and sad, I feel like I can run wild with ideas in a way I can’t in my mummy life.

  After five more hours of ‘research’ (the lemon tea needs a ‘fresh and zesty’ model, whereas the berry flavours need the model to look ‘warm and inviting’), which has consisted of 30 per cent work-related internet browsing, 20 per cent getting lost down a YouTube wormhole of girls showing what they bought on their latest shopping sprees and 50 per cent clicking on every pointless link or humble-brag post friends have shared on Facebook. I don’t know why I even bother going on Facebook, it’s so depressing. Everyone I know is planning a wedding with huge lit-up marquees, showing their baby off in its new John Lewis matching outfit or posing for photos on the beach with their tanned boyfriend. Clicking on and scrolling through all this is like self-torture. Fortunately I can’t dwell too long, because before I know it it’s time to collect Lyla and click back into Mummy Mode.

  The pickup goes smoothly; Val is nowhere in sight but instead sends her mother (an older, bonier version of her) for Corinthia. She looks down her nose at me – but I’m not going to let it bother me, at least now I see where Val gets it from. I drive Lyla home for dinner. I don’t yet feel completely drained, which is better than most days, so I seize the moment and steam some veggies, grill some chicken, throw a few alphabet-shaped chips in the oven (I was doing so well but fell at the final nutrition hurdle) and sit down with Lyla to eat.

  ‘Mmmm, Mummy, look at this dinner! It’s like we’re in a restaurant tonight, isn’t it? The Mummy and Lyla Restaurant!’

  I could cry. She didn’t say anything yesterday when it was Smarties before fish and chips, but today, with chicken and veg, she’s a happier kiddo. This is full-on validation.

  ‘It is! Let’s cheers to that, my Lylielooblue!’

  We clink our glasses, spend the evening snuggling on the sofa with books, BunBunBear, an array of Stickle Bricks stuck in my side, CBeebies bedtime hour and a good feeling in my heart. A swish of lipstick really does make all the difference. Note to self: tomorrow it’s the boldest, brightest red I own. It’s going to be a big day.

  SIX

  TODAY, I’M ASISSTING my boss, Natalie Wood, on my first big job and I can’t afford to mess it up. After I’ve dropped Lyla off at Early Risers Club (an hour earlier drop-off for parents who work or who just want to have sixty minutes’ more reprieve in their lives, so no PSMs at all today), I have to race home to gather up my kit and make sure my face looks socially acceptable and not like a three-week-old potato. For some reason, I’m having a wobble about going to work today. I haven’t been on a job since just before Christmas, and insecurity is creeping in.That just leaves space for The Emptiness to rear its ugly head. Not today, please not today!

  Natalie and I need to be at the studio by eleven to help set up. Simon is collecting Lyla from school today, so after a stern word with myself I decide I feel quite excited about get stuck in with some adult time and doing something I’m good at.

  Natalie arrives at ten thirty sharp and waits on the drive for me to come out with my kit. I hate to make her wait, so I’m ready at the door with my shoes on as if I’m a cheeky little six-year-old waiting to be taken out for ice cream. Natalie’s silver Range Rover is spacious and dust-free, quite the opposite to my messy little Micra. I throw my case in the giant boot, jump in and we drive straight off. Even though we’ve known each other for four years, it would be weird if she came into my house. Our relationship isn’t like that. I’ve been to her trendy three-storey townhouse a couple of times to drop bits of kit off that have been mixed up in our cases, but never just to socialise. Natalie always says it’s important to have boundaries, and she’s so right. As she is about everything! We work together and respect each other, and it just works.

  Honestly, Natalie astounds me. First, she’s absolutely gorgeous. Imagine Michelle Obama but even more gracious and kind. Dark brown skin and shoulder-length jet-black hair that I have seen in so many styles, each one perfectly suiting her; deep brown eyes that exude wisdom and lips so full she can wear any shade and look sensational. She always looks immaculate. Second, she has three perfect teenage sons, Nathan, Daniel and Maxwell, who are all doing amazingly at school and university; a phenomenal husband in Martin, who has happily let his career take a back seat and cared for the boys while she established and grew the agency; and she totally rocks her job. She started straight out of school on the make-up counters at Debenhams, then went freelance as a make-up artist and then, just before her first son, Nathan, was born, set up the agency, MADE IT. She’s calm and generous, and ambitious. Natalie is basically a goddess. I’ve no idea how she does it, but she’s the woman who has it all. I want to learn from her. Oh, fuck it, I want to be her!

  I met her through Lacey. Martin used to work with Karl in the City (before he left to support Nata
lie and handle the childcare), and after my split with Simon, Lacey put in a good word so I could pick up a few agency jobs here and there. At first they were very sporadic, but that’s exactly what I needed. With a two-year-old at my feet almost every day, it was near impossible to work solidly and I could only ask Kath to do so much. The times I did take on jobs, though, were brilliant. I kept my foot in the door, had some time talking with adults and, most importantly, kept that creative outlet open. Three years later, here I am – assisting the agency director on some exciting shoots.

  We arrive on set early, and while Natalie confidently walks over to talk to the photographer about his creative vision, I lay out all the kit: apparently the director now wants the models’ hair to embody the movement of the tea as it’s poured into the cups. I can see the hairstylists, Chloe and Jodi, at their station frantically searching through Instagram for ideas now that the pre-agreed tight, clean bun has been thrown out the window.

  We decide that deep berry-coloured eyeliner and a lot of bronzer seems to be the look that says ‘fruit tea’ on a human face. Initially they wanted to go for a deep (sludgy) brown on the lips, but after an under-the-breath comment about ‘shit for lips’ from a runner (who won’t be invited back for the next shoot), the seed of doubt was sown in the directors’ minds and a nude gloss was applied instead.

  The eight models (eight flavours of tea to be embodied, after all) glide in and we begin. We work together seamlessly, having danced this dance many a time before. I’m pumped that Natalie liked the ideas I put forward from my research yesterday. Today she askes me to prep each face with moisturiser, serum, primer and foundation, before she takes over to complete with eyeliners, shadows, brows, lashes and lips.

  As the models are called on set, we stand back behind the soft box lights and gigantic tripods ready to be called on for any touch-ups. This is a lovely part of any working day. Less intense, time for a bit of conversation while watching photographers make their magic.

  Natalie leans over and whispers. ‘How did Lyla get on with her horse riding?’

  My heart sinks. In a move I now think Finola would approve of, I’d taken Lyla, before Christmas, to the local stables for her first ride only to find Lyla completely detests the sport (before the move to Hesgrove I’d never have considered putting Lyla on a horse, but I was so determined she’d fit in). I don’t know exactly what motivated her to shout very loudly as we arrived, ‘I bloody hate ponies! I want to go home!’ and then start to cry, but I was mortified. One, that we’d offended the stable owners, and two, that she’d sworn. I mumbled something about her hearing it from her dad (they’ll never know) and left at speed, red-faced and forty quid – forty quid! – down.

  ‘Oh … er … Really great, thank you! She loved it!’

  ‘Do you think you’ll keep it up?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Lyla has such a lovely bond with animals,’ I lie. I probably won’t admit to my boss that my child couldn’t give a shit about the natural world and that I worry it’s because she’s been emotionally stunted by her father leaving me when she was a baby.

  ‘Well, you’ll do better than me, then. I used to try and take Nathan before Daniel came along, but no matter what I did, he didn’t care for it. He cried and cried. We quickly gave up and I realised I was far better off leaving him to play at his crèche while I got some work done than I was forcing him to develop an unwanted bond with a pony.’

  Oh. Could have just told her the truth there. I keep forgetting she’s normal and not actually Superwoman – or a PSM.

  ‘How’s Nathan getting on at Oxford?’ Naturally Natalie’s eldest son is in his second year at a top university studying Engineering Science.

  ‘Really well, he still loves it! Daniel’s been looking into a rugby scholarship for next year, so it’s all go. Four more years and Maxwell will fly the nest, so it’ll just be me and Martin left. We’re thinking about doing some travelling together,’ she replies calmly and smoothly, and without a hint of arrogance or smugness.

  ‘Oh, how nice. That’ll be lovely. And well done to Daniel.’ God, she’s lucky. Three high-achieving boys and a fit husband to go travelling with! I can’t wait to grow up and be a Natalie.

  Maybe sensing my silent wishes, she straightens up to prepare for the next touch-ups and says, kindly: ‘Just you wait till Lyla grows up and heads off. You’ll look back on these days of shoots and school runs and miss them. Come on, let’s tackle these touch-ups.’

  As we pack up I feel good about my day. For the first time in a long while I think I’ve done well. The Emptiness didn’t come and claim me. It’s a refreshing change not to feel like I’m blundering through my life, but actually controlling it.

  I don’t know how I’ll do it yet, but as we drive home I resolve I’m going to find a way to make better use of my skills.

  SEVEN

  FEBRUARY

  I HATE FEBRUARY. I thought I’d feel better once January was out of the way, but I don’t. If I’m honest, I feel a little scared that I don’t. My face is a constant mask of happiness (I chat in jolly tones at work and smile at the girl at the supermarket checkout and sing songs to Lyla in the car), but deep down I feel flat. Very, very flat.

  For the last few years I’ve done everything alone. Shopped alone, spent evenings alone, planned outings for Lyla alone, driven everywhere alone, paid bills alone, slept alone. After a while that takes its toll. I feel like nobody is on my team and nobody has my back. I know there are Lacey and Kath, and Mum and Dad if I really need them, but it’s not the same. There’s nobody to wake up next to and roll over to give a cuddle to. Nobody of my own to have drinks and Chinese takeaway with when Lyla is with Simon. Nobody to share my happy moments or deepest worries with, and sometimes, when it’s very late at night and the house is very still, I wonder if there will ever be anyone at all. Valentine’s Day is approaching. Every time I walk into a shop I’m faced with a sea of love-themed paraphernalia reminding me that I won’t be waking up to a teddy and a red rose.

  Don’t get me wrong; I know there are people out there who have a much harder life, but I feel isolated. Everything I do is alone, or as leader of the Robin and Lyla Club, and that gets a bit hard sometimes. I’d love a teammate to just take the edge off. Like how gas and air in childbirth takes you from wanting to rip your midwife’s face off to simply wanting to yell obscenities at the walls of your delivery suite. That’s what I need – something to just take the sharp edge off the loneliness. What I’d love is a little bit of help and love and companionship. Is that too much to ask for?

  I don’t want Lyla to ever know how shit I feel.

  I want her to feel like I’m her rock, and that whatever happens, however much life throws at us, I’m here and dependable and safe. Right now, secretly I don’t feel either dependable or safe, but I sing songs or use a chipper voice to play dollies for the eighteenth time that day. I hide the emptiness that I feel inside to keep her safe. She is a perfect thing that needs to be protected at all costs and so I never want her to carry the burden of knowing your mum struggles. She makes me a Valentine’s card with a ‘?’ and I play along and exclaim in surprise, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m so, so lucky!’ when she tells me it was from her. I don’t let on that I’m crying inside at how sweet she is and how much I’d love it to be real.

  WEEKENDS AS A custody-sharing single parent can be really hard. To everyone else it looks like the perfect life: time to relax, entire evenings to go out and drink cocktails, read magazines or go shopping, but in reality it’s not like that. I crave that family unit and the sound of other people in the house. Right now Lyla is at Simon’s for the weekend. I can feel the clouds of The Emptiness gathering again.

  Determined not to let it take me over this time, I give Lacey a call and see if she fancies popping round for a glass of wine and a makeover. Lacey can always be guaranteed to come over if a mini-facial and a good smoky eye is on offer. It’s been that way since we were naive teenagers in poster-clad bedrooms. Lacey has
all the best advice, and I have all the best make-up. I’d pour my angsty fourteen-year-old heart out to her about the boys at school or the girls I hated or was jealous of, and she’d flick through the pages of Bliss or Sugar and pick out a make-up style for me to try on her.

  Things are pretty similar now, except we’ve replaced teen magazines with Grazia and drinks and olives, and I barely hate anyone. Except maybe Val. How sophisticated we are.

  ‘What’s the matter, then?’ she says, laying the box of Maltesers she’s brought over on the sofa and plopping herself down. I love that wherever Lacey is, sweet treats are never far away. She drags my big metal make-up case across the floor towards her and opens it as if it were a treasure chest.

  ‘How do you know something’s the matter?’

  ‘Your house is spotless, your nails are done and you’ve been responding to my messages in under four nanoseconds. Clearly something’s going on or your life would be a whole lot messier,’ she says with a laugh on the last bit.

  ‘Oh. Hmmm. All good points,’ I say, admiring the lilac gloss on my nails. ‘I don’t know … I just feel flat. Every time I think I’ve got my spark back, something small happens and I feel rubbish again. Today it wasn’t even a big thing, but it got to me. I had some spare time – story of my bloody life – and fell into a scroll-through-Facebook-photos wormhole. I went all the way back pre-Lyla and saw our nights out, your hen do, that trip to Edinburgh we had, and I just missed having a bit of fun, I think.’ And then I say it. ‘I’m bored, Lacey. I’m lonely.’