‘Oh, Robin,’ Lyla says with a maternal tilt to her head. ‘You’ve got Lyla, though.’
‘I know, but she’s at school every day and Simon has her two nights a week too. When she was super-little she had every bit of my attention. Now she doesn’t need it. Nobody really needs me.’ I can feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes.
‘I need you! I knew you were a bit down at Dovington’s last month, but I didn’t know things were this bad. You should have called me. I want to help you.’
‘There’s something missing in my life.’
‘A man,’ Lacey says bluntly, snapping out of her soft, maternal tone.
‘Not everything is about men.’
Lacey studies my face for a moment. ‘This is, though.’ Still being blunt, then.
‘I thought you were a feminist, Lacey Hunter?’
‘I am. Being a feminist means you want everybody to be equal; to have the same chances, opportunities and treatment as everyone else. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy feeling Karl’s arms around me at night, or being taken out for dinner and good conversation, or having someone who takes the bins out when it’s their turn.’
‘I can’t remember the last time that even happened to me. Kath comes over and does such a lot to help, but it’s not the same as having your dashing man clean out your dishwasher filter or mow the grass, is it? The last person I had dinner with was Peppa-bloody-Pig!’ I laugh sadly.
‘So, Robin. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I think you need to put yourself out there, meet someone. You deserve to have a bit of fun.’
‘I’m never going to meet someone, though, unless a hot single dad magically appears at the school gates on one of the rare days I don’t look like an egg, or one of the perilously young male models at work goes blind and suddenly fancies me!’
Lacey throws a cushion at my head and exclaims, ‘Robin! First, don’t say that! You have a lot to offer any man. And second, you don’t have to meet anyone at the school or work. Everyone does it online these days.’
‘No, I’m not doing that,’ I say as I buff foundation in a tad too firmly. How does Lacey have such lovely skin? After this endless winter, mine is dull and lifeless. ‘It’s desperate and cheesy. It’s full of creepy old men who masturbate over the underwear section of a Littlewoods catalogue!’
‘No, it’s not!’ she exclaims, trying, and failing, to keep her face still. ‘It’s all changed! You should 100 per cent give it a go. Look at Meredith from school. She was single for nearly ten years, and then she met Peter on an app. Look at her now.’
‘Yeah, she’s stuck at home crying with the twins while she puts over-filtered photos of them smiling on Facebook and hashtagging #WouldntHaveItAnyOtherWay, when really we all know she would have it another way. She’d be wearing clothes without sick on and not googling “has my vagina changed since childbirth”. That’s not where I want to be! I want to be romanced! I want to be seduced!’
‘Well, yes, but how do you think he got the twins in her in the first place?’
‘This is getting really gross. I don’t want to imagine Dating-App Peter getting anything in Meredith.’ It’s surprisingly hard to apply sharp, even, cat-eye flicks in black liquid liner when you’re imagining your old school friend being shagged enthusiastically by a man called Peter that she met on ‘the apps’.
‘You’re missing the point, you dingbat. Just give the apps a try. Let’s download MatchMe or something right now. It’ll be fun!’
‘Oh God, do I have to?’ I say, finishing the eyeliner and blending a trio of deep red, mocha brown and gold onto her right eye.
‘Yes, absolutely, or I’m leaving right now and you’ll be alone all night with nobody to moan to.’
‘You’re not going anywhere – I’ve only done one eye and you’ll look deranged.’
In the end, she twists my arm and after another glass of wine (OK, three more glasses), it turns out the dating apps are quite fun. Sort of like shopping for men but without having to worry about them seeing you staring or saying something stupid. It doesn’t take long before I’m matched with Gareth 34 Engineer, Dylan 32 Freelance Consultant and Phil 37 IT. We scream with glee when the first ‘Hi, how are you’ pops up.
Why had I never considered doing this before? Man-shopping from your sofa!
Two bottles of rosé later, a wobbly and very giggly Lacey leaves in a taxi and I feel quite excited about all of these dashing potential suitors vying for my attention.
Huzzah!
Playing it cool (on Lacey’s orders), I go to bed merrily full of vino and high hopes for my future love life.
EIGHT
IT STARTS TO RAIN as we’re driving to Kath’s for some respite. I wasn’t planning on leaning on Kath today. I never actually plan to lean on people. If I could I would just do everything myself, happily and in indigo-wash skinny jeans that make my arse look incredible and don’t bunch round my ankles, but we can’t have it all, can we?
I’d planned just on having a lovely Saturday in IKEA to buy some storage for Lyla’s ever-growing collection of plastic toys. I read an article on Facebook about how children need to live in feng shui’d environments for their emotional well-being, and so now I’m concerned that Lyla’s expanding Shopkin collection is causing deep psychological damage, and that the answer to this is cheap (I don’t think the energy of the room will know the difference between IKEA or Harrods, and money’s tight living off a part-time salary and inconsistent child support from Simon) stacked tubs in assorted colours.
As with everything in my life, though, things didn’t run smoothly. Ikea was rammed. The world and his overwhelmed wife were out in force, ready to stand in aisles bickering over Billy bookcase wood finishes or whether that TV stand would or would not fit in the alcove.
By the time we’d reached the children’s department, I was sweating and had already thrown an assortment of junk I definitely didn’t need in my trolley. We chose our tubs (very much hoping they sufficiently provide Lyla with the best chance of future emotional fulfilment), and then were forced, as you are in these maze-like places, to go round the marketplace. This was my downfall.
I decided to ‘treat myself’. I’d been feeling so down and lonely, I reckoned that if I wanted a set of three heart-shaped chopping boards, then I could have them; nobody else was going to be buying me anything heart-shaped, after-bloody-all. And since it’s only me who walks on my bedroom carpet, if I wanted that black and yellow six-foot-by-six-foot rug, I should be allowed it. A gallery wall is always something I’ve wanted, so I liberally picked frames in the art section too. Thank God for my overdraft.
For a moment I felt a bit better. My full trolley had filled my empty heart and I was exhilarated from spending all that money on a whim. I knew I’d regret it at the end of the month, but in that moment, at the lifts to go down to the car, I felt great. Perhaps I’d discovered the solution to The Emptiness.
Minutes later, I realised I absolutely had not.
As soon as I opened the boot, I knew I’d fucked up. Unless there was a massive plot twist and my tiny car was actually a TARDIS, there was no way I was going to get four toy tubs (with lids), eight picture frames, two lamps, three chopping boards, six pairs of scissors (I don’t know why) and a six-foot rug in there.
I knew the best course of action was to move Lyla to the front and put the back seats down, but even thinking about everything involved with that tired me. I’d have to read the car manual to turn off the front airbags so she could have her booster in the front, consult the manual again to wrench down the seats, load everything in and return the trolley, and even then I wasn’t sure it would all fit.
I looked around despairingly, just in case there was a magic solution, and there they were – the family I was meant to be. A smart dad in jeans with a weekend shirt tucked in was pushing a trolley full of homeware, with a boy not much younger than Lyla hanging onto the front, enjoying the ride. Behind him, his lovely wife, in a soft pink wrap dress cli
nging to a perfectly round pregnancy bump and holding the little boy’s backpack (probably containing low-sugar snacks and wooden puzzles that he excels at). Perfect Mum takes Perfect Boy by the hand and sits him in his booster seat. Perfect Dad packs their things neatly into the boot. The winter sun is definitely shining more brightly over where they are …
I’m jolted back to reality by Lyla. ‘Mummy, I’m bursting for a wee-wee! Mummy! Mummy! Muuuuummmyy!’ Literally the last thing I want to do is take her back to the shop with my trolley and start this all over again.
‘OK, just wait a minute and we’ll sort it.’ This usually buys me a solid ten to twenty minutes. She’s never actually bursting.
I look back at my own parking space and try to focus. After ten minutes of huffing and puffing and a very real sweat patch appearing on my back, I’ve got one back seat down – the other one is refusing to budge. So many people have passed by and seen me struggling, heaving and grunting, all while Lyla’s been sat in the trolley, telling me loudly that she needs a wee (everyone can hear and will be thinking I’m crap for not dealing with that first) and waiting for me to sort her seat out. Just to show her she’s not going to be sat in the trolley forever, I lift (more like heave – she’s far too big for trolleys now) her out and have her stand safely by the front of the car while I deal with the boot.
Nobody has offered to help.
Why would they? They don’t need to. They’re in their family units, blissfully unaware of how desperately shit it feels to not have a unit. How crap it is to try to work out how to turn an airbag off while your daughter jumps about on the spot needing the loo. How physically demanding it actually is to feed a six-foot rug through your boot and into the back seat.
I want a Perfect Dad man to do this with me. I want to be wearing a soft wrap dress. I want to not have to look at how desolate my morning has been.
I’ve crammed everything in and sweated through my top to create oh-so-sexy damp underarm patches, when some guy walks past muttering ‘I think your kid needs the loo.’ Oh for fuck’s sake I know! I turn my attention to Lyla who’s hopping up and down on the spot like she’s trying not to cry.
‘Mummy I’m going to wee!’
She says this with a new kind of urgency and that ten to twenty minutes grace window is suddenly more like ten to twenty seconds. Great, so now strangers are more in tune with my daughter’s needs. Oh God. I look wildly around at my surroundings, scoping out the nearest facilities and deep down I know they’re back in the store. Shit shit shit.
‘MUMMY IT’S COMING!’
I scoop her up and run through the carpark. My boot and passenger door are still open and fuck, I’ve left my handbag there too but instinct took over and I couldn’t bear for her to have to wet herself. I run like an athlete (a very cumbersome, unbalanced, wildebeest-esque athlete) to IKEA’s lobby and practically throw myself and my attached offspring into a loo. Without even stopping to shut the stall door I pull down leggings and pants and sit her on a toilet. Instant relief. We made it. I cannot believe I came that close to making my six-year-old daughter have an accident.
‘Ew, Mummy there’s a man in here!’.
In my panic and hurry I’ve taken my little girl to the less than hygienic men’s loos. I put my hand over her eyes.
Will I ever get this right?
NINE
EVEN AFTER THE MORNING we’ve had it is almost impossible not to feel your spirits lift at Auntie Kath’s tiny Victorian cottage. It is a perfect reflection of her and a living scrapbook of her life. Every nook and cranny is decorated with photographs, tickets, letters and mementos from her past. Every piece of treasure has a tale behind it. The hardwood floors are covered with patterned rugs and swirly carpets; the walls are painted in jewel tones and the curtains are velvet flock. Every piece of furniture is mismatched, and usually with a floral pattern or lurid cushion adorning it. Frames are hung all over every wall, with pictures of Kath’s life peeping out from behind the glass, many with Derek’s cheery face in too. Derek Drummond, Kath’s late husband, was a good man. We all miss him, but of course Kath misses him the most. They were a beautiful couple. They travelled the world and they were the perfect team. Derek was strong and calm and found Kath’s scatty eccentricities endearing. When he got ill, Kath cared for him night and day, and when he finally died it really shook her. I think she sometimes feels The Emptiness too. I’ll talk to her properly about this one day, but right now I feel so consumed by my own emptiness and self-loathing for being the shit mother that barely even meets her child’s most basic needs, that I don’t think I can bring myself to do it. I don’t think I could be much help.
Looking around, you’d think the whole place would clash and jar but somehow it works. Everything has her touch to it: the shell lamp that probably once didn’t have seashells glued all over it – come to think of it hers is the only VCR I’ve ever seen with shells on; the coffee-table cloth with a pom-pom trim (who has a tablecloth for a coffee-table, please?); the framed map of Wales (we’re not Welsh and don’t know anyone from there), where she’s marked certain towns with stick-on diamantés – everything has been ‘Kathed’.
As soon as Kath answers the door, I feel a little lighter.
‘Hello, my lovies! I’ve missed you!’ she trills, beaming, even though we only saw her four days ago. Mollie is even more thrilled to have house guests. I really want to love her but she’s so jumpy and yappy, and should you leave any piece of skin exposed it’s going to be licked.
‘No kisses, please, Mollie!’ Kath laughs as Lyla nearly drowns in Mollie’s slobbery greeting. Kath ignores my barely concealed distaste and waves Lyla through to the kitchen, bustling Mollie into the back garden at the same time. She did notice the lick attack, then.
I can smell something baking in the oven (please be scones, oh please, please be scones!) and all the lamps are lit, creating the perfect warm glow this grey February day needs.
‘Auntie Kathy! We’ve got petals for you!’ Lyla chimes before she’s even managed to take her shoes and coat off.
Yesterday we stopped by Dovington’s for a chat and a cup of tea – hot chocolate for Lyla – and Terri let Lyla deadhead the wilting flowers that couldn’t be sold. Lyla revelled in the honour of doing something so grown-up that she’d never be allowed to do at home – not that I see many bouquets of flowers these days. I’d collected them all into a paper bag and messaged Kath because I knew she’d have a genius idea for customising something with them. And now I’m hopeful that idea will take up a whole afternoon and I won’t have to leave, or use my brain, or listen to my own thoughts.
I pick up the coat and shoes Lyla’s strewn all over the entryway and follow them through to the kitchen. Lyla has already climbed up onto the solid wood worktops, tipped the petals out of the bag and Kath is going through them all with her. ‘Oh, Lyla, look at this one, it has little yellow flecks in it, can you see? Mmm … smell this one, sweetheart. Doesn’t that smell sweet?’ I can see from the doorway that Lyla is taking this sorting process very seriously, and dutifully smells and strokes and inspects each petal as Kath remarks on it.
As I walk in, Kath looks up at me and our eyes meet. Over the last few years we’ve been here more than once. Me in The Emptiness and Kath picking us up. The Emptiness comes in waves. Some months are bad and some are OK, but lately those waves seem to be crashing a whole lot harder than before and after a morning like this morning I’m struggling to carry on standing up in them. A flicker of recognition dances across Kath’s kindly face and I know she understands how I feel. As mad as she is, Kath is astute. I love that I don’t have to sit and articulate all the horrible feelings in my head and can, in one look, say, ‘help’.
Walking over to the stove, Kath reaches out her hand and gives my shoulder a squeeze, which is probably all I can handle without bursting into tears. Kath’s got no idea how shit our IKEA morning was, and I don’t think I can bear to talk about it all. Sensing my reluctance, she whips into motion and busies a
bout making hot chocolate the old-fashioned way – no instant powder and boiling kettle water for her, oh no! She’s bringing milk to the simmer on the Aga and melting a slab of chocolate, and then she pulls some scones (YESSS!), out of the oven. From the fridge, she gets the clotted cream and jam and in no time she’s sat back down with Lyla, who is still fiddling with the petals and singing a little song to herself about fairies and magic and all the sweet things that fill little girls’ heads. I hope her head stays filled like that forever. I wish mine had.
‘Oh, Bluebird, that’s a good song you’re singing. I think I saw some fairies in my garden the other day, and I thought how much you’d have liked them!’ Kath whispers in Lyla’s ear.
‘Did you?’ Lyla asks with wide eyes.
‘I did! Next time I see them, I’m going to tell them all about you and your beautiful song.’
Lyla beams up at Kath. I’m so glad there is someone to add this magic to her life; someone she can connect with like this. I wish it was always me every minute of every day, but right now it feels so hard.
I take the bar stool next to Lyla and sip at my freshly poured hot chocolate. It’s like little drops of heaven. The scone is still warm and it tastes all the better knowing Kath lovingly made it. When I feel like this I don’t want to interact with anyone, but I don’t want to be on my own, either. Kath knows and so she carries on around me, letting me be.
‘Right then, Missus Blue, what are we going to do with these petals?’ she asks Lyla in a mockingly authoritative tone.
‘Ummm … play with them?’ Lyla replies hopefully, twirling her hair around her fingers and smiling in anticipation. She knows Kath has a plan.
‘Well, we can either press them and preserve them or crush them into perfume. What shall we do?’
‘Both!’ That’s my girl.
‘All right. We’ll do both.’
Wilde Like Me Page 5