Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  In our young, blissful ignorance we decided we could manage a baby, and so we were happy. Despite our ages and lack of life experience, our mums were thrilled too; everyone loves the idea of a baby. Though I think my mum was more excited to show her Rotary Club ladies the two-piece baby sets she’d bought in John Lewis than anything else. We had our whole lives mapped out for us, and I was OK with that. What more could a girl want?

  One weekend, about four months into the pregnancy, Simon took us off for a romantic trip away. Think moonlit cobblestones, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance and the aroma of authentic French cuisine gently wafting past us, inviting us in to eat and laugh and lock eyes as we fell deeper and deeper in love. Ha! How hilarious. Stop thinking about that, and now imagine a damp tent in the freezing early spring on a mediocre Lake District campsite and that’s where we’re at. Throw in a greasy fry-up in the site café, me looking like a dweeb in waterproofs borrowed from Mum and you’ve painted yourself a picture of reality. Not quite the lust-filled flair of a European city break. Pair the cold and damp with a constant feeling of nausea (why they call it ‘morning sickness’ when it lasts all day is beyond me) and you don’t have the most incredible picture of love, do you? Still, on the second day, after a two-hour trek through the beautiful, if slightly grey, scenery, Simon got down on one knee and proposed.

  I looked down at him in his wind-resistant anorak and sensible glasses and knew the right thing to do was say yes. The right thing, not the knee-trembling, holy-fuck-I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening thing. I knew – or thought I knew – he’d look after me and the baby for all of our lives. We would do our weekly food shop on a Monday, have a takeaway on a Friday and if we were feeling completely crazy, have a glass of wine on a Saturday night. He was never going to bolt, never going to upset the applecart. He was a safe bet and a decent man. I loved him. So I said yes.

  Fast-forward two years, and my safe bet felt very dull, much more dull than I’d anticipated. Not only was I bored of Simon, Simon was bored of me. Lyla had come along after hours and hours of excruciating and sweaty labour during the hottest week of the summer, and we’d been thrown into a sleep-deprived world of stinky nappies, soiled breast pads, car seats so hard to figure out you practically need an Enigma machine, and pureed food. I’d never felt less sexy. I stopped taking on artistry jobs and lost myself in motherhood. I’d so wanted to be one of those yummy mummies who glides about in soft-stretch skinny jeans and floaty bohemian tops with chunky, wooden-bead necklaces and kind eyes. I’d wanted more than anything to have a gaggle of mummy friends to sit in cafés with on sunny mornings and chat about the funny things our doting husbands had said earlier that morning as we’d kissed them goodbye for work. As with a lot of things I’d discovered, expectation doesn’t usually meet with reality and in fact life felt rather bleak. I found it hard to get out of the house with all the things you needed to pack, feeds to do and naps to time, let alone make a handful of glamorous mother friends for morning coffee dates. Early on into motherhood I gave up hoping for all that and resigned myself to our comfortable routine complete with daily scrambled-egg sandwiches and walks to the duck pond, just the two of us. It was lonely. So, so lonely. Despite the obvious, I really felt like I was the only person in the world looking after a baby, had nobody to talk to and felt as if one day just merged into another, with the only break being Simon coming home in the evening and watching his documentaries. Looking back, I think this was the start of The Emptiness. My mum ‘didn’t want to interfere’, so Kath was a real saviour back then, stopping by for regular visits and filling the fridge with goodies.

  Simon climbed the career ladder at the factory, and became deputy manager of the office there. We had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, nothing to love together, except Lyla. Our perfect Lyla Blue Wilde. Since we still hadn’t tied the knot – it’s hard to find any enthusiasm to plan a wedding when you’re covered in spat-up milk and your fiancé barely speaks to you – she had my surname. We said that when we finally did make it down the aisle we’d change it to his.

  Our relationship ended ages before he left. Had we not had Lyla, I think we would naturally have drifted apart as we grew up; I don’t think he’d have proposed. We just weren’t the same teenagers any more, banding together against our tyrannical mothers. Simon wanted to knuckle down at the office and have a perfect family with three more children, and I had just become a shell, forgetting my identity and turning into a bit of a mummy zombie; a ‘mumbie’. I don’t think I’d really worked out who I was before I had Lyla – I was so young – so it was hard to hold on to any of that when I spent all my days at home or at mind-numbing baby groups, doing my best for Lyla but not managing to reach out and make friends with any of the other mums. It’s hard to admit it, but I think I was suffering with postnatal depression. I didn’t dare talk to anybody about it, and didn’t go to see my doctor in case she thought I was the worst mother on the planet, and so I did my best to muddle through and hide it all. Over time, and with a lot of chat in the mum forums (they were the most social thing about my day), I started to feel clearer and better again. I actually think those strangers on a forum were the ones who pulled me out of it, who made me feel like I wasn’t alone and sinking into an empty void. I wish I could find them and thank them.

  Seeing these baby pictures now, of the three of us all smiling at the camera and me hiding deep sadness, I wish I’d spoken out, got better sooner and allowed myself to enjoy Lyla’s early months a bit more. I wish I was enjoying now a bit more too.

  When Lyla was about sixteen months old, just before Christmas, Simon’s dad was involved in a car crash which left him with two broken legs and a dislocated hip. It was terrible. His mother struggled to cope with his care after he left hospital – although being a proud woman she’d never admit it – and we spent a lot of time helping them both get back on their feet again. It affected Simon more deeply than we thought something could. His perfect, mundane, plod-along world had suddenly been violently shaken and he cracked. Something inside him snapped, and after applying for a three-month sabbatical from work he decided he needed to travel, see the world and experience life properly for the first time. And he wanted to do it alone.

  He left us in May for a backpacking trip around Tibet. It was the most un-Simon thing he’d ever done, and I didn’t think I minded. By this point I was so numb that I didn’t have the fight in me to mind. I just let life wash over me while I cut up apples and gave baths and kept Lyla going. I remember Lacey being absolutely furious with him. ‘Imagine if you wanted to fuck off to Tibet! You’d never be able to go! You’d never leave your baby! What a selfish prick.’ As she ranted about Simon, I’d just hold Lyla and nod. I was so exhausted I didn’t have much else to give. Having had these years to reflect, Lacey’s point seems pretty clear. I never did get to just take my time and run with it. And I’d never have left Lyla. Ever.

  I realise, looking back through these memories, just how much I need to ask Natalie for more regular work; I deserve to do what I want for the first time in I don’t know how many years. I am going to talk to her today.

  Back then I thought a break would do Simon and me good. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. Kath came over almost every day and I started to make regular trips out with Lacey, going shopping or to Dovington’s or even for morning coffee dates. Then Lacey introduced me to her neighbour, Natalie, and after a trial run she put me on her books to assist her on shoots. I suddenly had a purpose that wasn’t just making up bottles or feeding the ducks. I was going out alone and doing something I was good at – and Kath absolutely loved the opportunity to babysit more. We even built up a routine so I could have a night out with Lacey once a fortnight. I felt a little spark of myself come back – and I hadn’t even needed to don a backpack.

  Simon was finding himself too. Except he didn’t just find himself – he also found Caroline, a nineteen-year-old masseuse from Peterborough who prefers to be called Storie (‘wit
h an I and an E, please’). She’d travelled to Tibet to find her earth mother, Nature. Simon said he felt a ‘powerful, natural connection’ to Storie during a hilltop retreat, and that Storie (with an ‘ie’) had convinced him it would be going against Mother Nature’s intent if they were to ignore it.

  Surprisingly, I didn’t care as much as I thought I would. Over the summer I’d come out of my shell. Not by much, but enough to feel alive again, and I realised it was better without him. I had learnt that I didn’t actually need him to look after Lyla, or to have a social life. I was starting to earn a bit of money, starting to get out and about and being more than just ‘Mummy’. We’d separated by the autumn, moved out of our rented terrace and arranged a fairly flexible custody schedule for Lyla.

  Dad and Auntie Kath had moved my ailing granny into a lovely facility for the elderly, and so the logical thing for me to do was to rent her house. It was perfect for us: the rent was low, I was able to stay in the area and it had a familiar warmth to it, which is just what I needed in those early single days. That’s how special Kath is. Even though I’m not her daughter, she treats me like one and didn’t resent Lyla and me being given such a wonderful gift. Sadly the same could not be said for my own mother. Rather than offering to come and stay with me to help, she asked me what had I done, where had I gone wrong in the relationship, for Simon to have ‘run off with some young floozy’. My mum, Mrs Wilde, the least supportive woman in my life. She still hasn’t forgiven me.

  Simon moved in with Storie to a home with solar panels, dreamcatchers and a biodiverse vegetable patch in lieu of a garden, and they are very happy there. Storie isn’t a bad person, she’s just very different to me, and in fact to Simon, which is probably why they work so well. Opposites supposedly attract, after all.

  Flicking through the rest of the memories in my shell box and clicking the lid closed, I feel a sense of satisfaction. None of those memories hurt me like they used to. They’re not personal attacks reducing me to tears and anxiety; they’re just bits of my story, and today, I’m moving on with it.

  TAKING A MINUTE TO look around at what I’ve achieved this morning, I feel a surge of real joy.

  I’ve never let go of any of the stuff in the cupboard under the stairs because I would have felt like I was letting go of Lyla’s babyhood, my life with Simon, the family I’d thought I was meant to have. All these things felt like mementos or trophies of an era, but now, strewn around the lounge on their side or upside down, they just look like bits of plastic I’m ready to say goodbye to.

  And the cupboard looks absolutely massive!

  I spend the next couple of hours with kitchen roll and Dettol, wiping everything down and stacking it more carefully in the hall. One by one I take each piece into the front room, snap it on my phone, list it on eBay and put it back in the hall. With each thing I list, I feel motivated to do more. I’ve been putting this job off for years, and doing it feels deeply cleansing, not just for the cupboard but for my mind.

  By lunchtime I’m done.

  The baby bits are cleaned, listed and stacked, the everyday use things are back in the cupboard and, hurrah hurrah, I’ve dragged my plastic drawer units under the stairs too, so – at last – I have a proper place to store my make-up artist kit. Now I have more room to organise and display it (this is an upgrade from the top shelf of my wardrobe!), and it takes no time at all to put it all away and take stock of what I actually have.

  I put the memory box safely at the back of the cupboard, and pad into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I feel great. I did something. I did it by myself, for myself. A little piece of The Emptiness falls away. Sipping my tea, I decide to take the plunge, harness this new-found energy and force myself into the gym.

  Now I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no gym bunny. I’m a healthy normal size but I have the fitness levels of a slug. A slug after it’s slithered over the blue salt pellets. A slug after it’s slithered over the blue salt pellets, has died and been pecked at a bit by birds.

  I manage ten minutes on the treadmill, ten on the bike, ten on the cross-trainer machine of death and call it a day. I went into the room of torture and moved about. That counts. I ‘worked out’.

  My favourite bit of any gym experience (of which I have about four to choose from) is the changing room.

  I luxuriate on the squishy stools at the mirrors and delve into my make-up bag, taking time with each process, doing my brows gently and carefully, fully buffing in my foundation and blending my eyeshadow until it looks like light and dark merging seamlessly into each other. Finally I apply the purple orchid-coloured lipstick I never wear. I want to play with it all the time but always tell myself it’s not worth it; today’s not special enough, or I’m not in a good enough place to deserve it. Well, I feel different somehow: the day feels different, I’ve turned a chapter in not letting my memories overcome me and I am worth it. I guide the coloured bullet of the make-up over my lips and instantly my face looks vibrant. I feel it too. I am vibrant.

  I’m not the drudgery of my lonely days. I am the vivid colour of my lipstick. I’m worth good make-up and skinny jeans and time at the gym. I’m worth the extra space in my cupboards. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the low fog of The Emptiness, and feel a spark of excitement. Like the first snowdrops in spring, can I feel myself coming back?

  I collect Lyla from school, Val watched me with narrow eyes as I said a confident ‘good afternoon’ to Mrs Barnstorm and looked away when I nodded hello to her. I took hold of Lyla’s hand and walked out with my head held high, and we spend a lovely afternoon dancing round the lounge to that same ‘Motivation’ playlist, eating spaghetti and snuggling to CBeebies. I feel so much better today that I don’t even mind the mind-numbing children’s songs or surreal characters of In the Night Garden.

  At bedtime Lyla says to me, ‘Mummy, I love it when you’re so bouncy.’

  Me too, baby, me too.

  ELEVEN

  ‘SHOTGUN THE FRONT SEAT!’ yells Piper as we leave Lacey’s house.

  ‘You know nobody cares about the front seat any more,’ Lacey retorts to her sister.

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I have it then, will you?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Hate to break it to you, but I actually like to sit in the back, so let’s go in Lacey’s car. Piper, you can sit in the front and I’ll sit in the back and listen to you bicker all the way there.’

  ‘We won’t be bickering. Karl’s car has inbuilt satnav,’ Lacey replies smoothly.

  ‘That doesn’t guarantee anything with you at the wheel,’ baits Piper.

  ‘Oh my God, stop it! This is supposed to be a nice day! I haven’t been shopping in fuck knows how long, Lyla’s with Kath for six solid hours and I want to treat myself. I’ve got no idea what to buy so I need you to not be like this!’

  ‘Like what?’ Piper and Lacey say in unison.

  ‘Like this! Like sisters! Focus on your sad, unfashionable, frumpy-mum friend who finally has a little bit of money thanks to her eBay endeavours, and wants to be SEXY!’

  ‘Sorry, Robsy.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry Robin. I’m just glad you’ve come out. You’ve been so down. This’ll be a nice day, I promise.’

  Sheepishly the girls get in the front of Karl’s swanky black BMW X5 and I climb in the back, ready for the perfect girlie shopping day. After selling all the junk under the stairs, I’d got the bug, decluttered the attic and made quite a bit of extra money on eBay. Putting a little bit into savings so I felt like a responsible adult, I’d decided to blow the rest on myself. It was about time I updated my wardrobe and felt good again, and stopped hiding away in T-shirts and leggings with holes in them and food on them.

  Plus, spring is most definitely in the air. Pink blossoms are blooming, we’re not wearing our thick coats any more, and I need a bit of life and colour in my clothes!

  Stepping into the shiny shopping centre, Piper snaps into leader mode. ‘OK, we need to attack this h
ead-on. The first thing you need are some good jeans. You’ll need a casual pair and a dressy pair—’

  ‘Dressy jeans?’

  ‘You know, for dates, cocktails, going out …’

  ‘Right, right.’

  ‘Then you’re going to need some tops. Something sexy and off-the-shoulder to highlight your collarbones, something loose and easy for gentle afternoon dates and something practical but cute for work. Then some decent heels. I bet you have plenty of practical flats,’ she adds, looking at my very worn ballet pumps.

  ‘Flats are comfy.’

  ‘So? Heels are sexy.’ Piper seems confused by my desire to feel at ease in my clothes.

  ‘Once we’ve tackled those basics, we’ll move on to dresses and accessories. What bag are you taking out with you these days?’

  ‘I just shove everything in a tote usually.’

  ‘A tote?’ It’s as if I’ve used a language she’s never heard spoken.

  ‘Right, yeah, a new bag, fine.’

  We spend the morning being marched around various shops and counters by Piper, swooning over soft leather, warm cashmere and all manner of silky things that would look revolting on me. As we meander around, Lacey makes a photo log of things she wants so she can prompt Karl for her next birthday. She’s so lucky to have someone who loves to treat her.

  By 2 p.m. we’re all officially shopped out. I’m on a new-shiny-treats high, Piper is exhilarated at her new-found role as Chief Stylist and Lacey, who I’ve noticed eyeing up the baby clothes with a sad look on her face, has nearly used up all her data texting Karl pictures of the things she wants.

  We decide to call it a day and head into one of Piper’s usual spots, Nola’s, for some celebratory cocktails.

  ‘To Robin and her Technicolor wardrobe!’ exclaims Piper as she raises a glass.

  ‘To Robin! Who is going to have to go on loads of fabulous dates now, to make the most of this!’ joins in Lacey.