I look across the studio at the runners who are supplying the models and Clive with everything they could ever wish for. The PR girls are running around with their clipboards, headsets and barking voices, and the light guys, equipment guys, hair guys and other nondescript guys are all looking super-stressed and super-busy.
It’s a big shoot in a big, shiny, London studio with impossibly high ceilings and a warren of side rooms for hair, make-up, food tables. Natalie and I are holed up in the make-up room with signature light-bulb-framed mirrors and swirly chairs. As I step into the room, I feel a buzz of excitement. I always feel surprisingly calm and in control in this environment, and Natalie and I move together in synchronised motion. Here I know what I’m doing and I am exactly where I need to be, part of an ace team of two. We have arrived early to unpack the kit and catch up on our lives. I love chatting with Natalie, but sometimes it feels like a masochistic act. Maxwell has just achieved eleven As in his GCSE mock exams. Her life is perfect and together, and being around her makes me question if I’ll ever get to that point. The point where I’ll have the guy, multiple littles playing at my ankles, a golden Labrador and the perfect house in the village, on the corner, with the cherry blossom tree at the front. But she also shows what a determined woman can do when she sets her mind to it. I can’t help but adore her.
The first beautiful model walks in and places herself in my make-up chair without speaking a word or looking up from her phone. I busy myself, moving my tools around, pretending like I’m not waiting for her to finish her message. There’s something soothing about seeing all your brushes laid out in order, clean and untouched, ready to work their magic. Suddenly Clive swings his head round the door with camp vigour and in a forced American accent shouts, ‘Naaatural glaaamour! I want them to look vivacious! Hollywood! Full-lipped, doe-eyed beauties! Minimal, though. Nothing false. Classic. You know, you know …’
Hollywood glamour isn’t normally approached with minimalism in mind, but after a quick chat we set to work sneaking on natural-ish powdered eyeliner and tinted lip balm. Clive seems pleased (we presume; praise isn’t really his style, but Natalie tells me the powdered eyeliner was a ‘genius’ idea and I felt like I was floating, I was so proud), and very few touch-ups are required. It helps that each model is the living embodiment of perfection. God, I wish I hadn’t eaten that second cronut (though at least now I don’t feel as hungry as a lot of these models look).
After ten hours of creating the perfect look for each girl, doing touch-ups on set and helping the hair department aim the wind machine while being subjected to Clive screeching, ‘Hold it! DON’T MOVE!’, Natalie and I are packed up and off for the night. It’s a two-day job and we’re staying at a nearby hotel, so when she suggests a few drinks I jump at the opportunity.
Lyla is with her dad, probably enjoying some angel cards and a documentary on Indigo Children, and I feel pumped after a day on set. Granted, the Grey Goose vodka going round after 3 p.m. has also helped. For once I’ve managed to push The Emptiness completely aside.
It doesn’t control me.
I pop into the hotel room to slip on something glitzy, realise I have nothing at all glitzy so opt for my trusty emerald-green flowing skirt and a black wrap-around top with sheer sleeves that Piper picked out. Something about the sheer black fabric makes me feel special. It’s a maxi skirt, so nobody cares about shoes and I just throw on a pair of ballet pumps from New Look. Bangles and earrings on, a final swish of lip gloss and I plod downstairs to find Natalie.
She’s already there waiting for me, and she looks like an absolute bloody vision. How did she do that in ten minutes flat? She’s transformed herself from her typical working uniform of black jeans, white cotton tee with her hair wrapped up in a Gucci silk scarf to effortlessly chic city girl in a soft beige shift and gold slingbacks. I look down at my flaccid sheer sleeves. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d definitely hate her.
WE HEAD DOWN TO one of Natalie’s familiar haunts in Covent Garden. She regales me with stories of how she and Martin used to go out for dreamy dates round here all the time before their boys came along (she’s just always been cool), and as we descend the concrete stairs to the bar, I can feel the stresses of life slipping away, along with The Emptiness. Simon texts me some pictures of Lyla playing in the garden, I’ve just aced it at my job, I’m about to have drinks with an amazing woman and I’m not wearing leggings – things are good.
It’s been so long since I’ve done this!
Loud music and the sound of cocktail glasses clinking give me a warm fuzziness in my stomach (again, though, it could just be the vodka). We nab a table, peruse the menus and order some drinks and nachos. As the prosecco flows, so does our conversation.
Natalie has formed a committee in Hopell Village to restore the local lake and bring it back to its former glory with grants, fundraisers and whatnot. Wow.
‘Oh, Robin, it’s going to be great fun. We’re going to host outdoor cinema nights and community barbecues come summer,’ she chimes. ‘You and Lyla must come!’
How does she find the time to do all these things? Honestly, I call it a win if I’ve got all ten nails painted and have picked Lyla up – and not necessarily on time. I suddenly realise that I may never be the Head of the Lake Restoration Committee and disappointment sinks in – even though it’s not a position I previously knew I wanted. To put a firm stop to this negative train of thought, I excuse myself and pootle to the bar to order more fizz. The bottles aren’t being put in ice buckets today, instead they’re being served in ice-filled wellington boots. Of course they are. The bar apparently likes to mix things up in a ‘kooky’ way, so sometimes they switch out the champagne buckets for other ‘hilarious’ containers. It’s all very jovial and I try to blend in with the young professional crowd who seem unfazed by the shoe-shaped vessels.
I pay for our bubbly, pop my bag under one arm and clutch the slippery welly in my other hand. I prance off in the direction of our table, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I might make it as Assistant to the Head of the Lake Restoration Committee. Only the prance is more full-on than I plan and before I know it, the bottle has tipped up and Prosecco is pouring out onto the floor. Oh, hell! I quickly bend down to retrieve my welly, which has now lost all integrity and is flopping all over the shop like some kind of jellied eel. Robin Wilde, everyone: the biggest klutz in London.
I stand up flustered with sticky hands and – oh, my sweet Jesus, there he is.
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
His thick, brown, wavy hair tickles his cheekbones enough for me to notice how glossy it is. Is it salon-fresh? Why does it smell so good? Stop smelling him, Robin! I look up and his eyes smile at me like they know just what I’m thinking. Oh, God, I hope not. He’s perfection, dressed in a well-fitted suit like something straight out of a fashion house, and I notice I’m gawking at him. Gawking with my flaccid wellington boot, my soggy shoes and my soaking sheer sleeves.
Say something cool. Say a thing that showcases what a creative, coherent go-getter you are, Robin:
‘My welly was wet and it slipped.’
Amazing. Ah-mazing.
‘Ha! I bet you say that to all the men you launch drinks at,’ Mr Perfection leans in to my ear to reply and I get an actual shiver down my spine. Fuck me, I’m in love. There’s no two ways about it. I’m actually in love. Without missing a beat, he says, ‘Let me replace that for you, perhaps with something that’s not served in a shoe.’ He orders who-knows-what from the bartender and I burst into apologies.
‘I’m so sorry about your shoes, I didn’t mean to get sticky fizz all over them. I mean, it was the welly that did it. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – drinks in a welly!’ Chill out, Robin, you sound insane. Less manic, more, well … anything other than manic.
Before I can behave like even more of an imbecile, two sweet-looking ruby-red cocktails arrive and he’s leaning over to cheers with me. I glance over to Natalie. She winks, blows me a ki
ss and turns back to her menu, more than confident to sit alone.
‘Here’s to our ruined shoes and your beautiful face.’ We clink our glasses and I swoon, internally this time. At least, I think it’s internal – I’m struggling to decipher the difference between what I’m saying in my head and what I’m saying to him out loud.
‘Honestly, I’m so sorry. I was carrying too much, and—’
‘If wet shoes are all it takes to be able to talk to a woman like you, I’ll have them. I saw you walk in with your friend and hoped we’d have the chance to meet, so the shoes are a small sacrifice to pay.’
Wow. That was smooth.
‘I’m Theo Salazan,’ says Mr Perfection, offering his hand for a cordial handshake.
‘Robin Wilde.’ Please God, let the lighting be trendily dim enough to hide my red cheeks.
‘So, other than being totally bloody gorgeous, what else do you do, Robin?’
‘Well, I’m a make-up artist’s assistant, and we’re on a shoot this week so we’re in London and thought we’d just have a couple of drinks to—’
‘No, I’m not asking you what you do for a living. I meant what excites you, what do you get up to, what makes you tick?’
When he asks this question he looks only at me, eye to eye, and I feel like nobody else is in the room. The music is quieter, the lights are softer, it’s just me and my cocktail and this rather enchanting man.
Feeling buoyed by the attention of the most charming man in the room, and boosted by the alcohol already in my bloodstream, I answer as coolly as possible.
‘Creativity makes me tick. Making something myself. Seeing my ideas come to life,’ I say, leaning in close to his ear to be heard above the music. Fuck me, that was impressive.
We talk for what feels like forever. I’d popped over to ask Natalie to join us but she simply smiled and said ‘You go, girl’ and left to give Martin a call. I find out that Theo is thirty-four, was born in the Cotswolds but now lives on the Thames and works in property. He’s out with some of his senior team celebrating a big acquisition, but he’s not feeling it. He’d rather be at home catching up with Peaky Blinders on Netflix, and it’s at this point I suspect he’s my soulmate.
As the conversation develops, so does the chemistry. Little arm touches from me, a brushing of my hair out of my face from him; he is gentle but in charge. He’s taller than me, so I have to look up and I can’t help but notice his lips, and I don’t think I usually notice other people’s lips. They’re really good lips. Yes, I’m in love. I am head over wellies in love.
SIXTEEN
IT’S A FULL WEEK from the moment the angels came down from heaven to bring me the most perfect man on earth, and I’m not entirely sure yet if my feet have touched the ground.
We carried on talking into the night, and he kissed me on the cheek when I decided it was time to make a dignified exit.
Theo and I swapped numbers, and as we did, he joked that I’d better be waiting by the phone for him to call. I laughed, but instantly knew that’s exactly what I’d be doing. I don’t think I’ve spent more than eighty-five seconds away from my phone all week, and as sure as perfection is perfection, he did call.
An actual phone call. Who does that these days? Usually you’re lucky to get a text message. Having spent the last few weeks logging in to various dating apps to check for inbox notifications, a phone call feels like a true luxury. A real-life, grown-up, lovely telephone call.
Not only did he ring me, he asked me out. Gentlemanly. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner, Robin, what day suits you?’ When I explained that I don’t live in London and have a daughter, so couldn’t really nip out for dinner, I thought it might be all over, but no: Theo the Perfect continued on the path to being the Greatest Man Ever and said, ‘Well then, come and make a day of it! Let me show you the sights.’
Yes please, Theo Salazan.
I was almost hyperventilating and weeing at the same time (I wasn’t even on a trampoline or sneezing), so I said it.
Yes.
And then I made up an excuse about having a ‘business call’ to take. I thought that sounded better than ‘Gotta go, Lyla’s Alphabites are burning’.
Every day there have been sweet texts, friendly texts, pictures and ‘how are yous’ and it’s been bliss. I’ve even deleted most of the dating apps. I feel like I’m a better person for it.
EASTER WEEKEND IS COMING and among the other six million things I need to do today – including blocking all the men who keep sending me dick pics on the one app I have left; sorting through the laundry to find something half-decent to wear on the school run tomorrow; dealing with the angry, pink council tax letter; and drafting out a casual, breezy message to Theo – I absolutely have to call my mum.
She trilled to me months ago, at Christmas, in fact: ‘We’ll see you again at Easter, I’m sure.’ The thought of going there for Easter, driving five hours just to be reminded over and over again how wonderful Mum thinks Simon is and what a mistake I’m (still) making – with Simon, with Lyla, with my life, with my choice of paint in the downstairs loo – is too much to bear. I’d rather spend the day cleaning my brushes and watching overstimulating kids’ cartoons than sit at her dining table smiling politely and secretly wishing she’d choke on her pork. Well, that’s probably a bit much. I don’t mean choke to death. Obviously. Just enough so she coughs and splutters and feels silly.
Anyway, as Mrs Wate taught me in Year Seven after I broke the sewing machine and hid it in the resources cupboard, ‘Honesty is always the best policy’, the best thing to do is just call her and tell her. I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to or that will make me feel bad. Self-care, Robin. That’s what it’s all about. You’re worth it! No quibbles, no fuss: I’m not going.
She’ll be upset, of course, but perhaps I can placate her with the offer of a visit in Lyla’s summer holidays, and maybe I’ll send her a little goody bag of make-up treats. She’s been wearing the same frosted pink lipstick from Avon since 1989, and I bet she’d love a creamy nude. Oo-er.
I’m not worried about this. I’m just going to make the call, handle her disappointment and get on with my day.
Deep breath – it’s ringing.
‘Seven-four-eight-three-two-zero!’ she answers in her high-pitched phone voice. Why does that generation do this? I know what number I’ve dialled. Why do I need a recital of it as my greeting?
‘Hi Mum, it’s me.’
‘Robin?’ I’m an only child. How many other people ring, calling her ‘Mum’? Unless she and Dad are into some sick role play these days.
‘Er, yes, Robin. Your only daughter.’
‘Ohh, hello, sweetie. I was just on the phone to Barbara, telling her you never call, but here you are, calling me! How lovely of you.’
‘You could call me, you know.’
‘Oh, you never answer.’
I always answer!
‘Anyway, you know how it is with the Rotary. I’m always there, slaving away for them.’ She’s not slaving away. She bloody loves the Rotary Club. Jillian is the head and Mum is her sidekick, so she’s always dashing about doing something with more gusto than I manage for anything.
‘Well, anyway, how are you, Mum?’
‘Very well, actually, sweetie. The antibiotics have worked their magic and I’m back on my feet again.’ I didn’t actually know she was ever ill – another reason to feel guilty – but I let her carry on. ‘Dad’s been working tirelessly on the village beds. We’re putting in for Best Village Flora and Fauna this year, so it’s quite a challenge to keep everything as it should be – though I’m really not sure about those gladioli; I mean, it’s a really risky strategy, and Jillian has taken on more than ever at the Club. We’re organising one of those musical festivals in the village this summer for the young people to come along to and raise money for the Reservoir Wildfowl Association, so as you’d imagine, we’re up the wall with all that!’
‘Oh. Wow. A musi
c festival. That sounds … good.’
‘Yes, sweetie. And how are you? Plodding on?’
I love how much faith she has in me.
‘Yep, working hard with Natalie. Lyla’s doing really well. She’s started swimming lesso—’
‘And Simon? How’s he?’
‘Um, yeah, good, I think.’
‘Bless him.’
‘Mmmmm. Anyway, before we get sidetracked,’ i.e., before I have to hear any more about Mum’s bottomless well of love for Simon, ‘I need to talk to you about Easter.’
‘Oh yes?’ Oh no, she sounds almost hopeful.
‘Yes. The thing is, Lacey is really feeling a bit low at the moment—’
‘Poor girl. What’s wrong? Isn’t she pregnant yet?’
‘Well, no, I think that’s why she’s a bit low, Mum.’
‘She needs to hurry up! She’s pushing thirty now, isn’t she?’ So, so glad Lacey can’t actually hear how insensitive my mother is being.
‘Yes, she is, Mum. She’s actually having quite the battle with it all, and it’s weighing her down, so I think Lyla and I are going to spend some time with her over Easter, maybe cheer her up a bit.’
‘So you won’t be coming to us?’ I can’t gauge her tone, but I’m bracing myself for the inevitable distress. I take a breath and reply.
‘No. Sorry. No.’
‘All right, then! Not to worry! Dad and I have booked a table at the club and the Rotary ladies will be there, anyway.’ Wait a minute. She sounds sort of glad I’m not coming. This is not what I expected. Why is she glad about this? Am I not good enough for the Rotary ladies?
‘Oh good, well, I won’t be missed then, obviously.’
‘No need to be petulant, sweetie. You’ve got your life and we’ve got ours.’ How warm and charming my mother is.
‘Yep, absolutely. Oh, I think I can hear Lyla shouting for me, I’d best go!’
We say our goodbyes and I ring off, feeling a bit stung. I know I didn’t want to go, but I at least wanted her to want me to go. It’s bad enough that they never visit or phone, and Mum, at least, is much cooler towards me since Simon and I separated – Mum secretly believes I drove him away, I know it – but now I’m not even good enough for the Rotary ladies. How lovely.
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