SEVENTEEN
IT’S MONDAY AGAIN. Only five days until my date with Theo, and I’m feeling pretty excited about it. It’s 3.15 p.m. and I’m walking cheerily through the school gates to pick up Lyla. I stand in my designated foyer spot and secretly hope Val isn’t coming in today or that Corinthia is doing a club.
The bell rings, the children pour out of class clutching ‘artwork’ that parents will be obliged to keep and cherish, even though it’s essentially just an old tissue box with sequins stuck poorly to it. Lyla is ticked off their list and we head to the car. Just as we reach it, like a lizard Val sidles up in designer gymwear.
‘Oh, goodness, I’m so late, I must have worked out harder than I planned to,’ she modestly brags.
‘Totally know what you mean, I do that all the time,’ I lie.
Val looks annoyed and straightens herself up ready for the next jibe. ‘Ha! Of course you do!’ she says, making a point of looking at my less-than-toned tummy. What a cow. ‘I expect you’re all ready for next week then, are you?’
‘Yes, completely.’ Literally no idea what she’s talking about.
‘Oh good. I’ve already bought all my supplies. We’ve had the silk specially imported.’
What the actual fuck is she talking about?
‘Great. See you tomorrow,’ I say with false ease and get into the car.
‘Lyla,’ I say as we drive out through the school gates. ‘What’s happening next week?’
‘The Easter Bonnet Parade. You’ve got to make me one. Or Storie can – she’s got organic hemp.’
Oh God. I’ve been too focused on Theo. I’d meant to go to Hobbycraft this weekend, and I’ve completely forgotten. How could I do that to Lyla? Gillian told me that every year parents have to make the hats for the children to parade around in. Apparently every year all the PSMs say it’s not a big deal and that it’s the smile on the children’s faces that matters most. But that’s clearly all crap. You just know Gillian is warming up her glue gun ready to whip up a masterpiece for Clara. Even Finola, who doesn’t care for arts and crafts, will tear herself away from the horses for one night in a bid to snag the first place. This is not just a merry afternoon out; this competition is a serious business.
Well, I’ll be damned if Lyla is going to have a rubbish hat. Tonight I’m going to put all thoughts of Theo aside and do my daughter proud. I’ll open a bottle of wine and spend the evening on Instagram and Pinterest searching for ideas, and Val will rue the day she was so smug and imported that wanky silk. She’s clearly forgotten that I’m a new woman with a stunning spring wardrobe, an app full of men who want to date me (or at the very least show me their perky pink snake) and now an Adonis of a man courting my attention. Step back, Val Pickering: badass single mum coming through!
EIGHTEEN
APRIL
I DON’T THINK I’VE ever walked Lyla into her class with such pep in my step as I have today. I’ve been up since six hot-rolling my hair, doing my make-up properly (not skipping the base or finishing powder and just swiping on some moisturiser and lip gloss, like I normally would, even on a good Thursday). And for the first time in weeks I have actually worn something that isn’t 95 per cent elastane. Mrs Barnstorm almost didn’t recognise me when I walked in confidently with my hair bouncing and eyes shining. It’s one thing to perfect your liquid liner and wear an expensive shirt, but this look is coming from inside. Theo Salazan, thank you very much!
‘Mummy, you look like you’re in a film!’ Lyla said when I woke her up.
‘Oh, thank you, sweet pea, that’s a lovely thing to say.’
‘Why aren’t you wearing your normal clothes?’ Bit concerning that she thinks tracksuit bottoms and a tee are ‘normal clothes’. I do look half-decent sometimes.
‘I’m having a special day in London and wanted to look extra pretty.’
‘Are you going to work with Natalie?’
‘Um, yes, with Natalie.’ I feel a bit deceitful, but I don’t think I can say, ‘Well, no, I’m ignoring all the other things I should be doing and hopping off to London to meet up with a man I met in a bar a month ago. We’re going to spend all day flirting and drinking and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make sweet, sweet love all night long. Although it’s been so long I’ve probably forgotten what to do with a man’s penis, so I watched a bit of porn last night to remind myself and totally freaked out. Mainly because I don’t look like a shiny Barbie doll but also because that’s definitely not how I remember it …’
‘Natalie and I are doing some work there, and I thought it would be fun to wear something nice and curl my hair,’ I lie again. ‘Do you like it like this, then?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.
She reaches up, runs a little hand over my curls and says, ‘Yes, you look like Princess Sophia.’ Hmmm, Princess Sophia is a ten-year-old cartoon character, but I’ll take it. Hopefully Theo sees a slightly more sophisticated edge.
‘Come on, you pop your pinafore on and I’ll make you some jam on toast. We’re not going to be late today!’ I sing-song.
‘Really? Why?’ Bless my small, bewildered child.
So off to school we go, me looking like a sexier version of a princess cartoon character and Lyla looking like the child of a woman with her shit together – Mrs Barnstorm looks like she’s accidentally swallowed a calorie, she’s so surprised.
‘Oh, Ms Wilde, how very glamorous you look,’ she says in a way that would suggest she thinks I usually look like a bag of crap. What’s the matter with her? Yes, I do quite often look like shit, but not every day. I have made the effort before, for goodness’ sake! I’m going to say something so cutting she won’t know what to do with herself.
‘Yes, thank you … you look lovely too.’ What?! Is that the best I can do? Now she just looks confused and so do I.
‘My mummy is a princess, Mrs Barnstorm. She can do magic on you and make you into a toad!’
‘Aha ha ha, children say funny things, don’t they? I’m sure I couldn’t make you into a toad even if I tried!’ Ha ha ha, we win. Good job, me and my girl. We saunter off and I mentally high-five us, giving Lyla’s hand a little extra squeeze of love as we walk down to her cloakroom.
Once she’s settled and I’ve driven home, I take five minutes to flit about making sure everything is sorted. After several assurances from Theo that he’d be a perfect gentleman and have the spare room cleaned for me, I agreed to stay overnight, so I’ve packed a bag and arranged for Simon to have Lyla (originally he was completely flummoxed at the idea of having her on a day out of our usual routine, but I blagged that it was all good for refreshing the flow of the earth’s energy and he dithered a yes and agreed – success). I still don’t feel nearly prepared enough, though. I asked what the plan of the day was and Theo rather charmingly said, ‘Leave it all to me.’ Well, yes, in theory that’s wonderfully romantic but what if I’m not dressed accordingly? Will I need heels? Will we be on our feet all day and I’ll want flats? Is he taking me somewhere that requires a dress? What if it’s a spa? Do I need swimwear?
I throw a bikini in just in case, and thank the heavens that I’ve done a full body tan this weekend. Obviously just in case we go to a spa, not because I plan on him seeing me naked. I’ve packed silky pyjamas and lacy underwear but again, that’s just to make myself feel good. Not because I’m trying to impress him. No way. Not a jot. Not one iota.
After one last mini-tidy round the house – well, putting the butter back in the fridge and taking the smelly bin out (oh, the glamour), I hop in a cab to the station, grab a large latte and I’m on the train.
I’m so excited. I feel like a teenager again, with that fizzy feeling in my chest and a constant grin on my face. Fizziness isn’t something you can feel in The Emptiness, so this is a welcome change. I try listening to some soothing music to calm myself down, but I think the caffeine from the latte and his ‘good morning, gorgeous’ paying-me-such-lovely-attention texts have sent me over the edge. This man is an absolute dream. I’ve never
done something so spontaneous.
Storie is going to pick Lyla up from school tonight – they’ll crush some almonds or something equally thrilling – and Natalie said there’s nothing in the roster until Friday so I figured there was no harm in taking the day for me. Obviously I’m not going to get ahead of myself, not after the disappointments of Charles, Craig and Jacob, but somehow, Theo seems different; I feel like he understands me, and I feel like I want to fall into this and let myself trust him. It’s taken a long time to allow myself to feel that way about anybody – a big break-up does that to you. It leaves you with a scarred heart that only time can heal. Theo listens to the things I say, and messages such specific texts based on what we’ve talked about, not just the generic ‘hey, how’s your day been?’ and has something about him. Everything he does has a sparkle to it. When I’m thinking about him, I feel like I sparkle too. I can’t put my finger on why he seems different, but he just has this charismatic aura to him that wows me. He makes me feel funnier and prettier and glossier. I don’t want to get too trashy-magazine-horoscope-pages, but I feel like we were destined to meet. Like we just click.
As I alight from the train, feeling like I might vomit with the anticipation, and see him waiting for me at the station, I don’t run up to him and jump into his arms like I want to; I play it cool with an high-pitched, overextended, ‘Heeeeeeeeyyy!’
That’s right, Robin, nice and casual, you’ve got this.
‘Ms Wilde, how ravishing you look first thing in the morning.’ Oh wow, we’re on level five flirting already. How exciting! I think I’m going to really enjoy the next twenty-four hours.
‘Theo, I woke up like this, of course,’ I joke with a little swagger to my walk as we head to the Uber he has waiting. Where has this confidence come from? I love it!
‘I certainly hope I’ll find out if this is the case,’ he says smiling, eyes forward as we leave the station. Beyond glad I packed appropriately.
We get to his disgustingly impressive fourteenth-floor apartment. Wow! Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Thames, and every stainless steel kitchen appliance you can imagine. The main living area is open-plan. It feels as though you could twirl around endlessly with your arms outstretched and never crash into anything. Unlike the chaos of our tiny house, this is what you’d call ‘minimalist chic’. The white marble worktops are clutter-free (unless a smoothie maker, a sleek coffee machine and toaster constitutes clutter), and the huge glass dining table isn’t strewn with post, receipts and a few pens like my little one. Across the gleaming wood floor is a generously sized grey corner sofa facing windows that showcase the most incredible view I think I’ve ever had from a settee. From mine you can see the drive, the bins and a lamp post. There’s no TV or stacks of DVDs, but fixed to the ceiling is a projector and rolled-up screen. Of course. Of course Theo has a projector. Every perfect dream man has these things. It’s like when you’re little and you wished you lived in the Polly Pocket Country Mansion with the ballroom that has the floor you can spin round so it looks like the people are dancing. Well, this is the dream-guy equivalent. Every man I know (which, alarmingly I realise, is really not very many, I do need to widen my social circles – maybe Theo will introduce me to all his friends), would love to have this flat.
He courteously shows me through to the spare room, again sparse but stylish, where I leave my carry case. I think we both know I’m not going to sleep there, but it’s 11 a.m., so I’m going to enjoy playing out this merry charade for a while longer.
‘I thought we’d try the National Portrait Gallery this afternoon. They have a new Picasso exhibition. A lot of his early work from private collections is being showcased, and some of it has never been seen publicly in England before.’ I love how enthusiastic Theo is about something so refined.
‘Oh goodness, that sounds brilliant!’ I don’t actually know quite as much as Theo seems to; I don’t really know anything about fine art other than what we learnt in our GCSEs or what Piper has told me about her projects, but I’m on board for a trip to the gallery.
‘I thought you’d say that. With you being an artist, I decided this would be the perfect place to take you.’
‘I’m a make-up artist, and mostly just a make-up artist’s assistant.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short, Robin. I admire what you do.’ And with that, he ushers me to the front door with his hand on the small of my back (mmm, dreamy) and we hop into another waiting (when is he arranging all of these?) car to the gallery.
I’m sure that to Theo, whizzing through central London is nothing short of a chore, but for me, it’s such a treat. Usually I take the tube or arrive on set somewhere so early it’s still dark outside, so sightseeing is never really on offer. London is such a magical place. Every kind of building, business and person are all packed into this busy little hive, and are somehow all just moving forward in sync together. I wish my life was more like London: fast-paced and functioning perfectly.
We pull up on Charing Cross Road and step out of the car. The air is cold on my face but the sun is shining, so the chill is forgivable. Theo holds out his hand for me. It’s been a long time since anyone over the age of six has held my hand. It feels really nice to be the smaller one for a change.
We have brunch, with champagne, in the rooftop restaurant overlooking Trafalgar Square. The gallery is gorgeous, and very quickly I can see why so many tourists make a beeline for it. I don’t know whether it’s the high, vaulted ceilings, the art or the hushed silence, but something about it makes me feel very still and very calm. My heart is beating slower and my mind isn’t racing; such a contrast to how I felt a few hours ago. The Emptiness doesn’t allow any space for calm but here, with Theo, in this place, that’s all there is: calm. I’m still holding Theo’s hand, and I feel like I’m melting into him, into … us.
Theo remarks on a lot of the paintings and I chip in with the odd thought or two. I love looking at all the faces of people and times gone by, all with a story behind their eyes. Were they happy or sad or scared or brave? Did any of them once feel alone, like me? I love looking at the way the artists have painted the faces – the blush, the creamy skin tones, the contours, the way they define the eyes or bring out the model’s best bits. I love the ones who look like they’re wearing make-up, and the styles of different eras. Mostly, though, I’m just happy to listen to his musings and be part of this lovely moment. This is the kind of thing I have wanted for so long, for so many years. All those days of standing in the kitchen cutting the crusts off jam sandwiches, trawling round the supermarket looking for deals to make the budget stretch or staring gormlessly at children’s TV, feeling low and working hard to hide it from Lyla. I would have loved to spend an afternoon in a London gallery, holding the hand of a charming man, and here I am, doing it. If I didn’t think it would look like I was having a spasm, I’d shake myself.
* * *
FOR A GOOD COUPLE of hours Theo and I meander around the richly decorated rooms with jewel-coloured walls of green and navy and gold-gilded frames, taking moments to rest on leather-covered benches, holding hands. The weight of the world has lifted from my shoulders and I’m refreshed. I feel as if looking at all these people and sinking into their world has lifted me out of mine. I’m not thinking about the long, dreary drive back from the school run or the intimidating piles of unopened bills on the table – I’m not worrying about anything. I’m just here, in the moment, soaking in the thoughts on all the faces in the paintings and relishing it.
THEO IS ENTHRALLED BY each piece in the Picasso exhibition, reading each little sign below and telling me about it. Spending time with a man so enthusiastic is like a breath of fresh air. I don’t care all that much for the Picassos – they’re all a bit unfathomable for my taste – but to hear him speak about them with such passion makes me want to give a shit (at least a little bit) and want to hear anything at all that comes out of those perfect lips. OK, Robin, focus on the art, not the lips. Art, not lips.
&n
bsp; We leave the gallery and take a walk by the river in the fresh spring sunlight. Winter has felt like it’s dragged on so long. It’s been so grey, inside and out, that I’m surprised I don’t have rickets. It’s so good to feel the sun on my face. After a short while of chit-chat and banter (I’ve no idea if I’m doing ‘all the bants’, but when he says a thing, I try and say something mildly witty back and he laughs, so I think this is a success) and one too many ‘accidental’ brushes into each other (‘Robin, your hands look very much like they don’t know what to do with themselves. Do you need some help?’ Smooth move, Theo, smooth move. ‘Yes. They’re very confused and alone. This is a very hard time for me,’ I mock.) He takes my hand. It’s glorious.
Everything about him is glorious.
As we walk along the Embankment holding hands, I wonder if all the other people think Theo is my boyfriend, my gorgeous, handsome boyfriend. I hope they do. For once I’d like to be that smug girlfriend with her hand being held.
Cold sets in, and as the afternoon sun fades Theo suggests a drink. Deftly hailing a taxi, we jump in and within minutes are at a private bar, specifically for the old boys of whatever incredibly poncy boarding school he attended. The kind Finola’s Edgar probably went to and hated but would still send Roo to, to build character. I don’t think I could send Lyla away. Even after a few hours today I’m starting to miss her, but I force myself to push her to the back of my mind. I know she’s fine with Simon; I’m allowed to have my me time and I’d be silly to waste it fretting.
Theo orders for us both, choosing me a ‘Hotsy Totsy’, which is essentially just boozy fruity heaven and forty-five minutes and two more drinks later, I’m drunk. I’d love to say I’m just a bit merry, but no; these cocktails are lethal, I’m drinking them way too fast, we didn’t have lunch and I’m a drunk lady with a crush. Shit.
Wilde Like Me Page 11