Needless to say, late afternoon becomes evening, the cocktails keep on coming, at one point delicious food (honestly, it could have been one of those greasy meat kebabs and I’d have reviewed it as ‘divine’, I was so tipsy), arrives and we talk all night. Theo is the most charismatic man I’ve ever met. Everything he says is exciting or laden with possibilities. He tells me he loves to fly in helicopters, and when I say I never have, he exclaims, ‘We’ll do it! We’ll absolutely do it!’ with such conviction I actually believe him. Nothing is impossible to Theo. You want to go in a helicopter? No problem. You want to sit in his private member’s bar with vaulted ceilings and smartly dressed barmen who never stop delivering cocktails? Let’s do it. This is so far from the life I’ve led. Simon’s idea of a magical night would be half a pint of shandy in the local pub with a portion of fish and chips on the way home. To me, Theo’s way of life is the stuff of dreams, the kind of thing you watch in romcoms and sigh deeply about. But Theo’s real. I can feel how warm his skin is and smell liquor on his breath, our faces are so close as we talk.
He seems to think I’m special too. He laughs at my stories of the PSMs and tells me he loves how sensitive I am. At every opportunity there’s a touch. He holds my hand, rests his fingers on my knee when we’re sat down, brushes my hair out of my face. Each and every time he does, I feel goosebumps prickling all over my body.
After six incredible hours of flowing conversation that’s left me feeling like he’s my soulmate, strong cocktails and the blurry memory of dinner, we head back to his apartment by the river. Shunning my good intentions, I don’t sleep in the spare bedroom. In fact, I don’t sleep much at all.
NINETEEN
I SAT ON THE train home from Theo’s and scoured every possible place on the internet for inspiration (in between daydream memories of his hands on my thighs, in my hair, up my back, mmmm, must stop! I’ve got to get back to the project at hand). Pinterest, hashtags on Instagram, I even researched the royal milliners for any ideas on how to make Lyla’s Easter bonnet stand out – and then it hit me! I was never going to beat the PSMs at their own game alone, so I ditched the idea of glue gun and fuzzy-felt bunnies, dumped my case, had a quick shower (I showered this morning but it wasn’t alone, if you catch my drift) and headed over to Dovington’s.
Lacey and I spent three hours creating a masterpiece, as I regaled her gleefully with probably more detail than she was comfortable with. More custard creams than I dare count the calories of were consumed, but by the time we were done, we were elated. Even Terri got choked up when she saw it.
It’s amazing what a night off from real life will do for a woman’s creativity. I haven’t felt this alive in months.
‘I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh like that,’ Lacey says with a smile.
‘I can’t remember the last time I had something this good to laugh about,’ I say, smiling back as the spring sunshine pours into Dovington’s through the craft room window. I love this place, and I love what we’ve made.
Very slowly and very carefully, we had attached delicate, fresh spring flowers to the broad rim of a straw bonnet, and used violet taffeta silk and dusky pink velvet ribbon to tie in a bow under Lyla’s chin.
We’d used periwinkle-blue forget-me-nots, pansies with lilac outer petals and buttercream innards, giant daisies, tiny soft pink rosebuds and white baby’s breath to capture the essence of new life and fresh beginnings. The scent was gentle but beautiful, and every which way you turned the hat, it looked divine and unique – just like my baby girl.
To fill in the little gaps between flowers we’d adhered tiny speckled Easter eggs I’d bought in a craft shop and then, just to add the final cherry on the cake, Lacey had used a fine paintbrush to add a sprinkle of glitter to the tips of the petals. It was stunning. A visual masterpiece.
I was so excited to show it to Lyla. I took it home and sat it on the chair in our little lounge. After Simon had dropped her home (accompanied by a paper bag full of wild mushrooms they’d picked that would probably have made us all high as kites if I hadn’t thrown them away immediately), I took her into the room with my hands over her eyes. When she saw it, she squealed.
‘Mummy, it’s so beautiful! My precious Easter bonnet! The best bonnet anyone has ever seen! Mummy, I love it, you’re so clever,’ she gushed as I held back tears.
Seeing her so pleased, and knowing she understood that I had made this for her, as a currency of love, was all too much for me. I could feel my heart expanding, and all I could do was use an overly high-pitched voice to say, ‘Yes, Lyla, it’s yours. You’ll look so beautiful, I love you so much, to the moon and all the way around the earth and back again.’
‘Well, I love you to the moon and all the way around the earth and then all the way to Saturn.’
We’d carried on with a few more rounds of how far we loved each other (a game I never tire of playing), and I put to bed a very happy girl with a very beautiful hat that I kept in the fridge overnight with a few light spritzes of water from a spray bottle to keep it going till morning.
Before bed I took a quick phone snap and sent it to Theo. ‘Wow! Best Bonnet Ever!’ he’d replied, which really was the perfect way to end the day. Having Theo in my life, even if just on the receiving end of a text, made The Emptiness feel very far away. The Emptiness was a huge gaping hole in my life, and Theo, it seems, thankfully, is now filling it.
TWENTY
IT’S 10.35 A.M., AND we’ve all taken our seats on the slightly chilly playground to watch the parade. I’m still fizzing with the memories of my day – and night – with Theo, and our steamy messages and phone calls since. He’s away in Zurich, but we’ve got plans to see each other just as soon as he’s back. A cool breeze brings me back to the here and now. We could have the event inside, but it’s sunny and Mrs Barnstorm suggests it will be marvellous to feel the ‘bracing air’ as we sing. Sadist. The tension is palpable, with every PSM perspiring at the thought of their precious angel parading their masterpiece in mere minutes.
I snuck in earlier than the others this morning so I could charm the receptionist into putting Lyla’s hat in the staffroom fridge to keep the flowers fresh, and although she now probably thinks I’m clinically insane, it’ll be worth it just for the look on Val’s face alone.
‘Oh, we didn’t bother with any of that craft shop tat in the end,’ I can hear her boasting to one of the Year Three mums. ‘No, Roger and I were on a coastal minibreak a few weekends ago and we specifically picked up some absolutely stunning shells from one of the harbour shops, and we’ve adhered those to a fantastic hat we bought in Harrods over the half-term and dressed it with very expensive Chinese Silk.’
‘Oh. Are shells particularly seasonal for Easter?’ I can hear the Year Three mum asking, bravely.
‘Well, they’re pink and pastel-coloured, aren’t they? That’s Easter-themed, I’d say!’ defends Val, with a hint of irritation in her voice.
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ the Year Three mum says, backing down.
Poor Corinthia.
‘Ohh, here they come!’ coos Val.
‘Stand tall, Honor! Stretch your shoulders back!’ barks Finola lovingly at her obedient daughter.
Honor, Clara and Roo have beautiful little straw boater hats with fluffy chicks, fake grass, foam bunnies – the whole shebang.
Corinthia walks out pompously behind them in a lemon-coloured felt beret that’s covered in shells. Poor kid looks like the beach has thrown up on her. I actually feel sorry for her. She’ll be spending an absolute fortune in counselling one day.
I crane my neck to see Lyla and there, at the back of the line, she walks shyly but proudly wearing her fresh flower and silk taffeta bonnet. She looks beautiful. Her long lashes flutter as she turns to look at us all, and I feel my chest puff with pride. I might be imagining it but some of the other mums and dads (you know it’s a big event when the dads come) audibly gasp.
‘Oh Robin, it’s beautiful,’ breathes Gilli
an in awe. She has clearly taken this event very seriously. Her husband, Paul, gently reaches for her hand and nods in my direction very sincerely.
‘Thank you.’ They’re a lovely couple.
‘Are they fresh flowers, dear?’ asks Finola.
‘Yes. I thought they captured the essence of new life,’ I say, exuding as much grace and dignity as I’ve ever mustered in my entire life. I’m practically floating.
‘Well, blow me down with a feather, darling, I think you’re going to win it. It’s magnificent.’
Praise from Finola is rare, and to hear her be impressed with me might actually be one of the greatest moments of my life. Aside from Lyla being born, I mean. Or on a par with that, at least.
‘Thanks, Finola. Honor and Roo look brilliant too. And Clara as well, Gillian; she looks so cute.’
The parade continues, and we’re given the ‘treat’ of all the children singing a few songs. There’s something about children singing songs that sets me off. I blink back tears as they all chorus: ‘Dance, then, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance said he’ so beautifully. Lyla makes eye contact with me and I wave and smile. Looking at her singing with her bonnet on, smiling at me, she seems perfectly happy and settled. She doesn’t seem like the kid of a broken home or deeply troubled (like me, perhaps); she just seems at ease with the world around her. Have I managed to ease her through the late start at this school and life as a joint custody child? Maybe she’s going to be OK here. She’s even looking at ease with little Corinthia, who has thrown several jealousy-induced shady looks her way, and one tongue poke. Lyla’s risen above it, though; good girl.
Mr Ravelle, the headmaster, reads a passage from the Bible and then – the moment we’ve all been waiting for – Mrs Barnstorm announces the winner of the parade.
The bonnets were apparently displayed earlier this morning in the school hall – ours ceremonially removed from the fridge – for the ‘esteemed panel’ (a lady from the local church, a Year Five teacher and Mr Ravelle) to judge, and the votes have been submitted and counted.
The parents look tense, the children sit cross-legged on the playground tarmac staring with wide eyes, Mrs Barnstorm ceremoniously opens her envelope, pulls out a piece of white A4, unfolds it and and bellows, ‘First place goes to Lyla Blue Wilde.’
All the children cheer, the parents clap, Val seethes and I lock eyes with Lyla. She’s flushed with surprise and happiness, and so am I. I give my beautiful girl a thumbs up and a big smile and she does the same back, accompanied by a wriggly little dance. We finish with one final song from the children and she runs over, carefully holding the brim of her bonnet.
‘Mummy, I won! My hat won!’ she says, jumping up and down and tip-tapping her little blue patent-leather school shoes on the tarmac.
‘I know, I know! You did so well, I loved your singing and your parading and you sat so nicely. Well, well, well done my little Lyla Bluebird. I’m so proud of you!’
‘I was so careful with the bonnet, Mummy. I’m going to keep it forever!’
‘Yes, we’ll keep it very carefully and it can be our treasure.’
‘Well, that’s not true now, is it, Mummy?’ Val sneers. In all the excitement of Lyla’s win, I haven’t seen her creep up next to us. ‘Those are fresh flowers, so they’ll be dead by tomorrow and you won’t have your bonnet any more, Lyla.’
The joy from Lyla’s face completely evaporates and turns to horror at the idea of her hat vanishing.
‘Val, please. She’s a little girl and she’s happy. Lyla, my sweet pea, we can easily dry the flowers and keep the bonnet forever.’
I cast my eyes about hoping Finola or Gillian will come and rescue me, but they’re talking to Mr Ravelle and have their backs turned.
Seeing she has the advantage, Val starts up again. ‘Corinthia’s hat is something she can treasure forever because we made sure to make it with things that last. Flowers rot.’ She almost spits the words at me.
This is horrific. Why is this woman being so awful to my little girl? I would never say anything unkind to Corinthia, even if she does look like ocean puke.
Lyla’s eyes are filling with tears at Val’s cruel words, and she takes her beautiful bonnet off her head.
‘My mummy made this for me. She loves me so much, to the moon and all the way around the earth, and my bonnet is beautiful,’ she says, looking up at Val, voice quivering. ‘Mummy, I want to go home,’ she adds so meekly I think I might die.
Seeing her be so tiny yet so valiant makes my heart almost break.
‘Well, she can’t love you that much if she made you a hat out of mouldy old flowers. You might as well put it straight in the bin, sweetie.’
Nope. That’s it. She’s crossed a line.
‘Valerie Pickering,’ I say, my voice starting to rise, ‘how dare you speak to my daughter like that? How dare you try to spread your poisonous insecurities onto an innocent little girl.’ People are looking now. ‘I know you can’t bear to lose, I know you’re so sad that you feel like you need to show off at every possible opportunity and flaunt any tiny thing you can, but for once, just once, have the good grace to allow someone else a little bit of the glory and back the hell away from my child.’
Silence has fallen across the playground.
‘All I was saying—’ she tries to weasel.
‘I couldn’t care less what you were trying to say. What you did say, directly, to a six-year-old girl, was that Lyla’s hat would rot and that her mummy didn’t love her enough.’ Everybody watching looks equally appalled, but also thrilled at such school drama. ‘Don’t you ever, ever come near me or my daughter again. You are nothing but a pathetic woman with spite in her heart, and I’m sorry to say it, but a total BITCH!’
‘Mummy! A bad word!’ says Lyla, in shock.
‘I’m sorry, Bluebird,’ I say, completely flabbergasted by my own bravery. I think we all are. Val stands looking at me and then looks around at the other mums. Nobody comes to her aid. She grabs Corinthia’s wrist, turns on her heel and storms off towards her shiny Range Rover.
Surprisingly, Gillian is the first to break the shocked silence.
She kneels down in her sensible navy-and-white-striped Joules skirt and says, looking directly at her, ‘Lyla, I thought your hat was so beautiful. I wish I had a hat made out of real flowers. I would think that fairies would come to it and dance around and make little parties all over it, because did you know, fairies love fresh flowers.’
Lyla slowly nods and a faint smile reappears. Clara (whose bonnet is covered in fake grass and hidden eggs) steps forward next to her mother and says, ‘If we put our hats next to each other, it will look like a whole fairy garden,’ and this entices a full smile from both girls and they skip off to the bushes, where they carefully lay their hats down, crouch beside them and drift off into little girl chat about pixies and fairies and all kinds of magic.
Watching Lyla take control of her feelings, put Val’s twattery to one side and allow herself joy and fun with Clara, her own little friend, refills my heart. So often Lyla copes with life better than I do. Amazing little thing.
When I look back up, the crowd is starting to dissipate and Val has vanished. Finola and Gillian are looking at me.
‘Robin, my dear, that was tremendous.’ Fuck me, two lots of praise from Finola in one day? I think we might very well be becoming friends!
‘I can’t believe I called her a bitch,’ I say, starting to feel everything sinking in.
‘Well, I think sometimes, just a bit, she is one …’ Gillian says, looking around nervously as if someone is going to judge her for thinking a bad thought.
‘Oh, God, you don’t think I’m going to be in some kind of trouble with the school for causing a scene, do you?’ I say, panicking now that I’ve realised quite what I’ve done.
And then, with impeccable timing, Mrs Barnstorm, the woman who thinks I’m the shittiest mother of the year, strides past and says, ‘I didn’t see or hear a thing, Ms W
ilde. Congratulations on Lyla’s win. We’ll see you next term.’
I’m speechless.
‘I think this calls for a celebration!’ Finola says, and we pile the children, and their bonnets, into our cars and drive to the ice-cream parlour to fill ourselves up on frozen sugar and victory. Huzzah!
A WEEK LATER, SAT in my lounge in my sagging PJ bottoms, a T-shirt I’ve had since uni and my dressing gown, I can’t stop thinking about Theo. Ever since our magical twenty-four hours together, I’ve been on cloud nine. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the man is perfection. When he talks to me, it’s like he knows me. He asks questions and he listens to the answers. It’s like he’s known everything I’ve ever been and everything I could be, and sees something in me that I so rarely see in myself. He told me he loves the way I see the details in things that other people don’t. We watched a Netflix sitcom the morning after the amazing night, and I’d said it annoyed me that every single actress had the same style of false eyelashes on and how unrealistic that is. Rather than roll his eyes at me nitpicking, he said, ‘I love your passion for the details. You’re incredibly astute, Ms Wilde.’ It amazes me that a man like him could be so attracted to a woman like me, and I love it. Every time he messages me I feel my heart fizz, and carefully crafting messages back to him is just about my favourite way to waste twenty minutes of my life.
When my phone pinged an hour ago I leapt across the room thinking it was him, but it wasn’t. It was Kath, informing me that she’d ‘pop by for a coffee and catch-up around 10 a.m.’ if I was in. It’s a Saturday morning at 10 a.m. – of course I’m in.
All I really want to do is stay braless in my pyjamas, eat Nutella on toast, watch mindless children’s TV with Lyla and read through every message Theo has ever sent me and analyse every detail of the punctuation he’s used to see if anything has a double meaning or if there’s anything about the promise of our magical future life together I’ve missed. Not that I’m obsessing. I’m just … being careful. Being watchful. Very acceptable behaviour for a together and winning person like me. I am winning, actually. The twenty-four hours of magic in London; our bonnet win; the Val victory; such a fun afternoon at the ice-cream parlour and then a great week have left me feeling more than a bit dreamy. I think I’m making good progress with the PSMs. Gillian has started a WhatsApp group between me, her and Finola ‘so that we can coordinate play dates for the children’. I don’t care what it’s for; I’m just pleased as punch to be part of their gang at last!
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