Wilde Like Me
Page 14
The courtyard is dotted with world food stalls selling every delicious thing you could want. Stone-baked pizza slices, tortilla wraps, hog roast rolls, fish and chips, steak-to-go and far too many treat foods to have near a small child. Cake pops, cupcakes, scones with cream and jam. It’s too much to choose from.
Almost reading my mind, Theo says, ‘Shall we go crazy and just get a bit of everything?’
‘Are you my dream man?’ I shoot back, laughing at the idea of all that deliciousness.
‘Aha, quite possibly! Let’s grab a selection and take it through to the lawns,’ he says, striding off towards the first food stall.
And so we do, and it’s glorious. I let him choose everything because I don’t want to seem like a glutton, but I do insist on a box of cupcakes because Lyla loves them.
We leave the courtyard and find a spot on the great lawns near the trees. This garden is so stunning. It makes me wish we had even a little patch of grass. Everything is carefully planted and precisely pruned. Tulips, peonies, perfect delphiniums, fat hyacinths and pink camellia flowers are all in full bloom and adding some much-needed colour to the day after months of grey nothingness.
‘Lyla, look at all these cherry blossoms!’ Theo calls excitedly to her. Unfortunately she gives zero shits, because I’m holding the box of cupcakes. She’s more puppy than child sometimes. I give a little celebratory ‘wow, so pretty!’ to Theo, though, so as not to leave him hanging, and he looks satisfied with my acknowledgement at least. Look at us, being happy for cherry blossoms in the sunshine!
We set all the food down and, like the domestic goddess I’m pretending to be, I pull a little blanket out of my giant slouchy bag and lay it on the grass.
‘Wowee, it looks like your mummy has it all, Lyla,’ Theo remarks. I pretend to look bashful but don’t manage it.
‘Mummy has everything in her magic bag!’ Aww, she’s so sweet. ‘Her phone and sweets and hair bobbles and money and toys and blankets and Tampax for her grown-up lady times.’ Oh my God, of course she remembers that one throwaway answer I gave her when she asked if my yellow-wrapped tampon was a sweet!
‘Oh!’ he laughs back. ‘Well then, she’s prepared for absolutely everything, isn’t she!’
I laugh too, but deep down I’m slightly miffed that our perfect moment has now been tarnished by a flipping tampon. Next she’ll be bringing up the wax salon visit.
We lay out all the boxes and containers of food and slip straws in drinks (which also distracts Lyla from any further chat about things I don’t want her to remember). I’m glad we’re sat by the trees, slightly hidden from the main crowd, because we actually look a bit deranged with this much food on a blanket. I love that Theo doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable about enjoying my food. I wouldn’t say I’m especially conscious of my figure; it’s a good average size, but working with models all day does take its toll, and sometimes I find myself feeling really guilty for treating myself. Taking a hold of my thoughts and reminding myself that skinniness and happiness do not correlate, I’m more than happy to have a bit of everything and enjoy it. Lyla clearly has no issues either, sticky hands in every packet.
‘I never get to do things like this in London – this is so great,’ Theo says, looking into my eyes.
‘Well, that’s the joy of not living in London. Fresh air, open skies, I love it. I loved hanging out with you in London, but there’s no way I could live there. I’d feel like I was suffocating. It feels so good to breathe deeply, you know?’ I say, instinctively inhaling the sweet scent of the nearby flowers.
‘And to breathe it in such good company too. I can be so relaxed with you,’ he replies, lying down on the grass with his head resting in my lap, looking up at the sky (and, I hope, not my nostrils). Man, he’s smooth.
‘Well, I’ll say cheers to that!’ I say, raising a can of lemon fizz in the air.
We chink our cans (I reach over and chink his where it’s sat next to his thighs), and turn our attention to the falconry display that’s just about to start. This is supposed to be the highlight of the day, so I’m interested to see just how amazing it is.
‘Oh, I love falcons!’ Theo says, sitting up and looking over at them. I can’t actually tell if he’s being sarcastic or if he really does love these birds.
‘Mmm, yeah … they’re … really good.’
‘They’re such powerful birds, soaring through the air, spotting their prey and going for the kill. Efficient and ruthless,’ he says, gesturing more animatedly than he has done all day.
‘Like you?’ I laugh.
‘Ha! Maybe!’ he laughs, leaning back onto his elbows now that his initial falconry excitement has passed.
Sadly, the falconry display leaves a lot to be desired. Out of the three birds performing, one saw something on the roof of the manor and has camped out there while the work experience boy stands below waggling a flaccid mouse about to try and tempt it down; the other flew to the nearest tree, perched on a branch and hasn’t moved since, and the last one did three laps of the lawns (semi-impressive) and then just went back to its enclosure, sort of giving up. I kind of get it; I’m not sure I’d make a good falcon, unlike Theo. Lyla thinks the flaccid mouse-wiggling is part of the show, though, and is utterly captivated by it, as though it’s some sort of avian thriller. Theo seizes his chance to move his hand from its respectable spot on my knee much further up, sliding it under my skirt and across my inner thigh before I brush him off, laughing, ‘Down, boy, you’ll put the falcons off.’
‘I’ll turn them on, more like,’ he whispers calmly. I blush, because he’s so right.
‘I used to hunt with my dad when I was younger,’ he says, changing tack somewhat.
‘Do you still hunt? I saw you as more of a charm-every-woman-in-London man rather than a shoot-animals-in-the-country kind of a guy,’ I say, smiling and leaning in for a tiny kiss while Lyla’s engrossed in the mouse debacle.
‘Not any more; Dad’s put his guns away now – at Mother’s insistence – and none of my work friends shoot,’ he says with the slightest hint of sadness, maybe about his dad.
‘I’d love to meet your friends,’ I say, putting my hand in his and tickling his palm nonchalantly.
‘Yes, I’m sure; I’ll introduce you,’ he says, not looking at me but squinting into the distance at the guy putting the birds away.
We carry on with the picnic, and I pull Lyla onto my lap for a cuddle (Theo’s hands are safely back where they should be), and gaze dreamily at the flowers and at other people. She smells gorgeous. Every mother thinks that about her own child, I know. They smell like love and sweetness, and it makes my heart squeeze for her. If I could bottle this comforting scent and keep it forever, I would.
Theo looks a bit disappointed. Maybe he really was into the falcons.
‘You OK?’ I ask, with a hand on his toned arm. ‘You’re not upset about Colin the falcon, are you?’
‘No. No, no. I just don’t like thinking I’m going to get something and then it not happening.’ He frowns, a little sulkier than I’d have expected. ‘I thought that was going to be really cool, that’s all.’
‘It was RUBBISH!’ good old Lyla yells with her perfect timing. The work experience boy never did get the falcon down. Instead he just shrugged, threw the dead mouse back in a Tupperware box and climbed into the main guy’s Land Rover and got on his phone. All a bit of a let-down, really.
‘Shall we pack all this up, have a mooch round and head back, then?’ I offer as a consolation. I just want to move on from the display drama, and we’ve eaten so much food I feel a bit sick now.
‘Yes! I want something from the shop, Mummy! Can I pick something?’ Lyla says, jumping off my lap and dancing about.
The craft marquee is the stuff of dreams. A huge tent filled with trinkets and gifts and handmade fudges that smell divine. The sun is streaming in through the vast open doors; men and women are holding hands looking happy and vendors are chatting merrily about their creations.
Theo spends rather a lot of time looking at granite models of sniper planes, and I pretend to be really interested in how the propeller really does turn and Lyla is being good.
Lyla is in her element, having a play with everything, and finally settles on a painted black and yellow bumble bee wooden jigsaw to buy. She’s been good so I decide to treat her.
The lady behind the stall looks up smiling and says, ‘You must have been a good girl for Mummy and Daddy to buy you such a nice present!’
Lyla barely registers (she’s just been handed a bag with a toy in it) but Theo and I do. We both stand stock-still, and I can feel my cheeks burning. I must look insane.
Calmly, Theo squeezes my hand and says to the woman, ‘She has,’ and we walk away.
Just like that, he’s solved everything. He’s amazing. Does he see himself as a father figure? I think this rather cements us.
After twenty more minutes of mooching (and rather a lot of vanilla-fudge-purchasing), we walk slowly back to the car.
In bed, later, after very quiet but very satisfying sex, I lie there listening to Theo gently snoring. I can’t believe how beautifully this day has gone. If it were possible for me to be floating, I would be.
TWENTY-TWO
JUNE
TONIGHT IS A SPECIAL night. Kath is picking Lyla up from school and keeping her overnight, and I’m giving myself a gorgeous treat. I’m blasting a romance-themed Spotify playlist and swooning about like the cat that got the cream. At this precise moment I am luxuriating in a hot, decadent, mid-afternoon bath. Everything’s been going so well with Theo since our family day out – more dinners, a cinema trip (though he was clearly a bit bored), a couple of sleepovers – I decided to bite the bullet and ask him to the PSM Parents and Partners dinner. I went to a Parents and Partners drinks evening once in Lyla’s first term, just before Christmas, when I was still very new to the school, and felt so alien that I wanted to scream, ‘IS THIS HOW IT REALLY IS? ARE YOU REALLY HAPPY? IS IT THAT IMPORTANT HOW MANY TIMES LAUREN AND PHILIP WENT TO ROME THIS YEAR?’ but obviously, didn’t. Instead I bit my tongue and nodded along with an inane smile on my face, hoping Roger (Val’s balding, sleazy buffoon of a husband) couldn’t tell that I didn’t give a shit about his ‘sometimes forty-five minutes, if traffic is heavy’ commute to work. Some of them might be dull, but they’re a gang, and I want in. All dinner parties have dull moments, and I think part of my suffering is that I’ve always been single at them. I don’t have that teammate to bounce off, and so I end up sat at the end of the table with no anecdotes to share or tales to laugh over and nodding along to the likes of Roger and his enthralling chatter.
This time, though, it’s different. Theo said yes! He’s going to come to the Partners night, and we’ll be that couple that makes everyone feel a bit sick. We’ll be charming and funny and partake in scintillating conversation and offer witty anecdotes. We’ll be that couple that gently bicker, ‘no, you tell it, darling, you tell it so much better’, over our stories, and the other women will be sat secretly wishing they could have affairs so that they could have as much excitement as I’m having right now. Not that I want anyone to have an affair, of course; but you know, a little bit of other people’s envy always goes a long way, I think.
I’ve told everyone I’m coming with Theo. I may have over-told them, actually, because even Gillian rolled her eyes and said, ‘I know!’ when I mentioned it briefly in the foyer this morning. I feel like that kid who got the best Tamagotchi for their birthday and feels like everyone needs to know, when in reality they don’t give a shit. Well, maybe they give a little shit, but not a big one.
Theo was meant to take the day off today and drive up last night, but he’s texted to say that because of the huge acquisition he’s handling at the moment he needs to drive up this afternoon. It’s 3 p.m. and I’m already preparing, I’m that excited.
It’s not that the night itself is likely to be anything mind-blowing; it’s only dinner and drinks in the new Italian that’s opened up on the high street. But it’s everything else. That feeling of walking into a venue holding your partner’s hand, having your seat pulled out, perhaps; having someone to say, ‘Shall I order chicken and you order beef, and we’ll share a bit of each?’ It’s having your teammate there, and not just being on your own all the bloody time. It’s been so long, years actually, since I felt like I fitted into an environment like that. I’ve longed for it. I’ve felt so far away when I’ve seen friends in couple bubbles, quietly laughing at a private joke, locking eyes with tilted heads. With such a long wait, having it now feels all the sweeter, and so I’m letting myself spend an entire afternoon luxuriating in the getting-ready process. I refuse to feel guilty or self-indulgent for it.
Hello gorgeous, how’s it going there? I’m lying in the bath, thinking of you x, I send via text. I’ve definitely got the knack of a saucy text now, and feel a bit smug that I managed to basically say where are you? without sounding desperate. If I wasn’t naked and immersed in bubbly bathwater I’d do a little victory dance for that one. Instead, though, I just screen-grab it and send it to Lacey with a sunglasses smiley face on. She replies with a thumbs-up emoji and the hand that’s doing the ‘OK’ sign, which satisfies my need for validation nicely.
I do love a bath. Yes, all I’m doing is laying my body in a container of hot water and swilling about in it, which doesn’t sound particularly appetising, but when you can smell your Lush bath bomb and your legs are smoother than Theo’s one-liners, it feels like heaven. I lie in mine for a good forty-five minutes before jumping out, grabbing the nearest towel – oh, good, it’s a Hello Kitty beach towel – and lavishly applying my good moisturiser that matches my perfume.
Trying to ignore the lack of message flashing up on my phone, I start blow-drying my hair. Instead of my usual tip-head-upside-down-and-blast technique, I’m taking my time. I’m channelling my inner hairstylist and clipping segments to blow over a barrel brush. Why don’t I do this every day? It actually looks rather glorious when I spend that little bit of extra time on it. Soon those beauty bloggers will be asking me for tips.
Four o’clock, and still no message. I don’t feel like I can send another where are you text, but being the new-found genius I am, I have an idea. A mirror selfie in my towel! I hunt down a normal woman’s towel, though, so I don’t have Hello Kitty’s face stretched across my bosom, and I tousle my hair. Admittedly I did have to take my hair out of all the holding-segments-up clips, apply a discreet layer of tinted moisturiser and then heavily filter the snap (who doesn’t love a high-contrast black-and-white with heavy vignette?) but on final review, I think it was worth the end result.
I send the snap along with Thinking of you and hope it nudges him to a) reply, and b) leave the bloody office.
At 4.45 p.m., my phone buzzes. Thank the Lord.
Theo says, Hello my darling, you look sensational. Looking forward to dinner with you, leaving in ten. x
Yessss! He’s leaving in a moment, my hair looks amazing, we’re in business!
To celebrate this, I message Finola: Looking forward to seeing you later. Are you drinking?
Yes, comes her reply.
I should have known Finola was the wrong person to try and spark a chat about Theo with, and try Gillian instead. Ooohh, I’m so excited for tonight! What are you wearing?
Slightly more fruitfully she replies, I know, it should be lovely. I’m going for my navy trousers (bit tight though, oooer) and that nice floaty cream top with the gold buttons. See you shortly xxxx
Since he messaged me, I think it’s still casual and breezy to respond so just after five I text Theo to say, I bet it’s been so busy for you today! I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet and getting ready. Is t
he traffic heavy or are you making good time?
He doesn’t reply, but I think that’s probably because he’s driving and I open my make-up bag ready to transform my face from tired mummy to sexy mama.
I’m so happy with the way my make-up looks. I’ve blended in a heavy-cut crease, my eyebrows are well shaped, I’ve contoured seamlessly and set everything with transparent powder so we can fully enjoy the night and nothing’s going anywhere.
To be there on time, we need to leave at 6.30 and it’s 5.35 now. No message from Theo, but I’m not going to worry. He’s an adult, a proper adult with a mahogany shoehorn and membership to swanky social clubs; he’ll cut it fine but he’ll be here.
In my eagerness I’ve got ready far too soon, so I pour myself a glass of chilled white wine, gently sit down (this dress is far too expensive to flop down in like I normally would: since even a bloody invite to the Partners night is a celebration, let alone Theo coming, I decided to treat myself to the most incredible floral embroidered mini-skater dress. Each jewel-toned petal is hand-sewn onto the sturdy navy fabric that clings and swings in all the right places. I feel amazing, but don’t dare muss it up) and flick on Netflix. I’ve been slowly working through the Kimmy Schmidt box set so I sit back, click yes to a new episode and sip my wine. This is bliss. This must be what it’s like to have a loving, doting husband. Gillian and Finola must feel like this all the time.
Six p.m. ticks by, and I’m starting to lift my neck up a bit every time I see a car come near the house, but it’s not him. A message pings through. I’d have thought it would be easier just to ring if he’s driving, so I pick up my phone.
My heart sinks.
Sweetheart, I’ve still not left the office. I’m going to have to give it a miss this time, but we’ll definitely have dinner next week xx
He’s not coming.
I’ve made all this effort, bought this stupid dress and droned on about his attendance not only to Finola and Gillian, but to the other mums, and he’s not even coming.