‘Absolutely. Yes. Very busy,’ he says, clearly distracted by something. ‘Why don’t we have a weekend soon? Just me and you. Give Lyla to Kath, and let us have some fun, eh?’
I knew he’d pull through. A weekend of fun is exactly what I’d like right now.
‘Amazing! I’d love that! Do you want to come up here, and I can rearrange dinner with some of my friends and their other halves? It’d be nice for you to meet them, and—’
‘No; why don’t you come down to me and let me treat you? We could do a spa, perhaps? Or a fun little day on the Thames if you fancy? Surely that’s nicer than dinner with the mums from school?’
He’s got a point, but I really did want them to meet him. I feel torn now. Boating on the river and a massage sounds better than a thousand custard creams alone or pasta with the parents, but I feel like he’s saying spending time at our house isn’t good enough. I want to let it go, but after my run-in with Kath, I’m not in a very agreeable mood.
‘Theo, don’t you like coming up here any more?’
‘Of course I do, darling, but I think we both know it’s more comfortable at my place, don’t we?’
How rude! There’s nothing wrong with my place! It might not be a city apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, but it’s got views, wonderful views, if you like the top of my neighbours’ garage and an old Frisbee that’s been there years. Anyway, yes, OK, maybe his place is nicer than mine – not that I really remember it very well, having only actually been invited once – but that’s not the point. He should be making things up to me, after leaving me hanging so often, and if he really did like me, if I really was his ‘favourite’, then he’d be happy to drive up here and be part of my life. Wouldn’t he?
I’m so sick of everything being hard work, and feeling so crummy all the time. I’m a shoddy mother, crap at dressing myself (I’m wearing a T-shirt with Sharpie on, for fuck’s sake), Kath probably hates me and I’m going to be alone forever.
Picking up on the silence, Theo continues, ‘How does the end of this month sound to you?’
Did I just hear that right? That’s three weeks away!
He thinks he can just charm his way into having it however he wants. Well, he can’t.
Summoning everything I have, I say, ‘Look, a date every six weeks isn’t good enough for me. If we’re going to be a thing, whatever this thing is, it should be easier than this. We should be in each other’s lives properly, like normal couples are. This isn’t working for me.’ And then I go further than I’d ever expected I would. ‘I need a break, Theo. From us. Anyway, I’m not free at the end of this month. Because I’m working on a movie set in New York.’
Drop the mic. That’s decided, then.
TWENTY-SIX
JULY
I DID IT! I, Robin Wilde, single mum and part-time make-up assistant, am here in the most amazing city in the world.
For a moment I was worried I was really going to hate it here. Stepping off the plane, I instantly felt overwhelmed. On the plane I felt fine. On the plane was safe and secure and cosy. I was squished up in my seat, shovelling sour cream pretzels into my mouth, and I watched all the films I haven’t had the chance to see at the cinema because, frankly, I’ve got nobody to go with. Theo was more of a theatre person (and not fun plays like musicals in the West End, more confusing make-you-think plays with no real ending. We went to one back in the spring, and I had to use all my energy to muster a ‘so abstract! Loved it!’) but sometimes you just want to gorge on overpriced popcorn and watch superheroes smash up cities, right? My shoes were off, I had my blanket draped over me and I felt absolutely fine looking like crap. On a plane you’re in a club where it’s perfectly acceptable to spend a day out in public in clothes so comfortable they’re practically pyjamas and hair so messy you look like you’ve just had sex. It’s airplane chic. Everyone’s in the same boat (or, well, plane) and everyone gets it. I’d love real life to be like that. Let’s all just go around in grey jogging bottoms and call it quits. Saying that, I can’t imagine Natalie in a pair of joggers; I doubt she even owns such a thing. Her version of relaxing is wearing her two-year-old skinny Armani jeans instead of the brand new ones.
But once we were off the plane, it felt very different. Gone were the days of a nice lady bringing drinks to my seat, and now it was time to leg it to customs. I didn’t fully know why we all ran, but my God, run we did. It was like a herd of antelope running to the watering hole before the warthogs got there and spoilt it for everyone.
My feet felt quite swollen crammed into my flats (how in the name of absolute arse do celebrities disembark in heels and a bare-faced glow?). Airplane chic now felt less OK on land. I looked like I’d been living off the earth in a forest for the past eighteen months, not like I’d reclined gently on a six-hour flight. Obviously, Natalie looked incredible. Hair perfectly in position, skin glowing, feet not like slabs of swollen flesh. She’s just winning at life again. You’d think she’d been in first class, but no; she just looks this way regardless. She’s wearing some black pixie pants, a light-knit cream tunic and a huge, soft-caramel cashmere pashmina across her shoulders. If anything, celebrities get their inspiration from her. Oh, and she’s wearing wedges, which I’d class as a heel. Jolly good.
We made it to customs – me breathless and sweaty, Natalie calm and collected – and spent fifteen minutes in the back-and-forth winding queue system. There’s something really unwelcoming about customs. There are signs everywhere and tannoys barking rules and orders at us, aggressively telling us we can’t bring seeds or tropical fruits into the country. Once I make it to the customs officer in his cubicle, he fires a lot of questions at me: What do I do? Where am I staying? What brought me to New York? I felt like I was on a very intense speed date but without the potential for a phone number and a snog at the end.
Eventually we were done. Customs was ticked, baggage was collected and now we’re in a yellow cab hurtling (well, chugging slowly through thick traffic) towards the Big Apple! Suddenly a wave of fizzy excitement washes over me and I’m exhilarated at the thought of being here.
ONCE WE WERE OUT of the airport and the taxi driver had tried and failed making conversation with us so we could all settle into a comfortable, polite and thoroughly British silence, I stared out of the window at the rows and rows of wooden-slatted houses, all different colours, some with porches, some with American flags, some with broken children’s toys in the front gardens, and imagine life here. Imagine if Lyla and I lived here, instead of on the outskirts of Cambridge, and for work I occasionally popped into Manhattan instead of London. She’d go to a New York school on a yellow bus and I could sit out on my porch steps in the evening, instead of the breakfast bar in the kitchen, scrolling through my dating apps. Suddenly that idea seems much more glamorous than my reality.
As we head closer to the city, we move away from the houses and apartment buildings, cross over a vast bridge (I wish I had noted which one, so I could make intelligent conversation or have some sense of direction – I feel very lost) and we’re in the city. We are in Manhattan! I gaze hungrily out of the window just soaking up every ounce of what I can see. It’s sensory overload. My first time in the Big Apple! YES!
The buildings are so tall and gleaming that I can’t see where they end and the sky begins, and every space on the pavement is taken up by every kind of person you can imagine, walking briskly with purpose and importance. I can’t imagine anyone I know walking like that. Maybe Natalie on the way to a meeting, but that’s about it. Women in heels, men in dress shoes, teenagers in trainers, kids in pushchairs, old folk in sandals, dogs on leads, tired-looking individuals handing out leaflets and being ignored, suits yapping angrily into mobile phones and girls not looking where they’re going while they text. Every ground floor bit of building is a shop or restaurant or business, with a stylish lobby of concrete furniture and one signature succulent on the trendy cardboard coffee table. We don’t go more than ten seconds witho
ut seeing scaffolding or construction work, and we move no more than three centimetres without being in a total kaleidoscope of colour. Everywhere you look is a rainbow. Lyla would love the energy here, I think fondly. People are colourful, shops are enticing, lights are flashing in every direction. It’s like New York took a look at itself and said ‘more, we want more’, and dialled everything up by 40 per cent. I have never, ever seen a place more alive, or felt somewhere with more energy. Manhattan makes the corner of Oxford Street by Topshop on a summer Saturday look sleepy. This place is incredible.
AS I OPEN THE door to my hotel room, I feel a great sense of relief. As exciting as the hour-long drive from JFK was, I’m acutely aware that I’m not in sleepy suburbia any more and I’m starting to feel a little out of my depth.
The empty bedroom is a sweet refuge. I drag my case in (to say I’ve overpacked is an understatement), and leave it by the chest of drawers with a TV on it and take stock. The room is nice. Basic but clean; there’s a decent en suite and a showstopping view of an alley with giant dumpsters. It’s quiet, though, and for the first time in a while I’m completely alone. No Natalie, no Lyla asking questions, no Auntie Kath popping by unsolicited – just me, in New York, with a suitcase of clothes.
Good grief! I suddenly feel happy and homesick at the same time.
I message Kath and tell her I’ve landed safely and ask how Lyla’s getting on at hers. I don’t want to worry her with any feelings of homesickness; she’ll only ring me excessively every day to check I’m all right and I’m sure, after a while, I will be. Ever since the haircut debacle and my heartfelt, grovelling apology to her, things have been a touch cooler. Not frosty, but not our usual easy-going warmth. It’ll ease in time, but right now I don’t feel she’s the first person I should turn to.
Instinctively I reach for my phone and message Theo. We might not be a couple any more (if we ever were), but we can still be friends. We never said we wouldn’t be friendly to each other. Theo travels all the time for work, so I’m sure he’ll be interested in my trip and would offer some friendly advice and support. It’s not a big deal; a friendly text here and there is actually a very mature way to handle everything I think.
I’ve arrived! New York is crazy! So busy! Feeling a bit weird and overwhelmed. Could do with a familiar face. Fancy a chat? As a friend. I think that’s cool. Short and sweet, but clear that I want a bit of comforting and that I’m not looking for anything more than a bit of friendship. I hate myself as soon as I’ve done it, though. It’s the first time I’ve caved in three weeks, but he did send me a friendly good luck message just before I got on the plane.
Quickly the dot-dot-dots appear and I’m instantly relieved. Like a knight in shining armour, Theo will know what to say to get me in the mood to face the city.
Hey! Great news! he types back.
Maybe he didn’t read it properly.
Yep! So great! Do you want to FaceTime?
Dot-dot-dots bubble up.
Can’t right now. Just heading out to the gym.
Oh cool. As long as Theo-the-selfish-prick is all right then, I’d best not make a fuss. I feel like throwing my phone across the room. Not so much because I’m angry at him (although I do want to scream at him for being such an insensitive dicksplash) – it’s what I’ve come to expect – but because I’m annoyed at myself. Why did I make Theo the first person I went to for comfort or help? He’s never really offered me any support unless it suits him. He’s not a friend; he never was. Why did I let myself be fooled? I’m such an idiot.
I don’t want to appear needy, so I resolve to be the bigger person and ignore him for a few days, as per – not that he’ll notice. I’ll be sure to post some really sexy black-and-white selfie shots to Instagram during that time. That will show him.
After a few minutes of venomous thoughts about Theo while checking out the minibar and sniffing the complimentary mini-toiletries in the en suite, I reach for my phone and pull up Kath’s number in my contacts. It’s late afternoon here, so they’ll be awake over there. I’d spent a solid forty-five minutes explaining and practising FaceTime with her earlier in the week, so hopefully she’ll answer.
Kath’s face flashes up on the screen way, way too close. I can see up her nose.
‘Robin!! Hello!’ Kath booms. We clearly didn’t practise volume control.
‘Hello, Kath! I’ve arriv—’
‘Oh, you’ve arrived safely, have you?’ she booms back before I can even finish my sentence. She knows I’ve arrived safely. I texted her earlier. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
‘Yep! Flight was quite g—’
‘How was the flight?’ she half-yells. She clearly hasn’t yet mastered the art of FT.
‘Kath, I can hear you really well. Just talk to me like you would normally.’
‘Sorry, love, you know how I am! I’m just amazed I can see you all the way in New York! How is the phone managing with the time difference, eh?’
‘Ha! I know! Amazing. How are you? Is Lyla being good?’ Let’s just get to the important bits.
‘Yessss, here she is.’ Kath swivels the phone around to reveal my sweet baby on the sofa covered almost head to toe in wool, string and ribbons. It’s like a haberdashery has vomited all over her.
‘Wow! Hello baby! What’s happened?’
‘We’re finger-knitting, Mummy!’ says Lyla as if all her Christmases have come at once.
‘What’s finger-knitting?’
‘We ripped up your old jumper and now we’re making something new with just our fingers!’ Lyla replies very jubilantly. ‘And Auntie Kath keeps forgetting my name! She calls me Robin or Mollie and Mummy, it’s SO funny!’ she chuckles. I can’t think about Kath’s ditzy brain right now; please God, not my good Zara jumper.
‘You ripped up my old jum—’
‘No, darling! No, no! I’ve got one of your woolly jumpers from when you were little. It’s far too naff to be worn again, so we unravelled it and now we’re doing some really marvellous finger-knitting. Suzanne at the WI does it all the time! She absolutely loves a good finger session!’ chimes Kath.
‘I bet she does.’
‘She really does!’ Kath smiles into the camera, blissfully unaware of the suggestiveness of her comment.
‘Mummy, I’m going to finger-knit you the best dress ever, and you can wear it to a ball with a Prince Charming, and then I’ll teach you to knit and we can do it all together. We can be the knitting family!’
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and before I know it I’m having a full-blown conversation about how many things I can’t wait to finger-knit.
I feel wobbly when I blow them both kisses and their faces freeze then disappear. Even though I’m going to stick to store-bought clothes and give finger-knitted trousers a miss, I love that Kath is doing this. She’s so like Dad, always tinkering away in the shed, making something and teaching me how to do it too. I miss those days, before they moved. Mum thought her health (she had mild asthma, but in her overdramatic mind she was at death’s door twice a week) would improve if they lived by the coast and she could breathe the ‘superior sea air’. Dad being Dad obliged her, of course. I’m so grateful for Kath, really, despite her passion for 7 a.m. ‘let’s get out and about’ calls and her penchant for ‘customising’ my things. We managed to iron out the haircut incident before I left, and she has been so good about Lyla – she offered to take her as soon as I told her what Natalie had said. She’s such a rock I realise I so rarely tell her that. I feel bad. Maybe I should message her again.
I ping over a text: Kath, you’re the best. Thank you for being such a star in our lives xxxx, I’m already learning that you can be in the most incredible city on earth but that what you really need is your people, your team, and that’s real happiness.
Well, that and a full minibar of tiny liquor bottles and no need for a babysitter. Hello, New York, I’ve arrived!
TWENTY-SEVEN
FIRST DAY ON SET, and it’s like nothing I’ve experi
enced before. Everywhere I look something is happening, and the atmosphere is electric.
Our make-up station is enormous, the largest I’ve ever seen, and rather than just our tiny team of two, there are three other MUAs focusing on more of the latex and special effects side of things, while we focus on the beauty aspect. Natalie is trained in special effects, but really wants to up her ante with it, so I’m sure she’ll tackle some, but with my role as assistant I’ll just be sticking to beauty, helping out where needed, applying touch-ups and observing. As I unpack all the kit, I feel that bubble of anticipation you get on your first day at a new school. Fresh new books and unfamiliar faces, but that fizzy sense of what’s to come. I hope I’m good enough for this. This is big.
We introduce ourselves to the other artists, Marco Leonardis, Amy Stoke and Sarah Scott, and are called through for a team briefing. Normally Natalie would have dealt with all this information over the phone, but with this being such a big, complicated job, we sit around the set on anything we can find and listen to Anthony Langston, the set director, go over the shoot days, scene breakdowns, art requirements, styling requirements and safety details. I scribble notes furiously. It’s incredible just how much goes into making something so creative, and I can’t fathom how they’re going to get through all of this in just a few weeks.
I’ve set up and had a meeting with the other MUAs and hairstylists, and now the actors and actresses start pouring in. With main characters and support actors, there’s a lot of work for us to do and our chairs are never empty. It’s a constant rhythm of having bums in seats, talking to people and checking my clipboard and schedule to make sure we stay on track with everything – this is far more than anything I’ve been used to back home. It hasn’t escaped me what a step up this is, and I’m anxious to show Natalie I can handle it; that, like she said, I’m ready for this challenge. I want to prove it to myself, too, just so I know I can do it, I can do something well.
Wilde Like Me Page 18