Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  By the time we arrived, Lacey had stopped crying, but chat in the car was thin on the ground and she was distracted. I could tell she was thinking about it still. I found a good parking spot and we walked in. Located on the outskirts of Cambridge, Lawrence’s is a hidden gem. You can always get a table but it’s never empty, it being a favourite of the locals. I’ve been coming here with Auntie Kath, as a special treat, since I was tiny. Mum was always glad to let me go with her and I was always glad to feel indulged in such a sweet environment. I can’t think of a better place to take Lacey right now. Lawrence’s practically serves love on plates.

  Once I’ve got over my joy at the very visible cake trolley, and we’ve rearranged the table so we can Instagram the living daylights out of it – even without the food on it, it’s pretty – we look at the menus. Like everything else in here, even the menus are delightful. Light lilac card stock, printed with gold swirly ink and finished with a sheet of iridescent vellum over the top. If I ever do get married, my wedding stationery is for sure being based on these. I can see Lacey’s eyes are looking a bit less red and swollen and she manages a smile. Unsurprisingly we settle on the full afternoon tea and sit back, happy with our choice and our unadulterated grown-up girl time.

  Lacey looks out of the window for a second and says, ‘I’d told Karl I was four days late. He told me not to get ahead of myself, but how can you not? We did everything right.’

  ‘Of course you did, Lace, it just wasn’t your time.’

  ‘I’m starting to think it’s never going to be my time, though. We’re doing everything the apps say. We’re waiting till the fertile days; I’m elevating my pelvis after every session; I’m checking to see if my discharge looks like school glue.’

  ‘Wait, what? Why?’

  ‘Because the bloody apps tell you to! Does it look like egg whites? Does it look like school glue? Is it thick? Is it clear? How hot are you? When did you last bleed? It’s like the most intense personal interview of your life, but if it tells me the perfect time to conceive, I don’t care. Once I tell it more about my vagina than I’ve told anyone in my life, it tracks my cycle and on ovulation day I get a notification. Like a text from my fanny, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘OK, well, maybe next month is the month, then. It will happen, Lacey, it will.’

  ‘I’m just so fed up. I’m so sick of hearing people say they didn’t even have to try, or that it was a “happy surprise”, when I’m trying so bloody hard all the bloody time, having sex on my optimum days even when neither of us are in the mood, taking every vitamin I should, already avoiding soft cheese and pâté! I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me or Karl, or that I’m letting him down in some way.’

  I don’t really know what to say or do, other than to just listen to her. I reach my hand out to lay it on her wrist. Lacey’s usually the one pulling us both along, constantly propping me up. To see her so upset is unsettling, and I think all she wants right now is to vent; it’s not like I have any solution to offer, after all. I was so lucky with Lyla, and as much as I won’t say it now, I really didn’t have to try. She just came along. I hate seeing Lacey struggle like this.

  ‘Look, let’s think of it like this, Lace: it’s been what, eight, nine months since you really started trying?’

  ‘Eight. Eight whole months,’ she says in a thick voice that sounds like she might cry any moment.

  ‘Well, that’s only eight eggs. And like you said last month, it takes the average couple a year of trying, so you’re only really three-quarters of the way through that, you’re under average. I know it must be so completely shit when you both want it so much, but keep in mind that even the doctors say you don’t need to worry yet. There’s nothing wrong with you; it’s just nature’s timing. And when you do hold your beautiful little baby in your arms, it’ll be all the sweeter. You’ll be such a gorgeous mummy, I already know it.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right. It will happen. It’s going to happen,’ she replies a little too fiercely, more trying to convince herself than agree with me.

  ‘Yes!’ I say in the most encouraging tone I can muster.

  The food arrives, and we’re distracted by how amazing it looks. Everything looks almost too good to eat. On the bottom row, soft little sandwiches with straight edges where the crusts have been perfectly cut off. A selection of fresh fruit tarts; rose, mint and lemon macarons and miniature Victoria sponges on the middle row and then, oh wow, on the top row, two huge, warm scones with china pots of thick clotted cream and strawberry jam adjacent. I think I am in actual heaven.

  I wish all my food was served on three-tiered cake stands. I might make that a thing. Buy a few colourful cake stands and just dish things up on them. If anything, it would be time-saving. No wasted trips back and forth to fetch the main course or dessert. I’d simply put starters, mains and desserts on each tier, and voilà! I could even do it with Lyla’s food. Fish fingers on one layer, mashed potato on another and beans on the top. I take a moment to imagine her trying to eat baked beans off the top of a three-tiered cake stand, and realise how insane that would be. Not to mention how messy.

  ‘Hello! Earth to Robin! Have you been hypnotised?’ calls Lacey, waving a hand in front of my face. Wow, I was really getting into that.

  ‘No; I was thinking about how I need to have more cake stands in my life. I’m going to treat myself in Lakeland next time I go.’

  ‘I think I just need more cakes in my life!’

  Lacey seems to have perked up. She’s forgotten about being sad for a moment, and is stood up to hover her phone directly over the top of the stand to take the perfect picture. Nobody around us bats an eyelid, of course. They know when food is displayed this beautifully it would be a crime not to photograph it.

  We dig into the sandwiches and swoon at how delicious they are. They’re light and fresh and crisp, and I could eat a thousand more. Lacey has some colour back in her cheeks, and looks like she’s feeling at least a bit uplifted. Good. We go quiet as we concentrate on the important job of savouring every bite.

  ‘You know what, Robin?’ says Lacey after her last bit of cucumber sandwich. ‘If I’d fallen pregnant this month, I would have the baby in May.’

  ‘Umm, yes, yep, that’s nine months.’ I’m not really sure where she’s going with this.

  ‘Well, May is the worst month to have a baby,’ she replies drily. I see what’s she’s doing. She’s trying to make herself feel better about it not being this month. I can’t quite work out why May is so bad, but I’m not going to stop her in the flow of talking herself into feeling better.

  ‘It’s the worst. May would be awful.’ I think that’s the right answer. She’s nodding fervently, at least.

  ‘It is, because it’s the beginning of hay fever season; I could never take the baby out for a nice walk in the pram. Being pregnant in May would be horrible, giving birth in May would be horrible and having to look after a newborn in June would be horrible.’

  ‘You’re so right, Lacey. It’s probably actually best that it didn’t happen this month, really.’

  ‘Yeah, definitely best.’ And with that, we start on the second tier. I’m pretty sure we both know we’re lying. Lacey doesn’t get hayfever. May would be fine, any month would be fine, but it’s not going to be May, so anything we can do to make that feel less painful for my best friend is OK with me.

  The second tier is even better than the first. I usually think macarons are a bit emperor’s new clothes. Everyone goes absolutely gaga over them, but I think they just taste like overpriced icing halves with jam between them. These, though. Oh, these are different. Each segment melts on your tongue and releases perfectly mixed, sweet, delicate flavours before you reach the filling, which compliments the meringue. I’ve never enjoyed a macaron more in my life, and suddenly I see what all the lifestyle bloggers get their knickers in a twist over.

  Buoyed up by my magical macaron moment, I look up at Lacey, who looks equally pleased, and says, ‘I�
��ve got a crazy idea!’

  ‘What?’ Mischief glimmers in Lacey’s eyes. She might be settled and married, but this girl loves a good time.

  ‘Why don’t we go out tonight?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Out, out. You know, big hair, bright lips, high heels. Let’s do it! It’s Saturday, Lyla’s with Simon and Storie learning how to live off the land or something, and what you need most, even more than these fucking delicious scones, is a cocktail. A big, strong cocktail.’

  ‘One condition,’ Lacey says, smiling.

  ‘Anything.’ I’m so eager to go, I actually do mean it.

  ‘You do my make-up,’ Lacey says, happily popping the last macaron in her mouth.

  ‘HURRAH!’ I say a bit too loudly, chinking my teacup against hers and sloshing tea onto the delicately embroidered tablecloth. ‘I’ve spent five weeks rushing about in jeans or jersey skirts and flats. The last time I made any kind of big effort was New York. I might actually keep an eye out for a nice man this evening!’

  ‘So Theo is definitely off the cards, then?’ she says through a mouthful of pink icing.

  ‘Nope, not really, I’m just not that bothered with him any more.’ Wow, that felt weird to say and actually mean. I hadn’t realised how little I cared until nudged.

  ‘Oh wow, you’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘Yep! About bloody time, as well! I’m starting to see what’s important and honestly, it’s not him,’ I say, nodding on ‘him’ as if to really make my point.

  ‘Hurrah again!’ Lacey says cheerily, and we clink our cups once more.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WITH NEW YORK A blur of new experiences and, cringe, self-discovery, entertaining Lyla through the whirlwind of the summer holidays and work zapping all my energy, I’d forgotten how good it feels to let yourself relax and have fun with a girlfriend. God, it feels good. Like a really hot bath after a strenuous day, or a really cold cloudy lemonade on a summer afternoon.

  After eating our body weight in miniature confections, we pop into Lacey’s to select an outfit to take to mine. Her wardrobe is the stuff of any girl’s dreams. Everything is neatly folded, carefully hung on matching hangers or stashed in its correct place and position. There’s no ‘crap pile’ or plastic bags of junk at the bottom of the wardrobe, like mine. I need to take note. This is how to adult. Thanks to her immaculate system, it takes about thirty seconds to select a cornflower-blue embroidered shirt dress with a chunky tan belt and wedges. She folds them (of course) into a tote and we head back to mine, where the real magic begins.

  It’s late afternoon, so we’re rich in time. It’s been a hot, perfect late summer’s day but the heat of the sun is fading and cooler air is wafting in on a welcome breeze. I open every window to allow it in and lay out my brushes on the bed as if I’m at work. The plan is to visit a couple of bars along the river, making the most of the late summer nights and not focus on anything except laughing and chatting.

  Like old times, we spend forever on hair and make-up. False lashes (the subtle kind), backcombed hair, the good lipsticks that I don’t use day to day – we let loose. We chit-chat about people we used to go to school with (we think Alison Berry from the year above us might be having an affair, judging by her weird Facebook statuses), Lacey and Karl’s upcoming weekend break to Rome – poor Karl has been working all hours on a big new deal – how well Lyla seems to be getting on at school at the moment, and how that’s such a relief. Standard chit-chat, lots of laughter and completely just what I need.

  After twenty minutes of trying things on and taking them off again (nothing changes; it was like this fifteen years ago when we stood in Lacey’s mum’s house huffing and puffing while Tina told me I looked ‘lovely in everything’), I settle on a denim playsuit with small wooden buttons up the side of each hip and gold sandals. It’s fairly casual, but with my glimmering highlight and bouncing AF hair, I’m smashing it.

  Once out and situated at a couple of sofas next to a low table near the bar, we don’t hold back. It’s as if we both inherently know that this is a treat, that it might not happen again for a while and that, maybe without realising it, we really, really needed it. We line up shots, we clink porn star martinis (even a bit tipsy, I shudder when it’s my turn to order and yell ‘porn star’ across a busy bar, even if it is just a delicious cocktail and not actually an adult entertainer in a glass) and we shout into each other’s ears about how much we love each other and how we’ll never leave the other and how ‘really, no really, you are the best friend I’ve ever fucking had’. We laugh and we dance a bit, and we have a ball. Why don’t I do this more often?

  At home in bed (I’ve managed to pull the sandals off and get the playsuit down to my waist, but those little wooden buttons are like tiny arrogant prison guards, and after a couple of failed attempts and a slight stagger and crash into the door frame, I give up and decide that wearing demin shorts to bed is fine), I text Lacey to make sure she got in OK after the taxi dropped me at mine.

  ‘Yep, next to Karl, my second-best friend because you are my real, actual, forever best friend, Robin Wilde, I lob you.’ She means love. I get it. I lob her too.

  She’s so lucky to be able to go home to her second-best friend. Her kind, handsome husband who loves her so dearly.

  Suddenly the night isn’t so fun any more, and my bed feels massive and lonely (even with my playsuit still on). I wish I had a nice man in mine like Lacey does in hers. I wasn’t looking for a guy tonight, but then again, I wasn’t not looking. A couple of decent-looking types caught my eye and one or two smiled but, unlike New York, I didn’t feel brave enough to go over. Maybe I need Piper, or gummy sharks in drinks or just the buzz of the big city, but somehow I didn’t have that confidence to waltz over and make small talk. Also, in fairness, nobody came over to me either. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? I’m not awful to look at; I’m approachable, I think. But not tonight. And so here I am, sprawled out in a double bed with no one to share it.

  I don’t think it’s unreasonable to text your friends when you’re feeling a bit lonely. I’d text any of my friends right now, so it’s no big deal at all. I would text Lacey, but she’ll be asleep by now. Or not asleep with Karl, and I don’t want to interrupt that.

  I start to type. I know I shouldn’t, deep down, but I carry on.

  Theo, I miss you. I stare at the screen for a moment. Then: What happened to us? I wish you were here to hold me.

  I hit send.

  THIRTY-THREE

  SEPTEMBER

  SITTING IN THE BACK of a black taxi, chugging slowly across Waterloo Bridge through the rush hour traffic (when is it not rush hour in central London?), I smooth down my gorgeous skirt and let my mind wander back over the last few days.

  The drunken text, realistically, should have been a massive mistake. I sent it, passed out into the deepest sleep and woke up to not one, not two, but three messages from Theo.

  I’m so glad you texted.

  I miss you too.

  Let’s chat soon. Properly.

  And so we did. I went downstairs (in aforementioned grotty dressing gown), poured the biggest glass of water, took a paracetamol, smiled as I dialled his number and forgot all about my hangover. It’s like everything that went before was water under the bridge, and something inside me switched. That jolt of loneliness in bed triggered me into wanting him again. Life’s too short. I want to be happy. After our long call and an intense exchange of messages I finally agreed to meet him. He asked me to dinner, and with a new wave of hope, I accepted.

  The taxi slows and comes to a halt. We’re on the South Bank, and I can see the bold red sign glowing on top of the OXO Tower.

  Here goes …

  WITHOUT SKIPPING A BEAT, Theo jumps up to pull out my chair. As always, he looks fantastic. He’s styled himself perhaps on a magazine model, and I’m completely dazzled by it. Sharp navy trousers, expensive-looking leather belt, crisp white shirt with the top few buttons undone. On his chair
hangs the navy suit jacket, and I can see a red pocket handkerchief just peeping out. I’m not sure if it’s sexy or pretentious, but before I have a chance to mull it over, he speaks.

  ‘You … you look incredible. You look so different. I can’t get over it. Just beautiful,’ Theo stutters in shock.

  I think about how amazing it is that he can see how great I look. I mean, I thought I looked all right all the time we spent together, and I know I look a bit better now, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say ‘so different’. They say the sexiest thing you can be is confident, and lately, thanks to the success of the job in New York, the one-night stand, work life back in the UK going so well, I do feel more confident. I’ve shown myself how much I can achieve when I work for it, when I put my own mind to it. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe I just contoured the shit out of my cheeks. Thanks, though, Theo. I guess.

  In the glow of the golden fairy lights I realise Theo looks nervous. It’s weird. The man who is usually cooler than Kanye is actually fidgeting a bit. It’s like being on a first date, or perhaps this is what the start of a proposal feels like.

  Oh my God, is he going to propose?

  Is he going to actually get down on one knee and whip out a tiny box with the engagement ring of my dreams in it?

  Hmmmm … I wonder if it’s brand new, or an exquisite family heirloom from his mother’s side? Oh, God, I’m so glad I painted my nai—

  ‘Look. Robin. Darling. I’m sorry we’ve not spent much time together recently. Things at the office have been insane with the acquisition. I wish I had more time for just hanging about at home with you.’