Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  But on the third day, after I’ve sunk as low as I think I can, my tears dry up and I realise I’m not in the same predicament as I’ve been in the past.

  I don’t have to drown in The Emptiness.

  I have a choice.

  I can make this choice.

  If New York taught me anything, it’s that I can handle my life. I, Robin Wilde, am a confident and in-control woman, and whatever life throws at me can be managed. I can do this.

  With my new-found determination and Lyla still with Simon, I decide it’s time to stop living off cupboard scraps and go to the shops. I don’t care what I look like – it’s not important, I’m above all that now. I’m just going about my life, handling it.

  If I want to handle my life in a matted, greasy ponytail and sagging-round-the-bum jogging bottoms, then I jolly well will. I’m sick to the back teeth of conforming to society’s rules and being told what to do all the time. I’m rising far above all that. Find a man, be a good girl, bake a cake, take your child to soft play, don’t be too loud, don’t get too drunk, don’t talk about porn, don’t break out of your box. Fuck it all.

  I park haphazardly across two spaces and slam the door shut as I march into the shop. I grab a basket and start walking through with the sole aim of filling it with whatever I want. I’m not going to do what I always do and try to be good. Why bother? I’m alone anyway, so I may as well enjoy my life. I walk over to the refrigerator aisle and dump in an eight-pack of white chocolate mousse, then I mooch over to the frozen foods section and throw in a couple of frozen pizzas, and finally I meander through the wine aisle, deciding which tipple tickles my fancy.

  ‘Hello, stranger!’ comes a familiar voice. It’s Gillian. Lovely, kind, sensible-things-like-peas-and-bread-in-her-trolley, Gillian.

  I stand there in my sagging joggers, BO-smelling baggy T-shirt and bedraggled hair and look at her. She’s perfectly turned out. She’s in a lovely Boden cotton jersey dress with pretty, comfortable flats and her hair, unlike mine, looks like it’s been washed recently. A PSM is the last person I want to see. I feel like shit. A little part of me thinks maybe I am shit.

  ‘Gillian, hi. I was just … looking at the wine. Things have been a bit crap, so … you know,’ I say, trailing off.

  I can see Gillian’s politeness going into overdrive. She’s clearly judging me and thinking I’m a disgusting mother for only buying chocolate desserts and frozen junk food. She’s probably going to tell Finola, and they’ll stop their children hanging around with Lyla because she’s a scuzzy bad influence, and then, somehow, Val will overhear and say poisonous things to Lyla again. I can tell Gillian wants to say something, but my defiance gets the better of me and I’m not going to let her.

  ‘Look, Gillian, like I said, things have been tough lately. The last thing I need is to hear your opinion on it. I know you’re perfect, you all are, but I’m not and that’s that. Let’s just leave it, shall we, and I’ll see you next week at school,’ and I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can, without looking like I’m going to wet myself, to the self-service checkouts.

  I take myself and my eight chocolate mousses home and eat four in a row. Then, like the responsible adult I am, I feel sick, have a cry and go to bed. As Kath would, no doubt at the worst possible time, remind me, tomorrow is a new day. Thank fuck.

  EXCEPT WHEN I WAKE up, it’s not a new day and a fresh tomorrow, it’s the same day, just later and with some loud knocking at the door. Surely not Kath? She texted earlier saying she wouldn’t be coming over because she’s feeling a bit under the weather, and Simon isn’t due to drop Lyla off till the morning.

  As soon as I stand up, I regret eating the mousses and regret even more leaving the sticky pots all over the arm of the sofa as I knock past them and they all clatter to the floor. I check my phone and it’s 8 p.m., and there are four missed calls from Gillian and two from Finola. Has there been some kind of school emergency?

  Further banging on the door indicates that I need to actually go and open it and so I do, and to my surprise and horror, it’s them. Gillian and Finola are standing on my step, holding a bottle of wine each, and I think I spy a large box of Ferrero Rocher too.

  ‘We don’t want to intrude or upset you further,’ Gillian starts nervously, twiddling the sleeve of her navy cardigan and smoothing down her very lovely white dress. She always looks nice, I note. Not like me.

  ‘But it sounds like you’ve got yourself into a state, darling, and we’re not going to leave you like that. Nothing’s as bad as all this,’ Finola adds, gesturing at me and my haggard condition. ‘Now, step back, let us in and let’s see what we can do to help.’

  It’s pretty clear they’re not going home, so, still slightly dumbfounded, I open the door wider and step back to let them in. I inwardly pray that there are some windows still open upstairs and that the house doesn’t stink of mousse pots and sweat. I still haven’t showered, and all pride in my home has disappeared. God, this is embarrassing.

  Finola being Finola bulldozes straight through the lounge and into the kitchen. Gillian tiptoes after her, and a little part of me dies inside that they are seeing my home like this. There are wrappers, boxes, pots and food containers littered over every surface; old teabags sit in a cold pile by the kitchen sink; the recycling box is full of M&S individual G&T cans, and all over the floor by the washing machine is a pile of my dirty laundry. It was this morning’s attempt at ‘getting on with things’, but I didn’t quite manage to get as far as actually loading the machine. I felt that, given the circumstances, filthy clothes on the kitchen floor would be perfectly fine. Now that I’m having Posh School Mums over for the first time, I’m not sure it is. Walking through the house, I can definitely smell fustiness. I want to die a bit.

  ‘Robin, where is Lyla?’ says Gillian slowly and loudly to me, as if I’m not following her.

  ‘She’s at her dad’s. Look. Obviously, all this will be cleared up by tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you like us to help you? I’m always tidying up after Clara, so this is nothing,’ she lies. Her wide eyes and furtive glances around at the chaos suggest that she’s having some mild anxiety about the environment she’s been thrust into.

  ‘No, no, it’s OK, just, er, sit down and I’ll, um, make you—’

  ‘Don’t play silly buggers, my dear – let’s pull our socks up and sort this mess out,’ orders Finola, hands on hips, riding boots still firmly on over her cream jodhpurs, ‘and then we can have a proper talk about what’s going on and see if we can get you out of whatever pickle you’re in. I’ve no doubt it’s a man-shaped pickle!’

  At that, Gillian and I exchange eyebrow-raised looks. We pause. I think for a moment I might cry. And then we both burst into laughter.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake! You know what I mean!’ Finola says, ruffled at our immaturity but holding back a smirk herself.

  We’re still laughing. My belly hurts from laughing, and oh, wow, it feels good to use those muscles and have a huge smile on my face! As I laugh, I feel myself relax and give in to their help. By the state – and smell – of things, I need it.

  For the next twenty minutes, these lovely ladies bustle around my house with bin bags and the hoover while I ferry things upstairs to find them homes and put away last week’s laundry. It takes no time at all, and once it’s done, we flop down on the sofa, still feeling a bit giddy about Finola’s inadvertent penis joke.

  ‘Thank you. This is so kind of you,’ I say, still flopped into the sofa cushions, really very desperately needing a shower now.

  ‘You looked awful in the shop, Robin, I was really worried,’ Gillian says, turning her head to look at me but sinking into the freshly plumped sofa cushions too. I’ve never seen her look so relaxed. It’s nice. She’s nice.

  ‘I’m sorry for being so rude. I don’t know why I said those things. I was so tired and worn down. I’m really so sorry.’ I get up to go and get the Ferrero Rocher. They bloody deserve one and I’ve never deserved one
more.

  ‘No, don’t be, it’s fine. I just want you to know, I wasn’t judging you at all. I was concerned for you. I’ve never seen you like this,’ Gillian says, waving her hand in my direction and raising her voice so I can hear her in the kitchen as I fetch the chocolates. ‘You’re normally the glamorous one of the bunch.’

  ‘Erm, what?!’ I say, standing in the kitchen doorway, completely flabbergasted.

  Finola heaves herself off the sofa cushions and sits up straight to talk.

  ‘You know, dear, the sparkly froofy-floofy one with your hair and your make-up all just perfect. Gillian was quite alarmed to see you looking so dishevelled, and to tell you the truth, so was I when you opened the door.’

  Gillian sits up too, and blinks excessively like she does when she’s about to say something big. ‘Robin, I feel I should say, and I know Finola will agree, you are a wonderful woman. You are raising a charming little girl, you work very hard at your job, you always look so pretty and your home is … lovely.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cheers Finola with gusto.

  While we all know the last bit of that statement is a stretch, everything else feels so welcome and much needed. Coming from two women I look up to and respect, this is such an antidote to Theo. I feel looked after and cared for and it’s lovely.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  ANOTHER MORNING, ANOTHER RACE to get in the car. I don’t know if my house has some secret vortex I don’t know about, but if I have to spend another minute searching for bits of school uniform it will finish me. I think I’ve spent 98 per cent of my income on replacing bits of uniform and yet we never have any.

  Eventually, after Febrezeing yesterday’s pinafore to get another wear out of it (don’t judge me), we’re in the car and heading to school. It’s Harvest Festival day, so spirits are extra-high and Lyla treats me to a loud rendition of ‘Autumn Days’ while I try to apply lip gloss at the traffic lights. Nailing it.

  Inside, the atmosphere is twice the intensity of that in the car. Children are dashing to and fro with their offerings for the table (we’re required to bring in tins and packets for the local food bank) and mothers are dithering with complimentary cups of tea served by Mr Ravelle, who has a gaggle of women round him, hooked on his every very smooth word.

  The children descend down the hall to their classrooms to ‘prepare’, and we let ourselves be herded into the hall past the offering table, which is decked out with vases of dried flowers and stems of wheat and barley. I’ve lost Finola and Gillian, but I can hear the shrill tones of Val behind me chatting with a Reception mum.

  ‘Oh my GOD, Steph, look!’ Val shrieks with excitement in her voice.

  ‘Oh, what? What?’ poor Steph asks.

  ‘On the table. Some mother’s brought in value beans! Ugh!’ She points.

  ‘Oh. That’s all right, isn’t it? It’s going to the food bank. I suspect they’d be glad of any beans, really, they’re in a bit of a muddle if they’re using a food bank aren’t they?’ Steph replies kindly.

  ‘But value beans? How revolting,’ Val insists.

  ‘We’ve had value beans quite a few times, and honestly, Val, you wouldn’t taste the difference,’ Steph says with a calm, kind tone.

  ‘I would! Who on earth is so cheap as to bring value beans in? I’d be embarrassed!’

  Feeling my blood boil over at this conversation, I whip round and without giving it a second thought, I snipe, ‘Get a life, Val, it’s a tin of beans. Most people would simply be grateful. Nobody cares except you.’

  I turn back round and keep walking, leaving Steph looking smug and Val standing in her Valentinos with her mouth wide open. I don’t care what she thinks of me at this point. Gone are the days of worrying about her opinion, and if I’ve learnt anything these last few months, it’s to stand up to bullies.

  We take our seats, I’ve found Gillian and Finola and Mrs Bell starts playing the piano. One by one tiny children file in, waving once they spot mums and dads and sitting down crossed-legged on the floor. Each child has a paper band round their head with foils and glitter in oranges, golds, browns and reds to give a seasonal theme to the production. Lyla waves and points enthusiastically at her headband and I excessively thumbs-up and wave back.

  Gillian leans in and whispers, ‘How’s Lyla feeling about the dance routine? Clara’s been practising for days.’

  Errr, what?

  I didn’t know there was a routine. I’ve had no memo about this. I’ve heard the ‘Autumn Days’ song eighty times, but no dance routine. A little knot appears in my stomach. Have I dropped the ball? Was I supposed to parent this situation? Fuck.

  Mrs Bell plays the piano, the children stand up and begin to sing. I don’t know what it is about little children singing, but the hairs on my arms stand on end and I feel so overcome with emotion I have to bite my lip to stop myself from weeping.

  Three gorgeous, slightly tuneless songs in, and Mr Ravelle comes forward. His shirt is awfully tight and he really is rather buff. I can barely look at his face.

  ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you, children, that was some fantastic singing, I think we’d all agree.’ The audience give a murmur of appreciation. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware’, he chortles on, ‘some of the children have a rather special dance piece to perform for you. So, without further ado, I give you The Autumn Leaves!’

  With a round of applause from Mr Ravelle as he walks backward off the stage with a flourish, all of Lyla’s class stand up and ‘Autumn Days’ starts playing on the piano. I’m feeling very nervous. I know she knows the song, but choreography is another matter. Please let her be OK …

  One by one the children find their spots and raise their arms. The music starts and they lower arms with wiggling fingers, like leaves falling from trees. So far, so good. Everything’s going quite well until the second line. At ‘smell of bacon as I fasten up my laces’, the formation changes and they begin to do something else. Except Lyla doesn’t. Lyla hurtles forward and flails around in what I assume is her idea of free-form dancing. My heart leaps into my mouth … But there’s rhythm there. You’ve got to give her that. We’re on the chorus now, and she’s completely broken free. Some of the other children have stopped their dance to watch her – some are even starting to tentatively join in – and Mrs Barnstorm is kneeling at the side of the stage desperately pointing and hissing at them to get back to their places. Lyla hears nothing, though; she’s fully feeling the spirit of the song and having the time of her life prancing back and forth, waving her arms and, oh my God, is she twerking?

  They end ceremoniously on, ‘I mustn’t forget’, and with it, Lyla takes her paper crown off her head and hurls it into the audience like she’s at some kind of rock concert.

  The crowd heartily applauds, the children walk off confused and Mrs Barnstorm looks close to a breakdown. I’m mortified. I should have taught her the routine, or at least practised it. Why didn’t I know there was a routine? I sit through the rest of the festival with flushed cheeks, and by the time we’re at post-show teas and coffees, I want to hide.

  ‘What an enthusiastic performance from Lyla!’ says Mr Ravelle, striding over to me with a cup of tea in hand. Wow, close up he really is quite handsome.

  ‘Ha, yes, ha ha, she’s very, er, energetic.’ Of course it was my child who went AWOL. I bet everyone thinks it’s because she comes from a broken home where her mother can’t – but then I stop myself before the old negative thoughts take over.

  ‘Do you know what I think, Ms Wilde?’ Mr Ravelle says gently.

  Oh God, I don’t think I really want to know. He carries on anyway.

  ‘I think it’s marvellous to see a child with such a passion for music. I could see all the other children were completely enthralled by Lyla’s interpretation of the dance, and honestly, so was I. Wouldn’t it be terribly boring if every child were the same?’ He continues to look at me with kind, emerald-green eyes.

  OK, was no
t expecting that. Could he tell I was mortified?

  ‘Yes … it would. She’s a special little thing. I didn’t actually know there was a dance … I feel a bit silly, really, that I didn’t help her learn it properly.’

  ‘Ms Wilde,’ he says, much more tenderly than I thought he was going to; it’s actually a bit arousing to liaise with a man so tall and chiselled, yet so sweet and nurturing, ‘Lyla is wonderful. She’s quite a trendsetter here; all the other children think she’s fantastic – I often see them following her lead. It’s very rare to see a child as young as Lyla take such ownership of herself and display such confidence. She must have some excellent role models in her life. It’s fantastic to see, and even more fantastic to see it rubbing off on some of the other, more guided children.’

  Embarrassingly, once again I feel tears prickling behind my eyes. Here I was, always thinking we were being laughed at or that I was doing her a disservice, but all this time she’s been the leader of the pack. I could learn a thing or two from her.

  Before I have time either to weep over my well-adjusted trendsetting child or ask Mr Ravelle if he wants to father my next child, all the kids come running in from the hall, paper crowns in hand (even Lyla has hers back – clearly liberated from the floor of the hall), and find their parents.

  ‘Mummy, did you see my dance? I practised it with Auntie Kath! Did you like it?’ Lyla says so enthusiastically I almost can’t understand her jumbled words.

  ‘Like it? Lyla, I LOVED it!’ I reply, wrapping her into a huge, squishy cuddle. ‘Wait till I tell Auntie Kath!’