Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘OK, so,’ I chirp as confidently as I can, ‘we have a job for a group of children with special needs next week. They are transforming their centre into a fairy garden for the day and have asked us to send two juniors out to apply delicate eyeshadows, fluttering false lashes and, I’m sure, a whole lot of glitter.’ Skye jumps in to suggest adding little special-effect latex tips to the tops of their ears to give them the pixie effect. And since neither of our junior MUAs are fully trained in special effects yet, Skye agrees to take one of their places for a lower fee than normal. I am astounded, but of course the rest of the office just accept that Skye the Wonderful would be so gracious. Kareem, one of our part-time MUAs, actually puts his hand on Skye’s shoulder and says, ‘You’re such an inspiration.’ Skye coolly looks down at her lap and smiles with a nod. Have I turned into a massive cynic?

  We reach the last section of the agenda. I open the floor to anyone with ‘any other business’ and, of course, Skye has some.

  ‘Yes, Skye, please do share,’ I say in the encouraging tone I learnt from Natalie.

  ‘Have you sorted the rotas yet?’

  What? We spoke about this an hour ago. Is she deliberately baiting me in front of an audience?

  ‘We spoke about this, Skye,’ I say calmly. I’m like a swan. Cool and collected up top but paddling like billy-o under the surface.

  ‘We did, but, as you might remember from a couple of months ago when you were a part-time make-up assistant, Natalie always made sure to have the jobs out a fortnight in advance and printed on the kitchen board. She was always so efficient, you know?’ Skye says smoothly.

  Wow. Just wow.

  One of Skye’s fangirls, Nix (it’s short for Nicola. Apparently you can just put an ‘x’ in your name and make it cool. Call me Robix from now on), jumps on the bandwagon. ‘I don’t want to sound harsh, but Skye’s right. Natalie was, like, really organised with the rotas and a lot of us have lives outside this place. We need to work around that and like, yeah …’

  ‘Thank you, Nix, I know exactly what you mean, I have a hectic life too and will be as prompt as I can with your rotas,’ I offer with a smile akin to one of the nuns in Call the Midwife. I chant to myself; Kill them with kindness.

  ‘No, I mean lots of us like going out or going places, that sort of thing,’ Nix says. She might be a brilliant make-up artist but I’m not sure she’s a brilliant mind.

  ‘Yes, Nix, I know what “having a life” means,’ I snap, cross with myself for letting it get to me.

  ‘I don’t think Nix meant to upset you, Robin, I just think we all need a bit more organisation on your part,’ Skye says in the most patronising tone I’ve ever heard, while Kareem nods sagely and some of the others start to shift in their seats, clearly picking up on the tension. Like the mature leader I am, I put a stop to this.

  ‘Right. Lovely. All good points then. The only adjustment being Skye on the fairy job. Everyone else knows what they are doing. Rotas will be up by lunchtime. Let’s all crack on.’

  And with that, I stand up, gather my rather yummy rose-gold and pink stationery, plus the sodding rotas, and leave for my office, my sanctuary, with my heart in my Converse but my head held high.

  NOW, ROTA DONE, MEETING managed, budget document … opened. No emergencies. Skye only sent one round-robin email, this time demanding that ‘the person who insists on changing the sound system to Radio 2 must consult the group’. Sorry, no can do, Skye. After all, who doesn’t like Radio 2? It’s cool now, OK?

  All in all, a grand day. As I’m saying goodbye to Stuart and Alice, the admin team, Skye appears. ‘Robin, don’t forget I won’t be in next Monday. My boyfriend Neil is taking me away, remember?’

  ‘Mmmm, you mentioned that this morning,’ I say probably a bit less enthusiastically than I meant to. I just really want to get out of the office, I’m hungry, ready for dinner and Monday is a full week away.

  Taking my lack of passion to heart, Skye fluffs her metaphorical feathers. ‘No need to be salty about me having a boyfriend, Robin. I’m sure you’ll find one someday.’ Stuart and Alice almost gasp at the audacity of this, probably enjoying the drama. What’s got into her? Maybe this is because I didn’t sagely nod when Kareem told her she was an inspiration.

  What does ‘salty’ even mean? Why do these young people have so many new meanings for words I don’t understand? I take a wild guess, stand up an inch taller than usual and formulate my cutting response.

  ‘Skye, thanks for once again highlighting your relationship status. I’m very pleased for you. My self-validation doesn’t depend on a romantic attachment, nor does my well-being. Perhaps one day you’ll feel secure enough in yourself to not seek a man’s approval but until then, I’m off home.’ Satisfyingly, Skye looks momentarily shocked, then like thunder and, with that, I turn on my heel (not before noticing Stuart’s gobsmacked face and Alice’s eyes alight), strut out and cross the road to my car.

  One–nil, Badass Boss Single Mum Extraordinaire.

  What would I have done differently if I’d known that, in less than four weeks’ time, I’d be on the verge of losing everything I’d worked so hard for …

  TWO

  HOME! AFTER BLASTING THE best eighties power ballads Spotify has to offer in the car, normality resumes. I say ‘normality’, but in truth I’m hit with what looks like an explosion in an apothecary. Lotions, potions and dozens of bunches of little dried purple sprigs are strewn all over the lounge floor. Of course I pretend I’m not worried about any of them staining the brand-new cream carpet I had laid when we moved in at the end of last year. (My old house had a hard-wearing oatmeal sort of affair, so as a treat, to match the beautiful oak furnishings and battered brown leather sofa I brought with me, I bought the carpet. It comes to something when a carpet is a treat, doesn’t it? Will scouring the internet for a better fixed-term mortgage be a treat next? Or buying myself summer season passes to stately homes and gardens? What about finding the best deals in bargain supermarkets? I have recently become obsessed with Mum vloggers doing pound shop hauls on YouTube. Perhaps I’ll watch a few more once Lyla’s in bed.)

  We’re starting to feel more settled in our lovely new place. I bought lots of wooden Moroccan-style frames and finally printed off a load of photos from my phone and made a gallery wall in the hallway, we have colourful tiny flowers in little glazed pots dotted around windowsills and – just like all the best interiors Instagrammers – I’ve invested in the fluffiest, most tasselled rug imaginable for the front room. Here’s hoping I can keep it clean for more than three weeks.

  I realise I’ve let my mind wander and I need to focus on being in the moment. Lyla and our beloved Auntie Kath look up to greet me with happy smiles on happy faces.

  ‘Auntie Kath brought her crafts over, Mummy! We’re making lavender bath bombs. We’ve been doing them for hours because you’ve been at work so long. I thought you might be sleeping there tonight. Why are you always at work, Mummy?’ my energetic seven-year-old demands before I can even say hello.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Bluebird!’ I say as I pick my way over plastic moulds, spoons and measuring cups to go in for a big cuddle. Ah, the best part of my day.

  ‘Hey, Kath!’ I add to my auntie, who beams back. She is a godsend for picking Lyla up from school and babysitting until I can get home. Lyla squeezes me so hard around my tummy I almost squeak.

  ‘Hello, lovey. She’s right, we’re making lavender toiletries. It’s very relaxing. It does wonders for the night sweats now I’m going through The Change! When I don’t use them I wake up wetter than a lady of the night, but if I do, I’m fresh as a daisy,’ Kath responds cheerily.

  I try to keep a straight face.

  ‘So I’m utterly obsessed with lavender, lovey. I’ve been reading about its healing properties on the web and we’ve been talking about it all week at Cupcakes and Crochet. Sue said the lavender oils completely cleared up her problem skin from The Change, and you remember what a pizza-face she was!’ Kath t
itters. But I’m busy picking bits up and looking at the little spots of purple staining my aforementioned very sophisticated new carpet.

  ‘Are they for you or a gift?’ I ask, almost nervous to hear the answer. I’m not sure I want lavender soap infused with carpet fluff, biscuit crumbs and an, er, intimate drying effect.

  ‘For you! You can have all of these because I’ve been working on them non-stop at home. I’ve got hundreds already,’ Kath says, busying herself with opening the moulds and popping out little purple spheres. They look pretty good, actually.

  ‘Oh, lovely, erm … thanks!’ I say, picking my way back over to the door to dump my bag on the little hall table I picked up at a boutique shop in town. I’ve always wanted to be one of those women who has a big entrance hall and a small table with a ‘catch all’ tray and an elegant bunch of flowers. Our flowers are fake from Poundland but you wouldn’t know from far away, and only Lacey raises her eyebrows at them (she’s a John Lewis girl herself). ‘Fresher are better,’ she’d say, but she’d add kindly: ‘I’ll get you some’. It’s probably quite easy to keep fresh flowers in the house when you own a bloody florist’s, I often point out.

  ‘I’ve done them for all my friends,’ Kath continues, gaining momentum. ‘Moira swears by them. She said after she had a soak with the bath-ballistic I did, she felt so sensual she took the moisturiser into her boudoir and asked her Allan to apply it for her! Well, you can guess what happened next …’

  I am literally horrified by the thought of Kath’s neighbour Allan slathering her latest creation all over his wife’s naked torso but I manage to keep it in and nod enthusiastically, trying to shake the idea out of my head. Even the lady of the night image was more appealing than Moira and a frisky Allan. I hope Kath’s OK. Is it normal to spend all your time making hundreds and hundreds of senior-sex-inducing bath bombs in your spare time?

  ‘What’s a boudoir?’ Lyla pipes up, her glacier-blue eyes and pixie nose the picture of innocence.

  ‘A bedroom! Another word for bedroom, sweetie, that’s all,’ I jump in with quickly, trying to think of something else to say before she asks what ‘sensual’ means too.

  ‘Shall I put some jacket potatoes in?’ I say, heading into the kitchen and away from the madness.

  ‘No need, lovey. There’s a lasagne I made this morning, I’ve got garlic bread in the fridge and Lyla helped me make a salad when we got in from school. I’ve done crumble for afters.’

  ‘Oh, Kath,’ I say, going back in and navigating my way back across the lounge to give her a hug. ‘What would I do without you?’

  THREE

  IT’S MY DAY OFF and I’ve been looking forward to this day for ages. I’m off to see Lacey. The joys of working flexible hours and the odd weekend: a day off in the week. Instead of heading home after the school run for a cheeky Twix (you just can’t indulge in early-morning chocolate with a seven-year-old in the vicinity, they’re like sniffer dogs for any kind of confectionery – unless you want a hyped-up crazy on your hands, you have to hide anything worth eating till later in the day), I drive over to Dovington’s.

  Since accepting Natalie’s offer to run MADE IT, I’ve seen less of Lacey and it’s a shame. I really miss our weekly natters around the giant oak table in the back room of the florist’s she inherited from her grandmother. Lacey is my oldest and best friend and my favourite person to put the world to rights with.

  Before I go in, I glance up. There’s a flat above the shop belonging to a nice old lady who we suspect is a bit lonely. She keeps herself to herself but Lacey will often do an essentials shop for her, and at the end of the day, she’ll often leave a selection of the flowers they’ve not sold by her front door. As usual I can see this week’s proudly displayed in a vase on the upstairs front windowsill.

  Pushing open the door and hearing the familiar bell tinkle makes me smile straight away. Dovington’s is such a welcoming place, beautifully scented with a mix of delicate florals and warm incense dotted around by Terri, Lacey’s right-hand woman. You can’t help but feel at ease here. The front half of the shop, with its huge floor-to-ceiling window, is laden with every kind of flower, all displayed in big white vases and buckets in the centre of the room. It’s organised so you can either go in and pick up a ready-made bouquet or, my favourite option, you can take a flat wicker basket and choose each individual stem and make your own arrangement, a floral pick and mix. On one wall, big metal shelving units show off trendy planters, watering cans, succulents, little plants already in bloom, tempting ornaments and gifty trinkets and beautiful vases and pots. At the back there are a couple of big high desks with piles of paper and cellophane for wrapping and an old bashed-up till that’s seen better days.

  Beyond the till is my favourite part: the big back room. Lacey uses this for crafty projects, hosting workshops (‘How to Make a Fresh Floral Crown’ is always fully booked out during festival season) and, most importantly, gossiping with me over big cups of hot tea.

  ‘Only me!’ I say, popping my head round the door of Lacey’s ‘office’ (the least office-like place you can imagine). It is like stepping into a warm hug from a friend. Though it’s spring, it’s still nippy outside. The radio is playing some happy playlist and Lacey’s table is covered edge to edge in scraps of pastel crêpe paper, wire, string and the odd pair of scissors.

  ‘Ah, hello! Just the person I need! How would you like to spend the next hour of your life helping me finish these bloody pastel pompoms?’ Lacey asks with a despairing look.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to do anything more,’ I say, taking a seat and fluffing about with tiny bits of tissue paper. ‘What exactly are they? What are they even for?’

  As Lacey gamely explains how to make a paper pompom (good old Pinterest, a fountain of craft inspiration) and why we were making forty-five of them (to hang from the shop ceiling for her upcoming Mother’s Day display, one of her busiest times of year), I can tell her mood is low.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ I ask, wondering how much I’ll have to push to get it out of her.

  ‘Oh, I’m just getting sorted for Mother’s Day. It’s a busy, busy time,’ she says, trying to brush me off.

  ‘No, I mean what’s actually up? I can tell there’s something.’ I’m not easily fobbed off, and she knows it.

  ‘Honestly, everything’s great. Karl’s just got his promotion, Piper’s still loving New York, I’m happy here, everything’s great.’

  Good try, Lacey.

  ‘Lacey Hunter, you can lie convincingly to a lot of people but never to me. Come on, talk to me.’ I surprise myself at how sternly the words come out.

  ‘Wow, you’ve really taken that managerial position to heart, haven’t you?’ she replies.

  ‘Yes. I have. I am a very badass firm lady boss and I demand you tell me.’ I think it’s best to add a spoonful of humour to help the stern tone go down. It seems to do the trick until Lacey stops smiling and twiddles a piece of wire round her thumb.

  ‘I love you, Lacey, I want to help, even if it’s just to listen,’ I say, taking a much softer approach.

  ‘I know, I just hate going on about it,’ she says, looking down at her hands sadly.

  Straight away I know.

  ‘It’s this Mother’s Day stuff. I thought I’d be a mother by now or at least be blooming in pregnancy, but again I have to watch everyone else being celebrated, while I carry on “trying” and getting nowhere. Karl and I are really struggling. There’s no fun to be had in a scheduled optimal ovulation shag and we bicker constantly. It’s hard, Robin.’ Big fat tears drop down her cheeks and soak the little scraps of lilac crêpe in her lap.

  ‘Oh, Lace.’ I reach out to put a hand on hers but she moves hers away. ‘It’s going to happen, it really is going to happen.’

  ‘You say that but it still hasn’t. It’s been so long. We’re seeing the consultant, but it’s horrible. I’ve lost hope. Karl tries to put on a brave face but I know he’s starting to worry too and it’s showing in his snap
py mood. It’s shit, Robin, I feel like a massive fucking failure.’

  I can see Lacey spiralling into a familiar hole and know her well enough to know I can’t pull her out with platitudes and reassurances.

  ‘You are absolutely not a failure – nowhere near – but that pompom will be if you don’t stop crying all over it,’ I offer, trying to distract her.

  Lacey lets out a wet, teary half-laugh and looks up at me, needing more.

  ‘I know it must be so shit, Lacey, shitty-shitty-shit-shit, but you’re on the right track. You’re seeing the right people and I just know you’ll find a way in the end. If there’s anyone in this whole world who would be the most amazing mum, it’s you. It’s going to happen. BUT, until then, let’s keep going, let’s make these bloody puff things, let’s decorate the shop to perfection and let’s have a good day of it!’ I say with as much gusto as I can muster. I can’t promise she will get pregnant, but what I do know is that somehow – somehow – she’ll find a way to be a mum. But somehow isn’t an easy word to hear. I don’t think I would hold it together if I were her, either. The only thing that seems to work these days is distraction.

  ‘It’s not fair. We’ve been on “the right track” for so long. Karl’s mum said when we moved into the house after we got married, “New house, new baby”, and now every time she comes over I think of that. It’s not a new house anymore.’ Her voice wavers.

  ‘Well it’s not the house that’s going to get you bloody pregnant, is it?’ I say.

  ‘That’d sting!’ Lacey can’t help but let out a weak laugh and I take this opportunity to laugh with her. She wipes her face, takes a deep breath to reset herself and starts to quiz me.

  ‘So,’ she says, changing the subject entirely. ‘How’s it going with secret lover-boy?’

  ‘I’ve no idea who you are talking about,’ I reply breezily.