Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘She is! She’s making up bouquets in the back. I’ve told her to take it easy, keep her feet up, you know. You should be doing the same. Go and sit down!’ She ushers me into the back, excitedly.

  As soon as I’m through the doors into the big old workshop, I think I’m safe, free of Terri’s enthusiasm, but of course I’m not. I’ve just thrown myself into a room bursting with more pregnancy enthusiasm than an NCT meet-up in a trendy family-friendly pub on a Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Hello! I didn’t know you were coming in.’ Lacey bustles, moving some long-stemmed roses out of the way to clear a space for me. I notice she’s already wearing a maternity top, despite not even the slightest hint of bump. Of course she’s going to embrace every single second of this, why wouldn’t she? I need to get it together and control my emotions.

  Before I can start, she launches in. ‘I’ve just signed up to all the free baby clubs and I think I’ve decided which one might be best. You get points on all the baby-related purchases, you know, nappies, food, clothes and stuff and then they also give you a free changing bag. Obviously I’m going to get another nice one from John Lewis as well, but you can never have too many changing bags, can you?’ she says without even pausing for breath.

  ‘No, I suppose not. Listen, Lacey—’ I begin.

  ‘I know, obviously you already know this stuff because you’ve done it before and you’ve had Lyla, but it’s sort of like starting again, isn’t it? Because you didn’t save any of your baby bits and bobs, and you’re in a new relationship now. Didn’t you sell all those kiddie things you had packed away under your stairs last year? Bloody hell, I bet you wished you hadn’t done that now! Although I reckon Edward will buy you a lot of stuff. Oh my God, do you think he’s going to move back and marry you? He could live with you in your new house and you’ll be the perfect family and Lyla will love him and—’

  ‘My baby’s dead!’ I say, as forcefully as I can. It’s the first time I’ve used the ‘D’ word. I haven’t even used the ‘miscarriage’ word much; I’ve stuck to ‘loss’ or ‘it wasn’t meant to be’, but something just snapped. It was as though everything she was saying, every little idea or tip or nuance was a stab in the heart and I needed to make her stop. As soon as I say it, I burst into tears. Big, angry, rage tears.

  Lacey sits in shock, mouth slightly open, hands still holding the stems and the ribbon she was using to tie them. We sit like that for what feels like a long time.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she says at last, slowly. What else could I mean?

  ‘I lost the baby,’ I say flatly, focusing my gaze on the flowers instead of her.

  ‘When? How?’

  ‘Last week, and what do you mean, “how”? The usual way people lose babies. I had a miscarriage. The baby is gone.’

  This is clearly hard for Lacey to deal with and she carries on with her questions. ‘Are you sure?’

  I can’t handle it. It’s like when we were in Year Nine and I told her I’d lost my snogging virginity to Alex Myer and she said, ‘Are you sure?’ Yes, I’m fucking sure. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m about to snap back at her about blood and cramps and the midwife when I check myself and stop. She can’t help it. She is so engrossed in babydom that this isn’t her being a bad friend, this is a loss to her, too.

  ‘Yes, Lacey,’ I offer gently. ‘The midwife confirmed it and I’ve bled very heavily. I’m still bleeding a little bit. The baby is definitely gone.’ I try not to let a fresh wave of tears fall as I say the last sentence. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face anything.’

  ‘Have you gone through this alone?’ she asks, small, pearly tears falling down her face.

  ‘No, I had Kath and Lyla. Natalie’s given me plenty of time off, Edward said he might fly over. It’s been OK. As OK as something like this ever could be.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she almost whispers.

  ‘Because you were so excited. You were so happy, I didn’t want to spoil that for you. I wanted you to live in this beautiful bubble and enjoy what we had for a while. I knew telling you would be upsetting for both of us and I just wasn’t strong enough for it.’

  ‘Oh, Robin. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,’ she says, putting the flowers down at last, scraping back her chair and coming over to me for an awkward hug, standing over me with one breast in my face and one somewhere near my ear.

  Feeling her pain weirdly makes me hold myself together. A bit like when something’s gone wrong at home and I have to assume my protective mum role and make everything all right.

  ‘I’ll be fine, honestly. I’m going to take some time off and just relax, enjoy Lyla, get some more bits done in the house,’ I waffle on.

  She loosens her hug and sits back down, clearly at a loss for what to say. I think of how much she must have been suffering every time I gave her a pep talk over the last couple of years, after each failed test, each period that arrived when it wasn’t wanted. I thought – I hoped – she might have some more sympathetic words for me, but this seems to have completely stumped her.

  ‘I suppose all you can take away is that at least you know you can get pregnant. You could try again,’ she says bluntly, clearly thinking this is some sort of consolation to me. I feel shock. Then I start to feel rage bubble up in me again. But I keep calm and hide it carefully. She doesn’t know that’s the last thing I want to hear right now.

  ‘You know I didn’t try to get pregnant. I’m not ready to think about the future, and even if I was, I can’t imagine Edward would be up for “trying again”, and there isn’t a slew of other eligible bachelors knocking on my door hoping to impregnate me, is there?’

  ‘Well, no, but I didn’t mean that! I meant that at least, unlike me, if you wanted to, you could probably fall pregnant again fairly quickly.’

  I grimace. I know she’s trying to reassure me but it’s not helping.

  ‘All I’m saying is, if I lost a baby and wanted to fall pregnant again, it’s unlikely it would happen as quickly as if you tried again.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s better I lost my baby than you lost your baby? Is that what you’re saying?’ I know I’m not being fair to her but I can feel myself getting irate.

  ‘No, it’s not! Of course I don’t think that. You’re grieving and that’s important, and I’m just trying to be helpful but I’m putting my foot in it. I’ve wanted this baby for years, you know that – but a few days ago, you …’ She hesitates.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, standing up. I think I know what she’s going to come out with.

  ‘Well, I was happy when I found out I was pregnant. I was over the moon. It was different for you – you weren’t trying for it, you weren’t even sure you wanted it. I don’t know what to say about all this, Robin.’ She seems panicked, like she knows she’s messed up here but can’t talk herself out of it.

  ‘How about you don’t say anything? How about I just go?’ I say, picking up my phone and keys and heading for the door.

  ‘No! Robin, don’t be like this! I didn’t mean to upset you, I just haven’t dealt with this before and don’t know how to support you.’

  Just as I’m at the door I turn on my heel and say, ‘Lacey, I haven’t been through all your infertility problems, but I never accused you of not getting pregnant because you didn’t want it badly enough. I think we both need to cool off,’ and storm out to my car feeling worse than I did before I arrived.

  TWENTY-ONE

  BY THE TIME I’M home with Lyla, I am a seething mess. After leaving Dovington’s and having more time on my hands than I thought I would, I wandered round Sainsbury’s throwing things in my trolley I didn’t really need; food that doesn’t make a meal – luxury olives and infused balsamic vinegar. I also threw in every single thing I could think of that Lyla loves with wild abandon. Her favourite pork and apple sausages, the mini-yoghurts with way too much sugar in, strawberries, Skips, overpriced kiddie magazines, bubble bath in novelty bottles, all of it. At
least one of us is going to be super happy this evening.

  Once we’re in and I start unpacking the shopping, she sits at the breakfast bar in awe.

  ‘Mummy, why have you bought all these things?’ she says, picking up a giant multipack of Shopkins that I bought in the toy aisle. ‘Are these for me?’ Her face is lit up with absolute delight.

  ‘They surely are!’ I say with a great big false-only-to-me smile.

  ‘Really? Thank you, Mummy! Why are we having all these things?’ she says, elated and confused.

  ‘Well, I decided it’s the Mummy and Lyla Night! We’re going to ignore all the usual things, put the telly on, play with all these new toys, eat all our favourite foods, put on these fresh, new pyjamas, ignore your homework, ignore the housework and have a magical night, just you and me!’ I say cheerily, this time actually feeling it.

  ‘What?! Mummy!’ she squeals, jumping down from her stool and rushing round to throw herself into a huge hug with me.

  My God, her hugs are wonderful. She’s warm and soft and exudes love. You can’t help but not feel every little bit of it. I sink to my knees to meet her height and let her hug me longer, burying my face in her silky hair and squeezing her hard.

  ‘Are you OK, Mummy? You’re being really, really squeezy,’ she says, still embraced in my arms.

  ‘I am. I’ve felt so poorly this last week, and it’s nice to feel a little bit better because of you.’

  ‘I’ll be Nurse Lyla and I’ll take care of you,’ she says, stroking my hair the same way I stroke hers when she’s ill.

  You already do, I think.

  Our evening is a dream. We have bubble baths, her first and then me while she sits on the bathroom floor rifling through all my make-up and talking about her day, telling me about the new twin girls in her class, about what she and Roo like to play at lunchtime. We put on fresh pyjamas and slide our feet into soft slippers that I left by the radiator for that extra snuggliness. Then we go downstairs where I make sausages, mash, onions and gravy, put on a Christmas film even though it’s nearly summer, draw the curtains and cosy down like tiny field mice in their grassy burrow. Lyla finishes her dinner, takes her tray out into the kitchen (as a special treat I allowed trays on laps tonight) and then cuddles into the crook of my arm as we gaze at the TV.

  This is more healing than any pill, any leaflet or any ‘helpful’ chat with an adult. For a few hours I feel normal again. As though everything is as it should be. Just me and Lyla in our little bubble.

  By 8 p.m. she’s drifted off to sleep and rather than waking her, I scoop her up, all warm in her dressing gown, and carry her into my bed. Tonight’s one of those nights where I want her close to me, to feel her warmth, her life.

  As I pad downstairs, I feel a vibration in my pocket.

  Hey Robin, I haven’t been able to reach you these past few days but just to let you know I’ll be in London by Thursday and would love to come up to yours for the weekend and be with you. No pressure to do anything, just chill out and relax. LMK what you think, E xxx

  I feel a pang of guilt for avoiding Edward for the last few days, despite his regular texts and WhatsApps, but with the strength gained from tonight’s cosy-fest, I reply.

  Hey! Sorry, it’s been a bit of a rubbish week. Feeling much better now (physically and emotionally). It’d be really nice to have you up here and hang out. Let me know if I can get anything in for you, xx

  DROPPING LYLA AT SCHOOL in the morning, I hope it will be uneventful and that I won’t see anyone I know, particularly Val.

  Lyla is, as always, bursting with energy and chatter so I allow myself to be swept along by her happiness as we take her many bags (seriously, so many clubs and groups need so much kit, from junior coding to flipper swimmers, I swear she has a more action-packed day than most adults) to the cloakroom and make our way to the drop-off point in the hall.

  ‘Long time no see!’ calls a familiar voice. Lyla is full of glee to see Clara and the pair race ahead. Why are young children like this? They see each other nearly every single day and yet each morning they seem thrilled to be with one another again, as if years have passed by in the meantime. I wish I were that thrilled to see anyone, or that anyone was that thrilled to see me. I turn to face Gillian.

  ‘Hello! Long time no see, indeed! How are things?’ I ask in what I believe to be a normal tone.

  ‘Very good, thank you, just plodding along, you know. I was going to give you a ring this afternoon – we haven’t seen you at school much lately. It’s been your aunt and the hippy girlfriend a lot. Is everything OK?’ she asks. I love that in an act of solidarity, Gillian calls Storie the ‘hippy girlfriend’. I know she knows her name, so this small act of rebellion is appreciated.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve just been a bit sick,’ I say, but I can feel the panic in my voice at having to talk about it again. After Kath telling Natalie, and the disastrous conversation with Lacey, I’ve realised that although I want some people to know, I can’t seem to cope with actually telling them myself.

  Sensing my distress like a protective mama bear, Gillian pushes gently. ‘Are you sure, lovely?’

  I thought I was all right, or at least getting better, but Gillian’s concern is setting me off again and I can feel my breath catching in my chest. ‘Yep,’ I manage, slightly high-pitched.

  ‘Shall we drop the girls off and go and get a coffee?’ asks Gillian, kind enough to not make me cry in the middle of the school corridor.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘IT’S HARD TO BLURT it out but I think ripping the plaster off and just saying it is best,’ I state boldly after a big sip of mint-infused hot chocolate at the local coffee shop. I needed the sugar this morning.

  ‘All right, I’m listening,’ says Gillian in her usual calming voice.

  ‘A few weeks ago, I found out I was pregnant,’ I begin and notice her sit up and a huge happy smile flash across her face. I carry on as quickly as possible to avoid the congratulations I know I’m about to be confronted with. ‘Last week, I found out I wasn’t pregnant anymore,’ I add, looking intensely at my mug. I don’t feel strong enough to use the big words. Even ‘lost the baby’ feels too sharp today.

  ‘Oh Robin,’ Gillian says, immediately reaching for my hand across the table.

  ‘Yeah. It’s very common at this early stage.’ I wheel out my tried and tested spiel, the phrase that seems to soothe people, make them think you’re all right and taking it in your stride. It’s a get-out clause for other people, too; they don’t ask more or push further.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s common or not,’ Gillian says more firmly than I’d anticipated. ‘That baby was a part of you, you had hopes and dreams and expectations and they’ve been taken from you.’ Her hand still on mine.

  I look up from my mug and meet her gaze.

  ‘That’s exactly how I’ve been feeling, Gillian. It’s not just that the baby’s … gone … but that all my plans and hopes are gone, too. I just wanted it so much, and now … now …’ I begin to cry again.

  Gillian sits for a second in silence letting me have my moment of grief before she says, ‘I promise you this will get easier.’

  ‘I can’t wait to not feel this, to feel better.’

  ‘Well – and I hope you’ll take this the right way – you’ll never feel totally the same again, Robin. Better than now, yes, certainly, but you don’t magically go back to being the person you were before. But that’s OK – it’ll be part of you, and you’ll come to terms with it. You’ll learn to love your angel baby in a different way.’

  ‘My what?’ I ask, completely confused. I’ve never heard the term before.

  ‘Your angel baby. When a woman loses a baby, I like to think they go to Heaven as angels and become angel babies. I know it sounds a bit twee but, well, it’s what gets me through.’

  I blink a few times and realise what she’s saying.

  ‘Gillian, I didn’t know.’

  ‘It was long before we met. I’ve accepted the
losses but I still remember them.’

  ‘More than one? I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, two. Both before Clara, and then she was our miracle. You never fully recover, like I say, but you do move on and find peace with it. I still love them like they are my babies. I always think, I have three children, one here with me and two in my heart.’

  Gillian’s words are beyond poignant. I feel a fresh wave of tears but this time they seem different. Almost like relief.

  ‘I’d never considered that I get to keep the idea of “my baby”. I’d felt that since it was gone, so was the notion of them as a future person.’

  ‘Robin, you made a baby, you carried that baby, your body nourished that baby and your heart cherished it. It is still, and will forever be, your baby.’

  I notice now that Gillian has tears in her eyes, too. We sit and talk for an hour, about how long she and Paul tried and how they have two special days each year to remember each lost baby, releasing balloons or taking Clara on a day trip and telling her how loved she is. My heart aches for Gillian and loves her all the more for understanding the pain I’m in right now.

  Long after our drinks have gone cold and we’ve ordered new ones, this time with panini and brownies for sustenance, Gillian inhales deeply and says, ‘I think you need a project, something to focus on.’

  ‘I’ve just taken a few weeks off work so my project is going to be relaxing and pampering myself,’ I joke.

  ‘Well, I need some help. Now I understand why you weren’t at the last PaGS meeting, I should fill you in on it,’ she says. ‘We discussed how to raise funds for the charity that’s been helping with home nurse visits for Mrs Barnstorm. The new mum, Gloria, suggested a Ladies’ Night with wine and shopping stalls – apparently it was a huge hit in her last school – but I just think it needs a bit more. I know you’ll be able to help, you’re always so creative. What do you think?’