Wilde Women

by Louise Pentland

  Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for the Wilde series

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Everything Changes But Me

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Two: It’s a Helluva Town

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Part Three: ‘I’m Fine’

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Author Letter

  Join My Readers’ Club

  Catch up on Robin Wilde’s journey

  Copyright

  Praise for the

  series

  ‘Utterly self-assured, so, so, so honest and downright brave … funny, sweet, honest and full of love. Every page is packed with hard-earned wisdom, joy and truth, I loved – truly loved – it. Louise’s characters are so real, I felt as though I was sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a mug of (spiked) hot chocolate with Robin, Lacey and Auntie Kath, laughing and crying along with them’

  LINDSEY KELK

  ‘A gorgeous read. Beautifully poignant and touching. I loved it!’

  PAIGE TOON

  ‘I’d love Robin Wilde to be my new best friend. In fact, I feel like she’s become it through these pages. Wonderfully written and full of humour that had me laughing along from start to finish. As a mum, as a woman, you can find yourself wondering whether it’s only you that feels a certain way or does questionable things, but this book stilled my pondering mind. Funny, heartfelt, tender and empowering!’

  GIOVANNA FLETCHER

  ‘A warm and engaging debut …

  [Robin Wilde is a] chatty, winning yet poignant heroine’

  SOPHIE KINSELLA

  ‘Hilariously funny with depth and emotion, it’s a delightful read’

  HEAT MAGAZINE

  ‘I adore this book. Louise Pentland writes with so much warmth, heart and honesty … I fell in love with Robin and her family before the end of the first page … Pentland’s exploration of mental health issues is refreshingly honest. If you’ve ever felt like the only person in the world who isn’t perfect … this is what you need to read. A fabulous mix of escapism and relatability, this is a hug of a book’

  DAISY BUCHANAN

  ‘A refreshingly honest take on life as a working single mother … Its message resonates – life is messy and sometimes we just have to embrace its unpredictability. You’ll be left empowered!’

  WOMAN MAGAZINE

  ‘Hilarious, moving and extremely well written’

  SUNDAY TIMES STYLE

  ‘Watching how the personalities of Robin, Lyla and the other cast members have developed over the course of two books has been one of the central delights … and an inspiration to other women who thought their dreams were out of reach’

  LANCASHIRE EVENING POST

  ‘This book is a winner’

  OK MAGAZINE

  ‘If it’s great big belly laughs you’re after, then meet Robin Wilde’

  FABULOUS MAGAZINE

  ‘The warm and funny tale of a single mother … The book’s greatest gift to its readers could be that, in their struggles with the small things in life, they are not alone’

  IRISH TIMES

  ‘Heartbreaking, hilarious and an empowering page-turner’

  LIVING NORTH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LOUISE PENTLAND is the Sunday Times bestselling author of Wilde Like Me and Wilde About the Girl. She’s also the number one and award-winning parenting vlogger in the UK, with 8 million followers. She is a UN Global Ambassador for Gender Equality, writes a column for Mother & Baby magazine, and was recently crowned the Number 1 Mumfluencer in the magazine. Louise has filmed with the Pope at the Vatican to discuss the challenges facing young people today and HRH Prince Charles and HRH The Duchess of Cornwall to support Bookstart to encourage childhood literacy.

  Wilde Women is her third novel.

  @LouisePentland

  @LouisePentland

  SprinkleofGlitter

  www.LouisePentlandNovel.com

  #WildeLikeMe

  #WildeAboutTheGirl

  #WildeWomen

  For all the people who have ever seen a little bit

  of Robin, Kath or Lacey in themselves,

  this book is for you.

  Thank you for coming on this Wilde ride.

  You are truly the best of eggs.

  PROLOGUE

  IF I’D KNOWN I’D be starting my morning running through Heathrow Airport with my whingeing eight-year-old daughter, my dithering auntie and my best friend heaving her new baby along in a sling, with more bags, bits of paper and snacks than you could shake a stick at, and sweat trickling down my back, I’d have worn my sleekest athleisure. This has to be the least enjoyable way to get on a plane to New York City, ever!

  We were supposed to set off an hour earlier than we did, but I was up till the small hours writing lists, packing bags, obsessively checking I had the US visas, and ended up sleeping through my alarm. It wasn’t until Auntie Kath let herself in with a ‘yoo-hoo’ that I shot out of bed in a panic. Lyla, who wouldn’t know speed if it bit her on the bum, decided now was the time to tell me she had to say goodbye to every single toy in her bedroom, and Lacey (who had stayed over the night before for ‘ease’) chose that particular moment to wonder out loud if she would be allowed to take Willow’s bottles through security, or if she could buy enough milk for Willow in the airside pharmacy. She seemed to have lost all sense of reality, and the fact that she could’ve googled this last week – we didn’t have time for faffing, we had a plane to New York to catch!

  Once we were finally in the car, some of us calmer than others (‘I’m not worried, lovey, I’ve used my new lavender aromatherapy roll-on today so I feel very “zen”, as you young ones would say,’ Auntie Kath helpfully shared as I raced down the motorway), I started to feel that fizzy wave of excitement in my stomach.

  And now, here we are, standing, panting like we’ve just run through a marathon finish line, at the check-in desk, with Willow loudly crying and Lyla asking me to open a packet of Skips, and what feels like every judging eye on us for being ‘those people’ who haven’t organised themselves well enough to saunter up to the desk on time with happy children and snacks sorted. But I won’t let this defeat me.

  This is it: the trip of a lifetime. Everything is at stake, but equally and more promisingly, there is everything to play for, and I, Robin Wilde, the Total Badass Single Mum, am going to smash it!

  I know this trip is important for me and my career, and I hope that the others will enjoy it too. But even I have no idea quite how much our lives are going to change before it’s over.

  ONE

  MARCH

  IT’S BEEN ONE OF those days where I almost can’t believe how well it’s gone. Two years ago, if you’d told me I’d be Creative Director at a major beauty agency, that I’d be coming home to my beautiful three-bedroom house and that I’d have a drop
-dead gorgeous boyfriend and a bunch of friends who are the best squad you could wish for, I’d have laughed in your face. Or cried. Probably more likely the latter. Today though, wow – I’ve nailed it, and I am almost bursting to tell the aforementioned drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend all about my great day as soon as we sit down for dinner tonight.

  But making dinner is easier said than done when you’ve got an eight-year-old with a loud voice and an active imagination to wrangle. We’ve barely got back from the school run when I hear the not-so-dulcet tones of my daughter from the living room.

  ‘You. Are. A. Slimy. Worm!’ Lyla spits with such venom I am actually a bit taken aback. I rush through to see what can be the cause of such fury.

  ‘He’s taking everything! This is MY house and that’s MY Malteser and she is MY MUMMY!’ she continues with the volume steadily increasing to a frantic shout at the end, and her usually perfectly milky skin turning pink in fury.

  ‘Lyla, that’s enough! First he put his shoes in your shoe cubby, then he sat in your chair at the table and now he’s eaten your specific Malteser out of the box?’ I ask, exasperated, trying to make sense of this, as Edward looks on with a tiny furrow in his usually calm brow and a now slightly melty Malteser pincered between his finger and thumb.

  You don’t need to be a child psychologist to see that this outburst isn’t about the shoe spot or the chair or even the Malteser. It is about the final words my daughter had screamed at my new, and now probably-wondering-what-he-was-letting-himself-in-for boyfriend, Edward. It is about sharing me, her mummy.

  They say you’ve got to pick your battles. I wonder if ‘they’ have ever been a single mum trying to squeeze a man into the mix without causing World War Three over a box of chocolates. Edward must see the cogs turning in my very tired brain as I sit down on the sofa next to him, because he puts his hand on my knee, unfurrows his brow and gently says, ‘Lyla, I know this is your mummy. She’s always going to be your mummy. It would be silly if she was my mummy, wouldn’t it? She’d have to have grey hair and wear flowery blouses and smell a bit funny like my actual mum does, wouldn’t she?’

  This stops Lyla in her tracks.

  She thinks about it for a moment, and then: ‘What does your mum smell of?’ A tiny smile curls at the edges of her little rosebud lips, only detectable to an eye fully trained in all things Lyla Blue Wilde.

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Edward. ‘That’s a very good question. She always just smells like my mum, but I suppose if I had to narrow it down I’d say she smells a bit like talcum powder, a bit like custard cream biscuits and, maybe, just a tiny bit …’ and here he pauses for effect, with a big smile and mischievous glinting eyes, which are perhaps a bit contagious, ‘a teeny-weeny bit like a … big, long, slimy worm!’

  Despite desperately trying to remain cross, with narrowed eyes and lips forced together in a scowl, Lyla is failing miserably at maintaining her angry demeanour and giggles at the notion of an old lady smelling like a slimy worm.

  ‘She’d have to smell a bit like a slimy worm since I’m a slimy worm, eh?’ Edward continues, clamping his arms to his sides and slithering about on the sofa as though he really is a worm.

  Finally giving in to the fun, Lyla throws herself over me to jump on Edward and tries to pull his hands out from by his sides. ‘I was JOKING! You’re not a worm! You’re Edward! A MAN!’

  ‘Help me!’ he says in high-pitched mock distress. ‘Help me, I’m just a big slimy worm that slimes about, worming my way through all the chocolates! A wiggly, slithery worm!’

  Lyla squeals with delight at the new game, entirely forgetting her rage, hitting him with pillows and shouting, ‘I’m going to squish the worm!’

  I rescue the completely mushed chocolate from his hand, eat it (waste not, want not), put the rest of the box on the coffee table and decide I might as well join in. I pelt pillows at Lyla and tickle her while Edward fully takes on his slimy worm role and slithers onto the floor, leaving him more exposed to our cushion bombardment.

  Twenty minutes later – with breath back in my body (wow, I’m unfit) and a film on Netflix about a princess who swaps lives with a bakery competition contestant at Christmas (it was Lyla’s choice to watch a festive film, despite it being the first week in March), and half a box of chocolates now being shared nicely – normality (whatever that is) is restored. Phew. That could have gone really wrong, but thankfully Edward is basically the most perfect man I’ve ever met, and every time this kind of thing happens – which is a lot – he knows exactly what to say and how to defuse the situation. I often wonder if perhaps he should actually be a bomb disposal expert, or one of those people who negotiate the hostages out of banks, instead of the high-end furniture buyer that he is.

  Don’t get me wrong, he’s very good at spotting the latest trends in interiors, but he’s also pretty freaking amazing at managing our funny brand-new little family. Oh, that feels weird, calling it a ‘family’. It always used to mean just me and Lyla, but then sometimes, especially when I think about what happened last year, I mean all three of us. Or should that be four? My brain and heart feel a bit discombobulated.

  I’ve learnt lately that the most efficient thing to do is ignore that feeling and move on. Skye, my colleague and former frenemy, would say I need to speak to someone about all this. That I’m just suppressing my issues, and that if I really want to be ‘woke’ to the planet around me and the world within me then I can’t just ignore it and ‘crack on’. I’ve told her repeatedly that I am a ‘cracker-on’ and that I don’t really want to be very ‘woke’. Mostly I want to just be ‘snoozed’.

  We have a lovely family dinner in the end – although I decide my catch-up with Edward can wait until later. It takes longer to settle Lyla down for bed than usual because of all the slimy worm excitement, but I’d rather take an extra half hour with a happy daughter than delay bedtime to soothe a cross one.

  Downstairs, I snuggle up to Edward on the sofa and pull his arm over me.

  ‘Now, Edward, I need to discuss something really quite important with you,’ I say in a serious tone, drawing little circles with my finger on his T-shirt, enjoying having a man to touch.

  I feel his arm and shoulder stiffen around me. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I think we’re going to have to call it a day …’ I pause for painful effect.

  ‘On … us?’ he asks, sitting up and taking his arm away from me, looking alarmed.

  ‘Yes. If you ever suggest I’m your mum again, or compare me to your mum or, obviously, a worm,’ I say, climbing up onto my knees, straddling him and planting a big kiss on his oh-so-kissable lips.

  ‘Right,’ he says through my overenthusiastic kisses. ‘Noted.’ And then the kisses become more and more and more, and before we know it we’re playing a very naked and very risky game right there on the sofa.

  Sometimes life might be a challenge, but moments like this definitely help.

  LIFE LATELY HAS BEEN pretty dreamy, though. My boyfriend (yes, hi, I recently added official girlfriend to my list of titles, and despite everything that has happened over the last couple of years, I’m weirdly OK with this), Edward, ended up camped out at my house for most of February, working from ‘home’ or commuting into London, and he doesn’t have to go back to his life (his apartment, his job, etc.) in New York for a fortnight or two. He’s intending on wrapping things up stateside (the business there will continue with him managing from afar), and he’ll be concentrating on setting up a shiny new store in London – maybe on the King’s Road – to entice a new crowd of interiors snobs. I say ‘snobs’, but it’s just because I’m jealous that I don’t know how to style a room or pick trendy greys and vibrant velvets that all just blend seamlessly. My idea of ‘interiors’ is a few cushions from Next, a candle and some fake succulents. Suddenly, a wave of doubt washes over me. I wonder if Edward ever secretly thinks I’m a bit crap and wants to change things in my house? No, I’m not going to let myself spiral. Maybe I should just broach this with him when
we get a moment alone, which is almost never.

  As the worm-fight proves, Lyla is still adjusting to me having a man in my life. It’s been the Robin and Lyla Show for so long that it’s strange to have another body in the room. We’re used to Auntie Kath popping in almost daily, of course, but that’s not the same as a great big man being here day and night. Plus, things with Kath and her new gentleman-friend Colin seem to be going so well that we don’t see her as often. Lyla’s adjusting to that, too, but Colin hasn’t been called a ‘slimy worm’ in months now, so I think that’s going OK and my daughter’s defensive battles are being fought closer to home.

  But I know Lyla, and what’s more, she knows I love her. Even if it might take her a bit of time to come round, I have to let her see that a bigger family just means more love to go around, not smaller amounts to share. And for once, everyone else is loved-up and on cloud nine. Hurrah. Hurrah.

  Now, if I can only stop myself getting distracted by his barely clad state, I can finally tell Edward what happened to me today.

  TWO

  MY MORNING STARTED PRETTY joyfully.

  ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I think she might just be perfect. A lot of them at this age look like a cross between old men and misshapen potatoes, but this one, she’s absolutely perfect,’ I swooned, breathing in that new baby smell that I wish stayed forever.

  ‘Thanks, Robin,’ laughed Lacey, new mum and my best friend, through a mouthful of McDonald’s fries. ‘I’m really glad you don’t think my firstborn child looks like the elderly or carbs, that’s really good of you.’

  ‘You know what I mean! I just can’t get over how utterly gorgeous she is. She’s the best baby I’ve ever seen,’ I said, carrying on gazing at her placidly staring up at me, as I sucked thick strawberry milkshake up my straw.

  ‘You can’t say that! What about Lyla?’ Lacey was smiling, knowing full well a mother’s heart always belongs to her own children.

  ‘Aha! Well, obviously, Lyla is my number one, but can I make Willow joint fave? I love how gorgeous she is, and I love how I can hand her back.’ I laughed. ‘Do you remember how much of a mess I was when Lyla was born? You’re absolutely acing it. You look so together,’ I said, thinking back to eight years ago when my life was very different.