‘I never saw you being a mess. I just saw you being incredible.’ She’s a good mum; she’s already a diplomat.
‘Mmm, Lacey,’ I said, mock-hitting her arm. I never know what to do when people compliment me, especially when it’s about motherhood. If she were complimenting my skirt, I’d just yell, ‘It has pockets!’ But instead I threw it back, classic coping mechanism 101. ‘I think you’re doing incredibly.’
Lacey Hunter is smashing it. Willow Faith, her newborn daughter, is three weeks old, her husband Karl has just gone back to work in the City after his paternity leave (after all these years of friendship, I still don’t really know what he does, and it seems too far gone to ask now) so I popped round with a giant bagful of McDonald’s and a spare four hours, expecting the house to be total carnage, the baby to be crying, Lacey to be looking like the ‘mombie’ we all become and me there ready to save the day. Instead, the house was tidier than mine even after my new cleaner’s been, Lacey looked serene and I think she had even contoured (unless she’d replaced her pregnancy glow with fourth-trimester sculpt – is that a thing?) and the baby was, as well as being utterly perfect, swaddled in a clean, ironed muslin and sleeping soundly in her crib.
‘Lacey, how have you made all this look so easy? I don’t think I knew my arse from my elbow for about three months when Lyla was born,’ I said in awe, moving on to my cheeseburger while Lacey rummages in the bag for more fries.
‘It’s really simple. I just don’t go out, don’t spend any time talking to anyone else, don’t do any cooking, don’t do any work and don’t have any sleep. I just devote every waking second to keeping her alive and everything looking OK.’ She laughed drily. ‘I can’t actually remember what life outside this house looks like, and I’m not sure my vagina will ever be the same again, but you know, it’s worth it, and all that, isn’t it … Isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, especially if you’re acing it like this. I mean, just look. You should take an Insta! Of the tidy lounge, I mean, not your slightly ravaged (but I promise it will get better) vagina.’
We both laughed and finished our food, knowing we were on borrowed time before Willow woke and I had to collect Lyla, wondering how time had gone so fast from her being this size to being in Year Four at school.
I hope Lacey will treasure these early moments with her beautiful daughter and all the possibilities she brings. Once the high of meeting your new baby vanishes, it’s so damn hard to have the energy to do anything, let alone try to remember to be in the moment. So I figure that’s one thing I can do – drink it all in so I can remind them both how flipping gorgeous they were in these crazy, magical first weeks.
I thought it would be hard for the day to get any better after a morning of Willow cuddles, but the afternoon had its own surprises.
‘Oo-ooo, Robin, Robin! I was hoping to catch you!’ called Gloria Straunston from across the junior school car park as her two children, Verity and Athena, trailed behind her, tired from a full day of learning, playing and now their mother’s seemingly unending enthusiasm.
I turned round from the boot of my car, where I’d been piling in the roughly eight thousand bags of kit my small child seems to need for school these days, and smiled. Having hotfooted it from Lacey’s just in time for pick-up, I was feeling frantic, but I like Gloria. She isn’t like the other mums; she has never made me feel inferior or work for her approval. They’re not all bad, of course. I have my gang, with Gillian and Finola, and mostly I think everyone has accepted me now, but when we joined Hesgrove, the highly sought-after private pre-prep school, two years ago (thanks to my inheritance from Granny), with, let’s face it, my life at that point very firmly not together, it took me a long time to be brave enough to feel I could stand my ground with the Posh School Mums (PSMs).
A year serving on the PaGS (Parents and Guardians Society – I swear it took me a full school year just to learn all the acronyms), where I helped organise a spa night to raise money for the cancer charity supporting Mrs Barnstorm, a battleaxe but beloved teacher (now thankfully on the mend), a lot of small talk in the foyer, a victorious struggle with the school-mum-bully and keeping shtum when I found the head, Mr Ravelle, in a rather compromising position (with Gloria herself) in the school supply cupboard, and I think I’ve finally earnt my place among the PSMs and am now treated as ‘one of them’. I feel like the confident bearded lady from The Greatest Showman. Here I am, this is me. Except sometimes I do still have very small and very quiet worries. I bet even she did from time to time.
Gloria’s twins joined the school a year later than Lyla, and, like me, she is a bit different. Her husband doesn’t fund her lunching/gymming/shopping lifestyle. In fact, like me, she doesn’t even have a husband (she has an ex). And she doesn’t abide by the Hunter-boots-and-Joules-navy-padded-gilet mumiform. She’s a successful businesswoman with a penchant for vibrantly coloured velvet trousers, filthy jokes and an even filthier laugh. She originates from the States (Nashville), met her now ex-husband at a business conference ten years ago, had a whirlwind romance (‘With all those men falling at my feet, I couldn’t help it, Robin, I just had to have one of them,’ she said in a Southern drawl once over a glass of Pinot, with such confidence I almost fell for her myself), moved to the UK to set up home in Kent, married in what I can only assume was the wedding of the century by the way she’s described it, fell pregnant with the twins on her honeymoon (a three-week tour of Europe so she could see this side of the pond) and then, once the babies were born and reality set in, ‘the magic just wore off’. He left and moved up to London to carry on as though nothing had ever happened, and she brought Verity and Athena up here to Cambridge for a completely fresh start. I asked her once why she’d stayed in the UK, and she talked about having roots here now and seemed uncharacteristically downtrodden, so I didn’t push it. Gillian and I have wondered if the evil ex has tried to stop her taking the twins, even though he never sees them. Despite the upheaval and the heartache, she’s continued to grow her freelance PR business, always talks to everyone as though they are her number one priority, is always up for a mums’ night out, or a mums’ night in, any night at all, and never seems to run out of steam. She is brilliant.
‘Hellooo!’ I trilled warmly. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while!’ Lyla edged forward and waved a little hand at the twins, who were so engrossed in a clapping game with each other, they didn’t really notice. Social interactions are hard at every age, I think.
Gloria started up again.
‘Well, you’re never here anymore! You’re always swanning around at MADE IT, or loved-up with that new boyfriend of yours,’ she said, as all three children mimed being sick at the idea of me with my new boyfriend.
‘What can I say, Gloria? I’m just exceptionally fabulous now.’ I mock-zhooshed my hair and laughed. ‘I usually put Lyla in an after-school club so I can do a full working day, but my friend’s just had a baby so I’ve taken a bit of time off to go and see her. Thought she’d be up to her eyeballs in nappies and hormones, but she seems to be one of those together women I’d have been supremely jealous of eight years ago. Actually, I’m still quite jealous!’
‘Sounds like me too! It doesn’t feel like five minutes ago that I was almost drowning in a sea of diapers and hormones! My ex was about as helpful as a bout of thrush, so my mom flew in and we tag-teamed for four months. It all just feels like a weird hazy blur now. Do you think you and the new beau will go for another?’ she asked, smiling excitedly, not considering that Lyla was listening with fervency and not realising the poignancy of her question.
A little pang of pain whooshed through me as I blinked a couple of extra times to steady myself. This time last year I had no idea that I was about to lose the baby I hadn’t even known I wanted. Sometimes I forget it happened, and then someone will say something innocent like Gloria did and the pain is sharp and raw and deep all over again.
‘Aha! Nooo! We’re doing fine for now! He’s only staying with me for a few weeks, nothi
ng official yet, taking it a day at a time, you know? Fine, it’s fine for now!’ I smiled as the words tumbled out, smothering any indication that anything might be less than OK. I’m very good at that. One day I’d love to have the courage to say, ‘You know, it’s not super-cool to ask someone if they’re going to have a baby. So many people suffer losses or struggle to conceive, and the question just stabs all the harder if they’re walking that journey alone’, but I knew Gloria meant no harm and ‘fine’ felt so much easier. As always.
‘Well, I’d say you’re doing more than fine – you’re absolutely killing it, and I need to talk to you about just that! I need your exceptional more-than-just-fine skills on my new project,’ Gloria said with pomp and circumstance.
‘Ooh, go on,’ I replied, intrigued.
Gloria marched us away from the cars and across the road to the park, where the children could clamber over the climbing frame and give us a moment to talk.
‘I’m starting a club, a network, called “Women Who Win”,’ she said with that self-assured confidence only Americans seem to have (judging by the ones I’ve met, anyway).
‘I already like the sound of this!’ I laughed.
‘I want a way to connect local women who are building businesses, have awesome skills and smart ideas, or who want help to grow a project with other like-minded women. I want a place where we can openly shout about what we’re good at without feeling like we need to apologise or humble ourselves. We can work together, build better businesses and share our experience, and I think the benefit to everyone involved could be incredible.’
Wow. ‘Oh my God, yes! This sounds brilliant!’
See what I mean? She’s awesome.
‘I’ve spoken to Mr Ravelle. As you know, he’s always very on board with what I have to offer, so is happy to let us use the hall for meetings and events,’ she said with a raised brow and a wry smile.
‘You know, I still haven’t told anyone about that cupboard incident! It’s absolutely killing me! It’s the juiciest piece of school gossip anyone has ever had,’ I said, nudging her in mock frustration.
‘This is why I like you, Robin Wilde,’ she told me, not even wincing at my tease. ‘You’ve got integrity as well as a strong work ethic. This is why I want you to be Vice Chair of Women Who Win. You’re a perfect fit. You’re the ideal success story!’
I felt exhilarated. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever called me “the ideal success story”, but I’ll take it, and I’d love to help out. Tell me more! I don’t know how good I’d be as Vice Chair. That sounds very official, but I’m definitely down for helping women, sharing skills and us all rising together. There’s just one condition,’ I added.
‘Name it,’ she replied eagerly.
‘If I ever catch you and Ravelle snogging in a cupboard again, I’m not keeping it a secret. I’m telling everyone. I’m submitting it to the PaGS newsletter. I’m probably even telling Vicious Valerie!’ I laughed.
‘Deal!’ she said, putting her hand out for me to shake. ‘How about we go for coffee next Tuesday if you’ve got time after drop-off, and I’ll tell you all my plans? And let’s never speak of that cupboard again!’
‘Great,’ I said, still reeling that she’d asked me to help her set this up. ‘Right, I need to round up Lyla, take her home, battle over getting the homework done and referee her next round in the ring with Edward.’ I couldn’t help but feel a little buzz of pleasure, knowing he’d be there when we get home.
‘You’re a boss!’ Gloria called as I walked across the playground with a spring in my step to peel Lyla off the climbing frame. That’s why I like Gloria so much. She didn’t say ‘boss lady’, just ‘boss’.
Well, you know what? Maybe I could be!
THREE
‘SKYE, THESE DESIGNS ARE so good, you’ve totally nailed it. I love the gold leaf round the temples – they add such a lovely sprinkle of glitter. I think Natalie will love them. Would you like me to cast my eye over them properly before you send them across to her?’ I ask from behind my desk. In my job as Creative Director at MADE IT, I now have sign-off on a number of quite big projects. The one we’re working on at the moment is really exciting, and I’m watching Skye, our Head Make-Up Artist, thrive. I have a little sticker on my pencil pot that says Empowered Women Empower Women, so I’m trying to channel that and let Skye know I’ve got her back at all times. I think it’s working and, like I said, she’s thriving.
‘Yeeaaahhh, it might be nice to have a second opinion,’ Skye says breezily from her desk, which takes up one side of my office. OK, so when I say thrive, she’s a lot more relaxed about it – and secure in her own genius – than I could ever be.
Last year, when I stepped up to a management role to cover for Natalie Wood, our CEO, while she took a much-needed sabbatical to spend time and reconnect with her lovely husband Martin, I had my own office. It was pretty great, but if I’m honest with myself, a bit lonely. I found myself secretly spending a lot of time staring gormlessly at memes on Twitter or flicking through the holiday photos of people I went to university with, and perhaps not using my time as wisely as I could.
So although Skye, as Head MUA, is usually out on bookings, when she’s taking an office day to plan or put together creative proposals, she’s got a desk in here to use if she needs it. She doesn’t call it a ‘desk’, though. She calls it a ‘space’. She also doesn’t have a drawerful of sweets or an entire noticeboard of photos or funny postcards. She has two succulents (actual real ones that she keeps alive), a keep-cup and a candle made by women in Nigeria who are selling them to raise money for schools. I asked her once if she wanted a pen pot and some stationery, and she just replied, ‘I have a laptop’, as though this meant pen and paper were extinct. I felt instantly embarrassed that I’d shown my age, but then righted myself. It’s an honour to age, and I won’t be pen-pot-shamed. To age is a privilege; with it comes wisdom and experience, and without that, I wouldn’t be where I am. So, pen pot and I, we’re fine.
‘OK, a second opinion and some security that you’re not going to almost ruin my career again, eh?’ I comment with an exaggerated eye-roll and a smile.
‘You know I’m not ready to joke about that, and you know doing that weird eye-roll thing doesn’t make it OK.’ It’s not that long since Skye’s rather relaxed approach to business almost cost me my job. We found our way through it – and get on better than we used to – but sometimes there’s a flash of nerves behind her laid-back gaze.
‘Sorry, Skye. I’d love to read it anyway, so I can soak up some of your creative genius,’ I say, doing an even more exaggerated eye-roll that involves my whole body and almost toppling off my chair as the wheels clunk under me.
‘That chair. It’s my mood,’ Skye says with a completely impassive expression.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It’s my mood,’ she says, normally, as though she’s not speaking in riddles.
‘The chair is your mood? You’re feeling … chair?’ I question slowly, feeling perplexed.
‘You’re so old.’
‘You’re so baffling.’ I’ve got good at ignoring Skye’s lessons in what the cool kids say. ‘Have you sent that proposal over? It’s not in my inbox.’ I try to change the subject back to concepts I can deal with.
‘I made a board for it,’ she offers, her voice a monotone.
‘Is that in my emails?’ I ask again.
‘No, it’s on Trello.’
Is she literally speaking another language?
‘Is that the same as WeTransfer?’ I try.
‘No, I’ve tagged you in it,’ she says with a hint of frustration.
‘On Facebook?’ Why is this so fucking hard?
‘Oh my God, now the chair really is my mood,’ she says, as though she’s speaking to a moron.
‘Jesus Christ, Skye, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Can you just print it and I’ll read a piece of paper with writing on like they did in the olden times, while you can just carr
y on empathising with the emotional capacity of a bloody desk chair!’ I vent, thinking Lyla was now the second most exasperating person in my life.
‘Wow. Chill out. I’ve emailed it.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. My ‘space’ is now very un-zen, even with the succulents.
Skye flounces off to talk to Alice and Stuart, our lovely admin staff in the front office, about her holiday pay so she can have another day off to watch her uncomfortably macho boyfriend compete in one of his bodybuilding competitions. I read her proposals and am really impressed. Skye might be the epitome of coolness, deeply confusing with her young lingo and one of the most self-absorbed people I’ve ever met, but my goodness, she’s got talent.
Last year (on the back of my idea for a natural beauty look, I’d just like to quietly add), we won the opportunity to style Mara Isso’s London Fashion Week show. She is one of the UK’s top fashion designers, and she broke all the boundaries last autumn by sending her entire collection down the runway on plus-size models. Not just one or two of them: all of them were beautiful women of every shape and size, nationality and ethnicity, and it was a roaring success. The press were enthralled, and women everywhere were thrilled to find they could be part of something that for years has been exclusive to one type of body. Don’t get me wrong, I work with traditional models all the time on commercial or editorial make-up jobs, and I think they’re beautiful, too, but it was amazing to see so much variation and inclusion. It was certainly the only time I’ve ever seen a body that I could recognise as something even slightly like my own on a catwalk.
So we bid for the job to do the hair and make-up and, by the skin of our teeth (let’s not go too much into mine and Skye’s blunder with the proposal that nearly cost me my entire career), we won! We sent those women down the runway highlighting what their mamas gave them. No muss, no fuss, just letting their natural beauty shine through. I mean, shine through a lot of carefully blended make-up and perfectly styled I-woke-up-like-this hair, of course. Being part of that, showcasing women we normally wouldn’t, was amazing, a career and life highlight for me. Robin Wilde, at actual London Fashion Week – that was something I’ll never forget. And watching it all come together actually made me believe in myself, and in my skills – for a while, at least. I mean, impostor syndrome never fully goes away, it seems, but you can certainly shut it up for a bit.
Wilde Women Page 2