‘But Grandad Wilde, who is your actual dad, isn’t your sugar daddy, because he is not a man that makes you very happy indeed, is he?’ Lyla says, still not eating her cereal. My God, we’re going to be so late, and I’m going to be on the Shit Mum list again.
‘Grandad Wilde is my dad and he’s very nice.’ There. Pulling it back. Closing it down.
‘But he never comes to see us, and Grandma Wilde is horrible and thinks you’re fat, and when you’re on the phone to them your eyebrows do this.’ She mimics me frowning. ‘And I heard you tell Lacey that Grandma is a self-absorbed, middle-class arsehole,’ she finishes, with a massive smile on her face as though she’s Sherlock Holmes and she’s just cracked the case of the century.
‘Oh my God, Lyla Blue Wilde! First, you listen too much, and second, I did not say that about Grandma, and third, we are now running very late, so eat that cereal in silence and let’s get bloody going!’ I say, not calmly, shortly or sweetly.
‘You tell me to listen, and you definitely did say that,’ she sniggers into her Rice Krispies.
Good grief, motherhood is a hoot today. But my little Lyla Blue seems happy with the fact that no one is going to try to be her new daddy, and that’s OK with me! I take a breath and feel a tiny knot of worry start to unravel a little.
THAT LITTLE WORRY KNOT might have unravelled a bit as far as Lyla and her woes go, but now I’ve got my own set of panics and preoccupations to think about. Edward has been here a week, and I love it. It’s really good. Really, um, cosy.
On Official Arrival Day Lyla and I made him a banner for the front door saying: WELCOME HOME EDWARD, with pictures of hearts and butterflies and just one or two slimy worms (Lyla assured me these were for comedy effect), and I cleared out space in my wardrobe and a few drawers in the bathroom unit. Obviously I was happy to do that, because for such a long time I’ve thought about what it would be like to have a man living with me, with us. And not just any man, of course, a lovely man like Edward. It was actually good to go through my possessions and do all those things everyone tells you to do these days: decide which sparked joy and which didn’t and thank them, and then fold things so that they stand up. I’m on board with all that.
I’m just not sure I’m on board with all the other changes, but if I say something I’ll sound like I’m moaning, which I’m not. Just, you know, maybe drawing his attention to the fact that nobody needs to leave shaving hairs in the sink, or that he has a box file neatly set aside for him in the office downstairs (I’ve glorified that a bit – we have a little box room/playroom to the side of the house that we use for the dusty old desktop, my work kit and a few of Lyla’s bigger toys), so he doesn’t need to leave his letters or paperwork all over the kitchen worktops. It’s no big deal, so I’m really trying to be chilled about it all. But who takes their socks off in bed and leaves them floating around the bottom of the duvet? And also, good God, I’ve never known anyone to have showers as long as he does!
I’ve decided I’m not going to say anything about it because it’s early days – and anyway, he probably has a list of things I do that make him bite his tongue. But after waiting, and thinking so hard about if this is right for me and Lyla, I’m not going to spoil it by getting het up over a bit of housekeeping. It’s not a big deal. Honest.
Plus, there have been some really lovely moments, too. Like when I got home and found Edward reading to Lyla. Sometimes she tells me she’s too big to have stories read to her, now she can read so well herself, but I know there’s still magic in someone telling you a story, so it was beautiful to catch them curled up together with a book.
‘Penny for them?’ Edward says as he walks over to the bed, leaving his towel on the floor. Breezy, I’m breezy, I remind myself.
‘I was just thinking how lucky I am to have a man like you here all the time,’ I say, smiling. In fairness, as a very attractive, very naked (no socks!) Edward gets into my bed, I don’t feel quite so annoyed by a few abandoned towels and messy desks.
‘Not as lucky as I am to be lying next to this beautiful woman,’ he says, moving on top of me.
We hear a creak on the landing and pause. I’m convinced it’s Lyla waking up and about to wander in. I’ll have to make up some excuse, and fret for six months that she can’t unsee her mother being straddled by her new boyfriend, but no, it’s not. The door stays shut; no more floorboards creak. Maybe it was just the wind. And so a rather wonderful time ensues with no interruptions, no annoyance about sharing my space and a pretty smug confidence that everything’s coming up roses.
SEVEN
MAY
‘BEING TOO BUSY IS a luxury problem,’ my mum used to say as she paraded around telling everyone she was ‘far too busy to sit down’, despite not having a job, her daughter being fairly self-sufficient (out of necessity) and my dad basically living in the shed or at work. But as April turns to May, my superwoman vibe is fading, and I’m not sure ‘luxurious’ is the word I’d choose to describe my life.
I’m going to have to call Mum soon for our catch-up. We don’t speak much, but if I don’t keep her up to date on things she rings me, annoyed, so it’s better to get in there first. She and Dad moved to Cornwall when Lyla was only a baby, to ‘get away from it all’. Thanks, Mum. She’s engrossed in the Women’s Institute and the Rotary Club, and Dad has retired to tinker about in his shed. Last I heard he was building a boat. Mum called it a ‘sea vessel’ repeatedly.
Mum and I have never really seen eye to eye. She’s like a short, stocky army officer, barking orders and feeling constantly disappointed that her only child never got a ‘real job’, and just ‘floats about fluffing hair and blushing on powders’. I think my splitting up with Simon, Lyla’s dad, was the final straw for her, despite the fact that he cheated on me. According to her he was ‘having a blip, as all men do’, and I should have spent my days working out where I went wrong to cause him to ‘turn his eye’. Boys will be boys after all, eh?
A couple of years ago, on a rare weekend visit down to them, Lyla announced that she was a feminist. While I high-fived my daughter, Mum said, ‘Good God, Robin, do you want her to be one of these overweight lesbian girls with no hope?’ and as you can imagine, a flaming row broke out. I wish I could say that was the most offensive thing she’s ever said to me, but it’s not. Dad doesn’t say anything quite as hideous, but he doesn’t stop her. I think over the years she’s ground him down so far that he doesn’t actually have any opinions anymore. His father was a domineering, formidable character, so it makes sense that he’s a bit, well, useless.
You can see why we keep our distance. I find a monthly phone call usually does the trick. I think Kath fills Dad in (Dad is Kath’s older brother) here and there, but they haven’t been close for as long as I can remember. Ironically, childless Kath has always been the most nurturing of all of them.
Anyway, life is busy. Edward’s been back for about a month now, and every time he suggests I slow down or relax, I remind him that I don’t need to: I like being this busy. There was a time – a couple of difficult years – when all my days were sad and empty and I felt like Lyla was the only person that needed me. Now, though, it’s quite the opposite. And I never, ever want to go back to The Emptiness again.
I’m doing what I can for Lacey. Honestly, she is becoming more and more withdrawn. I’ve been over twice to see her and Willow in the last few weeks, and it just seems like Lacey spends all her time keeping her house spotless, making sure Willow is cared for and always in a beautiful outfit, plastering a smile on her face and feeling like she has to be perfect. But she’s spending no time on herself. She tells me she’s been out and about with Willow, but I’m starting to wonder if she’s telling the truth. She’s fragile under that smooth facade. I’ve asked her over here twice, and offered to go to the baby groups with her, but she finds reasons not to. Last week I told her it might be worth mentioning to her health visitor that she’s being a bit hard on herself, but she brushed me off crossly, pointed at
a placid and smiling Willow, and firmly said she was fine.
If all the women in the world set up a bank account and put a pound in every time they used the word ‘fine’ to mean ‘alone’, ‘sad’, ‘afraid’, ‘stressed’, ‘tired’, ‘angry’, ‘struggling’, ‘anxious’ or ‘downright bloody dreadful’, that would be world poverty solved in a fortnight.
I spoke to Edward about my concerns last night over dinner, which in itself is a bit of a rarity because I’ve spent most evenings working at home (cleaning my kit from a job that day or sorting it for the next, looking into venues for our new live beauty tutorials project, working on proposals to expand our use of social media to raise MADE IT’s profile and exploring creative ideas for forthcoming jobs. It’s getting harder and harder to squeeze my job in around school hours, and it’s spilling into the evenings a bit. I don’t mind, though, not too much, anyway). But when I told Edward about Lacey, he listened, because he’s wonderful, and then suggested a night out with her to spark her back to life.
I couldn’t imagine she’d be up for a full night out, but maybe just getting her out of the house would be a start. It was a good plan. Then I remembered we were supposed to be having ‘us’ time. I switched my focus on to our new living situation.
‘How are you finding it so far?’ I asked nervously. ‘You know, living here. With us. Are you enjoying it?’ I was sipping a glass of wine at the breakfast bar as Edward stirred the tagliatelle and Lyla sat in the front room rotting her brain with TV.
‘Yeah. It’s much like it was before, except you’ve kindly donated me an extra drawer in the bathroom and eight inches of wardrobe,’ he teased. ‘I might need a couple more inches when I bring the rest of my stuff over from New York.’
He always knows how to keep things light, which I like. I’m all for a bit of the serious stuff here and there, but last year was so intense this is definitely what we need, for now. Lightness and laughter.
‘I promise you, once I sort more of my stuff out there’ll be more space. I’ve made a good start with my special folding.’ I laughed.
‘No, no, I get it. I can see why you need an entire drawer full of ski stuff when you hit the slopes so often,’ he said, stirring the crème fraiche in with the onions and garlic.
‘Look! I don’t know when I’ll need that again! I went skiing at uni, and was amazing at it!’
‘Best on the green slopes, I’d imagine! I can’t wait to take you back there one day and you can show me your moves.’
‘I’ll show you my moves later, if you’re lucky,’ I said, crossing to the stove and leaning up behind him with my hands round his waist.
‘What moves, Mummy? Can I see them too?’ Lyla asked as she stood at the door. ‘Stop touching him so much, Mummy. Can I have a biscuit?’
‘Ah. Ha, ha. No moves. My ski moves. Yes, here you go,’ I said, passing her a pink wafer and shuffling her back off to the lounge.
‘Why did you give her that when I’m cooking dinner?’ Edward asked with a slight note of annoyance to his voice.
‘I just wanted her to toddle off so we can carry on with this nice moment.’ I slid my hand back round his waist. ‘She’s not going to fill up on one wafer.’
‘I know, but you’re satiating every demand she makes,’ he said, not really going with the flow of the ‘nice moment’.
‘It wasn’t a demand,’ I retorted, removing my hand and taking up my spot by the breakfast bar. ‘And I’m not ready to discuss my parenting decisions with you yet, Edward. She asked to have one biscuit, and I decided to let her.’
‘OK. Yep. I’m sorry, Robin. Of course. You’re the boss.’ Edward didn’t look up from the saucepan.
Jeez. Whenever I cook, I nibble bits here and there and don’t fill up. I mean, I suppose she’s smaller than me, and she probably didn’t need to have a biscuit, but I was doing it for us, so we could have a moment together. There’s no need for him to be such an arse. At least he apologised.
Not wanting to make a meal of it, ho, ho, excuse the pun, I let it go, called Lyla in to help set the table (see, Edward? She’s a well-adjusted, helpful, responsible child and I’m not a shit biscuit-dishing-out mother) and, tensions forgotten, we all sat round the table to eat Edward’s ‘signature tagliatelle’, garlic bread and salad like a proper little family. It was bliss.
‘What do you think, Lyla? Yummy?’ Edward asked optimistically. He was probably just hoping not to be called a worm/rat/mole/ant again.
‘I think it’s better than Mummy’s cooking!’ she said with a glint in her eye as she looked at me over her fork.
‘Ha! I’ve made it!’ Edward cheered, raising his glass of Malbec high in the air in celebration.
‘But not as good as Auntie Kath’s,’ she added coolly.
‘Aha! Close, but no cigar, my friend! Auntie Kath’s cooking is the best in all the land, isn’t it, Lyla?’ I declared happily. The tagliatelle was phenomenal. Having this man in my life really is excellent.
‘Yes, but we never see her anymore because she loves Colin so much and only ever wants to make lavender things and see him,’ she said sadly.
‘Oh Lyla, that’s not quite true. I saw her the other day. We went to visit Lacey together and she gave Willow a cuddle. I think she pops in on Lacey quite a lot, actually.’
‘Why doesn’t she pop in on us then?’
‘Well, I’m at work all day, and then, in the afternoons, Colin finishes at his flower warehouse and comes to see her, and they have yummy dinners and work on her lavender creations. And she knows we’re settling Edward in with us,’ I said in sing-songy primary school tones, even though I’m also feeling a bit stung that Kath makes time for the baby and not for us, or not as much as she used to.
‘Settling him in? He’s not a dog, Mummy!’ Lyla giggled through a mouthful of garlic bread.
‘Woof!’ barked Edward, and the whole ‘serious chat’ fell to bits and mass woofing and dog impressions ensued. It wasn’t romantic, exactly, but it was lovely.
EIGHT
THE DAY HAS COME. Tonight is the inaugural meeting of Women Who Win. I’m going to stand up in front of everyone, with Gloria, and say a few words. I feel a tense pang in my stomach. A solid twenty to twenty-five women are attending, which is a lot more than you’d usually expect for an event in the school hall, and certainly more people than I’ve ever spoken in front of before. I’m not a painfully shy person, but I’ve never been one for public speaking, so I’m feeling that sick swirl of dread in my stomach but trying really hard to suppress it and focus on setting up.
Gloria is one of those women who give off good vibes – who make you want to try things, do things, be things you thought you couldn’t. And what’s more, she manages to be inspirational without being preachy, or making you feel like you’re not good enough as you are. She’s a total beauty, and 95 per cent of that is her attitude. She isn’t tall and sinewy like the models I work with, and she doesn’t have huge, full lips and lashes longer than a giraffe’s, but my God she is absolutely stunning. Gloria is average height, very full-figured, with dyed platinum-blonde hair the shade my mum would say ‘nobody can take seriously’, bright pink nails, always a bit (or a lot) of cleavage, the most fabulously bold-coloured wardrobe you’ve ever seen and a walk absolutely dripping with confidence. If you were my mum, you’d look at her and think: ‘chubby blonde bimbo’. If you met her and had half a minute of conversation with her, you’d think: ‘smart, assertive, warm, badass boss’! She’s actually inspired me a little bit to break out of the jeans-and-top mould (which I’ve been really stretching these days with jeans and a jazzy, tucked-in shirt) and go for some short tea dresses with tights. Tonight I’m actually wearing a short leopard-print dress, black tights, black biker boots encrusted with pearls instead of studs, gold hoop earrings and red lipstick. I feel utterly brilliant, and judging by Edward’s rather keen response (and the subsequent quickie we had, pushed up against the towel rail in the en suite), he thinks I look pretty brilliant too.
‘Right!’ calls Gloria assertively with her hair and boobs bouncing at once. ‘The chairs are laid out, we’ve got twenty-two booked in to come and I’ve got a stack of clipboards and pens for you to dish out when people arrive. That OK?’ she asks.
‘Yes! Totally. What will we be doing with them?’
‘Well, after the intros and ice-breaking chit-chat, I thought we could all write down and share our goal, give us all something to hook our coat on, you know?’
‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what my goal will be. ‘What if you don’t have a goal?’
‘Everyone who is moving forward has a goal.’ Gloria sashays off to put the sign outside that will usher people through to the hall. ‘If you’re not sure, someone in this room will inspire you. You’ll see.’
I’ve been in the school hall my fair share of times for carol services, end-of-year plays, parents’ evenings and the charity spa night I helped run last year (still proud of that), but there’s something nostalgic about it, nevertheless. It doesn’t matter what primary school you’re in, there’s always that smell of poster paints and rubber-soled PE shoes. The hall feels so homey and wholesome, with one wall covered in paintings ‘inspired by our garden’, and another with those great pieces of hinged gym apparatus that have coloured metal hoops or climbing ladders embedded into them.
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