Wilde Women

by Louise Pentland

  The chairs, instead of standing in their usual rows facing the stage, have been moved by the caretakers into little groups with a small coffee table in the middle, and on each table is a stack of pieces of A5 paper emblazoned with ‘What is your goal?’, a roll of large stickers saying ‘Hello! My name is—’, a few glasses of water and, rather sweetly, a small vase holding a single pink or white carnation.

  Showtime. The hall starts filling up, and I give people their clipboards and ask them to find a seat. As you’d imagine, there’s much dithering over which cluster to sit in, and I feel for the lone women who have to join a group that’s already seated, but I’m pleased to see that everyone is being really friendly. Some are starting to stick their name badges on and introduce themselves. I always think these moments are anxiety-inducing, so I feel weirdly proud of all these brave women who have stepped into the unknown and attended our event tonight. Gloria comes over to tell me that she’ll tackle the intros, so I don’t need to give my ‘few remarks’ this time. She tells me this in a very apologetic tone, but I’m secretly pleased, like when a friend cancels a night out that you didn’t really want to go on anyway. Although a (tiny) part of me was looking forward to overcoming my fear.

  I find Finola and Gillian in a group of four seats at the back and join them, saving the last seat for Gloria. I know she is going to be running a quick-fire Q&A, so I’m not sure if she’ll need a seat, but saving one on her behalf feels like the role of a Vice President. I look up and see her at the front, striding about with total confidence, as though this is a very comfortable environment for her. Her old job was in international PR, and since she moved here she’s freelanced in the same field, so I know she’s a capable woman, but right now I’m in total awe of her! The room’s as full as it is going to get and Gloria takes a sip of water to clear her throat, when one last person opens the heavy hall doors to come in.

  ‘Golly me! Sorry I’m late!’ Storie, Simon’s girlfriend, whispers as she hurries over towards the spare seat next to me, but I divert her to the welcome table with the attendee list. ‘I’ve banned electrical timepieces from the house, you know, because of the radiation energy, so we’re relying on solar and it just didn’t happen today.’

  I’ve no idea where to even begin with that sentence. Why has she banned ‘electrical timepieces’? How did the sun ‘not happen’?

  ‘Storie! I didn’t have you on our sign-up sheet,’ I whisper back as Gloria starts her welcoming speech.

  ‘I don’t agree with forms and unnecessary commitments. I commit with my heart,’ Storie says loftily, removing her patchwork bag and putting it on the floor with her stainless steel eco bottle.

  ‘OK, we just need to know who’s coming for the numbers,’ I say, gesturing to the sheet.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yes, I know that now. Welcome,’ I add, so I don’t seem bitter or petulant.

  I’m not bitter, I’m fully and totally over it, but that still doesn’t mean I like Storie. When Lyla was born, her dad, Simon, didn’t cope well. It’s a shock to anyone’s system having a baby, but Simon really struggled. He spent more and more time at work and less and less time with me. Feeling isolated, I slowly but steadily slipped into depression, and he announced that he needed to ‘find himself’ with a three-month trip to Tibet.

  Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t kick up a huge fuss and fight this, but at the time I was lost, deep, deep in The Emptiness. The depression meant that I just didn’t have the strength in me to care about anything. My only focus was getting up each day and faking normality for Lyla. I’d go through the motions of motherhood, take her to the park to feed the ducks, smile at old ladies who cooed over her in the supermarket, post the adorable pictures of her in her wellies and bobble hat on Facebook, but then spend my evenings alone, lying in the bath or under my duvet, wondering if I would ever feel that fizz of joy again.

  I did feel it again. It took a while, but I found that the only one who was going to rescue me from that hole was me, and I’m bloody proud of myself for it. Simon, though, found another way to be rescued from his own hole and that was courtesy of a Mother Earth-obsessed nineteen-year-old backpacker from Peterborough called Caroline, who insists on being called Storie (‘with an “ie”, please’).

  I don’t blame Storie for breaking up my engagement to Simon – it was dead in the water way before she came along – but it’s her total lack of acknowledgement that I might not want to be friends with her that irks me. To her, we’re all just children of the earth, free to waft around together, eating nuts and seeds or something.

  Thinking about it a moment longer, she might well be right there: perhaps we should all feel peace in our hearts and connect on a deeper level. But then I remember that last year she let my daughter eat unidentified foliage on a wild mushroom foraging trip and Lyla was sick for days, so fuck that, I’m not her buddy. I leave her by the welcome table and go back to my seat with Gillian and Finola.

  Gloria finishes welcoming us all and moves the talk on to how the quick-fire Q&A part of the evening will work. Essentially we’re all going to have a couple of minutes in our seated groups to introduce ourselves, share one of our ideas or goals or reasons for coming tonight, and then we can decide if we want to share a ‘Q’ and the rest of the room are welcome to offer suggestions to ‘A’ it. I am quite excited to be the teacher’s pet, and write down my goals and ideas.

  I like writing things down, but the politely reserved Brit in me feels highly uncomfortable with the thought of sharing a problem or offering to help someone else. I don’t think I’m alone in feeling dread at the words ‘icebreaker’ – it seems to wipe my mind. There is nothing interesting to say about me. What if everyone thinks I’m stupid? What if I answer something and someone thinks I’m being really patronising? And why am I doing this to myself again when I should be remembering that Gloria chose me because I’m not any of those things? Come on, Robin, stop putting yourself down. Instead I’m going to take a leaf out of Gloria’s confident American book and get stuck in!

  I wave Gloria over to come and sit with us now she’s finished her talk, but she declines, saying she’s going to circulate round the groups, and ushers Storie, who’s been floating about looking at the pictures of gardens on the wall, to come and sit in the seat I’ve saved. Inwardly I’m horrified, but outwardly force a smile. I’m not going to be unkind to her. Not out loud, anyway.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ she says, sitting down and offering a wave to Gillian and Finola, who of course already know who she is and offer hellos and how-are-yous in return. I notice with annoyance that she has peeled off the name label I gave her. Maybe she doesn’t believe in labels. Or names. Who bloody knows.

  ‘So …’ I decide to lead, because I’m VP and because I’m a strong, confident woman who will not be intimidated by the woman who shagged my fiancé on a mountainside in Tibet while I was at home looking after our daughter and suffering from postnatal depression. I’m bigger and better than this.

  ‘So,’ I start again, ‘Storie, this is Finola. She has a goal of setting up an equestrian business and has two children here at the school. This is Gillian, a problem-solver extraordinaire who has a lovely little girl at the school. And you already know me. Everyone, this is Storie, Lyla’s dad’s girlfriend.’

  We all take a moment to say hello again because we’re British and so must be overly polite at all times.

  ‘I think Gloria was hoping we’d have a chat about our aims for a few minutes,’ I lead. ‘I’m mainly hoping to learn from everyone else and perhaps find a bit of inspiration on how to balance everything, because I’m finding that quite pressing at the moment. Not impossible or too tough, though,’ I add quickly. ‘Just, you know, with the gorgeous Edward wanting to spend so much time with me …’ I say, looking at Storie, even though I know it’s a really weak and petty dig. ‘On top of all my work stuff and motherhood, it’s quite the juggling act.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, because I’m sor
t of the opposite – I’d like to have more in my life to balance,’ says Gillian diplomatically, with a sweet smile but a hint of sadness behind the eyes.

  ‘Well, dearie, perhaps you can be the one to help me, because I haven’t the foggiest how to get my lessons off the ground! I’ve got the horses, the stables, the time and the oomph, but I don’t know how to get the customers and then sort all the finances and other affairs, as it were,’ Finola says with dismay.

  ‘Maybe I am the person for you, then, Finola,’ Gillian says calmly. ‘Perhaps we could get together and work out your rates and availability, and I could start marketing you a little bit to local schools or clubs. I’ve dabbled in social media a bit, too, so I think I could manage a Facebook page or something,’ she finishes with a big smile.

  ‘This is amazing! This is exactly the kind of thing we wanted to see coming from Women Who Win!’ I say, thrilled to see positivity and collaboration happening right in front of me.

  ‘I think it’s really important to fully blend yourself with the horse’s spirit,’ Storie says slowly, staring meaningfully into the distance.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear?’ Finola says, confused. She is the most black and white, matter-of-fact woman you’ll ever meet. She often compares mothering to looking after dogs, and her husband regularly looks a little bit afraid of her.

  ‘Working with animals. You are intertwining your spirit with theirs in a way you simply cannot with other humans,’ Storie clarifies.

  Finola blinks at her as though she’s just spoken in an entirely different language. I know Storie, so I can just about follow what she means, but I know Finola as well, so I can imagine she’ll be wanting to throw up at the idea of blending spirits with your horse.

  ‘I think that sounds really lovely, Storie,’ Gillian says, rescuing the situation as always.

  ‘Yes. Not at all like utter poppycock!’ Finola says, trying to be agreeable but failing entirely.

  ‘Thanks, Storie, that’s a really, er, different take on things,’ I say, regretting my jibe earlier and trying to let her have her moment and be nice. ‘Did you have anything you wanted to bring to the group?’

  ‘Ah no, not really,’ she wafts. ‘I just like to be in rooms full of thinking women. The energy in here is so vibrant,’ she says airily, gazing round the hall. ‘I’d love to try some gong bath healing in here.’

  I am actually feeling quite enamoured by her purity and simple love for others, but then she brings out the gong bath chat and we are back to square one. Before I can reply, Gloria has taken her place at the front of the room again and is about to ask us to start sharing our in-group chats with the wider audience.

  It’s amazing how quickly the hour passes. People are a bit timid to share at the start, but soon everyone is chipping in and contributing. A brilliant evening of women talking, sharing, problem-solving and connecting, and by the end, after my free glass of room-temperature white wine, I’m completely buzzing with inspiration. Sometimes it takes an evening like this not just to celebrate our differences, but also to realise the struggles we all share. It’s reassuring to see that behind everyone’s glitzy Instas or stories of their booming businesses, these women are juggling, struggling and winging it at times, too. But somehow, bring us all together in a room and we’ll find answers, friends, mentors and goals.

  And while I might have had my doubts that I was a Woman Who Wins, tonight I’m feeling it.

  As everyone files out, I watch Gloria take the time to chat to every woman, thank her for coming and make her feel amazing. I busy myself stacking up the chairs and moving all the little vases of flowers onto one table.

  ‘Well, I’d call that a success!’ Gloria calls over to me as the last woman leaves.

  ‘So would I! It’s amazing what you can do with two child-free hours and some good thinking time,’ I say, utterly enthused.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Gloria pushes.

  ‘Yep! Gillian and Finola are basically going into business, and I didn’t push my ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend off a chair, sooo …’ I trail off.

  ‘So pretty successful then!’ We both laugh.

  ‘I thought you welcomed everyone so beautifully, made them feel at ease and ran your group really well,’ Gloria says. ‘Next time you’ll have to come up front with me!’

  After the success of the evening, my nerves have vanished and I actually feel like I could do it; I feel so far away from that secretly-glad-she-cancelled vibe.

  ‘Gloria, I bloody well will!’ I say with a big nod.

  ‘There she is! Ms Wilde has arrived!’ Gloria cheers.

  We carry on talking about some of the other goals, some of our own goals and what we want from the group, until it gets dark. As I walk out to my car, I can feel a bubble of excitement in my tummy and drive home feeling lighter than I have in ages.

  NINE

  AFTER MY CHAT WITH Gloria, I don’t actually get home till gone 10 p.m. As soon as I walk in, I get my kit out and start making sure I have everything for my MUA job tomorrow. It’s only a local shoot, but I still want to make sure I have anything they might ask for. Quite often we’ll get booked to do a couple of hours on an individual shoot, and although we’re now moving into much bigger projects like London Fashion Week or film work, we’re never too big for our boots to say yes to a local blogger who wants hair and make-up for some lovely outfit shots, or for bread and butter jobs like weddings and school proms. Tomorrow I’m doing some make-up work for a local model who is having new headshots taken, and I’m looking forward to a more relaxed afternoon with the kind of job I started out on.

  ‘Are you going to come up and watch Luther with me?’ Edward calls softly from the bedroom. We’ve been working our way through all the seasons. We’ve both already watched it, but not together, so it feels nice to have a ‘thing’. Is there anything more joyous than shared love for a box set?

  ‘I will, but I just need to sort my kit, make Lyla’s packed lunch for tomorrow, check her uniform’s ironed and quickly do my Insta,’ I shout up. I’m so pumped from my evening I feel totally like I can ace that list.

  ‘Sign her up for school lunches and sack off the Insta!’ he calls back.

  ‘I can’t! It’s not my personal one, it’s my work one. You know I’m growing my MUA profile to boost MADE IT, and I was told to post three times a day for maximum results, so I want to post me sorting my kit,’ I call up again, getting a bit frustrated now that I’m having to explain all this, and feeling like I have to rush.

  Silence. Either he’s totally accepting of me pouring myself into my extracurriculars and my job and my child, or he’s sulking. Jolly good.

  ‘Do you want me to make Lyla’s lunch?’ he calls down, breaking the silence.

  ‘No, it’s all right, I can handle it. I know how she likes the sandwiches cut. She won’t eat them if I don’t do them a certain way. Thank you, though!’ I semi-yell back up, forgetting about my sleeping child as I try to convince myself as much as him that I have everything under control.

  I rush through my tasks, shoving Lyla’s packed lunch in the fridge ready for tomorrow (yes, I have perfected the art of the ‘morning routine’ by organising the night before, and yes, I am officially a goddess), take a grid shot of my kit and do a few stories about its contents (oh yesss, double goddess now) and find that Lyla’s uniform from today is clean enough to just have a shake and a quick squirt of Febreze (you can’t be a goddess at everything). Lovely.

  I creep upstairs ready to give my handsome man a big squeeze, tell him about Women Who Win and to shout at Luther for being such a brilliant but bent police officer, but he’s asleep (Edward, that is, not Luther!). Well, that’s taken the wind out of my sails. But to be honest, I’m so knackered I don’t really mind.

  TODAY IS GIRLS’ DAY! We’ve been longing for it. Edward had booked to go down to London this weekend to scout out designers at an interiors fair, and then to stay with his parents in Hampshire. I’ll miss him, of course, but Lyla and I are so, so excited abo
ut a whole day with Auntie Kath. It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper, full day together and I think Lyla and I have both been feeling a bit empty for it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased that Kath’s found love with Colin and fulfilment with her indie lavender business, but I do miss having her around so much. Still, life goes on, and the right thing is to be happy for her.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say to Edward as he puts on his shoes, sitting at the bottom of the stairs by the front door.

  ‘I know, but it’s only a few days, and absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ he says, tying the laces.

  ‘No it doesn’t. Sex and wine and gifts make it fonder,’ I joke, trying to sit on his lap, preventing any further shoe-putting-on and leaning in for a kiss.

  ‘Urgh, Mummy, you’re so gross!’ Lyla announces, suddenly appearing at the top of the stairs. Honestly, she’s like a truffle pig. If ever there’s even a whiff of me having a nice adult moment with Edward, she’s there.

  ‘It’s not gross, it’s lovely! You’ll feel like this about someone one day,’ I reply huffily, heaving myself off Edward with a bit less grace than I’d have hoped.

  ‘I won’t. It’s gross!’ And with that, she floats off back to her room. By now Edward has his shoes on and is picking up his bag.

  ‘You can sit on my lap again when I’m back. But naked. And not on the stairs,’ he whispers as we sneak a cuddle by the door.

  ‘Well, there’s something to look forward to then. Perhaps if you’re really lucky, I’ll—’

  ‘Oo-ooo, only me!’ sing-songs Kath as she opens the door and comes right in, bashing her bag into Edward’s back, sending him crashing over me and me into the wall mirror.