Wilde Women

by Louise Pentland

  ‘Oh my bloody God! Can I ever just have a moment!’ I say, exasperated.

  ‘Nice to see you too, lovey!’ Kath replies. ‘I’ll give you two lovebirds a minute.’ She plods off through to the kitchen.

  ‘KAAATTHHH!!’ Lyla screams with utter joy as she hears her at the door and thunders down the stairs, barrelling past us into the kitchen to say hello to her, entirely ignoring Edward.

  There’s no time for me to finish telling Edward just what I had in mind for him, and anyway, the moment has passed. But I still get goosebumps as he leans in close.

  ‘I love that you tried,’ he says in a voice that just melts me. ‘We’ll get our quiet moment soon, I’m sure … goodbye,’ Edward says all in one breath as he reaches for his suede weekender bag, slings it over his shoulder, gives me a quick peck of a kiss and walks out the door.

  I join Lyla and Kath in the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, Kath, it’s all go this morning – well, every morning! I’m glad you’re here, I’ve missed you!’ I say, giving her a hug and then feeling the thud of Lyla falling into my side to join in.

  ‘We’ve both missed you!’ Lyla adds.

  ‘I’ve missed you all, too! I kept meaning to come over, and it’s not because I don’t love you both, you know that. I’ve just had every day full! I’ve been helping Colly at the warehouse first thing in the morning. He takes the first delivery at five a.m., so it’s a brisk start! Then I nip home and cook everyone some bacon sandwiches and bring them back. They’re all so lovely over there. Then in the afternoon, after I’ve walked Mollie, I set to with my lavender creations! I’ve met loads of florists and shop owners through the warehouse, and a lot of them are stocking my bath bombs, creams, bubbles and whatnot. It’s quite amazing, really, at my age! I’m actually starting to make a bit of money. Look at these fancy business cards Colly had made for me.’

  ‘They’re amazing! You’re amazing, and make amazing things! They’ll be stocking Lavender Lovies in Harrods before you know it!’ I enthuse.

  ‘I know!’ says Kath, putting the kettle on and then reaching into her bag for the cake tin she’s brought with her. ‘Moira said she’s never had so much intimacy since using my body creams. She said I should call it “Lovemaking Lavender Cream” and apply to one of those Dragons’ Dens on the telly! Who doesn’t want a bottle of lovemaking, eh?’ She chuckles to herself.

  I feel a bit disturbed thinking about her and Moira discussing their sex lives, but thankfully Lyla saves me.

  ‘Auntie Kath, I’ve missed you so much. Are you going to stay all day today, please? Are we going to make things? Did you bring cake in that tin?’ Lyla gabbles all three questions hopefully.

  ‘I know! I’m sorry! I’d love to stay all day. We can make whatever you like, and yes, I’ve brought a whole chocolate orange cake,’ Kath says with her usual warm smile.

  ‘Are there proper slices of chocolate orange on top?’ Lyla asks now, actually jumping up and down perilously on her bar stool. I lunge across the room to put my hands round her waist.

  Kath takes the tin over and, very slowly, lifts the lid and voila! There are swirls made of chocolate orange slices and the sweet, chocolatey smell of freshly baked cake.

  ‘Yesss!’ whoops Lyla, jumping into my arms and nearly causing me to topple over for the second time this morning.

  ‘That looks like an utter triumph, Kath!’ I say, already wanting a piece.

  ‘Well, it’s the weekend, and I’m with some of my best girls, so let’s have cake for breakfast!’ Kath says in celebration.

  Just as I’m about to ask what on earth she means by ‘some of’ (I mean, surely we’re the best girls to her), my phone buzzes. I look down at the screen to see ‘Lacey’ flashing up and take it into the other room. It’s so nice to hear from her. I’ll invite her over to join us for our breakfast cake feast.

  ‘Helloo-ooo, Ms Robin Wilde, BFF Extraordinaaaaire,’ I say in my poshest and, in my opinion, most comedy gold tone.

  ‘Robiiinnn,’ sobs Lacey.

  ‘Oh, no! Sorry for the silly voice. Are you OK? What’s wrong?’ I prattle, instantly panicked, as Lacey’s not the sort to phone me crying.

  ‘I can’t, I can’t, I-I don’t know, I just …’ she sobs between each word, trying to catch her breath and compose herself.

  ‘Lacey, is Willow OK?’

  ‘Ye-esss,’ she blubs.

  ‘OK. That’s good. Are you all right?’ Kath has clearly heard the serious tone and comes into the lounge. She is mouthing and gesturing like one of those American baseball coaches. I have literally no idea what she is trying to communicate to me, but it is really off-putting.

  ‘I am, but honest to God, I can’t fucking believe it.’ Lacey’s voice has gone from utter despair to anger, so I know she is physically safe at least. I can hear Willow starting to cry in the background and then Lacey’s sobs begin all over again.

  ‘Lacey, do you want me to come over?’ I ask softly.

  ‘No, I’m fine. You’re having a lovely morning with Edward and Lyla. I’m fine,’ she says through the sound of her own and Willow’s increasingly ear-piercing cries.

  ‘OK, well, it isn’t true, is it? You’re not fine, you’ve rung me crying. Edward isn’t here. It’s just me, Lyla and Kath, and you sound like you’re in a real state. I’m going to get myself together and then I’m going to come over, even if it’s just for an hour to hold Willow while you have a nice bath, OK?’ I say in my sternest but kindest mummy voice.

  ‘OK,’ she almost whispers. ‘Thank you.’

  I hang up and turn to both Kath and Lyla, who are standing there, agog, waiting to hear what’s going on.

  ‘Mummy, are you missing our fun Kath day?’ Lyla says, panicked.

  ‘Was that Lacey? Is she all right? She seemed a bit low when I saw her on Thursday but I thought it was just tiredness,’ Kath adds.

  Just how often is Kath going over to see Lacey and Willow? I don’t have time to go into that – I just know I need to get proper clothes on (I’m still in an old tee and velour joggers) and get to my best friend.

  ‘Right, Lacey’s upset and we’ve got three options,’ I say firmly.

  Kath and Lyla look at me, ready for orders.

  ‘Either we all go round and cheer her up, just me and Lyla go over and cheer her up, or I leave Lyla here with you, Kath, and I go on my own and cheer her up. Which shall we do?’

  ‘I want to see the baby!’ Lyla says instantly, jigging about on the spot.

  ‘No, she’s been a bit flat the last few times I’ve been round. She just needs her friend. You go on your own, lovey, and I’ll stay here with my best girl. We can make fairy cakes with blobs of jam in them and then if there’s time we can go for a walk by the river and pick some nice flowers to make little posies,’ Kath says, looking at Lyla, who looks suddenly delighted.

  Wow, that sounds so freaking wholesome I’m sad to be missing out. Also, what does she mean, the ‘last few times’ she’s been? I need to find a moment to get to the bottom of all this, but now isn’t it. Now is the time for jeans and a top that isn’t 2013 vintage Primarni with pasta sauce stains down the front. I get myself together and dash out the door.

  TEN

  ‘OH, LACEY.’ I ENVELOP her and a screaming Willow in the biggest cuddle I can give as soon as she opens the door.

  Lacey looks atrocious. I have to hide my shock. Her hair is greasy, her under-eye bags are puffy, her skin is grey and even her silk jimjams have seen better days. Willow’s cheeks are flushed and her eyes are watery.

  ‘I think she’s got a cold or she’s teething, or she just basically hates me,’ Lacey says bitterly as she thrusts her daughter into my arms. She’s clearly noticed me looking at Willow with concern. The house is still oddly immaculate as we head through to the lounge.

  ‘OK, well, I’m going to throw this out there, my love: your three-month-old baby girl does not hate you. I don’t think they start hating you until the teenage hormones kick in, so we’ve both got
a few years ahead of us before we can enjoy all of that. She might be teething – some start really young – or she might just have a bit of a snuffle. We can sort both of those out with lovely, lovely Calpol, which solves all your problems and makes the world right again. It’s a bit like gin and Chinese takeaway, but for babies, you know?’ I keep my voice light as I shift the warm bundle that is Willow from my chest onto my lap.

  Lacey sits bolt upright across from me on one of her beautifully upholstered high-back chairs, fidgeting with the waist strings of her pyjama bottoms and holding her phone so tightly I can see the whites of her knuckles.

  ‘Lacey, has something happened? Whatever it is, tell me and I can help you,’ I say as softly as I can, not making any sudden movements.

  ‘It’s going to sound so silly.’ The tears well up again.

  ‘I promise you, whatever it is, I won’t think it’s silly. You’re my best friend and I love you,’ I say calmly, and then, holding Willow’s tiny arm and wiggling it about, with a high-pitched voice I add, ‘and you’re my best mummy!’ which makes Lacey smile weakly, so is a success of sorts.

  ‘You’re going to think I’m such an idiot,’ Lacey continues, pushing the hair back off her face.

  She was making such a fuss I was starting to get a little frustrated, but like I’ve seen it done on the six hundred police interview programmes I’ve watched with Edward, I stay calm and continue to probe.

  ‘Lacey, it’s me. I’ve known you since we were in lower school. We’ve helped each other through thick and thin, and we’ve seen each other at our very worst. I’ve held your hair while you sicked up in Rebels nightclub, that time when you’d just met Karl and then lied and said it was me that was vomming, and that’s why we were so long in there, so he would still fancy you. There is no judgement here – as always, I’m on your side, but unless you tell me what’s going on, I can’t help you. If it’s something about Willow or Karl, I’m here. You’ve literally just had a baby, it’s hard, I get it. Now, take a deep breath,’ I say, breathing in deeply myself, ‘and let it all out.’

  ‘It’s Rosalind Shah,’ Lacey blurts out quickly.

  ‘Huh?’ I’m racking my brains for who the hell this is and what it is she could have done.

  ‘Netball Rosalind. From school. You know,’ Lacey coaxes.

  ‘Oh yes, OK. What about her?’ I can’t work out the connection. I don’t think we’ve seen her in about twelve years, apart from that time we ran into her in Next a few years back and literally just said a few hellos and that was that. Why is she bringing this woman up now?

  ‘Earlier this week I finally went to one of those mother and baby groups.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, Lace! Well done!’ This feels like a big step for her, so I’m bracing myself, hoping nothing went wrong.

  ‘Well, Rosalind was there with her son – he’s four months older than Willow, according to Facebook – so I said hello and we had a chat about the old days at school, and I asked if she’s still playing netball and stuff,’ Lacey sobs.

  ‘Right, right, this all sounds totally OK.’ I’m still baffled by the tears.

  ‘Anyway, I go online this morning to send her a private message on Facebook, maybe see if she wants to go to another group next week.’ Lacey pauses, drawing in breath.

  ‘OK, yes, that’s nice, well done,’ I encourage.

  ‘And she’s unfriended me!’ she says, sniffing. ‘I never even liked her much, but I can’t even get being baby group friends right. Why am I such a fucking failure?’ she wails.

  ‘Oh, Lacey! Please, don’t get upset,’ I say, standing up to go and hug her, still holding Willow in one arm, who’s starting to squirm a bit. ‘Come on, now. You don’t need Rosalind Shah! This really isn’t as big a deal as it feels.’

  ‘Everything feels like a big deal,’ Lacey snaps. ‘Everything is so fucking hard, Robin. I’ve tried and tried, but I just can’t be like one of those proper mums, who has a perfect home and makes perfect meals and dresses the baby in perfect outfits and has a baby who doesn’t cry all the fucking time and has perfect winged eyeliner and has the exact right shade of dark grey skirting boards and the correct opinions on feminism, and makes a million fucking friends at fucking baby fucking groups, and—’

  I stop her before the descent spirals out of control. I think once you’re interspersing each word with ‘fucking’, you need an intervention.

  ‘Lacey, are you joking me? Those mums aren’t real! No mum excels in the ways you’ve suggested! You’re setting yourself painfully unrealistic standards,’ I say, wishing I could crawl into her brain and make her realise this.

  ‘Look at this absolute corker of a baby,’ I say, giving Willow, who is nodding off in my arms, an extra squish. ‘You are totally acing motherhood. She’s happy, mostly, and safe and growing and healthy. It’s been three months. Of course it’s hard. You’re not getting much sleep, Karl’s out of the house all day, you’re not going out much, you’re focusing a lot on things that don’t really matter. Like, you do not need to worry about your eyeliner being perfectly winged. If you wear no eyeliner at all, that’s OK, you know?’

  ‘I know. I do know that Rosalind not being my friend on Facebook isn’t a big deal. We weren’t close at school, and it’s just that I saw her and thought I should offer a play date, but it stung. It made me feel like I’d failed. You see all these other perfect mums, and I just can’t be like them.’

  ‘My lovely, wonderful Lacey, where are you seeing these “perfect mums”, please?’ I ask.

  ‘Everywhere! At the group I went to, on Instagram, my mum friends on Facebook, you!’ she says, crying again. I can tell she’s just not thinking rationally.

  ‘Lacey, I’m going to tell you something now, from one mum to another, and I want you to listen really carefully, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘None of those mums is perfect. They all feel stressed that they’re not giving their child the right food, or worried that their baby isn’t developing as well as the baby next to it at the group. The mums on Insta are showing you one carefully composed shot of one second of their day. Behind the camera they too have sweaty underboobs from all that feeding, or the Guilt with a capital G for bottle-feeding, even though “breast is best”. Your mummy friends on Facebook are the same. Nobody is going to post a status about their episiotomy stitches being infected and their partner having to help them up off the toilet. None of them is going to say, “You know what? Maybe right now, with my ripped-up fanny and cracked nipples and eye bags I could pack my whole house into, maybe this baby isn’t worth it – maybe I feel like utter shit and I’m wondering why the fuck I did this”, are they?’

  ‘Robin! Nobody thinks their baby isn’t worth it. That’s awful,’ Lacey reels, sounding utterly horrified.

  ‘No, it’s not! It’s human! You are allowed to look at Willow, love her with all of your heart and still think that right now motherhood is crap and you don’t like it much. It’s OK to not love motherhood sometimes. Can I tell you something? I didn’t have that “ahhh, this is so worth it” moment until Lyla was about two years old. You must remember that! She had become a really funny, caring little being in my life, but up until then it was pretty one-sided, with me slaving away for her and her not letting me sleep,’ I say, nodding, willing her to take this in.

  ‘But that’s babies,’ Lacey says, starting to sound like she might believe me.

  ‘Yes, and I loved her. I’d have run through a burning building for her. That doesn’t mean I wanted to shout “I love being a mother!” from the rooftops, though.’

  ‘Robin, I feel so ashamed.’ She tears up again.

  ‘No, Lacey, why? You mustn’t.’

  ‘I wanted this baby, my gorgeous Willow, for so, so, so long, and I thought I’d be living the absolute dream, but this is like a nightmare. I’m so tired my thoughts don’t make sense. All I do all day is feed her and burp her and change her and rock her and try desperately to keep this house clean and tidy. Go
ing to that group felt as big a deal as going on a four-month backpacking trip round Asia. I wanted to go so you and Kath would stop going on at me. I don’t care about Rosalind, and she was shit at netball, but it just all felt too much, and this morning, even though I told him I felt so rubbish, Karl went out to play a “quick” nine holes, and I know he’ll be gone all day. Why did he leave us on our own? Why didn’t he just take her with him? Just this once? I’m so tired, Robin. I shouldn’t resent him but he gets to go out all day, every day. I should be glad to have Willow, but I’m just not. I feel horrible for saying all this because it’s like I don’t love my baby, and I feel even worse saying it to you because of what happened last year. I’m so sorry, you must hate me for it. Kath came over last week and said having babies isn’t always what you think it will be like, but this really isn’t. I hate it. I’m so miserable …’ And the tears are like a flood now.

  ‘Oh, Lacey, I’m so sorry you’re going through this, and I’m sorry Karl’s gone out today. I don’t hate you. What happened with my … with my loss’ – saying ‘miscarriage’ is still too much sometimes – ‘is awful, but it’s not for you to worry about. It’s OK. I’m going to stay with you, we’re not going to think about housework, we’re going to use the expressed milk you’ve squeezed out into those baggies – well done on that, by the way, I’d given up on breastfeeding before Lyla was a month old – and you’re going to go upstairs and have a bath and a nap and read a book and ignore your life.’

  ‘Ignoring my life sounds amazing right now,’ Lacey agrees with a sniff, sounding the most ‘her’ she has in weeks.

  ‘Then, when you’re downstairs again, we’re going to order a Chinese takeaway for lunch, nobody is going to be wearing a bra – we’ll be taking our fashion inspiration from Willow here in her Babygro – and let’s have a think about maybe talking to your GP or health visitor about how you’re feeling, OK?’ I say as casually as I can because I don’t want to worry her.