Wilde Like Me

by Louise Pentland

  Piper is impressed with my quick choices; this isn’t my first rodeo. But obviously she’d marry the older guy because she reasons he’d have the most money and would be grateful to have her. Then she’d have a fling with the young hottie to keep life exciting. She tells me all of this in the tone of voice someone would use for describing a new washing machine they’d ordered.

  We skim the menu for our next choices, and I opt for a bubblegum-pink cocktail in a highball glass with a wand of candyfloss protruding from the top, and think about how Lyla would lose her mind over something like this (minus the alcohol, of course!). Still mid-thought about concocting some kind of candyfloss cocktail for my six-year-old, Piper has popped off her stool, is taking my free hand (the other one isn’t letting go of this drink, that’s for sure) and dragging me up to dance.

  Thankfully I’ve been filled with enough sugar, booze and adrenalin from my day to have a ‘fuck it’ attitude, so I go all in, shake what my mother gave me (she’d be so very proud right now, not) and dance away with my beautiful gazelle friend. I can’t remember the last time I felt so free and liberated on a dance floor. This isn’t aunties swaying round the handbags at a wedding; this is arms-above-head, bending-my-knees-sometimes-more-than-ninety-degrees movement here. All too quickly I’m reminded of my somewhat lacking fitness levels (if only I’d taken a leaf out of Natalie’s gym dedication book), so we head back to our stools, take a few sips and I let my heart rate get back into a safe zone.

  ‘How often do you have fun like this on a weekday?’ asks Piper, breathlessly.

  ‘Mmm … never. I work, or I do the school run in the mornings, so dancing in a cocktail bar is far less important to me than having a bath or flopping on the sofa before an early night.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Sounds fun,’ replies Piper in a tone so dry you could set it on fire. ‘Wanna spice things up a bit?’

  Not really, I think; the dancing was spicy enough, surely. ‘Er … yeah?’

  ‘Why don’t you actually go and say hi to Mr Marry? This is New York. It’s what everyone does here!’

  ‘Because he’s having a night out with his friends. He doesn’t want to be interrupted by me.’

  ‘I bet you ten dollars he does.’

  ‘Nooo, he’ll brush me off.’

  ‘I tell you what, go over and ask him any old question to start a conversation going, and if he doesn’t brush you off, I’ll buy you brunch at Sarabeth’s.’

  Well, she’s got me there. If there’s one sure-fire way to my heart, it’s food. And according to Piper, Sarabeth’s breakfasts are apparently the best.

  After taking an unreasonably large gulp of my cocktail, I lurch off my bar stool in what I hoped would be an elegant hop but what probably looks more like a baby seal splashing into the sea for the first time, brush my already clammy palms down my jeans and stride over.

  I can do this.

  I’m Robin Wilde, who flew out to New York with barely any notice. I’m Robin Wilde, who deputised for Natalie and helped to manage the entire make-up department today. I’m going to stride over and say something charming, witty and hilarious.

  ‘Hello.’

  Hmm. Not as amazing as it could have been, but still confident.

  ‘Oh … hi,’ replies a slightly startled Mr Marry in an accent that’s familiar.

  ‘Oh! You’re British. What a small world!’ Stop, Robin!

  ‘Yes! Hi! What a small world indeed. What brings you to this neck of the woods?’ Mr Marry replies confidently and comfortably. Maybe America really is the land of opportunity.

  ‘I’m just over here for a work thing, and my friend thought she recognised you but maybe she didn’t – I … I’m not sure now.’ Shit, I started strong but should have had more to say or at least some kind of plan. I look over to Piper, hoping she’ll sense my panic and swoop in to rescue me, but she’s occupied. No sooner was my stool next to her free, an indie-band kinda guy has hopped on and is trying to win her affections. Great.

  ‘Lamest excuse ever, I’m afraid,’ teases Mr Marry with a kind laugh. ‘I’m Edward. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Robin. Hello. Again. My friend over there with the gold top, she, well, she dared me to come and say hello. Very grown-up of us, ha ha, er, yes, sorry. It’s these insane cocktails!’ I say, hoping that honesty really is the best policy.

  ‘Not my good looks and potential charm, then?’ Edward quips back. Oh my God, is he actually flirting with me? I should flirt back! This is my chance. All is not lost! I’m in a bar in New York City, flirting with a hot man. Shit me.

  ‘Aha ha,’ is what I actually manage. How poetic.

  Edward’s face is really very appealing. Dark green eyes with tiny flecks of tawny-owl brown in them, and such long lashes. The sort of lashes I usually glue to people on set. There’s something about his eyes that just feels safe and gentle. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer. These are the things a modern lady out in the world thinks of these days. It’s what I look for on the dating apps. Is he wearing a decent shirt? Yes? Tick. Has he included any photos of him with sedated tigers? No? Tick. Does he have the eyes of a mass lady-murderer? No? Tick. So far with Edward we’ve got two ticks. I’m yet to find out how he feels about the tigers.

  Piper’s tap on my shoulder brings me back to the real world. Apparently Callum, the guy she sometimes sees, has buzzed her and she’s going to go to his studio to ‘check out his artwork’. This is what we’re calling it these days, is it? I think we all know she will have her denim-clad legs over his ‘easel’ before you can say ‘draw me like one of your French girls’. Cheeky minx. Good for her.

  I consider leaving myself but, feeling brave, I decide to stay for ten more minutes and see what Edward’s all about.

  I tell her to be safe and that I’ll text her when I’m home (I feel like that’s the correct thing to say to your gal pal when she’s decided to leave you for some male anatomy). I look back up at Edward once she’s left. ‘Oh great, I’ve been abandoned!’ I tell him, with only moderate annoyance. I’m quite glad. I’m starting to think I might enjoy spending a bit more time with him, and goddess-like Piper is a distraction for any red-blooded man.

  Without skipping a beat Edward says, ‘Hang with us. I’m here with some of the chaps from work. Keith’s leaving next week, so we’re starting early on the goodbye drinks! The more the merrier. I’d be glad of a fellow Brit. We can talk about red phone boxes and Marmite!’

  Normally I’d say no to such a hideous push into a group I don’t know, but tonight feels different. I’m in New York City! I handled everything on set! I look incredible in these jeans! Why bloody not? I’m a woman of poise and substance, and if I want to stay for a couple of drinks with a decent guy, then so I shall! Look at me go, world, look at me go!

  An hour later, and I haven’t regretted my choice. ‘The chaps’ and Keith are an absolute hoot. Either that or they’re not and the cocktails are a lot more potent than I initially thought. So far we’ve fiercely debated whether Hershey’s or Cadbury is better (Edward and I passionately stick to our guns and agree that the Caramel Bunny is way too sexual to be selling chocolate), and gone through a lengthy list of things we name differently over in Blighty. Sounds like the most boring game ever played, but truly, after a few cocktails so sugary you’re facing a coma, screaming ‘BIN AND TRASH! CABS AND TAXIS!’ becomes the absolute height of entertainment.

  Before I know it it’s 2 a.m., the Sugar Factory is winding down, Keith and the chaps are looking around for which chairs they slung their suit jackets on and Edward is talking in my ear about walking me home.

  SOMETHING I’VE LEARNT QUICKLY in this city, despite its being a thick maze of buildings, roads and constant construction, is that walking is usually the easiest option. Well, the easiest option when you have your bearings, are escorted by your friend and it’s daylight.

  ‘I think I need a cab. Or I just need to check Google Maps. Or … I … erm.’ I start to look wildly around, over and over, as if by doing this I
’m suddenly going to see my hotel.

  ‘Are you having some kind of fit?’ asks Edward.

  ‘No! I’m just not sure how close my hotel is to here. I’ve been using Ubers, or I’ve had Piper or Natalie with me. I’ll work it out. My brain just feels foggy from all the drinks. And candyfloss. Ugh, I have so much regret for the sugar.’

  ‘My place is two blocks away. Fancy coming back for a cup of tea, some Marmite toast and a chat about the merits of Wills and Kate?’ Edwards gently laughs.

  There’s something really calming about him. I should be absolutely freaking out that Piper has left me, I’m half-lost and I’m about to go back to a strange man’s flat. But I’m a big girl, and Edward has given me no reason not to feel safe, so I think ‘you only live once!’, nod casually (at least I hope it looked casual and breezy, and not like one of those little toy dogs people used to put in the back of their car) and we start walking.

  About fifteen steps down the road, I notice our hands brushing against each other and less than five steps later, they’re intertwined. All of a sudden I’m acutely aware that this isn’t a chat with a new friend. I don’t really know why I thought it would be. We had great chat all night, his attention was focused purely on me and the drinks flowed easily. Usually in those kinds of situations I’d feel self-conscious, but tonight feels so easy. I just let myself go, laugh heartily and actually manage to not worry about anything. I should do that more often.

  Edward is handsome. Classically handsome, as in, he could be in a men’s razor advert. He’s taller than me but not crazy tall (six foot, maybe?), and pale with cheeks that would probably flush pink in the winter air. He has I’ve-worked-all-day stubble and sensible hair. He’s no Theo, but right now I don’t want Theo. I want calming, good-looking Edward, not stressful, unobtainable Theo. With his hand in mine, I don’t feel lost. He strides confidently down the street and we dip in and out of the light from the street lamps. Conversation has stopped, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s amazing how a few drinks and a bit of chat in a bar can make you feel so all right with someone. It must be New York. I’d never do this at home.

  His flat is tiny. I know people always say apartments in New York are small, but this is insanity. It’s almost smaller than my single room at university. It’s effectively a short, wide corridor.

  As I go through the front door, I’m instantly in the cream-walled lounge and about thirty centimetres away from the two-man grey sofa (with no cushions or blankets – it’s all very functional). If I swivel 180 degrees, there’s a flat screen on the wall that’s too close for comfort. Next to the sofa on the right is a light fold-up wooden table (I silently wonder if you could actually fully unfold it in here), and then the ‘kitchen’ next to it. The ‘kitchen’ is a clean stove, about nine inches of wooden worktop, a wall-mounted microwave next to a double cupboard and there’s a fridge and some shelving for pots and pans and whatnot. The space in between is minuscule. If I breathed out I would get stuck. Melt an ice cube and we’d both drown. It’s small.

  ‘Oh, it’s so homey,’ I say in what I think is an encouraging tone, but in reality I sound like a children’s TV presenter pretending to love the colour blue and the triangle shape.

  ‘It’s a box. It’s smaller than my parents’ shed,’ nice Edward responds in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Jolly good.

  Realising a guided tour isn’t necessary, Edward sidles past me, deftly grabs two glasses and a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours. There’s something sexy about his confidence in assuming that I like or even want a glass of wine.

  I do want it, though. New-found confidence be damned; I’m sobering up, and the reality of the situation is starting to hit me. I was feeling so calm outside, but very slowly anxiety is creeping in. Hopefully a glug of wine will deal with that.

  Edward starts talking, his voice deep and relaxed. He has the slow speech of someone who’s secure in what he’s saying.

  ‘I like you, Robin. You made me laugh, you’ve got interesting stuff to say. You’re hot. If you want me to walk you to your hotel, that’s fine, but I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?’

  I love how easy that was. No confusion, no innuendos, simple. I take a big sip of my (very nice, thank you kindly) white wine and nod, looking straight into his eyes.

  He reaches out for my hand, leads me (by which I mean we take four steps to the left of the front door) to his bedroom and kisses me.

  His kiss is authoritative. He takes the wine glass out of my hand and puts it and his own on the bedside table. One of his hands moves up my back, stroking my neck and into my hair, while the other lingers, gentlemanly, on the side of my waist.

  I tumble down onto his bed with him, clothes are being pulled off (lacy thongs be damned – I’m in soft cotton briefs and feeling all the better for them), bodies are colliding. He gently caresses my thigh. He kisses my neck, moves down to kiss my belly. And … well, it seems Piper isn’t the only one enjoying her evening.

  IN THE COLD LIGHT of the next day, things feel very different. Gone is the giddy, liberated feeling of cocktails and sex with a man I don’t know and, unwelcome, into its place rush utter panic and sickness.

  I left Edward’s place at 6 a.m. in an Uber he called for me (actually quite gentlemanly of him, I think) and came back to the hotel. I took my time in the shower, enjoying the free smellies and letting thoughts of last night wash over me at the same time as the hot water. That’s when, on a bit of a freedom, first-time-one-night-stand and orgasm-induced high, I stepped out of the bathroom and saw my phone buzz.

  Natalie’s called. She’s been up all night, too, but instead of having her head in a man’s lap, like me, she’s had her head in a toilet and is suffering with severe stomach cramps. She’s not coming on set today for fear of infecting everyone, and because of the unpleasantness of not actually being able to leave the bathroom, so she’s asked me to ‘take the reins’. I’m utterly horrified by this, especially in light of this horrible hangover but obviously I’ve lied, said everything will be fine and ‘you just get yourself better, I’ll handle everything’.

  My instant reaction – dammit – is to run to Theo. He’d know exactly what to say to calm me down and remind me that everything will be all right. He has a way with words, and his voice is so smooth and strong you can’t not feel good after a call to him. I know he’s not the answer, though. Too many unanswered texts have taught me this. Instead I remind myself of Lacey’s words whenever I’ve felt anxious or like I couldn’t cope. If I can get through childbirth, the first few months of motherhood plus nearly five years of single-mum-dom, then I can do anything. So, though I still feel wobbly, I take a smiley selfie, send it to Kath’s phone (no need for filters) and write, Hey Kath, hope everything’s OK. Can you tell Lyla Mummy is missing her so much and can’t wait for a big squishy cuddle on the sofa when I’m back? xxx. That little bit of contact with my people feels good.

  Suddenly last night doesn’t feel so amazing; I just feel tired and overwhelmed by the day ahead, and like I want to be at home with daytime TV and a packet of fig rolls.

  Realising there’s nothing I can do about my frustration now – Natalie is depending on me – I get dressed. Black cotton skater dress, old white Converse, my brush belt and hair in a topknot. I’m not in the mood to make much more effort than that.

  Our hotel is a short walk to the set, and outside in the blazing sun, I already feel too warm. I take the few minutes to myself to try and find some calm. Langston likes me, praised me, even; I’m good at my job, I’ve had plenty of practice, Natalie assured me on the phone that I can handle this, I can take direction and it’s going to be OK.

  On set, everything, thankfully, is OK. Sarah offers some lovely advice: ‘Honey, everything is as it should be; the world longs for what you have to offer,’ and, like a sponge, I absorb her wise (maybe from a fortune cookie or inspiration Insta account) words and give it my all. I set about priming, powdering, blending and contouring, and wor
k up a good rhythm with the rest of the team. I channel my inner Natalie and, where needed, guide, advise and organise people in what they’re doing. Occasionally Langston shouts me on set for touch-ups, and I scurry back and forth trying not to get in the way of his seemingly bad mood. Even his deputy seems tense about it.

  By 11 a.m. I feel like I’ve been working all day instead of just a few hours and excuse myself to take a breather, dash across the street and buy myself a portion of deep-fried Oreos. These might be the naughtiest things I’ve ever eaten but my God, they are worth it. I sit myself down on a bench by a tiny patch of fenced grass posing as a city park and let the sun shine down on my face. I’m covered in make-up and smudges, my hair is a sweaty mess and my feet are sore, but I feel good. I take out my phone and, surprisingly, there is a message from Edward.

  Hey Robin, it’s Edward! Just checking your limo dropped you off safely this morning and you are enjoying luxuriating on set in your trailer, and then the old school camera emoji and a winky face. How sweetly charming of him. Buoyed by the sugar high from my deep-fried treats, I decide not to play the wait-thirty-minutes-to-reply game and respond.

  Hi Edward, my chauffeur was excellent and dropped me right at my door as asked; please pass on five stars from me. Sadly they have misplaced my trailer and so I am being forced to actually work on the set today rather than lounge around and recuperate from my evening. It’s a hard life but I’ve discovered deep-fried Oreos, so will survive. Hope you’re feeling OK, not too hung-over. I really enjoyed last night x. I think this is a good mix of friendly, witty and sincere, so I close my phone and start walking back to work. I don’t feel tight-chested about this man; it’s very novel. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to always be? Who bloody knows?