Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘Your mystery man from far-off shores,’ she nudges further.

  ‘Nope, still not with you.’ Ha! I won’t bend.

  ‘Mr Lover who takes you out for wine and pasta and you end up shagging by 10.30 p.m.’ Now I wish I hadn’t told Lacey about the post-pasta sex last time I’d seen him.

  ‘Sorry, still not sure who you mean, there’s no “Mr Lover” in my life.’ I’m making a point now, to myself as much as to Lacey. Love has nothing to do with it.

  ‘Oh, fine. Edward! The guy from New York you see every time he’s over here!’ Lacey throws her hands in the air in exasperation, sending bits of paper puff scattering all over the table.

  ‘Oh, that guy! Yeah, Edward’s fine – probably. It’s not like we talk much, he just looks me up when he’s back in England,’ I bluster as I think of that dreamy date-that-turned-into-a-full-weekend in January. ‘I saw him a couple of weeks ago. I popped down to London when he was working there, we saw a gig, had some lovely pasta—’

  ‘Had some lovely sex—’

  ‘Ha! But yes, I suppose it was lovely.’ I laugh at the thought of describing sex that way. It is, though. It’s not ‘loving’ but it is lovely. My ex, Theo, was all thrusts and grunts, and Lyla’s dad Simon was fumbles in the dark, but Edward and I just seem to fit together well.

  ‘So you’re falling for him, then?’ Lacey probes, with a smile and a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘God, no! I’m not falling for anyone, Lace. I’m just happy doing my work thing, doing my mum thing, doing my pompom thing,’ I say, flipping a pompom about. ‘I’m honestly not looking for anything serious – I don’t want another Theo on my hands.’ I mean it. Things are fine just as they are.

  ‘But Edward isn’t Theo,’ Lacey says matter-of-factly.

  ‘But Edward is a man, Lacey, and I don’t need one of those. I like him. That’s it. And that’s enough,’ I respond in kind.

  ‘Don’t tar every man with the same brush, Robin. This one seems quite nice, that’s all I’m saying.’ Ugh, why is she being so reasonable? She has a point but I’m not going to accept it. Things are fine. I don’t need anything or anyone to mess them up.

  ‘Yes, he’s nice, yes, I like hanging out with him but no, I’m not “seeing him”, I’m just sometimes seeing him.’ I give her a hard stare which means I’m done.

  ‘OK,’ she says, thankfully sensing the tone. ‘I’m proud of you for standing strong, Robin, for not being swept up and for loving the life you already have.’

  We spend a few minutes tying thin wire round the middle of the pompoms with the help of a YouTube tutorial. Then we pile the completed puffs on the table. It actually looks quite cool and I’m impressed I’ve been a part of making them.

  ‘Are things still going well with your Other Friends?’ Lacey asks in what she probably thinks is a casual tone but I sense the slight panic in her voice. She’s always been this way, ever since primary school when I sometimes played with another little girl called Sarah (I wonder where she is now? I’ll have to Facebook-stalk her when I get home) and Lacey was worried she’d be my new best friend. I had to give Lacey three Pogs (remember those?) and a friendship bracelet to fully convince her she would be my best friend forever. So far, so good!

  ‘Do you mean Finola and Gillian? All good. I think we’re having a get-together next week at Finola’s stables with all the children, which will either be amazing or, most likely, utter chaos,’ I laugh, noticing the look on Lacey’s face. I’m not sure if it’s ‘you have new friends’ or ‘you have children to socialise with’ that caused the flash of sadness, but I don’t want to see her spiral down again so I quickly change the subject.

  ‘I’ll tell you what though, Lace, Skye is a total pain in the arse. I can’t handle it.’

  Lacey instantly perks up at the prospect of a bit of mild gossip or slaggery-offery. Good.

  ‘The really pretty, really young, really talented one that you hate?’ she says a bit too eagerly.

  ‘Yes! No, well, I don’t hate her and if I did, it wouldn’t be because she’s young and pretty and talented, which she totally bloody is. It’s that she’s patronising with it. The other day she saw me reading a Sidebar of Shame article about feminism and told me that she’s not a feminist, she’s equalitarian. Good for her, I said, but when I told her I’m a feminist, loud and proud, she said, “Oh, it’s not cool to use labels”. It’s the fact that she thinks she is always in the right, as though everyone needs to be bloody perfect, like her,’ I say.

  ‘You’re perfect, too, though.’ Lacey supports me without a second of hesitation.

  ‘But everyone loves her, she’s amazing at her job, she looks great, she saves the planet, everything! The other day we both went on an editorial job and it went really well. We each had our own areas and set-ups so although we were there together, we weren’t really working as a team like me and Natalie used to, even though she was meant to be assisting me. She did the base work and I would do more of the artistry – I don’t get much chance to do it now I’m in the office so much. Anyway, the photographer came over at the end of the day and gushed about how much she loved what I did with the models and how beautiful their eyes were. Without skipping a beat, Skye thanked her for her kind words. Skye didn’t do any of the eye work. I was so flummoxed, I just stood there. As if that’s not enough, on our work Facebook page the photographer has left a positive review thanking Skye Bristly for “the best eye make-up in town and her wonderful attention to detail”. That should have been me but now, as usual, she’s the queen of everything and I’m just plain, boring Robin hasn’t-done-the-rota-on-time Wilde,’ I say, flumping down my latest half-made pompom.

  ‘Now it’s my turn to give you a pep talk. Robin Wilde, you are ace. Look at everything you’ve achieved in your life. You run your beautiful new home like a dream, you are the big boss of a major office, you’re a single mum with no support at all, you’re juggling a long-distance relationship AND you have time to help your friends make crazy paper decorations. You are the bee’s knees, the cat’s pyjamas, the wildest Wilde in the West! Don’t let anyone take that away from you!’ Lacey says with a sudden burst of passion that makes my heart sing.

  Everything she’s said is hugely over-exaggerated, but Skye makes me feel a bit crap so I’ll take it. Yes, I have a cleaner now, and I’m only the boss temporarily; I have childcare support from Simon and his girlfriend, Storie, as well as Kath, and I’m not in a relationship with Edward. But sometimes, you just have to smile and say thank you. God bless Lacey, the best of eggs. It feels so cruel. My poor Laceyloo. God, I hope she and Karl make up. I don’t know how many more of these crushing monthly disappointments their marriage can take.

  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to give her what she wants so badly.

  FOUR

  SATURDAY AT LAST! IT’S been a long week and I’m glad to be spending some much-needed time with my little girl. We’re headed out to Finola’s stables, we’ve finally managed to co-ordinate a date (with kids’ clubs, work commitments and various husbands getting in the way it was surprisingly difficult to make today happen) and I’m actually quite excited. How far I’ve come from anxious hours spent at soft play at weekends and parties, searching for the ‘right’ thing to say to the intimidating ‘good mums’. It’s funny what a year can do.

  Lyla and I aren’t exactly outdoorsy people. We’re more at one with John Lewis’s beauty and toy departments than the great outdoors but lovely Gillian, who’s been here before, assures me there’s a kettle, power points to charge my phone and the sweetest ponies, horses, dogs and chickens that Lyla will fall in love with (oh God, I hope she will!). I’m really taken by the idea of us letting nature into our lives and bonding with animals. We’ve tried ponies before but Lyla wasn’t having any of it. Still, I’ve high hopes that now she’s older she’ll feel differently. Desperate as I am to make sure she has a well-rounded childhood that isn’t all screens and soft play, I don’t even mind if there isn’t Wi-Fi and I can’t ch
eck my work emails for a few hours.

  I tried to dress Lyla in stable-appropriate wear – leggings, T-shirt, sweatshirt and wellies – but she’s seven and has other ideas. I quickly realised it wasn’t a fight worth having and stashed the sensible attire in my bag to bring with me, so we’re travelling over in a sequinned two-piece, a raincoat and a tiara. My princess knows how to do things.

  I’ve gone for super-old boyfriend-style jeans, with worn frayed bits on the inner thighs (I know, so sexy, but no one’s going to see), and a slouchy sweater that when I bought it I thought made me look cute, but in actual fact makes me look like a marshmallow. What can you do?

  We drive into the huge parking area, littered with trailers and horseboxes, and I can see Gillian has arrived but hasn’t got out of her car yet. We pull up beside her sensible silver Qashqai and wave like over-enthused loons, only to see Clara looking tearful and Gillian looking vexed. It’s so unlike her not to be serene and relaxed.

  ‘Ooo-oooo,’ I chorus as I step out of my car and tentatively wave with raised eyebrows and a little smile. Lyla plods behind me, tiara catching the weak sunshine and glinting.

  Gillian gets out of the car, red-faced and flustered. ‘Hello! Sorry, God, it’s one of those bloody days!’ she says, opening Clara’s door and grappling with the seat belt. I’m too stunned to respond because Gillian has sworn. It’s only ‘bloody’ but this is a Big Deal.

  ‘Clara is refusing to get out of the car,’ Gillian continues, half talking to me, half talking to the stubborn seven-year-old who has turned herself rigid on her booster seat. Looking at her, you’d think Clara was an absolute angel. Long, straight, ash-blonde hair down to the middle of her back with a perfectly cut fringe that I could only dream of (I had a fringe once – I’d end up bent over the sink washing just the fringe because I didn’t want to have a full hair-wash day and really, nobody should have to live like that!) and big blue eyes with lashes – again – that I could only dream of. Clara is basically a doll. A perfect little creature you’d think could do no wrong unless you were witnessing what I was right now. ‘Clara seems to think that this is acceptable behaviour, that Mummy is going to stand for it. Well Mummy isn’t standing for it and Mummy is getting very, very cross!’ Gillian’s voice rises in pitch at the end. You know it’s bad when you start talking in the third person.

  ‘Let me help. Do you want me to hold your bag while you lift her out?’ I offer. I’m not sure that would be a great deal of help but what do you do when a kid is almost planking in defiance? Gillian’s usually buttermilk skin is going red and blotchy with stress and I can see the whites of her knuckles as she grips the frame of the car door.

  Suddenly I see a shimmer of sequins squeeze past me and Lyla has crawled into the car through the passenger door. The last thing I want or need right now is to anger the Gillian-beast and make things worse. Before I can step in to remove my jewel-encrusted offspring she starts talking.

  ‘Clara, come out of the car my side and we’ll go and play,’ Lyla says gently with a smile.

  Clara immediately softens and replies quietly, almost in a whisper, to Lyla, ‘I can’t. I hate him.’

  Gillian and I look at each other, panic-stricken. Who is ‘him’? Is she being groomed? We were warned about this at Mr Ravelle’s ‘Online Safety for the Modern Child’ seminar last term. It was terrifying. The only saving grace was the selection of free pastries the catering staff had left out by the tea and coffee station. No time to think about that, though, as clearly Clara is in terrible danger.

  ‘Hate who? Roo?’ Lyla asks innocently. She’s obviously not gone down the ‘grooming’ train of thought and has instead blamed Finola’s pudding-faced, bowl-cut-haired little boy for any potential drama. Oh no. Have I instilled that in her? Does she think all boys are bad? Do I need to start singing her dad’s praises to balance her view of men?

  ‘Not Roo, Fudge. He’s too big and kicks at me,’ Clara responds, welling up. Her huge blue eyes squeeze shut as the tears plop down her cheeks.

  ‘Well, then we won’t go near his stable. You can hold my hand. I’ll look after you,’ Lyla says, reaching out her hand.

  My baby has saved the day. It’s a miracle. I look at Gillian, thinking she’ll be as relieved as me, practically ready to fist-pump or even do like the kids and ‘dab’ in celebration. She just stares wearily at Clara as she climbs out of the booster, hops down to Lyla and scuttles off. Just as she’s out of earshot Gillian lets out the biggest sigh.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she says, locking the car and putting the keys in her Mulberry. ‘She’s been hard work all morning. I don’t know where I’m going wrong.’

  ‘Fudging Fudge!’ I say with a smile and a wink and notice her facial expression loosen and a wry smile appear. ‘Don’t worry about it, Gillian. Honestly, I spend half my life wondering where I’m going wrong. If I was as chilled as you, as often as you, I’d be happy! You’re doing a great job, and we’ll just avoid this Fudge guy. Avoiding guys is my thing anyway, so we’ll be fine.’

  I walk beside her up to the stables where I can see Lyla and Clara playing with Honor and Roo, who have been riding since they were able to hold their own heads up. Honor and Roo are Finola’s children. Honor, a handsome little girl of ten, is just like her mother, doesn’t mince her words and walks with a slight march. She has sensible brown bobbed hair that is often pushed back with a thick Alice band and loves nothing more than to take charge of her friends (as she’s doing now by stamping her foot and yelling at Roo, Clara and Lyla, ‘No, you stay there, wait for my command and then run to the stable doors for the treasure!’). Roo, Finola and Edgar’s seven-year-old son, is Lyla’s partner in crime, yin to her yang, Schofield to her Willoughby. Roo is an adorable little boy. Ruddy cheeks and thick brown hair, soft green eyes and a strong jaw, you just know he’s going to be breaking hearts (potentially even Lyla’s, poor thing) in ten years’ time. How weird to think of Lyla as a seventeen-year-old. God, I’ll be thirty-nine! Stop it, brain. Thankfully Finola breaks my thought spiral.

  ‘Ah! Hello, you two. Ready to hack?’ calls Finola as she strides towards us in jodhpurs, riding boots and a padded gilet. Finola is possibly the most horsey woman that ever walked this earth. Married to the oh-so-affluent Edgar, Finola’s life revolves around her two children and the stables. Finola lives and breathes horses, dogs and everything surrounding them. Cut her in half and she’d bleed Horse & Hound magazines.

  ‘Oh, what a shame! If I’d have known we were going to hack I’d have worn proper boots,’ I say, scrambling for a get-out. Obviously I don’t have riding boots, but I think Finola assumes everyone in the universe has the full equestrian kit in their possession, so doesn’t question my flimsy excuse.

  ‘Plus we can’t leave the children alone. Clara’s already a bit on edge about Fudge,’ adds Gillian understatedly.

  ‘Fair point. I don’t want any of them upsetting him. He’s racing this weekend and doesn’t need any nonsense,’ concedes Finola as she takes off her helmet, missing the point entirely with the horses-versus-children argument. I won’t correct her on it, anything to not have to ‘hack’.

  ‘How are you both, anyway? So glad to have you out in the sticks!’ Finola enthuses. ‘This is where you can really breathe and let go. Really let it all out, darlings!’ She demonstrates, taking a big breath in. We both obediently do the same. All I can smell is manure and wet dog but I’d imagine to Finola, that’s her idea of an oasis.

  ‘Mmmmm, so fresh,’ I say, with Gillian nodding earnestly next to me. ‘Did you say there was a kettle in the, er, staffroom, Finola?’

  We move into a huge wooden building filled with ladders, buckets, brushes, spades and riding helmets hooked on the walls, and sit down.

  While Gillian natters on about what she’ll be planting this year (yes, she will have a bag of manure, thank you very much), I sit and look out of the doorway, smiling at the children playing with Finola’s plethora of dogs, without a care in the world. How wonderful to be
a seven-year-old.

  Finola passes the tea round. ‘Well, my dears, I heard from Rose last night, Mrs Barnstorm has had the results back.’

  We take a sharp breath. Mrs Barnstorm is Head of Pastoral Care at Hesgrove Pre-Prep School and a bit of a battle-axe; Rose is her companion. She knows Finola well and is our ear to the ground. Last November, Mrs Barnstorm started looking pale and missing school. Mr Ravelle, the school head teacher, wrote in the first newsletter of the year that she was battling breast cancer and would be taking time off for treatment.

  ‘The tumour hasn’t gone. It’s smaller but not without threat and so another round of treatment will be needed,’ Finola says gravely.

  We all look out to the children, trying to think of something to say. She has never been my favourite woman, and has often berated me for my lack of motherly organisation and poor timekeeping, but towards the end of last year I’d felt a thawing.

  ‘Well, let’s not mope. It is what it is and us being forlorn won’t help.’ Good old Finola, pragmatic as ever.

  ‘I’m sure there’s something we could all do to help, all of the mums I mean,’ offers Gillian in a brighter tone.

  ‘Perhaps not all the mums,’ I say, taking a sip of my very welcome sweet tea. ‘I can’t see Val being overcome with charitable spirit and goodwill.’ Only last week I heard Valerie Pickering, one of the not-so-friendly mums at the school gates, laugh at one of the reception mums for having an iPhone 5. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen one of those in ages! It’s practically a relic now, sweetie.’ I think the reception mum might have been new and went bright red. I remember being that mum. I don’t know why Val even cares. Best avoided, that one.

  ‘Ooh yes, but you know why,’ interjects Gillian with a rare glint of mischief in her eye. She’s on fire today. First a swear word and now a hint of gossip. Before we know it, she’ll have gone off the rails, got a tattoo and be dealing ‘meow meow’ in the school playground.