‘Her husband has left her! Apparently he was sick to the back teeth of her constant spending, her belittling him and the subsequent arguments. He’s fallen in love with his twenty-three-year-old PA, moved into her terrace in town and left Val with Corinthia, the house and three of the cars,’ Gillian says in hushed tones, as if the children can hear us above all the racket they’re making with the dogs.
‘Oh my God!’ I say in shock.
‘Men are like dogs. Patient and loving until you cross them, then they’ll snap and you’ll be sorry,’ says Finola matter-of-factly.
‘He’s certainly snapped all right. Snapped up his PA!’ I laugh. ‘She’ll be even worse than usual then, when we go back after Easter. I wonder if they know on the PaGS?’ In January, with a new lease of life in me, I’d decided to sign up to the PaGS (Parents and Guardians Society), which advertises itself as a committee to help fundraise, run extra-curricular events and be a support for other parents at the school. Much better than that, it’s turned out to be a fortnightly gossip group of bored mothers who live and breathe everyone else’s business. I know I shouldn’t love this but I do. A girl’s gotta get her kicks somewhere, eh? How else would I know that we have a new mum’s twin daughters joining Year Two after Easter? Apparently Gloria is a single self-made millionaire who has just sold her business and is, as Helen Wilson, head of the PaGS put it, ‘very colourful’. I suddenly feel a twinge of worry. As much as I love catching up on all the news, I’m struggling with it now. Between more hours at MADE IT and the fortnightly PaGS meetings, I’m having to really lean on Kath for childcare. Lyla’s dad, Simon, is happy to do his days but he works full-time too so it’s been a bit tricky, especially with the Easter holidays looming. I feel like I’m constantly giving chunks of myself to different things and all Lyla wants is her whole mummy. Once again, guilt knocks at my door.
We share our theories on what Valerie Pickering will do next and I share the news about Gloria.
‘That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ says Finola with raised eyebrows as Gillian sips her tea and nods. How exciting!
Then we herd the children into the stables and watch Finola give Lyla and Clara a lesson on mounting and dismounting the ponies, while Honor and Roo take two of the bigger horses out for a trot around the adjacent field.
‘Mummy, look!’ Lyla shouts over to me as she and her pony walk in slow circles round the yard. She looks so proud of herself sitting up on him with her little feet in the stirrups. ‘Mummy, look! Are you looking, Mummy?’
‘Lyla, I’m looking!’ I say slightly exasperatedly as I haven’t taken my eyes off her for a second. ‘You’re doing really well!’
‘Look properly then! Take a photo!’ she calls. God, what have I instilled in her? That it’s not looking unless you have your phone up and are snapping away? Maybe we need to have a chat about technology.
Just as I’m googling ‘digital detox’ on my phone, Roo canters past on a steed as big as a Land Rover and calls out, ‘Mummy, Julien isn’t cantering at full speed but I’ve given him a good run.’
‘Well done, poppet,’ Finola says back nonchalantly as she continues to lead Lyla and Clara’s ponies round the yard.
Maybe this is it – we are becoming outdoorsy people. Storie (Lyla’s dad’s hippy but well-meaning girlfriend) would love it and I could be secretly smug that it was me who encouraged Lyla’s love of the natural world to blossom. Ha! What a role reversal that would be.
Either way, this has been a gorgeous day for my daughter and I haven’t stressed about work once.
FIVE
LYLA IS SPENDING EASTER weekend with her dad and Storie. Lyla and I had a fake Easter the day before with eggs, little bunny toys in a wicker basket Kath had customised with lilac gingham lining, violet pompom trim and a little spring of lavender tied to the handle (this lavender phase is really in full swing). With an empty house, it is the perfect opportunity for some Me Time. I decide to drop Edward a message and allow myself to daydream a little bit.
Hey Edward! How’s it going over there? We are just starting the Easter hols, which is a great excuse for me to eat chocolate guilt-free, ha! Are you back in the UK any time soon? Let’s hang out x
Send.
Actually I wish I’d spent a tiny bit longer on that. Is ‘hang out’ still a ‘cool’ thing to say? Lyla said ‘in a bizzle, bae’ the other day when I asked her to fetch her reading folder and I almost had to reach for a dictionary. Well, I’ve sent it now, I’m not going to torture myself. He won’t care anyway, it’s Edward. That’s what’s so great about him. There’s no stress.
He’s a Brit living and working in New York – maybe it’s the distance that makes it so simple. We both know what to expect of each other. I met him last year in a bar while I was working on a movie set in Manhattan (yes, I know how glamorous that sounds – I’m fully owning it). We ended up going back to his, having an incredibly liberating one-night stand (or so I thought it would be) and every time he’s back in London for work, we meet up, have some drinks and a fantastic repeat. I’m not looking to marry him or even date him but he’s fun, we get on and the sex is good. He knows the score. After Theo, I want no strings, no fuss – a man’s dream, surely? And he’s in exactly the same place. Robin Wilde, you have really lucked out, I think, as I unscrew a bottle of cold, crisp white wine.
Our first proper date when Edward was over in January was lovely. Hanging out again in February felt like we understood each other. He was over for a week that time, thanks to a new project for the interior design firm he works for. I don’t know exactly what he does – I don’t need to ask the ‘whys’ and ‘what fors’ – but I do know that he scouts new designers for his American firm to collaborate with. The company also has a smaller branch in London, which means he travels back and forth a lot, which is nice for me, but I know he loves where he works in Manhattan.
It felt like fate when he dropped me a message on one of my rare February Fridays off from MADE IT and asked if I was free. Lyla was at her dad’s – she was booked on a Wild Flora and Fauna Identification course with Storie on Saturday morning (lucky kid) – and so I hopped on a train. When we’d seen each other the month before we’d had a good time, so there were no nerves or sweaty-under-tits moments this time.
On the train down I thought back to those anxious journeys on the way to see my Turned-Out-to-be-a-Total-Bastard ex, Theo. How I’d almost pulled muscles in my fingers trying to open his texts as fast as possible, how I’d felt butterflies so strongly in my stomach that I’d almost thrown up into my empty Starbucks sandwich bag. I remembered anxiously waiting for his replies, texts that he only ever really sent when it suited him. I was never anything other than a distraction for Theo – someone to play with when he had nothing better to do, or couldn’t have the woman he really wanted. I’m not proud of how I let him walk all over me. I’d thought it exciting and magical, but now I can see how exhausting it all was. And wrong for me. Seeing Edward is so simple. I don’t have to worry about anything – least of all introducing him to Lyla. I just get dressed, rock up, we have fun, we go home.
ARRIVING AT LONDON LIVERPOOL Street station back on that freezing February day, I took my phone out to check for messages.
Hey! Running a bit late so won’t make it to the station to greet you! Are you OK to meet at Seven Dials in 30 mins? x, Edward texted just as I unlocked my phone.
Yep, no worries, gives me 30 minutes to say goodbye to my other fancyman x I tapped out in reply.
What do you think I’m doing at the office?? Ushering out all the strippers before I can leave x he fired back.
Perfect – extra time! I popped into the station loos (worth every penny of the 30p charge), zhooshed my hair, topped up my concealer and set off for the tube. I might not be in love with the guy, but it’s nice to look nice, eh?
Half an hour later and I was perched outside the Mercer Street Hotel. I always think there’s something lovely about that place. The Mercer Street Hotel is my fav
ourite smell in London. Yep, that sounds slightly unhinged, but every time I’m in Covent Garden I pop into the lobby just to smell the incredible candles they have lit. If you step outside there is a bustling crossroads with a huge monument in the middle that has little stone ledges you can sit on and watch people come and go. People-watching is one of my favourite pastimes (after bingeing on Netflix and online beauty tutorials) so I was surprised when Edward walked up with a smile and a ‘fancy seeing you here!’
‘Of all the men in all the world, you had to walk into my … Seven Dials,’ I said, trailing off from my confident start.
‘That didn’t go as smoothly as you’d planned, did it?’ He smiled, his greeny-brown eyes creasing rather attractively at the corners.
‘No. But I tried. Do I get marks for that?’ I smiled back.
‘Yes, forty points to the lady with the fabulous dress!’ Edward said, throwing one arm in the air as if to announce my winnings to half of Covent Garden.
‘This old thing? I wear it for all my jaunts,’ I said deliberately casually. I don’t. It’s new, but he needn’t know that.
‘Well, let’s make the most of it then! Are you hungry? I’ve booked a table at Balthazar round the corner, but I’m happy to go somewhere else if you’d prefer.’
‘Balthazar sounds great, I’ve been wanting to try it for ages.’ Oh, yay! I really had.
‘Don’t your other “fancy men” treat you as well as I do then?’ he asked with a wicked look in his eye.
‘No, I’m lucky if I get a Pret sandwich with them. You’re by far my favourite!’
‘You’ll have to keep me then,’ he said with a grin.
I hesitated.
‘Ha, I will keep you until dinner’s finished!’ I said with a smile and a laugh.
‘Deal!’ he replied, not sensing my unease, and took my hand as we headed off towards the centre of Covent Garden.
Balthazar was just as beautiful as I’d heard. I’d have been happy with arancini and a pizza at Zizzi, so this was a real bonus. Theo would have liked it here, I couldn’t help but think. It’s grand and showy and very him … I quickly banished him from my mind and focused on the task at hand, walking to our table behind a very smart and slightly intimidating waiter.
Although our conversation is always easy and light-hearted, I have to admit, Edward really is a gentleman. It was lovely to have my chair pulled out by a nice man, and the restaurant was just right. It wasn’t a personal hiring of the Oxo Tower à la Theo Salazan, but I wouldn’t have wanted it to be. I liked being lost in the crowd with this man. My heart wasn’t racing and I was in no danger of suffering third-degree wax burns up the backs of my legs … But that’s a story for another time.
We perused the menus.
‘Is it a bit sad to have macaroni cheese in such a lovely place?’ I asked, suddenly wondering if I should go for something more refined.
‘No! You have what you like,’ Edward responded without a second thought.
‘I think you might be my soulmate with carb reasoning like that.’
‘I might be,’ he said, looking a little bit serious.
‘I’m just going to nip to the loo,’ I garbled, fumbling for my new black-patent clutch bag and moving my chair. I headed to the ladies’, red-faced and managing not to make eye contact with him. He’s going to think I’m such an idiot, getting flustered by what was clearly a joke, I thought. Why did I do that? Chill out, Robin.
I walked up the opulent stairs to the ladies’ bathroom, feeling stupid for being so nuts. I needed to relax. He wasn’t asking me to sign my house over and take his surname, it was banter. Healthy ‘bants’. I love the ‘bants’. I can ‘bant’ all day, I told myself. I’m going to have a nervous tinkle, wash my hands, take a deep breath and carry on enjoying a nice, normal evening with a nice, normal guy. I’m not wearing this lacy thong for nothing.
‘Tada!’ Edward said as I arrived back to the table much more serene than when I left five minutes before. I looked down at my place and there was a tall glass of pink fizz. ‘I ordered you a glass of pink champagne,’ he said proudly, ‘to go with the mac and cheese.’
‘Thank goodness!’ I replied. ‘I never eat cheesy pasta at home without a bottle of Moët Rosé. I like to keep things classy, you know.’
I took a sip of my champagne and decided to delve a little deeper.
‘So, Edward, I know all the basics. You live and work in Manhattan, you were raised in Hampshire, you like good design, good food –’ I gesture to our plates with my fork – ‘and good … erm … nights –’ good sex sounds a bit presumptuous – ‘but I want to know more.’
‘Oh, really?’ he said with a grin. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, let’s start at the beginning. What are your family like?’ I asked.
Edward took a big breath as if he was about to really exert himself.
‘OK, well, I’d say we’re a pretty normal bunch. Mum and Dad, or Amanda and Dominic to you, run a residential care home for adults with severe learning difficulties. They’re lovely. A lot of the residents have been there since they opened the home when I was a teenager, so I always pop in for a visit when I’m home and say hello. They’re honestly the sweetest people you’ll meet.’
My heart went squishy at how compassionate Edward sounded. ‘Wow, that sounds like a real vocation for them.’
‘Yeah. They’ve worked in the mental health sector since it wasn’t the done thing to talk about it and it was all kept a bit hush-hush. They’ve done such a lot to change attitudes. If anyone should be caring for the types of residents they have, it’s them. They love it. Dad’s almost seventy now and Mum’s not far behind him, so they have managers to do the day-to-day running, but Dad still goes in every day and to oversee things. Mum doesn’t as much, she spends a lot of time helping my sister now.’
‘Oh yes?’ I prompted.
‘Annabelle, she’s five years older than me, although you’d think she was at least ten, she’s so bossy. She got divorced recently and is having a bit of a rough time. They have four children together – ten, eight, six and four – so she’s up-the-wall busy. Mum goes over most days when the children are home from school and just helps Annabelle keep on top of things, you know?’
‘Your mum sounds like my Auntie Kath. Is she obsessed with lavender and crafts?’ I asked, with a smile as I carried on eating the most delicious mac and cheese I’d ever tasted. Or maybe it was the champagne making everything taste better.
‘Aha, no, not quite as eccentric as the infamous Auntie Kath, but just as lovely I’m sure,’ Edward said.
‘So, a care home, two children and four grandchildren – your parents have a lot on then,’ I summarised.
‘Well, a care home and three children, actually.’ Edward paused. ‘My brother Thomas was killed in Afghanistan in 2002. A roadside bomb.’
I stopped eating because I didn’t know how to react. ‘Edward,’ I said, instinctively reaching for his hand, ‘I’m sorry. You don’t have to say more if it’s too hard.’
‘It’s OK. I like to talk about Thomas because I don’t want him to be forgotten. He lived, he died and he is still my big brother. He was twenty when he was killed and I thought he was a legend. He was braver than any of us could ever be.’ Edward seemed very calm and collected as he talked. I’d be a mess, I’m sure.
‘I’m sure he was. I’m glad you talk about him, and with love rather than sadness.’
‘We all do. Annabelle’s eldest is named after him, and Mum and Dad planted a tree in his honour at the home that the residents decorate with little trinkets they make, it’s very special to them.’ Edward smiled a sad smile and caught himself suddenly. ‘Now, let’s not bring a good evening down with all this.’
‘It’s not bringing it down. Honestly, I’m so touched you shared. He should be remembered, he’s your brother.’ I lifted my champagne flute. ‘To Thomas, your lovely brother,’ I said, and Edward picked up his glass too and clinked mine with a much happie
r smile.
I spent the next little while talking about my family. I told him about all of Kath’s recent phases (the lace, the pompoms, the shells and now the lavender), Lyla’s penchant for music and dance, the hippy ways of Simon and Storie and glossed over Mum and Dad a bit. After his parents seeming so lovely and so involved, I didn’t want to dwell on how little my own parents seem to care about anything beyond the Rotary Club and the demands of retiree life in Cornwall.
Conversation flowed easily and, before I knew it, we’d finished our food, the restaurant was clearing out and it was time to leave.
I offered to pick up the bill, or at least go halves, but Edward waved it off and said he’d got it. Not in a dickbag ‘I’m so much better than you’ way, but just in an easy ‘it’s just friends getting dinner’ way. Who was I to argue with a man who insisted on buying me comfort food and bubbles? I would insist it’s my turn next time. I won’t be a kept woman.
‘Well,’ I said, more than slightly tipsy, ‘I ought to get back to the station.’
‘You don’t have to. My Airbnb is lovely, it’s very “mac and cheese with Moët”, very you.’
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Edward from New York?’ Maybe I am a bit more than tipsy, I thought, as I pawed at his tie in what I could only hope was a seductive move, rather than a wasted woman half swinging from a vine.
‘I think you know what I’m suggesting, Ms Robin from Cambridge,’ he said, taking my hands off his tie and kissing me on the mouth. I closed my eyes briefly; champagne kisses are nice.
We headed into the night air and I stood under the spinning ballerina outside the theatre opposite, kissing Edward back, running my hands up into his hair, pushing myself into his body and ignoring the middle-aged woman in a fur-trimmed coat tutting and the ‘geezers’ falling out of the nearby pub shouting, ‘Oi, oi!’ as they stumbled past.
‘Sacking the train off?’ Edward asked, pulling away.
‘How far to your place?’ I said, going back in for a kiss.
Wilde About the Girl Page 4
