Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘Two minutes,’ he mumbled with his mouth still on mine.

  We walked back to his, hand in hand, stopping occasionally for more streetlamp-lit kisses and what felt like a lot longer than two minutes later, fell through his door. My nice little dress was pulled over my head, he fumbled with the clasp on my bra and I almost ripped at his tie. For about four seconds it was sexy, and then we both stopped and smiled at each other because we realised it would be much quicker if I dealt with my own rather tricky clasp and he dealt with his own tie.

  He walked backwards, leading me to the bed on the far side of the trendy exposed-brick studio flat and pulled me onto him, tumbling into the mattress. I was so glad I’d semi-prepared and had smooth legs, matching underwear (well, both black and lacy at least) and a cheeky bikini line shave. I felt good. He felt good under me. Everything felt good. Everything felt good over and over for about two hours until we were both sticky and breathy and exhausted. Good.

  When I left him with a kiss after breakfast the next morning, I felt light and bright and breezy, and excited to get home for a cosy weekend with my girls.

  SIX

  APRIL

  NATALIE IS BACK! SHE and Martin had an incredible travel sabbatical but now she is throwing herself back into MADE IT with more gusto than ever.

  I loved trying my hand at running the place, but her return is welcome. I’ve held the place together – yes. I’ve learnt a lot about management and how a business runs, but it’s been hard, really hard. I won’t admit it to anyone, not even Natalie, but I’ve felt like a bit of a fraud, or as though I’m playing dress-up. I come in every day with my head held high and my manicured hand clutching my keep-cup (I couldn’t handle another ‘helpful chat’ from Skye about sustainability), and I like to think I do my job with an air of dignity and confidence, but on a daily basis I’ve felt little wobbles. Nothing major, not like the wobbles of The Emptiness last year – when I was at my lowest – but still I feel a little worried that someone might see through me and say, ‘You’re scared of messing this up, aren’t you?’ or, ‘You might not be as good as other people think you are.’ Obviously nobody has actually said this, but after a few months of really challenging myself, I’m ready to be comfortable again for a bit. I’m ready to feed into the weekly creative meetings, not chair them, and not feel undermined by a bunch of trendy twenty-somethings who think I’m an old granny just because I once asked how you get the filters on Insta stories. I’m still going to be managing a lot of things – including, it turns out, the rotas – and having my role in the office, but just knowing Natalie is steering the ship again is a relief. I’m proud of myself but I’m ready to get hands-on again with make-up. I love designing a look, finding what makes a client feel great or what makes a model come to life in front of a lens. I love doing something I know I’m good at.

  ‘I have news,’ Natalie announces in our first team meeting, with a radiant smile. She seems so energetic, and her deep brown skin is glowing with health. Her trip with Martin has clearly given her a new lease of life and a bit of extra pep in her well-heeled step. ‘Something has come in that I’ve been exploring while I was away …’

  God, she never actually stops. If I were travelling round the Serengeti with my wonderful husband, I don’t think I’d be checking my emails. Natalie is a machine. A machine that can find Wi-Fi in the most unlikely of locations, I might add.

  This is exciting. And a welcome change of subject after Skye made sure to highlight to the meeting that she has excelled in Natalie’s absence and had excellent feedback from all her clients. Natalie was impressed. I should talk to Natalie about this. I’ve missed being on jobs. My make-up kit is gathering dust and I feel a pang of jealousy for Skye, who is getting to spread her creative wings so wide. I need to get back out there. I hope the younger, bouncier Skye doesn’t usurp me. You know you’re getting older when you worry about the younger ones. I was a younger one two minutes ago. Where did time go?

  Back from my mind-wandering, I can feel there is a frisson of anticipation around the table, and Natalie takes a breath to continue.

  ‘London Fashion Week showcasing Spring ’19 is in five months. It is the biggest fashion event of the year and it would be a big deal if we were part of it. Mara Isso has asked us to pitch for the hair and beauty for her new collection.’

  There’s a collective gasp around the room.

  Mara Isso brings out stunning collections every year and constantly sets the bar for creativity.

  ‘We have less than a month to pull together a ground-breaking pitch!’

  Everyone looks at each other wide-eyed with excitement.

  ‘This year,’ Natalie continues, a glimmer of excitement in her own eyes, ‘Mara is smashing the norms again and changing things up. Noting the dire lack of body confidence in the average British woman, Mara has decided to drive a change in perceptions of beauty in the creative industries and is using only plus-size models from a variety of ethnic backgrounds on her runway.’

  This is big.

  Kareem lets out a quiet, ‘Bloody hell,’ and I offer, ‘Hurrah!’ This is what we’ve been waiting for. A chink of hope for women everywhere flicking through magazines with masses upon masses of bodies that bear no resemblance to their own. And since NYC last year, this is the kind of creative opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

  ‘This is a big move. We’ve seen plus-size models before but never have we had such a top-end designer fill the entire runway with models everything other than alabaster-white, tall, impossibly thin and, let’s be honest, ill-looking,’ Natalie says. ‘As always, Mara is going to be going all out for the collection and so we need to match this. She’s sent me some samples, and they’re … breathtaking!’

  She pauses and looks at each of us.

  ‘It’ll be a whole team effort, all hands on deck, but I think we have the skill, finesse and creative dynamic to pull it off!’ I can hear the determination in her voice as she speaks.

  ‘Remember, we’ll be up against some of the best. Time is tight. We have two weeks to research, draft and design, a week to refine and practise the pitch and then I’ll go down to her offices and present. I have every faith in us. Are you with me?’ she finishes with a smile.

  I open my mouth, but Skye jumps in before all of us.

  ‘YES! This is absolutely amazing, Natalie! We’ll smash this out of the park, won’t we, guys?’ she says to the rest of the team. They all nod and agree happily like she is their supreme leader. ‘And we’re the right team for the job – after all, we’re the perfect mix of young and fashion-forward …’ she pauses and gestures at herself ‘alongside the kind of non-conventional bodies and faces that we don’t usually see on the runway.’ She looks pointedly at me. I seethe – but am determined to rise above it.

  ‘I’m really excited,’ I add. ‘How fantastic to have a more accurate representation of women on the catwalk. Clothes we can all genuinely aspire to wearing.’

  ‘Exactly, you’ve nailed it, Robin. This is a big deal for fashion, for beauty perceptions, for women. It’d be an honour to win this job, let alone a lucrative business opportunity,’ Natalie responds.

  Ha! In your flawless face, Skye!

  ‘Skye,’ Natalie continues, ‘I’d like you to head up the initial stage. Alice, please dig out every proposal we’ve ever offered for any other runway job. Stuart, provisionally block out everyone’s calendars for that week in September.’

  Fuck. She wants Skye to head it up? She hasn’t even mentioned a role for me. What? Haven’t I done a good enough job while she was away? Team effort, I remind myself, and try to muster a convincing smile.

  ‘And Robin, I want you overseeing the whole pitch. You absolutely nailed it in New York last year, and these last few months. I need your level of expertise on this, and I know you and Skye together will make something incredible.’

  Skye looks as thrilled as me, i.e. about as thrilled as a woman who’s just accidentally ‘liked’ one of her ex’s photo
s by mistake.

  ‘No problem, Nat, it’ll be lit,’ Skye says, quickly composing herself.

  Nat? Lit?

  ‘Yes … marvellous, we’ll get right on it,’ I say in more understandable language as I make a note to find out just what ‘lit’ means and maybe start using it to increase my ‘street cred’. Is ‘street cred’ even a phrase these days?

  FOUR HOURS LATER, THE buzz of the meeting has worn off, my other admin is done and I’m starting to think about how we’re going to pitch. We need to be vibrant. We need to stand out. This will be a celebration. Women with plus-size bodies strutting their stuff down the runways of London Fashion Week is surely something to be jubilant about. I’m not thrilled that I have to work hand in hand with the diva that is Skye, but I am thrilled to be working on this job and being part of a bigger picture. I thought working on a Manhattan movie set last year was the career highlight but if we won this job, if my – OK, our – pitch won, that would take my work life to a whole new level!

  I fire off an email to Skye, who has gone home for the afternoon to find the right ‘vibe’ for the proposal. The email:

  Hey! So excited to be working on this proposal, I’m sure it’s going to be super-lit, I begin.

  I’ve googled ‘lit’. It means ‘good’. Easy. I can do this.

  Why don’t we get together tomorrow, or perhaps make an evening thing of it and throw some ideas around? Time is tight but I know we can put together something amazing by Friday for Natalie to polish.

  Robin

  There. No point stressing about having to work with her. She’s the most creative artist on the books, I know she’s going to have some amazing ideas. In the meantime, I’m going to do some research of my own. And I need to do more than scroll Pinterest and peruse the fashion and beauty bloggers to show Natalie her faith is justified. Skye will come up with some killer looks but it’s my job to think big – to tell the story behind those looks. I think of all those years spent telling bedtime stories to Lyla. This is it – it’s story time. It’s showtime.

  PICKING LYLA UP FROM Homework Club at 5 p.m., my brain is still whirring. I’ve spent the whole afternoon ignoring my inbox and trawling through our back catalogue of Vogue, searching for inspiration. This is going to be so much harder than I thought. It’s hard to come up with a really refreshing new beauty idea. I want our models to stand out. Mara’s samples are all gorgeous. Lots of vivid colours – buttercup yellow, lime green, pops of neon pink, but all blending seamlessly into each other and flowing on the fabric like watercolours. I’d considered some bold ideas like vibrant-coloured false lashes or even adding some colour to the brows, and had noted them down ready to discuss with Skye. With only days to go until we need to submit to Natalie, the heat is on …

  ‘Mummy!’ Lyla says with joy as I turn up to collect her.

  ‘Lyla!’ I chime back in the same voice. I take her hand, leading her out of the huge iron gates and toward the car, carrying her book bag for her.

  ‘We had the best day! Mr Ravelle did an assembly on fire safety and a fireman came in and we went outside and a firewoman let us go in the fire engine and Roo turned the sirens on even though he was told not to and Mr Ravelle went all red and blotchy,’ Lyla says, almost jumping as she walks. Scandal at seven years old is pretty endearing.

  ‘Wow! That sounds like the craziest day ever,’ I say, smiling. I wish I’d spent the day with hot firemen. ‘Guess what I’ve done?’ I ask as we climb into the car.

  ‘Watched TV?’ she says, shrugging.

  Is that what she thinks I do all day?

  ‘Erm, no,’ I say, furrowing my brow and feeling a bit concerned that that was her first answer.

  ‘Done make-up on people?’ she says just as flippantly.

  ‘Still no, but I did go into the office,’ I say, encouraging her to have another guess.

  ‘Don’t know,’ she says, throwing her hands in the air dramatically.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you. It’s exciting! A top fashion designer is going to let us pitch for her show!’ I say with more gusto than I had anticipated.

  ‘Huh?’ I glance at Lyla in the mirror now I’ve got into my seat too, and she looks totally lost. Of course she would be. I need to mum this up a bit.

  ‘OK, there’s a lady called Mara Isso and she makes beautiful clothes. She’s going to have a show, to let everyone see the clothes. She’ll have models wearing them at the show and she’s asked me and Natalie if we will do the make-up.’ Not strictly true but, like I said, I’ve ‘mummed’ this up.

  ‘Oh, a make-up shoot! Can I come?’ Lyla says, understanding it at last and sensing excitement.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Oh bugger, I don’t want to rain on her parade at the first moment. I keep going. ‘Do you know what the most exciting thing is?’

  ‘What?’ She sounds only slightly interested.

  ‘The models are going to look like very normal, happy ladies, like Mummy and Finola and Gillian!’ I say, slightly high-pitched with glee.

  ‘So? They always look like that.’

  I love the fact that to my seven-year-old, there is no difference between me and a model.

  ‘Well, yes, but usually they choose very, very slim, extra-extra-pretty models. And this time, they’re going to choose lots of people – white and black and brown-skinned, and some might not be very slim but will just be very lovely normal people,’ I offer, smiling at her in the rear-view mirror. I feel like I’m nailing this beautiful self-love life lesson moment.

  ‘Will they be fat?’ Lyla enquires without hesitation.

  What? ‘They’ll be all different shapes and sizes, Lyla. Plus size means you are a little bit bigger and very beautiful. And that’s what’s so great about this – we shouldn’t all want to look the same,’ I say as tactfully as I can. This isn’t going quite how I thought it would.

  ‘Fat is disgusting! They need to do a DASH diet!’ Lyla says passionately.

  I nearly slam on my brakes in shock. Why is my lovely girl saying this? Where on earth has this come from?

  ‘Lyla! Who told you that? What’s the “DASH diet”?’ I say, horrified.

  I see her drop her head a bit. She’s seven, she knows what ‘fat’ means. ‘Corinthia told me. She said her mum is so fat it’s disgusting, and so she has to have her lunches and dinners made in little boxes in the fridge.’ Lyla says this as matter-of-factly as if she were telling me it might rain later. ‘Corinthia said her mum is having a job on her boobies and is going to look fabulous by autumn.’ She says the last three words in a voice suggesting she’s mimicking Val, which I suspect is what Corinthia did.

  I stay quiet, dumbstruck for a few minutes as we complete our short journey.

  We pull up into the drive, loving the fact that our new house is so close to school (I really should walk the journey when the weather is nicer). I take a deep breath. I need to address this immediately. I take my seat belt off and turn round to face Lyla. Eye contact is key.

  ‘Listen, this is really important.’ I try to stress the point in as calm a tone as I can manage. ‘Everyone looks different, and that’s OK. If someone is “fat”, it means their body is a bit bigger than some people’s bodies. That’s nothing to do with you and it’s not for you to say it’s “disgusting”. We only use kind words when we talk about other people, and “disgusting” isn’t a kind word when you’re saying it about someone. You would be very upset if someone called you disgusting, and so would I. Corinthia’s mummy is beautiful.’ Ugh, that pained me. I really can’t stand the woman. ‘If Corinthia’s mummy was big or little or tall or short, she would still be beautiful because everyone has something special about them.’

  ‘Then why is she on a diet with all her food in boxes?’ She sounds confused.

  ‘What Corinthia’s mummy does with her food is none of our business. It’s up to her, OK?’

  ‘Then why is she having a job on her boobies to make them bigger?’

  ‘Well, that’s her own choice. If she wants
to do that, she can, it’s her body and her choice,’ I say, making note to tell Gillian and Finola immediately about this titbit (no pun intended). I was right about the Botox and surgery, ha!

  ‘But she said she was fat and disgusting. Corinthia told me it was her mum that said it, it’s not me saying it!’ I can see Lyla getting frustrated at the injustice of this forced chat.

  ‘But you’re repeating it. You should say to Corinthia, “No. Your mummy is beautiful.” Then get on and do something else. Us girls have got to stick together. We don’t need to say nasty things and make each other feel bad, do we?’ I raise my eyebrows as I ask the last question.

  ‘No.’ Lyla fiddles with the hem of her skirt, looks up at me with big eyes and says, ‘Mummy, I think you’re beautiful, the most beautiful mummy out of all of them.’

  My heart. It melts. What a sweet-talker.

  ‘Baby, I think you’re the most perfect Lyla the world has ever had. Shall we go inside and have some fish fingers?’

  We climb out of the car, walk up the beautiful drive, take our beautiful selves inside and have a beautiful dinner of fish fingers, mash and beans. Crisis, hopefully, averted.

  SEVEN

  ON THE DRIVE TO school the next morning, I play ‘I Am Woman’ by Helen Reddy to really drive home the message of female empowerment. Hopefully the subliminal message that everyone is a winner will set in and she won’t call anyone fat and disgusting again. Although honestly, I can’t wait to tell the girls about this supposed boob job! Then I remind myself that Val might be mean, but I should listen to my own advice.

  ‘Morning!’ Skye chimes the second I sit down in my office. Skye, as always, is looking ‘on trend’. Today she’s sporting loose boyfriend-style jeans (I’d wager they’re not actually her boyfriend’s jeans since his thighs are so bulging with protein shakes he’d need extra-large ones just to accommodate his girth) with a faded Gucci T-shirt tucked in. She’s wearing one of those little black plastic choker things round her neck and has her hair in two identical topknots on her head. Basically, if the Spice Girls re-formed, she’d fit right in. She could be Beauty Spice. Or Sassy Spice. Or A Little Bit Arrogant Spice.