Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘I need more time,’ I whisper.

  ‘You are Robin Wilde, my most fearless girl, you are brave and kind and ready to stand up and continue living,’ she says, giving my leg a little jiggle, as if to really make her point. Despite the jiggle, I don’t buy it. I’m none of those things. I’m just a sad single mum having a miscarriage.

  ‘Kath,’ I go to protest but I just don’t have it in me.

  ‘I know how hard this is. I know how heavy your heart is, but we need to face it and carry on. It’s the only way,’ she says, her voice ever so slightly firmer.

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘We’re going have to tell the American chap what’s happened. He’s none the wiser right now and the sooner he knows, the better. I will help you with Lyla, I’ll speak to Natalie, too, if you like, but you need to tell Edward,’ she says gravely but softly.

  I know she’s right. I’ve ignored his texts – nothing that really warranted much response, just funny little memes or the occasional picture of something in New York that’s tickled him (last night’s was a rainbow bagel), so he’s spent the last couple of days completely oblivious to everything that’s happened. He needs to know. Unlike the fizzy trepidation of revealing I was pregnant, I feel completely numb about telling him this. I feel like it’s just a factual task I have to tick off a list. Not that I’m numb to the pain of losing this baby – it couldn’t feel more acute – but the usual dithering I have over big interactions with a guy is completely lacking. I don’t care about sounding cool, I don’t care about coming across as funny or attractive, none of that matters.

  I send him a message, being considerate of the time zone difference as Kath wisely advised. Hi Edward, I need to talk to you, please could you text me when you are awake and I’ll FaceTime you. Xx. I hit send without mulling over every word, without stressing over the amount of kisses or the exact grammar. I can’t imagine ever caring about those tiny things again. Why would I?

  Kath spends the rest of the morning at the breakfast bar apparently mixing up liquid soap with essential oils and dried lavender and decanting it into glass bottles with little brass pumps that she bought from the web. I have the first shower I’ve had in three days and stay in there for a very long time, trying to let the hurt wash away with the blood and hot soapy water. Watching the blood slip down the plughole is strangely mesmerising. A part of me is leaving forever yet I’m still here, watching it happen and acknowledging it, aware that I can’t stop it or tame it. I watch it for a long time, hoping that once it stops, I’ll stop hurting. Of course, the hurt outlives the amount of hot water I have in the tank and so I step out of the shower still in pain, physically and emotionally, but clean at least.

  I get dressed into the same comfy velour jogging bottoms I remember putting on when I first realised I could be pregnant, add a slouchy, long-sleeved T-shirt and thick socks and head downstairs.

  The whole house is infused with the calming scent of lavender. Having not been in the kitchen for a solid forty-eight hours, I’m surprised to see it has been turned into quite the craft workshop with sprigs of dried lavender, bottles, dishes, spoons, bath bombs and labels littered over all the surfaces.

  ‘I don’t think even Moira and I can get through this many bars of soap,’ I joke weakly to Kath as I pick up a small creamy bar and breathe in its delicious fragrance.

  ‘I know. I’ve been wanting to tell you. I’m going to start selling them at fairs and such,’ says Kath sweetly. ‘Moira loves all my products and so do the ladies at the Cupcakes and Crochet Club. We talk about it a lot! Everything these days is designed to make you look younger, “appear more youthful” and all that, but that’s not what we – well at least Moira and the gang – want. We’re quite OK with getting older. You don’t stop being a woman just because the menopause hits. We’re not trying to turn the clock back – we want to make the most of now. I don’t want to slather on chemicals to get rid of my laughter lines. I bloomin’ earned those! We just want some nice smellies to enjoy in the bath, a lovely cream here and there to make us feel a bit swish, you know? I don’t want all these anti-ageing, surgery-mimicking scientific lotions and potions. So, as they say, I’m taking the bull by the horns and doing it for the girls. Lavender Lovies for all!’

  I love this woman. Building an empire downstairs, taking care of me upstairs and doing all the childcare for Lyla: she’s a marvel.

  ‘You’re a good woman, Kath,’ I say with a smile and a little lump in my throat. Everything is so raw and emotional. I want to talk more about it, about her setting up something so wonderful, supporting other women, disregarding her age and proudly going forward, but I can’t right now. I’m running on next to no energy and I think talking about another remotely emotive topic will send me over the edge.

  ‘So are you, petal, so are you,’ she says as she gets up to busy herself making me some soup and buttered bread. As she and I clear some space at the giant wooden table, I realise that, just like with Lyla previously, today I can feel Kath’s love, not just see it. Perhaps this is a step forward.

  Hey! I’m awake sweet cheeks! What’s up? xxx

  Edward’s text pings as it arrives just after lunch. Another time I might have taken note of the three kisses but not today. None of that matters today.

  Without even considering my gaunt, make-up-free face or my shoved-it-up-wet topknot hair, I hit the tiny camera icon to FaceTime him. Better to do than to think.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Wilde! How are we today?’ Edward says smoothly and suavely before taking in my sallow skin and frizzing hair. I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes – he knows something is wrong.

  ‘Edward,’ I begin, my voice breaking already.

  ‘Oh, Robin,’ he says softly.

  ‘The baby. It’s gone. I don’t know what I did wrong, but it’s gone.’ I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘miscarriage’. It’s as if it’s a bullet in a gun and I can’t bear to pull the trigger on it.

  Edward hesitates for a moment before replying and in that time, my numb resolve withers to more hot, fat tears.

  ‘Robin. My poor Robin. You didn’t do anything. I’m sorry. I wish I was there. It’s not your fault.’ Those short little sentences are like a warm tonic to my broken heart. All those weeks and months of keeping him at arm’s length, and now suddenly I want him so very close to me. I carry on crying, my hand shaking the phone.

  ‘Listen. I can get a flight over this weekend if you want. I can just come and be with you. You don’t have to do this alone,’ he offers, ever the man trying to find a solution.

  ‘It’s OK, my aunt is here, Lyla is here, I’m OK. They say it’s very common at this stage,’ I add on, trotting out the standard line to smooth over this, the most hideous of situations.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘Shit. So fucking shit. I had started to get my head round it, was starting to see the positives in it. My friends were happy for me, I loved that my best friend found out she is pregnant too and due not long after me, and we were going to do everything together … and now it’s all gone,’ I say, barely taking a breath before fresh sobs start heaving up into my throat. This is the first time I’ve thought about Lacey. I’ve spent three days thinking of nothing but the baby I’m losing and have entirely forgotten about the baby she’s gaining. This is how she must have felt when she found my pregnancy test. How hard it will be to see her baby grow and every time think of mine, that I could not get to know. I realise Edward is talking and jolt myself back to the conversation.

  ‘I’ve not gone, though,’ he says with a loving smile. ‘I’m still here, far away but still here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage. I don’t really know how to interpret that statement or offer or whatever it was, but gratitude seems like the best avenue to take.

  ‘I didn’t know how much I wanted it until I saw all the blood and knew it was all over,’ I whisper sadly.

  ‘I wanted it too. I know this isn’t how anybody
would plan something but I was thinking of moving back to the UK and making this work. We still could make something work,’ he adds after a pause.

  ‘I don’t know, Edward,’ I say, that familiar panic of getting too close setting in and the desire to have him right here ebbing away suddenly. ‘I think I just need to process what’s going on and work things out.’

  ‘OK,’ he says quietly with no obvious tone.

  ‘I just wanted you to know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Robin, stop. You don’t have to say sorry. It is what it is. I’m here if you need me and I’m going to look into flights to come over. Even if you don’t want to do anything, I’d like to just see you. I’m part of this, too.’

  ‘OK. If you’re up for PJs and comfort food and not much else, then OK.’ If he comes without an agenda, maybe it is what I need. I feel a little glimmer of hope.

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more. If I could bring you a Sarabeth’s brunch, I would.’

  ‘You could bring me a box of airport Ferrero Rocher,’ I tease, weakly.

  ‘Deal,’ he says.

  I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t have the energy for friendly banter.

  ‘Look, you get some rest,’ he says, sensing my weariness. ‘I’m here if you need me – day or night – and you don’t need to worry about anything. These things happen, there’s nothing you could have done, and you’re definitely not alone. I’ll call or message you later.’

  ‘OK,’ I say obligingly.

  ‘OK. Bye, Robin, take care.’

  We hang up.

  NINETEEN

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, I agree to go into work just for the morning, to attend the Isso Project meeting.

  At first, I’d told Kath I didn’t want Natalie to know – after all, I’d just lost a baby she didn’t know I was having – and I was determined to explain it away as sick leave, but gradually I realised I did want the people closest to me to know. I wanted them to know this baby mattered. So many people choose to keep it private and I completely understand that – telling people can feel like opening up that little box where you keep all your hurt and pain, all over again. Yet, I knew that despite how raw I still felt, I couldn’t keep the sorrow hidden away, even at work. I needed them to know. But when it came to it, I couldn’t find the words. What if Natalie thought I wasn’t committed to my job, what if she judged me for accidentally getting pregnant by a man I’m not even with? I knew this was just my paranoia talking, but it made my thoughts freeze. In the end, Auntie Kath rang Natalie to explain.

  Kath told me everything was sorted with Natalie and that she was very understanding, but I’m not looking forward to going in. I don’t want to be back in the place where it happened, I don’t want to retrace those zombie-like steps. I don’t want to be the subject of pitying looks or, worse still, sympathetic words. I’m not going to make an announcement or even bring it up (‘Hey, guys, sorry I bailed the other week, my baby died,’ doesn’t really sit well in office chit-chat, does it?) but from what Kath said after the phone call, Natalie is going to ‘handle it sensitively’ and let everyone know. I feel like I need handling sensitively too.

  I’m lucky, really. So many women have to suck it up and get straight back out there, never letting on the hurt they are walking with every day, never really being allowed to fully acknowledge the experience because ‘life must go on’. Ironic. I was never planning to be working as many hours as I have been. Last year I was doing just one or two days a week, and things weren’t meant to get this much. Losing the baby has led to me needing a break, but if I’m honest with myself, some time at home just for me and Lyla would be good too.

  So the plan is to go in and do a handover of my accounts and jobs and then take a couple of weeks off to have some downtime. Now we’ve secured the Mara Isso job, the team are planning and arranging everything down to the letter to make sure it runs smoothly, but at the moment, my heart and soul are not in it.

  After pulling up to the office and parking my car, I take a deep breath, remind myself of Kath’s ‘you’re stronger than you think’ pep talk that she gave me this morning and walk up to MADE IT. I’m early, so it’s only Alice on the front desk, Stuart isn’t in yet.

  ‘Hey, Alice, how’s it going?’ I say, trying to keep things normal.

  ‘Yeah, really good, just … yeah … good,’ Alice says with that pitying look I had dreaded. I feel sorry for her. I suppose it’s hard to know what to say to a woman who never told you she was pregnant and now she’s not.

  ‘Cool. Well, I’m gonna just crack on in my office,’ I say weirdly. I don’t need to announce this, but today feels like we all need the clarity.

  ‘Yes! Great plan! Here if you need anything,’ she says, obviously relieved that the strained interaction is coming to an end.

  My office is exactly the same as it was just over a week ago. Nobody has been in – not even a cleaner – my half-drunk cup of coffee is still on my desk and my wastepaper basket is still full. I don’t know what I expected. So much seems to have happened in my life, so much has changed, but this has stayed the same.

  Resolving not to think about it too much, I flip open my laptop and log into my emails. My inbox is heaving.

  For a couple of hours, I sift through everything in there, sending brief replies or forwarding jobs to Natalie that she will deal with in my absence, deliberately not mentioning to clients what my absence is in aid of. I find a lovely personal email from Natalie, sent just after she and Kath spoke on the phone. I skim over her kind words about my baby and feel touched. I’ll read it properly when I’m feeling stronger. I copy Skye into a few that I know she’ll have input on and a lot of the admin, invoices and diarising goes over to Stuart and Alice.

  At about ten-ish I start riffling through the bits of paper on my desk, the half-written Post-its and the mail I have been neglecting. If I’m going to be on leave, I at least want my desk to appear organised. Clearing through everything is cathartic and time seems to move much faster here than at home.

  By eleven, I’m in the ‘big meeting room’ (why we call it the ‘big’ one when it’s the only one, I don’t know) with Natalie, Skye, Kareem, three junior MUAs and Alice taking the minutes. Natalie is handing out face maps, swatches of fabric and colour charts so that we can start working on the exact looks we’ll be doing at London Fashion Week in less than four months’ time. Natalie, Skye and I will be leading the team with the regular and junior MUAs assisting. Alice and Stuart will be stepping up to hold the fort here while we’re in London, so it’s a whole team effort and the air is crackling with excitement.

  Deep down I know I will enjoy LFW. I love my work, I love working with models, I love the creativity, but today I don’t feel it. I feel very far away from all of this and as if joy can’t penetrate through the thick layer of sorrow that I’m wrapped in. Sensing my mood, Natalie doesn’t push or press me on anything and allows me to sit peacefully, take notes and nod at the right points. When the time comes I’ll be on it, I know I will.

  By about noon, after a lengthy and lovely chat with Natalie about taking as much time as I need and not worrying about anything except healing, I’m finishing up and Skye pops her head through the doorway. Normally I’d be on guard for a snippy comment or have the gusto to be annoyed by her presence, but today my emotional energy levels are at an all-time low.

  ‘Hey,’ she offers meekly.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply. What else is there to say?

  She hovers nervously by the door. ‘Don’t worry about anything while you’re off, I’ll make sure it all goes OK.’

  ‘Thanks, Skye. I’m leaving it all in your hands, so don’t let me down … I’m sure you won’t,’ I add gently, waiting for her to berate me over something or belittle me somehow. There’s a long pause before she says anything again.

  ‘Also, I just wanted to say, I’m really sorry for what happened to you. Like, really sorry.’ Suddenly I can see a softer, kinder side to S
kye and I find myself having to rapidly blink back the tears that are welling up in the corners of my eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Skye,’ I say again. ‘Just one of those things. Very common.’ This is becoming my defence line. Thankfully it seems to work because Skye gives a little nod and a small smile and walks back into the main office where I can hear her striking up a conversation with Stuart about a job she has on tomorrow. Normality resumes after such an unexpected tender moment with each other. Thank God.

  Before I have a chance to really dwell on it, my phone vibrates with a text from Lacey. I feel hideous again. I’ve been avoiding her and fobbing her off all week because I just cannot bear to tell her what’s happened. She’s sent me countless excited texts with ideas for our joint baby shower, examples of how she wants her maternity shoot to be and links to baby sales we should go to, and I’ve responded as best I can with thumbs-up emojis and ‘oohhh you’d look lovely in a dress like that’, just to throw the situation back on her and not talk about me. Luckily she’s been so swept up in her own long-overdue joy that she hasn’t read between the lines and worked out that I’m not matching her excitement levels. Either that or I’m just really good at hiding things. I’m hoping for the first one.

  I decide to call it a day. Lyla doesn’t need picking up for two hours, and so in a rare moment of strength and bravery, I head over to Dovington’s florist’s to get this over with.

  TWENTY

  OPENING THE DOOR TO Dovington’s, I am instantly hit with the sweet scent of bouquet upon bouquet of beautiful, colourful flowers and the soft daylight streaming through the huge skylights above me. I imagine stepping into Heaven feels similar.

  The first person to greet me is Terri, the store manager. ‘Hiya, Robin! Heard your good news! Lacey’s obviously thrilled to bits, bless her heart!’

  It’s like being hit in the chest with a lorry. I don’t know how to respond, so I stand there limp and say, ‘Ha! Yes! Of course! Is she about?’ in as cheery a tone as I can possibly muster.