Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  I’ve been focused and motivated and I feel great. That is, until I collect Lyla on the last day of Summer Club, walk into the foyer and see her sitting ominously with a stony-faced Mr Ravelle. Oh God.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Wilde,’ he says, standing up in his ‘casual wear’. Instead of his usual tawny-brown suit, we have straight jeans and a short-sleeve bottle-green check shirt, tucked in, with brogues and a brown leather belt. So casual. There is not a single crease in any of his apparel. I wonder if he has a secret iron in his office to ensure that even on ‘casual’ days, he doesn’t look casual. More to the point, I wonder if there is a secret Gloria in his office. Stop it, brain, now is not the time to let a little smile out, this all looks very serious.

  ‘Hello! Everything all right?’ I ask breezily and perhaps optimistically.

  ‘Ms Wilde, Lyla has exhibited some very … challenging behaviour today during tennis,’ Mr Ravelle says, so gravely you’d think she’d bludgeoned someone to death with a racket.

  ‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’ I say, raising my eyebrows at Lyla, who looks sheepish.

  ‘There wasn’t that much blood, Mummy,’ she says. Jesus, she hasn’t really bludgeoned someone, has she?

  ‘This afternoon Lyla became frustrated with her tennis partner and rather than using her words to express herself, she decided to use her tennis racket to exert physical force upon the situation.’

  So, yes, she has indeed bludgeoned someone with a racket. Brilliant.

  ‘Oh, God! I’m so sorry! Is she all right? The other girl, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be all right. She has suffered a minor cut to her lip, which did result in some blood loss, but Nurse Fernlie has seen to her and assures me she’ll make a full recovery over the weekend. I don’t think I need to tell you what a serious matter this is, Ms Wilde. Here at Hesgrove we do not tolerate violence of any kind. I don’t know what behaviour you find acceptable at home, but another incident like this and we will have to have a serious discussion about Lyla’s future with us.’

  Wow, he’s really gone in at full throttle. I was about to get in a flap about my delinquent eight-year-old, but his tone has ruffled my feathers to such a degree I kind of want to hit him in the face with a racket now. He’s speaking to me as if I condone this behaviour, as though I encourage Lyla to whack people with sporting equipment. I’m not that mother, Mr Ravelle, I’m a good, decent woman with standards and morals. You don’t see me snogging people in cupboards, eh? Naturally, I don’t do or say any of those things.

  ‘Right, of course, well, that’s understood then,’ I say, nodding excessively.

  ‘It’s not like Lyla to behave this way,’ Mr Ravelle says, a little more softly this time. Perhaps he’s realised he was a bit much, or perhaps he noticed my hard stare.

  ‘I know, she’s usually a very good girl and we’ll certainly talk about this at home,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I’m a ball of worry, anger and confusion inside. I need to hear the whole story, I need to hear what would make my sweet girl behave like this before I go off the deep end, berating her for this, or me for failing to teach her that violence is never the answer. ‘It won’t happen again,’ I promise, wondering if that’s actually true.

  THE WHOLE (SUPER QUICK) drive home I think about how to handle this. Obviously something’s bothering her and I don’t think a standard ‘telling-off’ is the way forward. I’m not buying the usual ‘kids will be kids’ line. There has to be more to it.

  Once we’re in, I ask Lyla to get changed into PJs, wash her hands and ‘try for a wee’ (our standard evening routine), and after a few minutes she plods down the stairs looking much more downcast than I anticipated.

  We scooch onto the sofa together and she nuzzles into the crook of my arm.

  ‘So what’s happened then, Bluebird?’ I ask as softly as I can. Softly, softly, catchy monkey, as they say.

  ‘Chloe was playing tennis and she kept missing the ball. I asked her kindly lots of times to try harder but she didn’t and so I got really, really cross because we were losing,’ she says in a despairing tone.

  ‘OK, and then what happened?’ I ask gently.

  ‘I said “stop the game” to Alfie and Tamara, walked over to Chloe and said, “Why aren’t you trying very hard?”’ she starts.

  ‘Right.’ I nod. So far, so coherent.

  ‘And she said, “I am, you’re the one who’s rubbish”,’ Lyla says exasperatedly.

  ‘OK …’ More nodding.

  ‘And I said, “No! I’m hitting the ball and you’ve missed it four thousand and fifty-five million times!”’

  ‘That seems like a lot of times,’ I say quietly.

  ‘And then Chloe said, “My dad takes me to tennis lessons every Saturday and your dad smells like wee because he only eats mushrooms from the floor”.’ Lyla’s voice starts to tremble. ‘So I said he only ate them because Storie said they were from Mother Nature, and he doesn’t smell like wee, he uses organic natural cleansing products from a special shop that doesn’t hurt the planet, and she laughed and so I got my racket and hit her in the face and then her mouth was bleeding and she screamed.’

  By this point, Lyla is crying and I want to cry for her, too.

  ‘Oh, Lyla. It’s not OK to hit people but it’s OK to feel upset, my baby,’ I say, cuddling her into me and rocking back and forth as though she’s an infant.

  ‘And Kath doesn’t want me to play anymore because I said those things about Derek and you don’t want to look after me because you want to go to work and Lacey doesn’t want to see us anymore because she’s having a baby,’ she wails.

  Wow, this is a lot to take in. As if having some crappy tennis player called Chloe telling you your dad smells like piss isn’t bad enough, she’s carrying all of this on her tiny shoulders and I didn’t realise. I need to tackle this one by one.

  ‘OK, let’s make a list of problems, shall we?’ I say calmly, stroking the hair out of her face that got swept across when she squidged into me. She nods meekly.

  ‘Firstly, we cannot go around hitting people with rackets or anything else. It sounds like Chloe was really hurt. Imagine how you’d feel if you’d been hit. We’ll write her a card saying sorry, shall we?’

  Lyla nods.

  ‘Secondly, it was really unkind of Chloe to say Dad smells, so I can understand why you were upset about that. I think we should mention this to Mr Ravelle and he can have a word with her about saying unkind things. That and your nice card will sort that out.’

  ‘Dad does smell a bit like wee, though,’ Lyla whispers, looking at her hands. ‘But I didn’t want her to say it.’

  ‘Oh, Bluebird. You don’t have to stand up for me or Daddy. We’re both grown-ups and we don’t care what people say about us. You don’t smell like wee. You smell like shampoo and my big kisses,’ I say, smattering her with kisses all over her face, making her laugh and taking her mind away from her frankly pissy dad.

  ‘Thirdly, Kath loves you so much. Kath loves you more than all the lavender in all the world—’

  ‘Which is loads!’ she pipes up, cheerily.

  ‘Exactly! Loads! She’s not cross about you talking about Derek. It’s hard for Kath because she loves Derek very dearly and I know she can’t wait to see him again in Heaven, but right now, she’s not in Heaven, she’s on earth, with us, and it would be nice for her to have a boyfriend to go to dinner with and share jokes with, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so, but who does she love the most?’ Eight-year-olds are so black and white.

  ‘Love doesn’t work in mosts and leasts. Just because she loves Colin doesn’t mean her love for Derek has halved, it means her heart has doubled. She can love them both and love you and me and her friends and Mollie the dog. If there’s one person I know who’s got enough love for everyone, it’s Auntie Kath. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she says firmly and measuredly.

  ‘Now, fourthly, Lacey. I know we haven’t seen much of her. We had a little disagre
ement, but that’s what’s special about friends – you always make up again, so when that’s sorted, she’ll be back and it will be fine,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t press for more information.

  ‘Maybe you should write her a card as well, then. Like I am going to do for Chloe,’ Lyla says, totally switching roles and suddenly transforming from sad, feeble, teary child to caring, problem-solving young woman. When I see glimmers of her like this, I’m excited for her as a teenager and then want to scoop her up, fly off to Neverland and not let her grow up.

  ‘Maybe I should,’ I say, getting up off the sofa to find a blank card for Lyla, but knowing full well I won’t. It’s always easier to give advice than to take it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  SEPTEMBER

  IT’S 5 A.M. AFTER months of planning and anticipation, we are finally here. London Fashion Week 2018.

  Skye, Natalie, the team and I stayed in a nearby Premier Inn last night, and we’re ready.

  The atmosphere at Somerset House, even at this early hour, is electric. It’s still dark but the floodlights are on, technicians are tinkering with the flashing billboards and promo signs, catering staff are rushing back and forth with huge metal trolleys laden with food for designers, models, hospitality and entourages, security staff are having briefings with walkie-talkies and serious faces, stylists are scuttling in with arms full of fabric and make-up artists are marching through, cases heaving with lotions and potions to make even the most stunning more beautiful. If it’s like this now, I wonder what it will be like by 9 a.m. when the venue opens to the public, journalists, bloggers and the fashion elite. Like that feeling you get when you step off the plane on holiday, my tummy does a happy flip of excitement. This is going to be an amazing day.

  As well as the buzz I take from my work, I have even more reason to be excited today. Finola and Gillian are coming down to support me and watch the show. Mara Isso offered her team the entire back row of the show for friends and family, so I invited them along to have a little peek at my world beyond the school gates. Finola is bringing Roo (Honor can’t make it because she’s competing in another horse show. I asked Finola if she minded missing it but apparently they’re ‘ten a penny’ and she’d rather see what all this ‘fashion fuss is about’). She’s also bringing Lyla and taking care of her for me. Gillian is bringing Clara, of course, and a little bit out of left field, Corinthia. Ever the sympathiser, Gillian told us that Val is really struggling with the split and so she offered to look after Corinthia for the weekend. A small part of me, very deep down, feels sorry for Val. I’ve been there, newly single and afraid, I’ve lived in The Emptiness and as much as I think she’s poison, I wouldn’t wish those dark days on anyone. I’m particularly glad Corinthia is coming to the Mara Isso show, full of gorgeous, empowered, plus-size women – it’ll do her good to see that beauty isn’t just limited to thigh gaps, Botox and boob jobs.

  As well as the PSMs, I invited Edward. He hasn’t been to London since we last hung out, since he said he wanted more and I said – well, I said nothing. It’s a funny one because with no relationship status to hang your hat on, it’s hard to know what we’re doing. My problem is that I like where I am right now, so much so that I don’t want to look too far into the future. I like having him around, but I’m not ready to label that anything other than friendship. I know I’ve hurt his feelings, but I figure I’d have hurt him more if I pretended I was ready for something I’m not. So we’ve not really spoken about it since then but I thought he might like to come along and we could perhaps hang out after the show. I texted him about it and mentioned it on FaceTime a couple of weeks ago. I figure it would be fine to introduce him to Lyla as my friend. He said he’d ‘see what could be arranged’ and I sent him all the details. Not wanting to sound desperate or needy (especially after my big thing about not wanting to have a full relationship), I haven’t chased. We’ll see. Either way, I can’t let myself overthink it.

  I didn’t invite Lacey.

  None of them is getting here till gone 9 a.m. anyway, when they will be ushered into a hospitality suite and then to the runway seating for the 11 a.m. show. But for now, it’s work time and I’ve got a lot to do.

  We find our way to the backstage area. Weirdly, backstage is in the actual building but the runway is in a glorified marquee in the large courtyard. Our room in the huge stately building is just springing into life. Along one side of the room are racks and rails full of clothes and shoes, all with bits of A4 paper attached to denote who will be wearing what and when it goes on. In the middle of the room is a set of desks with sewing machines, laptops, folders and water bottles. On the furthest side is one long row of trestle tables, all set up with fold-out, lit-up mirrors on top. That’s us. We dutifully walk over and start taking out our kits. On the job we have me, Natalie, Skye, Kareem and four junior make-up artists, then we have four more assistants as well as eight hairstylists and Stuart from the office who has offered to act as runner. I’m not sure we really need him, but I’ve never seen a man so keen on anything in my entire life as Stuart pitching the idea to Natalie last week. I think she agreed just to stop him giving himself a hernia.

  So, we unpack our kits, brief everyone one more time on what we’re doing and stick our face maps and set list to the mirrors so they’re to hand. We’ve rehearsed and rehearsed this. We know we are on a time crunch, we know this is our big break, we’re not going to let the side down. ‘Warpaint’ has never felt more apt a term. I feel like a woman marching into war. I feel like running naked into the marquee and screaming, ‘BRING IT ON’, as I wave my make-up brushes in the air. I feel like climbing to the top of Big Ben with my brush belt attached and shouting, ‘I am Robin Wilde and I am—’

  ‘Earth to Robin. Hello, Robin. Come in, Robin,’ Skye is saying, waving her hand-mirror in my face.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away, just going over the visuals for the look in my head, you know?’ I lie.

  ‘Robin, I know you’re anxious and forgetful, but you’ve got this. You’re going to do a really good job, it’s going to be lit,’ Skye says with one hand limply on my arm. I think in Skye’s world that was a major compliment and I don’t feel like now’s the time to tell her I’m not anxious or forgetful. I’ve even brought my keep-cup in my bag.

  After set-up and briefing, the models arrive in joggers and casual wear, ready to sit in our chairs and be transformed from already beautiful to still just as beautiful. I’m so glad they went with the natural vibes. These women are so stunning that it would be a crime to cover them or distract from what they already have.

  We set to work. The junior MUAs begin with priming and prepping each model while the assistants give the models shell-pink manicures, moisturised legs and arms and offer support to our hairstylists. With the models busy being prepped, Natalie and I take a sneaky peak at the collection.

  Hanging on unassuming white wooden hangers are the most beautiful, delicate pieces of fabric I’ve ever seen. Lace, chiffon and golden taffeta all intermingle like fish swirling effortlessly. It is hard to see where one bit of fabric begins and the others end, such is the intricacy of the designs and stitching. On hangers it is hard to really make out the shape of each garment because they seem to be floaty shreds of beauty, rather than something so conventional as ‘a dress’ or ‘a top’. I stand and try to envisage how these light slivers of cloth will sit on our curvaceous, beautiful models, but can’t.

  ‘Wow, what a talent Isso is,’ Natalie remarks. I don’t usually hear such awe in her voice.

  ‘I know, you don’t see dresses like this in Primark, do you?’ I say, half to myself, as I gaze at them like a child in a sweet shop. ‘What do you think she does with each collection after the shows?’ I wonder out loud.

  Before I can wonder too long, one of the younger stylists bustles over with an air of self-importance. ‘Please don’t touch any of Mara’s pieces, they are particularly delicate this season,’ she says, stretching her arms out and forming a barrier between us and
the clothes as though we were mauling them in some way.

  ‘It’s all right, we were just looking at how beautiful they are,’ Natalie says, hackles up but remaining calm, professional and respectful. She’s such a lady.

  ‘They are very beautiful,’ stressy stylist replies, topping Natalie. ‘Too beautiful to get marked or dirty.’

  ‘Yes, I was just saying to my colleague here that I thought they were beautiful items when Mara showed me samples a few months ago, when we won the pitch for all the hair and beauty work. Right, I’d better not keep my team waiting. I’ll leave you to your steaming. As you say, they really are too beautiful to mark or dirty.’ Natalie delivers this with such poise and authority that I can see the whites of the stylist’s knuckles as she grips her steamer handle. Natalie. Is. Fierce. I love it when I see that in her and fear ever being on the end of that (again).

  The trestle tables are heaving under the weight of palettes, trays, bottles of foundation, moisturiser, primer, brow gel, lip liners, lipsticks, lip glosses, mascaras, subtle fake lashes, concealers, highlighters and blushers. Tucked in amongst all this are food packages of bagels, yoghurts, fruit and muffins that Stuart has run around fetching for everyone. I don’t know where it’s all coming from but he’s doing an amazing job. The models are happy and chatty, some of them with three people working around them; the assistants have found their groove passing products at just the right time, touching up with powder and keeping the kit in order; the juniors are coming to an end with the priming while Natalie, Skye, Kareem and I are fully in the zone, applying individual lashes, dewy highlights and creamy shadows to bring out their glow and turn our models, simply, into absolute goddesses.

  Every time I stand back and look at them I feel like my breath has been taken away. They are exactly how I wanted them to look – simple, healthy, glowing – and in my eyes, the epitome of beauty. They look like one of those delicious Italian Renaissance paintings, but with women with skin tones of every hue. I wish that the beauty industry would see these women the way I do – maybe they will after this show.