Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  As each model finishes with us and the hair team are happy (there are shaved heads, Afros, curly locks, sleek bobs, glossy black waves, brunettes, redheads, blondes, silver-greys – right now the team are giving some of the models soft waves with gentle tendrils framing the face and more shine spray than I think I can bear to inhale), they are sent off to be dressed and styled, ready to line up for the runway.

  I thought arriving at 5 a.m. to get ready for the models at 6.30 a.m. was too early. It wasn’t – that ninety minutes of set-up and briefing went by quickly. I thought four hours of models in chairs and dressing was going to be comfortable timing but with twenty-four models, we’ve had to work at absolute lightning speed and I can feel the sweat running down the back of my knees – thank God I’m not walking the runway!

  As I finish on my last model and send her off to be checked by Natalie, I look over to them all dressed and gathered by the door. If I thought they looked beautiful with hair and make-up done but still in their joggers and comfies, you can bet your bottom dollar I think they look sensational now.

  Each outfit is a triumph. Unlike most plus-size fashion, which errs on the side of caution, with loose blouses and frumpy paisley sack tunics, Mara Isso has taken what God gave these women and run with it. Rather than using the clothes to hide them and disguise their ‘larger’ bodies, she has created each piece to celebrate the curves and contours, showcase their beautiful skin and highlight everything they are.

  Each dress is a mixture of pastels, metallics and a few hints of bright cobalt blue. The soft and hard hues contrast, combine with the gold, silver and copper threads and work perfectly with our dewy make-up. The shades all sing against the range of skin tones and colours. These women look like they’re lit from within. I can’t help but grin, I am so proud to be working on a campaign where women of all shapes, sizes and colours are being celebrated. I’m proud that my daughter won’t only attach ‘tall and slim and white’ to her ideal of beauty but will see all these women and all this diversity as part of that, too. Rather embarrassingly, I feel a huge wave of emotion may be about to break. The balls of my feet are hurting, I haven’t stopped to eat or even sip from my blessed keep-cup. I know my friends, Lyla and possibly even Edward will have arrived by now and will be starting to be seated, ready to see the models I’ve lavished so much creative energy on, and suddenly, I’m crying.

  Not wanting to be seen as weak or silly, I turn back to rifle through my kit case for a tissue, when Skye hands me one from hers.

  ‘I get it. It’s a beautiful thing to see such confidence in so many women who don’t fit the traditional standards of modern beauty,’ she says, looking over to them all, too. ‘OK, so I lifted that line from the final pitch document,’ she confesses, and actually cracks a sheepish smile. ‘But I see it – I really see it, now.’

  Wow. Wow that she ‘gets it’ and wow that she means it. This is huge.

  ‘Skye … I … I didn’t think you’d feel that way,’ I say in utter disbelief.

  ‘Why? Because I’m tall and slim? Don’t put me in a box, please, Robin. This whole gig has been a wake-up call for me. I care just as much as you do.’

  And that’s me told.

  THE AIR IS FRAUGHT with ecstatic tension. Everyone on the row in front of us looks like they too should be on the runway. As I realise everything they are wearing is basically hot off the runway itself, I feel very underdressed in my Next black skinny jeans and TK Maxx loose black jersey top. I was so engrossed in my job, I didn’t think to style myself, and so I spend a moment or two trying to brush off make-up stains. I contemplate licking my index finger and wiping it on a few of the more stubborn marks but recognise that we’re not at home now, so I sit with as much make-up-stained dignity as I can muster and see if there are any celebs I recognise.

  Across the way I can see Gillian and Finola with all four children waving frantically like they do in school plays and assemblies, even though you know they’ve been briefed not to. I give a very demure half-wave back, so nobody thinks I’m encouraging this. It seems to do the trick. Lyla throws me an exaggerated thumbs-up and I send one back, less demurely this time. She deserves a full one.

  Just as the lights are starting to dim and the already-loud music is turned up even louder, I scan the back row for Edward. I know he hasn’t been over for a few weeks so he’s due a visit, and this is the guy who said he wanted something to happen with me so I know he’ll be here somewhere. Won’t he? I look back and forth across the row but he isn’t there. There are a couple of people just taking their seats, a tall guy and a pregnant-looking woman, but no Edward. I swallow the pang of disappointment. Hang on, the lights are going down even more and now I really can’t see a thing bar the runway but is that … Lacey?

  Throughout the entire triumph of a show my mind is racing. Why would Lacey come to this? How would she have got hold of an invite? Why hasn’t Edward come? Why am I so bothered that he didn’t, since I don’t want a relationship, anyway? Do I? Don’t I? But Lacey. Lacey is here.

  The entire time the press are flashing their cameras, our models are flaunting and strutting and drawing gasps and cheers, bloggers and vloggers are tweeting and Insta-storying as fast as their rose-gold-ringed fingers let them, and journalists are firing emails off as quick as lightning about ‘Normal Bodies Being In Vogue’ (still a problematic headline, I think, but it’s a step in the right direction). By the time Mara Isso comes onstage to take a bow of thanks, the entire audience are on their feet, and though I don’t know it in that moment, the show will go down in fashion history as the first of its kind. Utterly groundbreaking. Next to me, Natalie offers me a tissue, expecting me to be in floods of tears – but I’m as surprised as she is to find I’m grinning, proper ear-to-ear grinning.

  ‘A RESOUNDING SUCCESS, MY dear! Best in show!’ cheers Finola as she comes over to me twenty minutes later in the Mara Isso hospitality suite. She’s still flushed from the excitement. Or is that a bit of blusher I spy?

  ‘Mummy, they were princesses! Queens! Fairy mermaid princess queens!’ Lyla sings as she grapples for a cuddle from me and then instantly releases me again to take Roo’s hand and hurtle over to the catering table for snacks.

  ‘Well done, Robin,’ Gillian says softly with a warm smile, ‘they all looked so pretty, I wish I could do my make-up like that every day,’ she laughs gently. Clara and Corinthia stand next to her, each holding onto one of her hands, a bit unsure in their new surroundings.

  ‘What did you think, girls?’ I say to both the children, though mainly aiming it at Corinthia.

  ‘I loved it!’ enthused Clara. ‘I’m going to get a muffin,’ she also enthuses, running off to join Lyla and Roo. I’m under no illusions, the snack table is just as exciting as the runway show in the eyes of an eight-year-old.

  ‘Corinthia, what did you think?’ I ask gently, kneeling down to her level and regretting that move because I’m so exhausted I know it will be tough to get back up again.

  ‘I feel funny about it,’ she says, looking at the floor.

  ‘Why, sweetie?’ I feel sad for her, looking so meek; away from her tyrant of a mother, she really is quite small.

  ‘Because they were fat but they were so beautiful,’ she almost whispers, looking at me with big, confused eyes.

  ‘Can I tell you something important, Corinthia?’ I say, taking her hands in mine and feeling like it’s just me and her in the whole room. I’m feeling such love for this confused little girl who can’t help the things her mother imprints upon her.

  ‘Yes.’ Corinthia nods, wide-eyed, sensing the importance of the moment. Or maybe she just wants to follow Clara to the snacks.

  ‘Being beautiful doesn’t just mean slim,’ I say as softly but firmly as possible, which is very hard to do.

  ‘But my mum lost weight and is skinny and beautiful,’ she says seriously.

  As much as I can’t bear Val, I know I need to do Corinthia this service.

  ‘Your mummy is gorgeous. She
’s a very beautiful woman. She’s very slim, too. But it’s not that, that makes her so beautiful. It’s her happy smile.’ I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen Val do a happy smile, but I continue anyway. ‘And her kind actions and her loving heart. They’re the things that make her beautiful. A person who is very, very, very big is beautiful and a person who is very, very, very small is beautiful. A person who is tall or short or curly-haired or straight-haired or even no-haired is beautiful!’ I say in my best cheery teacher tone.

  ‘I’m beautiful?’ Corinthia says, almost a question.

  ‘Yes, you are very beautiful. You can also be kind or clever or brave or strong. There are so many things you can be, it’s not all just about beauty. And the best bit is, none of these things needs you to be big or small or tall or short.’

  ‘So the ladies in the show … they were big … and … beautiful!’ Corinthia says almost with a cheer.

  ‘Yes!’ I say, jubilant that she’s grasped it.

  ‘I’m going to tell my mum that we’re ALL beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, all right then!’ I say, slightly gutted that I won’t see Val’s face when she hears the big news. For the second time today I feel like I might cry with pride. I blink the tears away as I see the beaming smile on Corinthia’s face.

  Gillian and Finola, who have watched this exchange, shimmy her along to join the other children who are sitting at a coffee table with muffins and drinks (in disposable cups – don’t tell Skye) and we all laugh and collectively sigh. There’s so much emotion in the room that I don’t think anyone really knows what to say.

  Before we can begin, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn round – only to be looking into the familiar face of Karl, Lacey’s husband.

  ‘Oh my God, I knew it was you two I saw!’ I say in shock, as I see Lacey standing there, too. In my head I’d practised all the things I was going to say to Lacey the next time I saw her – I was going to be all wise and Buddha-like – and that definitely was not it.

  Karl looks as dashing as always in his smart jeans and weekend shoes, a crisp white shirt collar peeping over the top of his slate-grey cashmere jumper.

  ‘I think my wife has something she’d like to say to you,’ he says, holding Lacey’s hand, which looks so small in his.

  Lacey looks equally as stylish as Karl. She’s in a soft grey smock dress with sheer black tights and soft, knee-high boots. Despite the loose fit of the dress, I can see her neat bump pushing through the fabric and feel a double pang of joy for her and sorrow for me.

  ‘Robin, I’m sorry for how I was and for what I said.’

  I can see the pain in her perfectly kohl-lined eyes and my heart crumbles with how much I’ve missed my friend.

  ‘Oh, Lacey, I shouldn’t have gone off the deep end at you,’ I say, stepping towards her and putting my arms round her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ we both whisper at the same time.

  They say things come in threes, well, so does crying at London Fashion Week because here I am, a blubbering mess. It’s as though so many weeks and months of my life have led up to this day and here it is, a total, utter and complete success.

  THIRTY-TWO

  OCTOBER

  AFTER ALL THE HUBBUB and thrill of London Fashion Week, being at home feels like a novelty again. I can’t believe we’ve been in this house ten months now. I warmed to it instantly but I’m finally starting to feel like it’s a full and proper home, rather than just a nice house I like a lot. Nothing is rickety and broken like Granny’s old terrace; everything is new and fresh, I suppose a bit like me.

  When we first moved in, I didn’t think I’d be able to fill it. Granny’s house was full to the brim of all the things Lyla and I had accumulated over the years. Then I watched a documentary on Netflix about minimalism and spent three days completely purging it all. Such a good plan, I thought, I won’t have to move as much, as I told everyone. Well, that was all true but then when we moved into this much more spacious house, it felt very sparse. Although money is better this year, it’s not ‘go cray-cray in West Elm’ better, but it’s definitely at a ‘treat yourself in Homesense here and there’ point, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

  After her making such an effort at the fashion show, I invited Lacey round for a girls’ night of wine and cheese, or more accurately, a night of just the fizzy grape juice and hard cheeses she’s allowed. I considered cracking out the rosé for myself but being the nice friend I am, I’ve downed a glass before her arrival and will stick to the non-alcoholic stuff while she’s here. I also won’t mention the wedge of brie I shovelled in before her car pulled up on the drive, either. We don’t both need to suffer.

  ‘Ooo-ooo, I bring decaff Coke, low-fat pitta crisps and hummus,’ Lacey calls down the hall, as she lets herself in.

  ‘Ooo-ooo, luckily I’ve got proper snacks then!’ I chime back, opening a packet of chocolate fingers and having a flashback to the Christmas Kath said, ‘My God, I absolutely love a good finger’, much to the horror of Mum in her two-piece who would not dream of eating more than three Cadbury’s Roses and an M&S mince pie to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Thinking of Mum, I must email her soon. She and Dad have spent the year cruising. Apparently, Dad’s Premium Bonds came in and so they are finally doing all the cruises they’ve ever wanted to do. I never knew they always wanted to do six in a single year, but this is the woman my mother is now. I bet she’s only doing it to show off to the ladies at the Rotary Club. Still, the best kind of relationship with my generally absent parents is the email kind. I have Kath if I want any genuine mothering, and Mum if I want to be told I should never have left Simon and I’ll never amount to much.

  Lacey comes in and I notice her bump without instinctively putting a hand to where my own should have been. In this short time since LFW it’s really ‘popped’, as they say. I think that’s such a disturbing notion. You grow a child within you and then your own body just ‘pops’ out. I remember being pregnant with Lyla and a woman at Simon’s office constantly passing comment on my ‘popped’ tummy, making me want to scream, ‘Can you stop talking about me like I’m a bag of microwave popcorn, for fuck’s sake.’ I decide not to verbalise my bump thoughts to Lacey. I note that she hasn’t stretched a tight maternity top over it but is wearing pale blue skinny jeans (even at nearly six months pregnant she looks good in skinnies) and over them, a loose A-line white cotton top with delicate scalloped edging and spaghetti straps that really sets off her faux tan. Her face is glowing, her hair looks thick and long and she seems to exude joy from every pore. Rather than feel rage and envy, for the first time I absorb a bit of her joy and feel it as well. Good for her. Good for her lovely baby in there, too.

  ‘Now, Karl thinks I’m eating nutritious and balanced foods at every opportunity but if you’ve got a pint of full-fat milk and half a box of Coco Pops, I’ll love you forever,’ she says, plonking herself down at the table and disregarding the pitta crisps.

  ‘That’s the spirit, lies and deceit,’ I say, pulling the giant sliding cupboard door open to reach the cereal.

  ‘Lies, deceit and sugary carbs, please,’ she responds with a laugh.

  I pour her the biggest bowl of chocolatey goodness with ice-cold milk (while slyly eating a bit of brie from the fridge when she can’t see – I mean, pregnancy is a miracle and all that, but does it compare to the joy of soft, creamy cheese? I ask myself) and place it in front of her as I take a seat, with the box of fingers.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ I venture. A safe question.

  ‘Oh yeah, really good, just the normal stuff: Dovington’s, sorting bits out at home, all the usual things,’ she says nonchalantly.

  ‘Normal, that must be nice,’ I say, without any venom at all.

  ‘Oh, Robs. You’ve had a weird time recently, haven’t you?’ Lacey says kindly.

  ‘Yeah. Weird, shit, good, nice, stressful. Is it possible to have had every single emotion all in a matter of months?’ I say, stuffing in three fin
gers at once and resisting the urge to make a dodgy joke.

  ‘I think it is. You’ve been through the wringer, and I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I know, I know, let’s not do all this again, let’s leave it behind us and move on. I wasn’t exactly a saint, either. Anyway, we don’t have enough chocolate fingers to rehash it all.’

  ‘OK, a clean slate it is. Pastures new. So, Edward. What’s the deal there?’

  ‘Edward is definitely not a new pasture, Lacey,’ I say with a firm look and another chocolate finger.

  ‘True enough, but I need to know. I thought maybe he’d be at LFW – Natalie mentioned you’d invited a mystery man when Karl and I asked her if we could come along – but he wasn’t there, and when I messaged to ask where—’

  ‘You messaged him? How? Why?’ I feel horror rising up through my body. After he didn’t come to the event I’d decided I needed to cool it down and not get in touch with him about it. Why should I have expected him to cross the Atlantic at the drop of a hat, when I’d already made it abundantly clear I wasn’t looking for us to be anything more than casual? When I realised how much I had hoped he’d be there, it reminded me of Theo and how I’d felt when I’d wanted him but hadn’t had him. Feeling panicked that I was allowing myself to be hurt again, I’d vowed not to mention the show to Edward. And now here we are, Lacey dragging it all back up again.

  ‘It was only on Facebook, he’s on your Friends list. He was totally relaxed about it – said something about being busy at work and to say hey to you next time I saw you. I didn’t message him in a weird way, just an “are you in London” way.’

  ‘That IS a bit of a weird way,’ I huff, failing to hide my annoyance that she’s got involved. It’s the grown-up equivalent of when she went over to Ben Ingleson in Year Ten and said, ‘Well, are you asking Robin to the Valentine’s Party or not?’ But I remind myself that although it might be a bit awkward, it’s meant (as always, when it comes to Lacey) with love. ‘Look, thank you for trying but you don’t need to. It’s all in hand.’