Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘It doesn’t seem very “in hand”,’ Lacey says with her usual frankness, finishing the last of the Coco Pops.

  ‘Well, it is. We had a fling in New York, it carried on over here, things looked like they could get serious for a while, then things … didn’t. He said he wanted more, I said I couldn’t go there again with anyone. He got upset, I’m perhaps regretting it, he doesn’t answer my messages much anymore and that’s it. So you see, it’s completely fine and not a shit-show at all,’ I gabble, getting up to pour a proper glass of wine. Just because she’s knocked up doesn’t mean I need to stay on the wagon all evening, I’ve suddenly decided.

  ‘OK, so completely in hand and exactly how you want to leave it with someone then.’

  ‘Yep. Perfect.’

  ‘Well, I’ll say no more.’

  ‘Probably for the best.’

  ‘You know, Tinder’s always an option,’ Lacey says, tapping her phone and smiling mischievously at me.

  ‘Lacey Hunter, I would rather eat those cardboard pitta chips for the rest of my life than go back on Tinder. Now, before you start catfishing on my behalf, do you want a makeover? I’ve bought a whole new set of skin products that, if possible, will make you even more glowing than you are now, and I promise this is in no way a distraction technique to get you to stop talking about Edward.’

  And with one final slurp of chocolate milk from the bowl (classy lady), she heaves herself up and off to my front room, where I spend the next hour fiddling with her face, listening to her tales of the NCT groups she’s joined (they sound even more PSM-y than my PSMs) and telling her about how Skye might actually not be so hideous and might – crazy world, I know – be a friend.

  By 10 p.m. I’ve eaten my way through more snacks than is healthy (sympathy-eating for Lacey, who is eating for two, though), tried out all my new kit and made Lacey sad she can’t go out-out with her full face on, swatched fourteen new shades of shimmer eyeshadow up my arm, drunk half a bottle of wine (oops) and feel fully bonded with my best friend again.

  Going to bed that night, I feel very rich. Not with money and gold bars (be real for a moment, who actually has gold bars?), but with friendship and company and satisfaction with life. We’re back on track, I’m back on track, hello new lease of life, it’s wonderful to have you.

  THIRTY-THREE

  HALF-TERM ARRIVES AND OUR first proper ‘family’ holiday beckons. I’m fully in the swing of autumn now, wrapping Lyla and myself up in matching purple scarves, taking Instagram photos of our feet in our matching Joules ankle boots standing on top of crisp fallen leaves and making Lyla take eight hundred photos of me holding a (reusable!) Starbucks cup while I pretend to look happily into the distance. My own mother would never have asked me to do this. She’d have been too busy organising the community centre bonfire night while wearing her sensible M&S trousers and a buttoned-up cardigan, to care about filters and framing. I must give her a call soon and see what the plan is for Christmas. Last year, she and Dad went to a golf hotel with ‘some of the Rotary gang’ so I escaped the whole affair, but this year I expect she’ll want to come up and finally see the new house, spend some time with Lyla, berate me for being single and tell me I need to get a ‘real’ job. So festive.

  Back in the summer when I was in a very low place and Kath was holding the fort, I agreed it would be nice to ‘get away from it all’ with her and Lyla – and after all the support she’s given me this year, she more than deserves a treat too. It turns out this means a cottage in the Lake District for two nights and, to make it ‘even more special’, Colin is coming along too. It’s a two-bedroom cottage with lake views so I’ll share with Lyla and, of course, Colin will share with Kath, or as he put it, ‘bunk in’. God help us all.

  By the Monday morning of half-term (after a successful first six weeks at school with no tennis racket incidents and Chloe living each day in peace), I’ve filled the boot with every conceivable home comfort including the cheese toastie sandwich-maker, two backup laptop chargers (heaven forbid I can’t binge-watch Netflix while we’re there), my favourite White Company candle (you know how cottages can be musty) and an entire backpack of Palace Pets for Lyla. The site says ‘luxury cottage hire’, but almost echoing Lyla’s sentiments as I put her to bed last night, ‘I’m not really a fan of camping or cottaging.’ I had to try not to laugh to avoid explaining what ‘cottaging’ actually means – I think I got away with it. Kath is going in Colin’s car because she wants to ‘keep him company’ on the drive (luckily, Mollie the dog is staying with one of Kath’s neighbours) and really, I’m relieved we’re not all driving up together. Lyla still hasn’t fully come round to the idea of Colin being in our lives, and at home she has started to refer to him as ‘the slimy worm’. I shouldn’t really have laughed the first few times she said it because that only seems to have egged her on and now she says it so often I’m worried it will slip out in front of him.

  On the drive, we have a long chat about minding our manners, respecting Kath and Colin’s privacy and allowing Kath to enjoy herself. Lyla seems on board but the proof will be in the pudding, and with a few careful glances in the rear-view mirror I can see I’ve lost her interest. I stick on Little Mix to lighten the mood. Hurrah for girl bands with catchy songs that make you feel like it’s OK if your exes are scumbags. I sing passionately, thinking of Theo for the first time in months and feeling liberated that he’s not in my life anymore. Even if he was devastatingly good-looking and took me to a lot of really nice places, I’m better off without him. I’m quite content not to be wined and dined and guided round museums and whisked off in private cars. I don’t care.

  ‘Mummy, you’re shouting,’ Lyla interrupts my empowering thoughts of freedom.

  ‘I’m singing, sweetheart.’

  ‘It sounded like shouting.’

  ‘Well, I was singing and thinking of the biggest, slimiest, stinkiest worm I’ve ever known,’ I say, exaggerating each word and knowing I’ll regret allowing this kind of language by the time we arrive at the Lakes. Oh well.

  THE COTTAGE IS BEAUTIFUL, exactly what you’d hope for in a couple of days away. Warm Aga in the kitchen, soft tartan sofas in the lounge, exposed beams in the bedrooms and a quaint little garden with trees full of fruit, it’s like something out of a storybook.

  Kath and Colin have already arrived and come to the door to meet us from the car. I have to admit, they do look sweet together. Colin steps out to help me with my bags (‘Cor blimey, have you packed the kitchen sink?’) and Kath stands in her holiday attire (brown sensible walking boots, deep crimson socks pulled up to her knees, a mustard circle skirt with a white apron over the top – which means something’s already in the oven – and a deep purple polo-neck top tucked into the skirt. Complete this with a chunky green glass bead necklace and two messy plaits, and you’ve got the picture). Kath stretches her arms out ready to welcome Lyla, who hurls herself at her.

  ‘Oh Auntie Kath, you smell like kitchens!’ she says optimistically.

  ‘We’ve got a sticky toffee Bundt cake in the oven, and the local pub is bringing four plated-up roast dinners in an hour,’ she says casually as though everyone just whips up incredible puddings and arranges hot dinners as soon as they arrive on holiday.

  ‘Oh my, what a great start to the trip!’ I say enthusiastically, carrying even more bags into the cottage. ‘I’ve brought prosecco, Baileys and sparkling elderflower.’ All the essentials.

  Before long we’re all in our comfies. Well, Lyla and I are in onesies, Kath has donned a pair of paisley trousers she hand-sewed and while Colin is still in his beige slacks and navy crew-neck jumper, he has at least joined in by donning a pair of slippers. We sit round the table by the Aga, enjoying the finest offerings from the pub.

  ‘I thought tomorrow we’d try out some of the local walks,’ Colin suggests. ‘There are some short three-milers we might be able to tackle.’

  ‘Three miles!’ I say, before I can hold it in.

  ‘Yes! N
othing at all, you’ll barely feel it. We used to come here all the time and spend the whole day trekking, seeing it all, breathing it in,’ he says, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath for effect.

  I wonder who ‘we’ is.

  ‘Ha, well, we’ll certainly give it a go, won’t we, Bluebird?’ I say, looking at Lyla, who looks utterly horrified at the thought, but is clearly remembering our chat in the car about manners.

  ‘Yes,’ she manages.

  ‘And then afterwards,’ Kath offers, sensing how hard that little yes was, ‘we can wander into town and look round all the shops. Colin and I saw lots of tiny toy shops and I think there’s even an old-fashioned sweet shop, if we’re lucky!’

  Good old Kath, she reads Lyla so well.

  ‘Yes! I’ve got pocket money from Daddy and Storie to spend.’

  ‘Great! We’ll set off by eight to get a good go of it, shall we,’ Colin chimes enthusiastically, clearly happy the walk is on.

  Eight o’clock! Is the man some kind of sadist?

  ‘Oh, love, why don’t you let me cook us all a proper breakfast and then we can set off once we’re working on full engines?’ Kath soothes, coming to the rescue again. She should have a job in NATO or the UN with these tactics. She’d be ace.

  I WAKE UP BEFORE sunrise to the feel of Lyla’s small hands stroking my face. I lie with my eyes closed, enjoying the moment, thinking about all the times I leant over her cot as a baby and ran my fingers over her short fine hair, round the top of her tiny velvety ears, across her soft cheeks and over the most delicate rosebud lips. I used to look at her and think about her future, where she’d go, who she’d be, who I’d be. I liked my quiet daydreams more than my reality in those days. Reality meant day upon day of monotonous routine, household chores and minimal support from Simon. Things are so different now. I might not have the dream boyfriend, or the stomach of Julia Roberts in the Pretty Woman piano scene, but I have choices and freedom and joy.

  ‘Good morning, smiley Mummy,’ Lyla whispers.

  ‘I’m not awake yet,’ I whisper back.

  ‘Then why is your face smiling?’ she says.

  ‘Because I was thinking such happy things about my Lyla Blue,’ I say, flinging my arms out, wrapping them around her and bringing her in for a huge squishy cuddle.

  ‘Mummmyyy, you’re so squeezy!’ she giggles, trying to wriggle free.

  ‘That’s because I’m so full of love I need to squeeze it all out onto my favourite person,’ I carry on.

  ‘But your breath smells like dead rats and bin juice!’ she screams.

  Ah, such sweet words from said favourite person.

  ‘Ohhh, doooesss iiittt,’ I say, breathing all over her face and laughing while she breaks free, climbs out of bed, climbs back on and starts jumping all over me.

  Once you have an eight-year-old jumping on your thighs, it’s time to get up, so I concede the early start (6.45 a.m.), nip to the loo (and brush my dead rat, bin juice-smelling teeth), have the quickest of showers (it might be a luxury cottage but that doesn’t include hot water on demand) and get dressed. Lyla had a hot bath last night so there’s no need to subject her to the cold shower routine, and I lay out an outfit for her to put on while I play Netflix on my laptop (luxurious enough for Wi-Fi, though, thank God) until we hear Kath and Colin stirring and head downstairs.

  Kath is clattering around with frying pans and Colin is singing something about sunrises and birds tweeting. Kath has a dangerously rosy glow, is wearing a floor-length, floral satin dressing gown and definitely no bra under it. I can only hope it’s done up securely, otherwise I’m either going to have to avert my eyes or she’s going to do herself an injury over the hob.

  ‘Good morning, you two!’ Kath almost bellows as we walk in. Wow.

  ‘Morning! Did you sleep well?’ I ask politely, guiding Lyla to the table and heading to the fridge for some orange juice.

  ‘Um, yes, I slept very well,’ Kath says, not looking at me.

  ‘She slept very, very well,’ Colin says, sauntering over to her by the Aga and kissing her on the side of her face.

  I try very hard not to let my brain go anywhere with this display of middle-aged love and look over at Lyla, who isn’t trying as hard and instead is pulling the same face as she makes when she’s seen dog mess on the pavement.

  ‘So, looks like good dry weather for our walk then!’ I offer, as Kath starts serving up fried eggs on huge white buttered rolls.

  Fortunately, my conversational diversion does the trick and before long we’re all seated in front of delicious breakfasts, robes securely tied and chatting about which routes through the Lake District offer the best views.

  FOR SOMEONE WHO CLASSIFIES an afternoon at soft play as a ‘workout’ (and I’m talking about sitting with a latte until the children are thoroughly worn out and/or have initiated World War Three in the ball pool and you need to make a speedy exit before someone’s mum comes and has passive-aggressive words with you), I’m surprised by how nice a hike in the great outdoors actually is.

  We don’t have any phone signal but I do take a lot of photos and film Lyla a little bit. Colin seems very knowledgeable about the area and is actually quite interesting when he’s not being ever so slightly creepy about Kath’s nether regions. I’m relieved to see Lyla is listening intently as he tells us about ancient glaciers and how ribbon lakes are formed. Also, seeing as he runs a fruit, veg and flower warehouse he knows an awful lot about the autumn flowers, and Kath hangs on his every word. It’s quite sweet to see her letting someone else take the lead and enjoying it, rather than always being the person in our family who takes the lead, planning and fixing everything. Maybe she’s been waiting a long time to be led. I’ve always assumed that the goal is to be a strong, independent woman, but is it just as independent to allow yourself to enjoy someone else being the strong one from time to time?

  Lyla, having found a huge ‘magic walking stick’, is way up ahead, Kath and Colin saunter a little way in front of me and I just put one foot in front of the other, being soothed by the quiet sounds of gravel under my feet and knowing there’s nothing else I need to do other than walk. So simple. Walk forward. Life gets so easily complicated by everyday tasks, work goals, social media comparisons and the pressure to be the very best at everything, but ultimately all we need to do is this, walk forward.

  Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice time or distance and before long, we are at the top of a hill with beautiful views of the lakes and villages dotted below.

  ‘Breathe it in, Lyla,’ says Colin, ‘this air is pure.’

  ‘Our air is pure too, Colin, we’ve got a plug-in,’ she says nonchalantly, sitting down on a bench and laying the stick at her side.

  ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Kath says, sitting beside her but looking at me. ‘All of us together, on top of the world.’

  ‘Ha! Well, Kath, this isn’t really the top, this is actually a very low-lying hill, one of the more junior of the walks we could be attempting—’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘It’s lovely. We should do this sort of thing more often.’

  Maybe the ‘pure’ air really has gone to my head. Maybe Storie is on to something. Perhaps simple living in nature really is the answer. Perhaps I’ll go home and create a minimalist lifestyle. I’ll Project 333 my wardrobe, build a compost bin, stop buying anything with packaging and drink only organic, locally sourced wines. Yes! This is it. This is my awakening, my epiphany, my eureka moment!

  ‘Mummy, I need a poo and then I want to go to the toy shop,’ shouts Lyla with zero shame. My epiphany crashes down and I realise we’re either going to have to find a bush or peg it back to the village for a loo and then spend fifteen quid on a load of plastic tat she won’t give a crap about forty-five minutes after we’ve opened it. We’ll take the pestered-for item home, I’ll leave it out for a while until it gets dusty or sticky (I don’t know what the mystery stickiness is that somehow adheres itself to ALL children’s toys) and then I’l
l shove it in the garage with all the other dusty, sticky crap. Essentially, the least-minimalist, least-eco thing ever. At least I tried. For a solid twelve seconds, I was that woman.

  Once we’re in the village and toilet-related crises have been averted, we mooch around quite happily. Colin and Kath meander off to the local pub to thank them for the wonderful meals last night and book some more, while Lyla and I explore the little shops and boutiques.

  The lovely little village has one long high street running through the middle and a few tiny side streets spreading off that. The high street is lined with some boutique clothes shops selling couture for the over-fifties, a bakery, quaint hairdressers, ye olde toy shops flaunting their wooden wares in the grand old bay windows, sweet shops that no child or adult can resist, two or three weather-worn pubs and, sticking out like sore thumbs, a bank, a Co-op and an estate agent, to bring you back to reality with a bump.

  Off the smaller side streets are more little shops, tea rooms, a big old church and lots of paths and alleys that lead you to streams, hills, paths, waterways and basically, the Great Outdoors. After wandering about for a while, we pop into a tea room for hot chocolate and warm scones. I’ll never tell Kath but these might be the best scones I’ve ever sampled in my life. Maybe it’s the fresh air and exercise or maybe it’s the zen epiphany I had, but they are delicious.

  Before too long, Kath and Colin have strolled in holding hands, laden with bags, and sit down for a cup of tea and more scones. Scone calories don’t count when you’re on holiday. I mean, scone calories don’t count when you’re anywhere, but on holiday they’re almost negative. Eat all the scones, I say.

  ‘Oh, love, I’ve bought all sorts of bits for the house,’ Kath says, gesturing enthusiastically to her many bags full of treasures. ‘A shawl for Moira, and Colin’s picked up loads of second-hand steam train books, haven’t you?’