Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  ‘Doesn’t look like a bad life, Robs,’ Karl says, as he walks past and sees me enjoying the wall.

  ‘It certainly doesn’t. You’re lucky to have a lady like Lacey. I can’t believe she’s done all this!’ I say to him, almost in tears again.

  ‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ he says with a wink, and walks off to find his beloved pregnant wife.

  ‘Oh gawd, he doesn’t mean a stripper, does he?’ I ask Gillian out of the side of my mouth. ‘She promised no strippers.’

  ‘As disappointing as that is, I don’t think he meant a stripper. Have you been over here and seen your cake and memory jar, though?’ she says, leading me to the back of the shop where the till usually rests on a huge antique table.

  We meander past Tina and Michael, who are talking animatedly to Natalie and Martin about their travels, and come to a stop at the table.

  ‘Shit me! This is so beautiful,’ I gasp.

  ‘Your auntie made it and Lacey decorated it,’ Gillian says, reaching out a hand to touch the side of the cake very gently.

  At first look, it is just a simple round sponge with some flowers round the base, but the closer you inspect, the more tiny details there are. The sponge itself is very lightly glazed so you can still see the soft, pillowy texture, but when you move and see it in different lights, the whole thing has an iridescent sheen to it. Round the base are the same flowers as the ones in the crowns and dotted all over the room, eucalyptus, dark red roses, lavender and a touch of baby’s breath, but placed carefully in between those are pearl-, opal- and diamond-looking gems, all catching the light and shimmering back at us. On top of it is a hand-cut, gold-leafed number thirty, sticking up about four inches and twinkling with its gemstone counterparts. It looks too beautiful to eat.

  ‘They should sell these! This is more beautiful than any wedding cake I’ve ever seen,’ I say, feeling the bubbles of the drink go to my head a little bit. Who keeps topping this up?

  ‘And, Lacey’s organised you a memory jar! How lovely is that?’ Gillian says.

  ‘Ooh, a jar for me to fill with my memories?’ I say, really feeling the fizz setting in.

  ‘No, you ninny, we all write our favourite memories of you in there on one of these pieces of paper,’ she laughs, picking up a little square of deep purple paper that is lying next to another Mason jar full of gold gel pens. ‘It’s a keepsake for you to share with Lyla or to enjoy in years to come.’

  ‘If it’s to share with family, I’m not sure I could write down all of my favourite Robin Wilde memories,’ a deep voice says from behind me.

  Surely not? Why would he be here? In Dovington’s. In England?

  I turn.

  ‘Edward?’ I say, then just stupidly stare at him with my mouth open like a ventriloquist’s doll.

  ‘Hi,’ he says softly, reaching out both hands and taking both of mine, pulling me in for a little hug. I’m vaguely aware that a few people have turned round, sensing the event, but I don’t care.

  ‘Hi,’ I say back, into his neck, still dumbstruck. One of us is going to have to say more than this.

  ‘I brought you a present,’ Edward says, stepping back, pulling open his blazer and lifting out a gift.

  Without speaking, I take it from him slowly, unwrap the black shiny paper tied up with gold ribbon (either Edward is a master wrapper or this is the craft of a department store worker) and pull out the most luxurious notebook I’ve ever had. This is no £1.49 jobby from WHSmith, like the ones that I’ve mostly used to write all my thoughts and ideas in, and the one I found in my shell box of memories and trinkets last year. No, this is a proper grown-up notebook. How lovely that he remembered me talking about this. The jacket is the softest, butteriest leather in a deep navy, and on the spine, embossed in gold lettering, is ‘Robin Wilde’. I run my finger across my name and look up at Edward.

  He looks as choked-up as I am.

  ‘I messaged you so many times,’ I manage.

  ‘I know. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say so much but I didn’t want to get hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’

  ‘I’m wild about you, Robin. I think about you all the time. I know it’s been a weird year, and I know there have been hard … things … but I think there’s something worth it here. I mean, I hope there is. Otherwise I’m just standing in a mad florist’s with your mad friend Lacey, who somehow found my work number and harassed me till I gave in and—’

  ‘I’m in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t need convincing. I’m not scared. I want to see what happens.’

  Wow, this is romantic. The fairy lights, the notebook, the man, several of my closest friends pretending they’re not listening but obviously they’re almost giving themselves hernias, they’re straining so hard to hear us.

  ‘Mummy! Who is this strange man?’ Lyla bounds up, shattering any sense of movie-like romance, and I panic. She’s never met Edward. Is this the wrong way to introduce him? We’ve only just got over the pink snake MatchMe app incident of 2016 – I don’t want to psychologically damage her any further.

  ‘This is Mummy’s friend Edward,’ Lacey interjects, walking over and giving Edward a hug. They’ve obviously already been introduced. She looks at me uncertainly. ‘Look, I had to do something, you were so mopey; I’m pregnant, my hormones are crazy, OK?’

  ‘I love you, Lacey and, for once, I love your hormones.’

  Lyla, who has been watching the whole exchange, adds, ‘I think you want Edward to be your boyfriend. You talk about Edward to Lacey on the phone ALL the time. You love him. You want to marry him,’ she laughs, and skips off. Hmmm, maybe it wasn’t all that psychologically damaging after all.

  ‘You talk about me all the time to Lacey, do you?’ Edward says with a wry smile.

  ‘No! Literally never. Like once. Maybe. In a fleeting moment,’ I start gabbling, with a big smile across my face.

  ‘My dear, is this the famous stud from the Americas?’ comes Finola’s voice, really not helping me prove my point at all.

  ‘No! Well, yes! I never said he was a stud!’ I stammer, taking a big glug of my drink and turning red.

  ‘Robin Wilde, you think I’m a stud. You want me to be your boyfriend. It’s your thirtieth birthday. Lacey’s shown me all the teenage pictures. I’ve met your Auntie Kath. Why don’t you just give up and kiss me?’ Edward says, moving closer.

  And, actually like the movies, Edward puts one hand on my lower back, one on my shoulder, swoops me down and kisses me, just as all my friends cheer and clap. I’ve peaked, I think. I’ve fucking well peaked.

  THIRTY-NINE

  A NEW YEAR …

  ‘CHRISTMAS WAS LOVELY,’ I begin writing on the first page of the magnificent navy leather notebook Edward gave me for my birthday just over a month ago. ‘Christmas was lovely’ feels so meh, though. It doesn’t fully bring to life how it all felt, but to write all that in my notebook would be too much.

  Rather than committing the heinous stationery crime that is ripping a page out of a new book, heaven forfend, I underline ‘lovely’ twice. That helps. Underneath it, I add, ‘Perfect, actually’, and underline that, too. I foresee a lot of underlining in this new notebook.

  It’s mid-January. I’m sitting up in bed, lit by the glow of my bedside lamp at 6.30 a.m., waiting for Lyla to wake up in about an hour, and then we’ll start the school run routine. I don’t usually wake up this early but today I did and felt compelled to start writing in my notebook, almost like a diary, just as I used to do so often. Last year I didn’t write a journal at all. Not because I was sad or bleak or totally consumed by The Emptiness all year, but because I was just too busy. I’d felt like I didn’t need my old notepad habit, but this morning I knew it was time to start writing again. I know I will want to read these things back one day, and I’ll be glad I kept a record. Even if it’s just here and there, pockets of time, I’ll be glad.

  After my birthday, so many significant life-thi
ngs happened that I want to write them all down so that I can relax, knowing the memories are safely stored, here in this little book.

  First, Edward. Edward happened.

  Remember when I was a bit miffed at Lacey for sending him a message on Facebook after London Fashion Week? Well, it turns out I have a lot to thank her for because they began chatting, and as much as I don’t like the idea of Lacey (or anyone, for that matter) interfering in my love life, I’m so glad she did. In a risky move, she took it upon herself to tell Edward all about Theo. She told him how I’d been so lonely for so long, how I had let someone into my heart and then had been completely let down and felt utterly rejected. She helped Edward understand that my pushing him away was never a reflection of his shortcomings, but really a reflection of mine. Despite my year-long protests, she saw through my ‘I’m not that bothered about him’ facade and told him how much he meant to me. All this on Facebook chat, potentially the modern-day ink and quill love letter.

  When Edward turned up to my party it wasn’t just for a fleeting visit. He had a month-long stay booked. He’s researching some new business opportunities in London and already had leave planned to see his mum and dad over Christmas, so pushed it all together.

  We’ve never had the opportunity to spend more than a few days together at a time, and although I was apprehensive that the magic would wear off, it didn’t.

  We spent long, lazy days in bed together making up for all the lost time over the autumn; we spent afternoons in country pubs talking about our childhoods, our previous relationships, our work goals and, more poignantly, our family goals. We talked about the miscarriage. We talked about how it had affected me, but also, how it affected him. I had never really thought it would have such a deep impact on him, because he didn’t go through the physicality of it, but that just wasn’t the case. He felt it. He felt a great loss, a great robbing of the future, and, just like me, he grieved too. I wish we had grieved together. I wish I had known he was feeling this way, but to his credit, he held it together to support me. As I write my notes in the beautiful navy book, I pause my pen. That baby would be here by now. It would be a couple of weeks old and I’d be in that newborn, sleep-deprived, hazy bubble. How different my life would be.

  During his stay, Edward also spent some time with Lyla. After seeing us kiss at the party and apparently picking up so much about him over the year (who knew children were so astute and had such bat ears? Me now, apparently), it seemed pointless trying to fob him off as ‘Mummy’s friend’ and treating her like she’s less intelligent than she is.

  ‘Lyla, this is Edward,’ I told her when he popped over for brunch the weekend after my party. He’d had a chocolate Santa in one hand and a bunch of glitter-dipped daisies in the other.

  ‘Are those flowers for Mummy and the Santa for me?’ she asked, even before saying hello, clearly trying to establish the lie of the land.

  ‘No, actually they’re both for you. Nice to meet you properly, Lyla,’ Edward said sweetly, stepping into the hallway and handing her his offerings.

  Lyla was thrilled. Never before had she been treated to something so grown up as her own bunch of flowers, especially not glitter-dipped ones. I smiled at the scene, feeling happy for Lyla and so touched that Edward had made such a well-thought-out gesture.

  We walked through to the kitchen where I’d laid out a hot pot of tea, warm croissants, jams and butter (which I’d decanted into a little dish because although I’m really at ease with him, I’m still semi-playing the game. If butter in a dish is a game. What am I doing? I’m overthinking butter).

  ‘So, Edward,’ Lyla started as she hoisted herself up onto a bar stool and dug into a croissant, ‘are you my mum’s new boyfriend?’

  I instantly felt the blood rush to my neck and face, and wished the ground would swallow me up. It was painfully awkward.

  ‘Argh! Hahaha! Kids eh?!’ I gabbled at Edward, trying to pass it off as a joke but feeling super-flustered.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said calmly, putting a hand on my lower back to reassure me and looking at Lyla with a smile. ‘You know what, Lyla, I would really, really like to be.’

  Lyla hunched her shoulders and giggled into her croissant at Edward’s brazen act of bravery. The tension dissipated all at once.

  ‘Oh, would you?’ I laughed. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that,’ I said, giving him a little kiss on the lips, much to Lyla’s horror.

  ‘Ewww, Mummy!’

  With that, he and Lyla were fully introduced and everyone knew the score. I never officially said ‘yes’ to being Edward’s girlfriend, but I think we all knew. Just to be sure, I bought him a Christmas card with ‘boyfriend’ on because when you’re just a smidge too emotionally scarred to utter the words yourself, there’s always mass consumerism to help you out.

  Lyla gave him a card for Christmas, too. In Lyla language, it was the highest compliment. On the outside were penguins dancing round a frozen lake (just a normal one that she’d got out of the multipack I bought her to give out to friends), but on the inside she had written:

  Dear Edwood,

  You are not a slimy wurm.

  Merry Christmas!

  Love,

  Lyla

  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  A whole row of kisses is standard fare from her, but I was delighted to see the real indication of festive cheer, the declaration that Edward is not a ‘slimy wurm’. I explained this huge act of goodwill, and Edward was most pleased. He returned the favour by clamping his arms tightly to his side and wiggling around saying, ‘Oh, help me, I thought I was a worm, but I’m not a worm! I’m wiggling like a worm, but I’m not a worm!’ while Lyla ran round him laughing heartily and trying to ‘unstick’ his arms with spells. I watched and smiled and felt so thankful to have found a man like Edward, who indeed, unlike all my others, is not a slimy worm.

  As well as the card to Edward, Lyla surprised me with another …

  We had decided that I would host the family Christmas this year. Mum and Dad spared me another trip to Cornwall as they’d only just docked, back from their Scandinavian cruise and ‘needed a few days to reset’. I’m not sure how much ‘resetting’ you need to do after a two-week, all-inclusive relaxing holiday on a boat, but I wasn’t going to argue because the thought of driving all the way down and enduring my mother for three days was quite the burden.

  Since the new house has a much bigger kitchen than Kath’s, and open-plan dining, we decided we’d do it here and cook together. Edward, naturally, was spending Christmas Day with his family, but planned on coming back up on Boxing Day for some festivities here. Lyla was set to be with me and then her dad would pick her up at seven on Christmas night. It was a good set-up, and I was so excited about spending the day in my PJs, eating Kath’s incredible food, watching Lyla unwrap her presents and making my way through the selection box Kath would inevitably buy me, even though I’m thirty now.

  A week after my birthday, while I was in the downstairs loo, cleaning all my work make-up brushes in the little sink, Lyla plodded down with a letter.

  ‘Mummy, I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ she said bluntly, as though I knew exactly which thing she was talking about.

  Racking my brains, I asked her what she meant.

  ‘About Colin.’

  Still lost, I waited for her to explain.

  ‘About letting Colin into our lives and making Kath happy. She was so happy at your birthday party, and Colin was really kind all day. He did all the setting up and said my flower crowns were the best he’s ever seen,’ she said earnestly.

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘so what’s in the letter?’

  ‘I’ll read it to you.’

  ‘OK.’ I was intrigued.

  Dear Colin,

  You are not my best friend but I like you a bit. Roo is my real best friend and Kath is my family best friend.

  Even though Kath loves Derek, she does like you and you are kind to her. You helped make Mummy’s party
be special and Kath cried happy tears when she walked in.

  We are having Christmas dinner at our house and we would like to invite you too. You can sit next to Kath but I’m sitting closest on the other side of her.

  Lots of love,

  Lyla

  ‘I’m going to fold it up and put it in a Christmas card for him and you can post it,’ she told me.

  I had to catch my breath. I knew how much of a step that was for Lyla (and really hoped Colin would see it, too, despite the rather blunt honesty).

  ‘Lyla, that’s so sweet of you to invite him, we can send it later.’

  Using my best judgement, I decided to take the letter and stash it in a drawer, pretending that it had been posted. Later on that night, I sent a text to Colin inviting him to Christmas dinner – making clear the invitation came from Lyla as well.

  His reply was swift. Well now, that is very nice of you indeed to invite me but I think it would be appreciated by Kathy if she could spend some time with you on her own. We have lots of time ahead for big events, but I’d like Lyla to have all of her aunt on this special day, and I shall be travelling down to spend some time with my sons. All the best, Colin x

  I felt a huge wave of respect for Colin. He may have already had plans with his boys, but the fact that he recognised Lyla’s need for some solo Kath time meant a lot. He’s a good egg, that one. Mentally I took him off my ‘any bottle of wine that’s on offer’ Christmas list and added him to the ‘nice jumper from John Lewis’ list. An upgrade!

  SO CHRISTMAS WAS SPENT as a happy trio, and it was bliss. The run-up was filled with the usual fare: school concerts (complete with dance routine, of course), a heavy workload thanks to clients trying to squeeze in commercial shoots before the Christmas break, lots of people booking an hour of services for special parties and a few of our community centre jobs, and, of course, late-night Christmas shopping. This has always been a tradition of mine and Lacey’s, but since she’s just a human ball waddling about huffing and puffing now, she brought her iPad over and we both lounged on my sofas with heated party food and did it all online. I don’t think I’ll ever do it any other way, again. And I even got my promised girly night out on the town with Piper, while Lacey babysat – with her fully packed Hospital Bag reassuringly by her side ‘just in case’.