‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean those things like that,’ he begins, reaching out to me.
‘No, it’s fine.’ It’s definitely not fine. ‘I just want to be, just be,’ I say quietly.
‘OK. I’m sorry. Call me and we’ll sort it,’ he says, opening the door.
‘Yep,’ I say as he closes the door and leaves me alone.
I take two steps back, sit on the bottom stair and cry so hard I give myself a migraine. This is not how New York was supposed to be. New York was supposed to fix everything and everyone. Once again, I’ve fucked everything up.
TWENTY-NINE
I’M THINKING EDWARD WILL make a dramatic entrance at the airport, come running over at the last minute with a bouquet of roses, loudly declaring his love for me and tell me he’s bought a ticket to come back with us. Onlookers will weep and cheer as Edward lifts me high into the air and shouts, ‘I love this woman!’ All those 1990s romcoms setting unrealistic standards of romance in my head have a lot to answer for. I might just stick to gritty murder documentaries from now on.
I also think we should have sorted all this out by now. After the row in the town house, Edward rang to say maybe we should ‘cool things off for a bit’. I couldn’t swallow my pride and I didn’t want to beg, so I just said that hideous little word, ‘fine’. I was desperate to scream, ‘No, please don’t cool off, I need you, you’re one of the happiest things in my life, I don’t want to be alone again, what if The Emptiness comes back, what if everyone sees I’m not really a badass “girl boss”, but that I’m just winging it till someone notices I’m a bit crap underneath?’ But obviously I didn’t. Just ‘fine’.
So that’s it. My last week in New York has been spent pretending. Pretending to Kath that I don’t know her secret. Pretending to Lyla that I’m happy. Pretending to Lacey that Edward is just ‘really busy at work’. But maybe that’s one of my top skills – because I think I’ve pretended so well, they all believe it. I went toy-shopping with Lyla (we bought even more accessories for the beloved doll), I went round to Piper’s and hung out with Lacey and Willow when she didn’t feel like going further than the end of the block, and I even went to Central Park with Kath, wondering if being back there would mean she’d tell me her secret too. But she kept quiet. And so did I. Touché.
If you looked at my Instagram, you’d think this last week has been magical. Even Skye would be impressed. I hope it has been magical for Lyla, at least. You’d see the shots of her beaming a mile-wide smile at the top of the Empire State Building, or wearing a Statue of Liberty hat at the Waterside, and even a picture of all of us trying on I NY T-shirts. Well, all of us except Edward.
There’s one piece of good news to come out of this week, though. Just as we were packing up, and I was wondering how much we would be charged to lug home all of Kath’s lavender creations – she’s clearly had too much on her mind to get her business mojo flowing as well – I got a call from Paige at Fierce Films. When we’d left, I’d given her a pot of Lavender Lovies hand cream, and she said her room-mate had seen it and loved it so much, she wanted to buy all the stock for the cute little Williamsburg craft market she has a stall at. Kath was bowled over. When we took a cab down to the market, we could see at once that Kath’s wares would fit right in. And even better, when we showed Paige’s flatmate the phone cases, she placed an order there and then! Hurrah for little victories.
But now our time is up and we are heading home. Every step further into the airport makes me want to whip round and check to see if he’s here, behind me, desperate to make things right. But he isn’t.
Piper has stayed with us right up to check-in at JFK, reminding us all it won’t be long before she’ll be back in the UK, too. We wave our bags through with their little tags on, we queue for security, look at all the boards to see which gate we’re boarding at and walk through into the main hub of the airport and wait. What a difference a few weeks makes! Last time we were at the airport we were loud and excited (and late); now it feels like we can’t wait to leave. We’re a subdued little group.
The wait is a symphony of sounds and smells and lights and trying to soothe Willow, who isn’t appreciating the DJ the airport have employed to make departures feel like a low-rate midweek club night. Why do this? Pump relaxing spa-like pan pipe sounds through the speaker system – don’t have an actual DJ on the decks at the side asking us if we’re ready to ‘have a real good time’. I was having a real good time a month ago, and then I came here, discovered I had a cousin somewhere I never knew about and lost my boyfriend, thank you very much, DJ Kashid. Perhaps if he knew that he wouldn’t be bashing out ‘No Limits’ so loudly over the din of Willow screaming.
‘What do you keep looking for, Mummy?’ Lyla shouts over the music as we walk to find a food place we all like.
Oh cool, I was being subtle, then. The music bellowing and Willow screaming and the duty-free lady spritzing perfume into our path and dragging an eight-year-old along on a wheelie suitcase are all too much, and it is as though my brain has turned to soup and dribbled out of my ears.
‘I’m, yes, no, I’m not,’ I stammer.
I look round again – not for some Prince Charming this time, but for some support. But Kath is distracted, held up behind us in her patchwork maxi skirt, putting Jo Malone-spritzed sample sticks into her crocheted handbag. I look to my right, and although Willow has stopped crying, thanks to the dummy popped firmly in her mouth, silent tears are rolling down Lacey’s cheeks, as she tries very hard to keep looking forward and focus only on the far-off distance, instead of how hard she’s found it saying goodbye to Piper and how completely drained she’s probably feeling.
I give myself a good mental shake.
‘I’m just looking around to check we’ve got everyone. Kath! Keep up, we don’t want to get separated, not even for expensive perfume. Lacey,’ I say, reaching out and squeezing her arm lovingly, ‘you’re doing a brilliant job. I think she’s going to nod off soon.’ I look at Willow, snuggled up in the baby carrier against Lacey’s chest. I try not to think about how sweaty that must make her tits; she doesn’t need to think about that either right now.
‘What if she screams on the plane and everyone thinks I’m a shit mum?’ Lacey asks just as I swing to the left to look at a menu outside a café, moving the wheelie case too sharply and making poor Lyla topple off onto the floor with a thud.
‘Then we’ll be shit mums together, who are doing our bloody best but need a long sit-down and a large glass of wine!’ I say firmly in comradery as I scoop a good-spirited Lyla off the floor, catch the eye of Kath to beckon her over and then smile up at Lacey. ‘You’re not a shit mum. Everything is going to be fine.’ Realising I’ve said my favourite word again, I cave and have one last look round for Edward.
‘I don’t think he’s coming, Robs,’ Lacey says, this time squeezing my arm and checking Lyla is out of earshot. She’s clearly picked up on the tension, despite my trying not to burden her with it. ‘Fuck him. Fuck them all,’ she says forcibly, as though trying to convince herself as well as me.
‘Who are we fucking now?’ Kath asks casually as she wafts little paper sticks saturated in different scents in our faces, making us wince a bit.
‘Steady on, Kath!’ Lacey laughs, taken aback by her profanity.
‘Lovey, I’ve been around the block more times than all of you put together. If you can drop the F-bomb, then so can I!’ she says, still beckoning to us to smell her sticks.
‘What’s an F-bomb?’ pipes Lyla, as she picks up the wheelie case and steers it back towards us – and right into my ankles.
We’re all a bit stumped. Nobody wants to answer with the truth, but I think we’re all a bit too frazzled to think of a good reply. You know when you see contestants on a quiz show, struggling to answer the most basic question while you yell it at the TV? It’s like that: we’re all contestants not having the foggiest clue what words should come out of our mouths.
‘What is it, then? The F-
bomb? What sort of bomb is it?’ Lyla continues relentlessly.
‘Right! Can we please all stop saying either the F-word or the B-word? We are in an airport, and Kath, nobody is fucking anybody,’ I say sternly, as soon as Lyla makes another loop away from us.
‘Well, that is a shame then,’ she says airily as she steps up to look at the menu too.
This is going to be a long flight.
THIRTY
AUGUST
THE PAST WEEK BACK at home feels like it’s been so much longer than seven days. Lyla and I are both still struggling with being back on British time, and while she can afford to relax and enjoy her summer holidays with Simon and Storie (who are having her this week), I’ve been setting my alarm, heaving myself out of bed and trying to make myself look half decent in spite of my dry skin and giant eye bags. I never thought I’d be envious of Lyla spending time with her drippy dad and his mushroom-foraging girlfriend, but I am.
My magical movie moment with Edward at the airport didn’t happen, obviously. Instead, I spent the seven-hour flight taking it in turns with Lacey and Kath to walk a grizzling Willow up and down the aisles and trying not to cry myself. I’m not sure which was harder: settling Willow or convincing Lacey it was all going to be OK.
On top of that, while Kath was on walking duty, Lacey wanted to know if and when I was going to talk to her about the adoption, what I was going to say and how I thought she’d take it. I didn’t have the heart to tell Lacey to just button it and let me be sad in peace and deal with my own problems, so I told her I’d have to have a really good think about it but that worrying now wasn’t going to help. That seemed to appease her.
Edward’s idea of cooling things off ‘a bit’ seems to be ‘a lot’. I’ve barely heard from him – only once really to say his work is keeping him out there longer because they’re struggling to hire a new manager. Very convenient … Well, I’m not going to beg for him back. He’s a great guy, but so are plenty of other people and I shouldn’t have to change myself or my life to suit a man. It’s the modern world. I’m a working woman. I’ve got this. If I say that enough times I’ll convince myself, right?
The one good thing about this week (aside from Tuesday, when I found an entire family-size bar of fruit and nut behind all the cereal boxes), happened at work.
Sitting at my desk and staring at my screen for so long, I developed a headache, which made me think maybe I haven’t actually ‘got this’. It’s exhausting work, telling yourself everything is fine. But Natalie called me into her office, giving me the excuse to leave my mindless scrolling.
‘Robin, I wanted you to be the first to know,’ Natalie says. ‘We’ve had the promised retainer payment from Fierce Films. It’s official – MADE IT is safe. And a huge part of that is down to you. I’ve added a bonus to your salary this month – you’ve earnt it.’
I should be delighted, I think as I go back to my desk, and while I’m relieved the business is going to be OK, since Edward’s gone I can’t seem to feel things in full colour.
Skye looks up from her ‘space’ and notices my despair.
‘Are you all right, bae?’ she asks, jolting me out of my mind-wander.
‘Bae is the one that means babe, right?’
‘Yes. Bless your heart,’ she says gently.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes.
‘Because I’m your friend and I care about you,’ Skye says, looking at me with such kindness I almost cry.
‘Wow. Thank you, Skye. That’s really very nice of you. You’re my friend too, and I appreciate—’
‘And if I were your age and had just been ghosted, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. But I’m here for you. If you need a makeover to help you get back out there, I’m happy to help you. We could make a night of it, couldn’t we?’ she says, speaking to me like I’m already in a home.
‘Right. First, Skye, I’m not that old. I’m thirty. I know this is madness to you but I’m actually, technically, a millennial too. We are the same. Second, I don’t fully know what “ghosted” is, but I’m assuming dumped, and that’s not what’s happened at all, we’re just having a bit of space. And third, I too am a make-up artist, so I think I’m OK for a makeover, thank you.’
‘I know, sweetie, but I’m Head Make-Up Artist,’ she says, as though she hasn’t heard a word of what I’ve just said.
I don’t feel like it’s worth explaining to her that I am Creative Director, which is more senior than Head Make-Up Artist. My brain is too full of sluggish emotion to take Skye on, so instead I just glaze over a bit and say, ‘Yeaaah, thanks, Skye,’ allow her to waffle on a bit more about her mum, who has recently found love again (without pointing out to her that, again, I’m only thirty and not old enough to be her fucking mother), and that is all because she has a great attitude and uses the ‘forces of the universe’.
‘Honestly, Robin, you should look into it – The Secret,’ she finishes.
‘Yeah, I’ll do that,’ I agree, hoping she’ll just get bored of this soon. I’m tired in every single way possible.
‘I’d say you should come out tonight and I’ll help you hook up, but you’ve got your women’s club, haven’t you?’ she says, clearly not running out of fuel.
‘Yes, I have my business networking night, Women Who Win. I also don’t want to “hook up” with anyone because, like I said, I’m not single, we’re just having some space. And I do actually have a lot to do. We’ve not got long before we need to send our pitch to Mara for her spring/summer show next year. And we really need to impress her again so that we become her go-to artists and don’t have to keep bidding for the work.
‘I’m really trying to immerse myself,’ I say, nodding at my screen, thanking the lords above that she can’t see my browser is open to the M&S children’s section rather than any work. ‘Also, as you know,’ I say, trying to sound on my game professionally, ‘I’m heading up the expansion project. I’ve confirmed the venue for the live tutorials and I think—’
‘Isn’t it just your friend’s florist’s?’ Skye says, still full of pep and energy. Maybe she’s on some magic vitamin tablets I need to invest in.
‘Er, yes, Dovington’s. It has a huge room at the back that the manager says we can hire for six months and convert how we see fit. I thought the floral element would be beautiful,’ I respond with pomp.
‘I mean, yeah, any room with good lighting and mirrors would be cool. But like you said, having all the plants and stuff would be good for Insta! We could set up a flower wall, too, with proper ring lights and a tripod for people to frame the perfect shot!’ she declares excitedly.
‘Thank you, Skye, I’ll have a think about that and get back to you,’ I say, writing GET FLOWER WALL on my notepad and underlining it. What a brilliant idea. ‘I really do need to focus now,’ I say, looking back at M&S on my screen.
‘Right, right, got you. Gotta get in the game. Zone into your headspace. Find your vibe,’ she says, nodding earnestly.
‘Yes. Thank you, Skye.’
She’s a good egg, really. On days like this I wish I could dial her down a bit, but I have to admit it’s nice to be around someone with such enthusiasm. I’m glad she doesn’t know how tough things can be or how close we nearly came to losing the job out there, and with it a whole bunch of staff – maybe even her. Ignorance is bliss, and I’d love a bit of either right now …
THIRTY-ONE
DRIVING OVER TO THE school at 6:30 p.m. with no Lyla always feels a bit weird. I know she’ll be having a great time with Simon and Storie, harvesting honey or bowing to the moon gods, but I miss her. How is it that children are the things that exhaust you most but fulfil you so completely? What a paradox.
I give Lacey a ring as I’m driving.
‘Hellooo,’ she says over the sound of Willow squawking.
‘Oh, sorry! Have I called at a bad time?’ I say apologetically.
‘It’s always a bad time now I’m not in New York!’ Lacey l
aughs drily.
‘I know! It feels like ages ago already, doesn’t it? Are you glad to be home, though? Glad to be back with Karl?’ I ask, hoping she says yes.
‘I am, I really am, but I thought that would help and … I dunno. It hasn’t really. Willow, please just take this bottle!’ she says distractedly.
‘Help what?’ I ask, trying to figure out what she means.
‘Just help me feel a bit more up. A bit more normal.’ It all tumbles out. ‘Before New York I thought I was just bored and tired and full of new hormones. In New York I thought I was a bit flat because I missed Karl and it was hard solo-parenting and I felt for Kath’s situation. But now I’m home, I still feel down,’ she says with no Willow sounds in the background, so I assume she’s happily having her bottle now. I feel a pang of missing her after being used to seeing her so much.
‘So,’ she continues with a big intake of breath, ‘I’ve booked an appointment with my GP. I really have this time … and I’m actually going to go. It’s tomorrow morning. I’m going to talk to her about how I’m feeling, and see if I can get some support. I think that’s the best thing to do,’ she ends so confidently I can’t help but smile.
‘This is amazing! Yes, Lacey! Yes! What spurred this on?’ I ask joyfully.
‘Well, I’ve got Piper on my case twenty-four-seven!’ she replies. ‘But I think being in America helped, too. Everyone is so relaxed with talking about these things. The mums in the playgrounds were openly chatting to each other about how shit they feel. One mum, who I’d never even met before, with a little boy on the climbing frame, turned to me and said, “Why does nobody tell anyone how boring motherhood is?” and laughed. And then I laughed! It is boring, Robin! Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, laughing too.
‘Ha, ha! I don’t know! It’s not something anyone ever says. What sort of a mum would I be if I went round saying that sometimes looking after my kid is a bit dull?’ I ask, laughing along with her.
Wilde Women Page 19
