IT’S 10.35 A.M., AND we’ve all taken our seats on the slightly chilly playground to watch the parade. I’m still fizzing with the memories of my day – and night – with Theo, and our steamy messages and phone calls since. He’s away in Zurich, but we’ve got plans to see each other just as soon as he’s back. A cool breeze brings me back to the here and now. We could have the event inside, but it’s sunny and Mrs Barnstorm suggests it will be marvellous to feel the ‘bracing air’ as we sing. Sadist. The tension is palpable, with every PSM perspiring at the thought of their precious angel parading their masterpiece in mere minutes.
I snuck in earlier than the others this morning so I could charm the receptionist into putting Lyla’s hat in the staffroom fridge to keep the flowers fresh, and although she now probably thinks I’m clinically insane, it’ll be worth it just for the look on Val’s face alone.
‘Oh, we didn’t bother with any of that craft shop tat in the end,’ I can hear her boasting to one of the Year Three mums. ‘No, Roger and I were on a coastal minibreak a few weekends ago and we specifically picked up some absolutely stunning shells from one of the harbour shops, and we’ve adhered those to a fantastic hat we bought in Harrods over the half-term and dressed it with very expensive Chinese Silk.’
‘Oh. Are shells particularly seasonal for Easter?’ I can hear the Year Three mum asking, bravely.
‘Well, they’re pink and pastel-coloured, aren’t they? That’s Easter-themed, I’d say!’ defends Val, with a hint of irritation in her voice.
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ the Year Three mum says, backing down.
Poor Corinthia.
‘Ohh, here they come!’ coos Val.
‘Stand tall, Honor! Stretch your shoulders back!’ barks Finola lovingly at her obedient daughter.
Honor, Clara and Roo have beautiful little straw boater hats with fluffy chicks, fake grass, foam bunnies – the whole shebang.
Corinthia walks out pompously behind them in a lemon-coloured felt beret that’s covered in shells. Poor kid looks like the beach has thrown up on her. I actually feel sorry for her. She’ll be spending an absolute fortune in counselling one day.
I crane my neck to see Lyla and there, at the back of the line, she walks shyly but proudly wearing her fresh flower and silk taffeta bonnet. She looks beautiful. Her long lashes flutter as she turns to look at us all, and I feel my chest puff with pride. I might be imagining it but some of the other mums and dads (you know it’s a big event when the dads come) audibly gasp.
‘Oh Robin, it’s beautiful,’ breathes Gillian in awe. She has clearly taken this event very seriously. Her husband, Paul, gently reaches for her hand and nods in my direction very sincerely.
‘Thank you.’ They’re a lovely couple.
‘Are they fresh flowers, dear?’ asks Finola.
‘Yes. I thought they captured the essence of new life,’ I say, exuding as much grace and dignity as I’ve ever mustered in my entire life. I’m practically floating.
‘Well, blow me down with a feather, darling, I think you’re going to win it. It’s magnificent.’
Praise from Finola is rare, and to hear her be impressed with me might actually be one of the greatest moments of my life. Aside from Lyla being born, I mean. Or on a par with that, at least.
‘Thanks, Finola. Honor and Roo look brilliant too. And Clara as well, Gillian; she looks so cute.’
The parade continues, and we’re given the ‘treat’ of all the children singing a few songs. There’s something about children singing songs that sets me off. I blink back tears as they all chorus: ‘Dance, then, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance said he’ so beautifully. Lyla makes eye contact with me and I wave and smile. Looking at her singing with her bonnet on, smiling at me, she seems perfectly happy and settled. She doesn’t seem like the kid of a broken home or deeply troubled (like me, perhaps); she just seems at ease with the world around her. Have I managed to ease her through the late start at this school and life as a joint custody child? Maybe she’s going to be OK here. She’s even looking at ease with little Corinthia, who has thrown several jealousy-induced shady looks her way, and one tongue poke. Lyla’s risen above it, though; good girl.
Mr Ravelle, the headmaster, reads a passage from the Bible and then – the moment we’ve all been waiting for – Mrs Barnstorm announces the winner of the parade.
The bonnets were apparently displayed earlier this morning in the school hall – ours ceremonially removed from the fridge – for the ‘esteemed panel’ (a lady from the local church, a Year Five teacher and Mr Ravelle) to judge, and the votes have been submitted and counted.
The parents look tense, the children sit cross-legged on the playground tarmac staring with wide eyes, Mrs Barnstorm ceremoniously opens her envelope, pulls out a piece of white A4, unfolds it and and bellows, ‘First place goes to Lyla Blue Wilde.’
All the children cheer, the parents clap, Val seethes and I lock eyes with Lyla. She’s flushed with surprise and happiness, and so am I. I give my beautiful girl a thumbs up and a big smile and she does the same back, accompanied by a wriggly little dance. We finish with one final song from the children and she runs over, carefully holding the brim of her bonnet.
‘Mummy, I won! My hat won!’ she says, jumping up and down and tip-tapping her little blue patent-leather school shoes on the tarmac.
‘I know, I know! You did so well, I loved your singing and your parading and you sat so nicely. Well, well, well done my little Lyla Bluebird. I’m so proud of you!’
‘I was so careful with the bonnet, Mummy. I’m going to keep it forever!’
‘Yes, we’ll keep it very carefully and it can be our treasure.’
‘Well, that’s not true now, is it, Mummy?’ Val sneers. In all the excitement of Lyla’s win, I haven’t seen her creep up next to us. ‘Those are fresh flowers, so they’ll be dead by tomorrow and you won’t have your bonnet any more, Lyla.’
The joy from Lyla’s face completely evaporates and turns to horror at the idea of her hat vanishing.
‘Val, please. She’s a little girl and she’s happy. Lyla, my sweet pea, we can easily dry the flowers and keep the bonnet forever.’
I cast my eyes about hoping Finola or Gillian will come and rescue me, but they’re talking to Mr Ravelle and have their backs turned.
Seeing she has the advantage, Val starts up again. ‘Corinthia’s hat is something she can treasure forever because we made sure to make it with things that last. Flowers rot.’ She almost spits the words at me.
This is horrific. Why is this woman being so awful to my little girl? I would never say anything unkind to Corinthia, even if she does look like ocean puke.
Lyla’s eyes are filling with tears at Val’s cruel words, and she takes her beautiful bonnet off her head.
‘My mummy made this for me. She loves me so much, to the moon and all the way around the earth, and my bonnet is beautiful,’ she says, looking up at Val, voice quivering. ‘Mummy, I want to go home,’ she adds so meekly I think I might die.
Seeing her be so tiny yet so valiant makes my heart almost break.
‘Well, she can’t love you that much if she made you a hat out of mouldy old flowers. You might as well put it straight in the bin, sweetie.’
Nope. That’s it. She’s crossed a line.
‘Valerie Pickering,’ I say, my voice starting to rise, ‘how dare you speak to my daughter like that? How dare you try to spread your poisonous insecurities onto an innocent little girl.’ People are looking now. ‘I know you can’t bear to lose, I know you’re so sad that you feel like you need to show off at every possible opportunity and flaunt any tiny thing you can, but for once, just once, have the good grace to allow someone else a little bit of the glory and back the hell away from my child.’
Silence has fallen across the playground.
‘All I was saying—’ she tries to weasel.
‘I couldn’t care less what you were trying to say. What you did say, directly, to a six-year-old girl, was that Lyla’s hat would rot and that her mummy didn’t love her enough.’ Everybody watching looks equally appalled, but also thrilled at such school drama. ‘Don’t you ever, ever come near me or my daughter again. You are nothing but a pathetic woman with spite in her heart, and I’m sorry to say it, but a total BITCH!’
‘Mummy! A bad word!’ says Lyla, in shock.
‘I’m sorry, Bluebird,’ I say, completely flabbergasted by my own bravery. I think we all are. Val stands looking at me and then looks around at the other mums. Nobody comes to her aid. She grabs Corinthia’s wrist, turns on her heel and storms off towards her shiny Range Rover.
Surprisingly, Gillian is the first to break the shocked silence.
She kneels down in her sensible navy-and-white-striped Joules skirt and says, looking directly at her, ‘Lyla, I thought your hat was so beautiful. I wish I had a hat made out of real flowers. I would think that fairies would come to it and dance around and make little parties all over it, because did you know, fairies love fresh flowers.’
Lyla slowly nods and a faint smile reappears. Clara (whose bonnet is covered in fake grass and hidden eggs) steps forward next to her mother and says, ‘If we put our hats next to each other, it will look like a whole fairy garden,’ and this entices a full smile from both girls and they skip off to the bushes, where they carefully lay their hats down, crouch beside them and drift off into little girl chat about pixies and fairies and all kinds of magic.
Watching Lyla take control of her feelings, put Val’s twattery to one side and allow herself joy and fun with Clara, her own little friend, refills my heart. So often Lyla copes with life better than I do. Amazing little thing.
When I look back up, the crowd is starting to dissipate and Val has vanished. Finola and Gillian are looking at me.
‘Robin, my dear, that was tremendous.’ Fuck me, two lots of praise from Finola in one day? I think we might very well be becoming friends!
‘I can’t believe I called her a bitch,’ I say, starting to feel everything sinking in.
‘Well, I think sometimes, just a bit, she is one …’ Gillian says, looking around nervously as if someone is going to judge her for thinking a bad thought.
‘Oh, God, you don’t think I’m going to be in some kind of trouble with the school for causing a scene, do you?’ I say, panicking now that I’ve realised quite what I’ve done.
And then, with impeccable timing, Mrs Barnstorm, the woman who thinks I’m the shittiest mother of the year, strides past and says, ‘I didn’t see or hear a thing, Ms Wilde. Congratulations on Lyla’s win. We’ll see you next term.’
I’m speechless.
‘I think this calls for a celebration!’ Finola says, and we pile the children, and their bonnets, into our cars and drive to the ice-cream parlour to fill ourselves up on frozen sugar and victory. Huzzah!
A WEEK LATER, SAT in my lounge in my sagging PJ bottoms, a T-shirt I’ve had since uni and my dressing gown, I can’t stop thinking about Theo. Ever since our magical twenty-four hours together, I’ve been on cloud nine. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the man is perfection. When he talks to me, it’s like he knows me. He asks questions and he listens to the answers. It’s like he’s known everything I’ve ever been and everything I could be, and sees something in me that I so rarely see in myself. He told me he loves the way I see the details in things that other people don’t. We watched a Netflix sitcom the morning after the amazing night, and I’d said it annoyed me that every single actress had the same style of false eyelashes on and how unrealistic that is. Rather than roll his eyes at me nitpicking, he said, ‘I love your passion for the details. You’re incredibly astute, Ms Wilde.’ It amazes me that a man like him could be so attracted to a woman like me, and I love it. Every time he messages me I feel my heart fizz, and carefully crafting messages back to him is just about my favourite way to waste twenty minutes of my life.
When my phone pinged an hour ago I leapt across the room thinking it was him, but it wasn’t. It was Kath, informing me that she’d ‘pop by for a coffee and catch-up around 10 a.m.’ if I was in. It’s a Saturday morning at 10 a.m. – of course I’m in.
All I really want to do is stay braless in my pyjamas, eat Nutella on toast, watch mindless children’s TV with Lyla and read through every message Theo has ever sent me and analyse every detail of the punctuation he’s used to see if anything has a double meaning or if there’s anything about the promise of our magical future life together I’ve missed. Not that I’m obsessing. I’m just … being careful. Being watchful. Very acceptable behaviour for a together and winning person like me. I am winning, actually. The twenty-four hours of magic in London; our bonnet win; the Val victory; such a fun afternoon at the ice-cream parlour and then a great week have left me feeling more than a bit dreamy. I think I’m making good progress with the PSMs. Gillian has started a WhatsApp group between me, her and Finola ‘so that we can coordinate play dates for the children’. I don’t care what it’s for; I’m just pleased as punch to be part of their gang at last!
Sure enough, at 9.59 Kath walks in (I can’t remember the last time she bothered knocking) and ‘woooo-ooooo’s me from the hall. ‘Wooooo-oooooo, it’s only me! I’ll put the kettle on. I’ll make a cuppa.’ If she really wanted to do it all herself, she would have just stayed at home and not dithered in at 10 on a Saturday morning (don’t be mean, Robin), so being the good niece I am, I resentfully heave myself off the sofa, leaving Lyla zombied out in her PJs to some programme about animals that run a country (not too dissimilar to the current political climate, actually), and plod into the kitchen.
Not only has Kath put the kettle on, she’s begun loudly scraping last night’s dinner off the dirty plates and into the bin, run the tap to fill the washing-up bowl (except she’s turned the tap on too hard and all the water is splashing up onto the windowsill and wetting my frames) and loaded the dishwasher. How did she do this in under three minutes? I stand there, embarrassed at the mess but marvelling at her. Here she is, at 10 a.m., dressed and functioning. Here I am, wondering if I could get away with an extra spray of deodorant until bedtime or if I really do need a shower this morning. Once she’s done ninety things I didn’t ask her to do, in ninety seconds, she moves on to opening my post. ‘Oh, lovey, you really must open these bills – some are weeks old – you’ll get behind! And your bank statements, where are you filing those away?’
‘Just leave them, please. I just want to open them later when I’m a bit more up and awake, you know?’ I say, flustered that she’s dealing with something I’ve been deliberately burying my head in the sand over. I don’t need this right now. I was happy thinking about Theo and watching Lyla’s programmes. Bills and bank statements were not on my agenda.
‘Rise and shine, lovely! It’s a beautiful day! You don’t want to spend all of it inside,’ she trills, continuing to open my post and ignoring my protests.
‘That’s sort of exactly what I do want to do, really.’
‘Nooooo, you want to get out and about, see the world. My Derek used to say, “Your days might be limited but your enthusiasm doesn’t have to be”. I’ve been feeling so under the weather, you know, with my headaches this week, but the best thing you can do is keep on going and shake it off.’
‘Ahhh, bless him.’ I never really know the best thing to say when she talks about Derek. Also I’ve left my phone on the sofa, and I think I can hear a faint buzzing sound.
‘Of course, his days were limited, and now it’s up to us to seize each one and make them count,’ she continues, throwing things into the washing-up bowl a bit too vigorously and splashing soapy water onto the worktops. ‘Oh, sorry love! I’ve not been sleeping very well; I’m not awake enough for this,’ she chuckles.
‘You do make them count. You do so much, Kath. Look at the clubs you run and the classes you go to. You do a lot, and he’d be proud,’ I say lovingly. She’s really annoying me with that water all over the counters, but now she’s talking about Derek I can’t really do much except be nice.
‘Thanks, love,’ she says, giving my hand a tap with a soapy rubber glove. ‘Just hope I start feeling a bit less grotty next week, eh?’
I still think I can hear my phone buzzing, but it might just be desperation. With Kath chattering on I don’t feel like I can just leave the room and get it.
Only one week until I see Theo. This time next week I’ll be on my way to a shoot and will have that butterflies-in-my-tummy feeling about meeting him afterwards. He’s taking me out for a fancy dinner. Or maybe just to bed … I don’t care which.
‘Are you still all right to have Lyla for me next Saturday?’ I double check.
‘Yes, indeedy, can’t wait to have the little petal. Are you working on something nice?’
‘Just a shoot. Natalie offered me the lead assistant spot. Since I decided to up my hours it seems like she’s really keen to give me interesting work to do. I think she’s quite pleased with my work, actually. I’m going to stay over.’
‘Ohh, a two-day shoot. That’ll be good for the bank balance. You can treat me to lunch, ha ha! Derek and I used to go to lunch every Friday, come rain or shine. It was our little treat to each other. Sometimes we’d have soup. Sometimes a ham sandwich. Oh, my Derek was so particular about his ham sandwiches. He’d—’
‘Ahhh, that’s lovely. Well, no, it’s just a one-day shoot, but I’m staying with a … friend for the night and then coming back up on Sunday morning.’
Kath stops what she’s doing and looks at me, eyes sparkling. ‘A gentleman friend?’ Fuck, she’s astute when she wants to be.
‘Ha, yes, no, well, yes.’ Why do I feel like a teenager who’s just been caught kissing her celebrity posters?
‘Oh, sweetie, I remember those days,’ she says, peeling the soapy gloves off and leaning up against the sink. I can see her paisley floaty skirt getting wet with all the suds she’s splashed everywhere, but she doesn’t seem to care and keeps on talking. ‘The initial spark of excitement, when everything seems to shine and the world suddenly sings to you. Derek took me for dinner at the Ritz when we first started courting. I wore a flowing mocha silk dress and tied hundreds of coloured ribbons into my hair. It was quite a look. You could get away with things like that in those days,’ she moons. ‘Derek loved it, he said I looked like a bird of paradise, and you know how he loved his birds.’
‘He’s called Theo. The man I’m sort of seeing. He works in property,’ I offer from my spot at the kitchen table where I’m putting all the letters back into a pile that I can ignore for another week.
I don’t think Kath is listening; she’s rested her hands on the side of the sink and is just looking out of the window at this point.
I take the opportunity to give her a moment alone and fetch my phone. It hasn’t buzzed; I really was just being desperate. I swipe it open to read the last message Theo sent me.
Goodnight darling. Sleep well x. He cares, and that means something. I can’t believe I’ve landed such a catch.
I really want to ask him to a PSM thing that’s coming up. Every now and then they organise a dinner out and other halves are invited. I’ve never been to one. It would be a lovely way to feel more part of things. It’s not for a month or so, but already I’m trying to think of how to ask him to it. Or is it too soon? I don’t know. This dating game is so much harder than the apps game was. I wish in real life it was as easy as swipe, swipe, tick.
After a couple of minutes Kath comes through looking a bit flushed and peaky and I feel guilty. I’ve barely listened to anything she’s said because all I could think about was my phone and how irritated I was that she was looking through my unpaid bills.
Lyla looks over and jumps straight up to give her a big arms-flung-round-her-waist cuddle. ‘Auntie Kath! I’m glad you’ve come to play!’ she says, arms still holding on. Kath is almost knocked off her feet.
‘Goodness me, that’s a lot of love for such a little lady!’ she sing-songs gratefully.
‘You smell like gardens, Auntie Kath,’ Lyla replies, inhaling deeply. She’s right. Kath always smells like her patchouli bath oils; her whole house does.
‘Lovey, I’m going to leave my tea actually and pop in on Moira. Alan said he’d be writing to the council today about people sellotaping unnecessary posters on the local lamp posts and I want to see the draft.’
‘You what?’ Once again I am completely at sea in Auntie Kath’s mad world.
‘People are taking the law into their own hands and adhering whatever they fancy to the street fixtures and fittings. It’s just not on. I’m all for a missing cat poster here and there, but now we see furniture for sale, jumble sale dates, all sorts. It’s getting out of hand,’ she says matter-of-factly, as though this is a heinous crime and I should fully understand.
‘Oh, right. Wow. Terrible.’ I’m not sure how we’ve gone from Derek at the Ritz to this. Should I have been more active in that conversation?
‘Exactly. I do like popping in on Moira and Alan. It’s lovely to see a happy couple at their age. I think Derek and I would have been the same.’
There we are, we’re back to Derek. I knew it was too big a leap before.
‘You and Derek wouldn’t have been bothered about letters to the council. You’d still have been travelling the world, living every day like it’s your biggest adventure, filling your house with all your amazing things. You’d have been a beautiful couple.’
I can see Kath’s eyes are welling up, so I go over and give her a squeeze. She leaves, seeming a bit perkier but saying she can feel a headache coming on. I think she just wants to have a bit of alone time. I respect that and tell her I’m here if she needs me. Poor old Kath.
I go to the front window to wave her off. Something wasn’t right this morning. I’m not sure if it’s her headaches or if she’s having a tough time missing Derek, but I definitely should have tried harder just then. I don’t like seeing her so upset, and my heart feels heavy that I didn’t help her the way she always helps me.
As the door closes behind her and I watch her disappear down the road, my phone pings. Yes!! It’s Theo!