JUNE
TONIGHT IS A SPECIAL night. Kath is picking Lyla up from school and keeping her overnight, and I’m giving myself a gorgeous treat. I’m blasting a romance-themed Spotify playlist and swooning about like the cat that got the cream. At this precise moment I am luxuriating in a hot, decadent, mid-afternoon bath. Everything’s been going so well with Theo since our family day out – more dinners, a cinema trip (though he was clearly a bit bored), a couple of sleepovers – I decided to bite the bullet and ask him to the PSM Parents and Partners dinner. I went to a Parents and Partners drinks evening once in Lyla’s first term, just before Christmas, when I was still very new to the school, and felt so alien that I wanted to scream, ‘IS THIS HOW IT REALLY IS? ARE YOU REALLY HAPPY? IS IT THAT IMPORTANT HOW MANY TIMES LAUREN AND PHILIP WENT TO ROME THIS YEAR?’ but obviously, didn’t. Instead I bit my tongue and nodded along with an inane smile on my face, hoping Roger (Val’s balding, sleazy buffoon of a husband) couldn’t tell that I didn’t give a shit about his ‘sometimes forty-five minutes, if traffic is heavy’ commute to work. Some of them might be dull, but they’re a gang, and I want in. All dinner parties have dull moments, and I think part of my suffering is that I’ve always been single at them. I don’t have that teammate to bounce off, and so I end up sat at the end of the table with no anecdotes to share or tales to laugh over and nodding along to the likes of Roger and his enthralling chatter.
This time, though, it’s different. Theo said yes! He’s going to come to the Partners night, and we’ll be that couple that makes everyone feel a bit sick. We’ll be charming and funny and partake in scintillating conversation and offer witty anecdotes. We’ll be that couple that gently bicker, ‘no, you tell it, darling, you tell it so much better’, over our stories, and the other women will be sat secretly wishing they could have affairs so that they could have as much excitement as I’m having right now. Not that I want anyone to have an affair, of course; but you know, a little bit of other people’s envy always goes a long way, I think.
I’ve told everyone I’m coming with Theo. I may have over-told them, actually, because even Gillian rolled her eyes and said, ‘I know!’ when I mentioned it briefly in the foyer this morning. I feel like that kid who got the best Tamagotchi for their birthday and feels like everyone needs to know, when in reality they don’t give a shit. Well, maybe they give a little shit, but not a big one.
Theo was meant to take the day off today and drive up last night, but he’s texted to say that because of the huge acquisition he’s handling at the moment he needs to drive up this afternoon. It’s 3 p.m. and I’m already preparing, I’m that excited.
It’s not that the night itself is likely to be anything mind-blowing; it’s only dinner and drinks in the new Italian that’s opened up on the high street. But it’s everything else. That feeling of walking into a venue holding your partner’s hand, having your seat pulled out, perhaps; having someone to say, ‘Shall I order chicken and you order beef, and we’ll share a bit of each?’ It’s having your teammate there, and not just being on your own all the bloody time. It’s been so long, years actually, since I felt like I fitted into an environment like that. I’ve longed for it. I’ve felt so far away when I’ve seen friends in couple bubbles, quietly laughing at a private joke, locking eyes with tilted heads. With such a long wait, having it now feels all the sweeter, and so I’m letting myself spend an entire afternoon luxuriating in the getting-ready process. I refuse to feel guilty or self-indulgent for it.
Hello gorgeous, how’s it going there? I’m lying in the bath, thinking of you x, I send via text. I’ve definitely got the knack of a saucy text now, and feel a bit smug that I managed to basically say where are you? without sounding desperate. If I wasn’t naked and immersed in bubbly bathwater I’d do a little victory dance for that one. Instead, though, I just screen-grab it and send it to Lacey with a sunglasses smiley face on. She replies with a thumbs-up emoji and the hand that’s doing the ‘OK’ sign, which satisfies my need for validation nicely.
I do love a bath. Yes, all I’m doing is laying my body in a container of hot water and swilling about in it, which doesn’t sound particularly appetising, but when you can smell your Lush bath bomb and your legs are smoother than Theo’s one-liners, it feels like heaven. I lie in mine for a good forty-five minutes before jumping out, grabbing the nearest towel – oh, good, it’s a Hello Kitty beach towel – and lavishly applying my good moisturiser that matches my perfume.
Trying to ignore the lack of message flashing up on my phone, I start blow-drying my hair. Instead of my usual tip-head-upside-down-and-blast technique, I’m taking my time. I’m channelling my inner hairstylist and clipping segments to blow over a barrel brush. Why don’t I do this every day? It actually looks rather glorious when I spend that little bit of extra time on it. Soon those beauty bloggers will be asking me for tips.
Four o’clock, and still no message. I don’t feel like I can send another where are you text, but being the new-found genius I am, I have an idea. A mirror selfie in my towel! I hunt down a normal woman’s towel, though, so I don’t have Hello Kitty’s face stretched across my bosom, and I tousle my hair. Admittedly I did have to take my hair out of all the holding-segments-up clips, apply a discreet layer of tinted moisturiser and then heavily filter the snap (who doesn’t love a high-contrast black-and-white with heavy vignette?) but on final review, I think it was worth the end result.
I send the snap along with Thinking of you and hope it nudges him to a) reply, and b) leave the bloody office.
At 4.45 p.m., my phone buzzes. Thank the Lord.
Theo says, Hello my darling, you look sensational. Looking forward to dinner with you, leaving in ten. x
Yessss! He’s leaving in a moment, my hair looks amazing, we’re in business!
To celebrate this, I message Finola: Looking forward to seeing you later. Are you drinking?
Yes, comes her reply.
I should have known Finola was the wrong person to try and spark a chat about Theo with, and try Gillian instead. Ooohh, I’m so excited for tonight! What are you wearing?
Slightly more fruitfully she replies, I know, it should be lovely. I’m going for my navy trousers (bit tight though, oooer) and that nice floaty cream top with the gold buttons. See you shortly xxxx
Since he messaged me, I think it’s still casual and breezy to respond so just after five I text Theo to say, I bet it’s been so busy for you today! I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet and getting ready. Is the traffic heavy or are you making good time?
He doesn’t reply, but I think that’s probably because he’s driving and I open my make-up bag ready to transform my face from tired mummy to sexy mama.
I’m so happy with the way my make-up looks. I’ve blended in a heavy-cut crease, my eyebrows are well shaped, I’ve contoured seamlessly and set everything with transparent powder so we can fully enjoy the night and nothing’s going anywhere.
To be there on time, we need to leave at 6.30 and it’s 5.35 now. No message from Theo, but I’m not going to worry. He’s an adult, a proper adult with a mahogany shoehorn and membership to swanky social clubs; he’ll cut it fine but he’ll be here.
In my eagerness I’ve got ready far too soon, so I pour myself a glass of chilled white wine, gently sit down (this dress is far too expensive to flop down in like I normally would: since even a bloody invite to the Partners night is a celebration, let alone Theo coming, I decided to treat myself to the most incredible floral embroidered mini-skater dress. Each jewel-toned petal is hand-sewn onto the sturdy navy fabric that clings and swings in all the right places. I feel amazing, but don’t dare muss it up) and flick on Netflix. I’ve been slowly working through the Kimmy Schmidt box set so I sit back, click yes to a new episode and sip my wine. This is bliss. This must be what it’s like to have a loving, doting husband. Gillian and Finola must feel like this all the time.
Six p.m. ticks by, and I’m starting to lift my neck up a bit every time I see a car come near the house, but it’s not him. A message pings through. I’d have thought it would be easier just to ring if he’s driving, so I pick up my phone.
My heart sinks.
Sweetheart, I’ve still not left the office. I’m going to have to give it a miss this time, but we’ll definitely have dinner next week xx
He’s not coming.
I’ve made all this effort, bought this stupid dress and droned on about his attendance not only to Finola and Gillian, but to the other mums, and he’s not even coming.
Once again I’ll have to walk in on my own. Sit at the awkward head of the table so that everyone else can sit opposite their partner, listen mutely to everyone else’s couply stories about their recent weekend in the Lake Distrct, but this time it will be even worse because they’ll pity me. Poor, single Robin, she’ll never get the guy. They’ll say things to ‘help’ like, ‘Oh, Robin, I wish I were single! No shaving your legs, come home whenever you want’. But it’s not like that. Not for me. So that’s no consolation.
Suddenly I feel very low. I don’t think I can handle going alone. I send a group message to Gillian and Finola.
Hi ladies, really sorry but going to have to cancel tonight. Theo’s been held up at work and I’m a bit down, so don’t want to spoil the night with poor company. Have a great time! See you on Monday! xxx I’ve tried to make that sound as cheery as possible, but my throat is already burning and I can feel tears threatening behind my eyes.
I put down my phone, carefully unzip my dress and drape it over the armchair (I might be let down, but I haven’t forgotten what I’m wearing), flop down onto the sofa in my matching bra and knickers and hold a cushion to my chest while I take big gasps of air and let the tears come. They roll down my face, taking my perfectly applied black eyeliner with them.
How could he do this? He knew how excited I was. Surely he could have organised his work better? Or left it till Monday? Or had someone else take care of it? Or messaged me sooner? Before I poured myself into this dress, or glued on false lashes. He didn’t even have the backbone to phone me and let me down. A last-minute text with zero compassion. I don’t want to have dinner next week – it won’t be the Parents and Partners dinner. I won’t be able to say to them all, ‘Hey gang, can you all find babysitters again because Theo might be able to make it this time?’ This won’t happen again for months. This was my chance finally to feel like I fit in, like I’m one of them, like I’m good enough, and to enjoy not being the one smiling and pretending being on your own is totally fine all the time. It’s all been ripped up in front of me at the very last second. I feel like such an idiot. I don’t know why I thought I deserved all this: this dress, the witty anecdotes, the tilted-head looks at each other.
A message pings through from Finola. Nonsense. Have a stiff drink, put on your eye sparkles and call the taxi! She’s so forthright. I bet a man cancelling wouldn’t faze her. I wish it didn’t bloody faze me. I can’t actually think of anything that would faze Finola. Six hours after giving birth to Roo, she says she was up and feeding the dogs. She’s a machine to be marvelled at.
Gillian adds to the group chat: Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I hope everything’s OK for him at work. Why don’t I pick you up and you can sit next to me at dinner? I don’t want you sat in the house alone feeling so down. Let’s go and have a lovely night and you’ll feel better for it.
I can imagine the tone she wrote that in. It’s the exact same soothing tone she uses on Clara and right now I’m fine with it. Maybe she’s right. Maybe sucking it up and going out would be best; after all, going solo isn’t something I’m not used to and this dress needs an airing. Also, I note, this is the first time I’ve felt like Finola and Gillian really want my company. Theo might have stood me up, but these women certainly haven’t and that warrants more than just moping at home.
Thanks, Gillian, that’s really sweet of you. I’ll come along. I’m not sure how much fun I’ll be but it’ll be nice to see you all. What time will you swing by? xxx
That’s the spirit, lovey! Back on the horse! Finola adds in. Always the dogs or the horses. I dread to think what she considers dirty talk.
With more determination than I’ve had to muster in a long time, I pull myself up off the sofa, slip back into the dress – there’s no way I’m wasting looking this good just because Theo’s a bastard no-show – thud up the stairs to sort my face out (my tears have trailed through my foundation and left tracks like skiers on snow) and start to move from let-down and sad to angry.
By the time Gillian and sweet but quiet Paul pick me up in their pristine Range Rover and I slide into the back next to Clara’s bumper seat, I’m hot with rage. I have to open the window a crack just to keep myself from sweating. Or as Mum would say, my gentle glow: ‘Pigs sweat, men perspire and women gently glow.’ Well, I’m gently glowing all right. I’m gently glowing at how little Theo seems to care about me when he makes out he cares so very much. He seems very able to put on a great show of charm and throw his cash and contacts around, but the first time I’ve asked him for anything, when I want him by my side, he’s not here.
As we pull up to the restaurant, I can see Matthew and his partner Laurence from Year Three are just parking their car too, and I feel so embarrassed. I was meant to be stepping out of the front seat of Theo’s BMW, not waiting for Gillian to click off the child locks before I climb out of the back seat of her car. I see them coming over to do the high-pitched ‘hellos’ and it starts. Matthew says, ‘Oh nooo, where’s your chap du jour?’ and I want to curl up and cry all over again.
I make it through dinner. Of course I do. I’m an expert at pretending I’m managing perfectly well on my own.