I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning and the memories of it all wash over me again. Theo isn’t lying half-naked next to me like he should be; he didn’t come with me to the meal and, instead, I took my place as the sad single mum at the top of the table, with Gillian to my left giving me little knee squeezes every time someone said, ‘And where’s this handsome new chap of yours, Robin?’ It was my own fault for making such a fuss about him. I cringe just thinking about it.
It’s not so much that he didn’t come to that specific night; it’s the smack-in-the-face realisation that he means more to me than I do to him. To me, he’s my potential future, but I’m wondering if to him I’m just a game. He’s never free when I suggest a date. Every time he suggests one, of course I come running. I’m a walking, talking toy that he can pick up and shake about and play with whenever he fancies, but only ever on his terms. Bastard. I hope he enjoyed playing the fun weekend dad. I hope he enjoyed his ready-made family, putting Lyla on his shoulders, letting that woman in the craft tent think he was the doting father. How dare he use us like this? I’m starting to feel furious again, so I take a couple of minutes to stay in bed, and breathe deeply – I even download a mindfulness app – and I calm myself down.
Kath is dropping Lyla off at 9 a.m. and it’s already 8.45, so I roll out of bed and wrap my old fleecy, stained dressing gown around me. At least I don’t have to bother with trying to be sexy and alluring this morning. Thank God for small mercies.
Bypassing the mirror (I came back to an empty house, and it didn’t feel good. One knock, and the sadness feels like it could overwhelm me. I cried more last night, before going to bed without removing my make-up, so I can’t face my face just yet) I plod downstairs and switch the kettle on. I’d thought Theo would be here today and that we’d go out, all three of us, but now that’s gone down the toilet I have no plans, except to try to keep The Emptiness I can feel seeping in at bay. I’m going to put decent mothering on the back burner and declare it a TV Day with beige freezer food for dinner and, for me, continuous cups of tea and custard creams. I had a creative briefing from Natalie that I was supposed to be researching this weekend, but the thought of working right now fills me with dread. I don’t want to think about anything.
On the dot of nine I hear a key in the door and the familiar ‘oooo-eeeee, only me’ of Kath.
‘Hello, love! How was your night? Was it as wonderful as you’d hoped? Is he upstairs still? Can I meet him?’ she stage-whispers, looking round for signs of a man before clocking my grotty dressing gown and realising. Her face falls for me. Her face, by the way, is ‘made up’ with turquoise eyeshadow and purple lipstick. Bless her; this is for Theo’s welcome, no doubt. She’s mad and drives me nuts, but she’s bloody lovely really.
I just stand there, next to the kettle, with red, puffy eyes, blinking back tears.
‘Ohh love. What’s happened? Have you had a falling-out?’ Kath’s tone has instinctively changed into something soft and warm and with that, I crumble all over again.
Big, blubbery tears fall this time, along with huge gasping gulps. The whole time Lyla stands by the door, still holding her Paw Patrol backpack, looking really worried. That makes me feel worse, of course. How many times is this poor kid going to have to see her mess of a mother like this? I’m sure this is damaging her. Instinctively I wipe away the tears and sing-song, ‘Sorry, my Bluebird, I had a little moment but I’m all right. Silly Mummy crying about nothing, I’m all right, I’m all right!’ to try to shield her. She comes over to me and reaches out for a cuddle. As soon as I feel her hot little body pressed up against my legs and tummy, I feel fresh tears pouring out again. It’s all too much. I can’t hold any of this in.
Kath quickly realises that I’m on a one-way track to meltdown and takes control of the situation. ‘Lyla, petal, why don’t you go and put your bag upstairs and see if you can find any colouring books to go through? I’m going to look after Mummy, don’t worry. Robin, you sit yourself down and I’ll finish this tea off and make one for me too. I can’t stop long because Cupcakes and Crochet starts at ten and I’m giving out the patterns today, but I’ve always got time for a chat. A problem shared is a problem halved.’
Lyla senses the tone and doesn’t argue. Once I can hear her footsteps going up the stairs and feel safe that she’s out of earshot, I let it out, the whole sorry story.
‘Oh pet, I know it feels like the end of the world now but I promise you it’s not,’ Kath says gently, taking over the tea-making I’d so far failed at. ‘There’ll be other nights and other dinners.’
The Emptiness feels like it’s smothering me, like it’s mocking me for ever thinking it was far away. I’m so angry at it and oppressed by it at the same time. ‘You don’t get it! I’m so sick of doing everything myself, sitting by myself every night, not having someone to say goodnight to, forever making just one cup of tea. I don’t have anyone and I never will,’ I say, taking a sip of tea and then putting it down so angrily it slops over the side and splashes onto the table.
Kath is silent for a minute. I look at her, and she’s smiling tightly.
‘Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to be on my own?’ Kath says quietly, indignant. She’s standing stock-still by the kettle, two just-made cups of tea in hand but not bringing them over, her initial warm tone has cooled. She continues after a deep breath. ‘I had to watch the love of my life slip away in front of me, Robin. I had to say goodbye forever to the man I thought I would say all my goodnights to for the rest of our days. I know what alone feels like. I know it and I feel it every single day.’ She slams the cups down on the counter, sloshing tea everywhere, and brings her brightly manicured hands up to her face to rub her forehead and eyes, smearing the turquoise eyeshadow and pulling on her skin. She runs one hand through her over-accessorised-with-butterfly-clips hair and uses one hand to steady herself on the counter, not looking up at me, just staring down at the wood as if she can’t bring herself to see me.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kath so tense and so hurt. Fuck.
‘Perhaps if you took a moment,’ she says, lifting her head and looking right into my eyes with a hard look I haven’t seen before, ‘to look at all the wonderful things in your life that you do have, then you’d feel a lot better. You’re not alone. You have Lyla. A beautiful spirit who loves you and wants you and needs you. I would LOVE to have had my own children to share those days with!’ Tears are threatening, and her knuckles have turned white where she’s gripping the counter so hard.
‘You have us,’ I offer meekly, realising my terrible faux pas and desperately wishing I’d never been so self-absorbed.
‘I do. And I love you,’ she says sighing, loosening her grip on the counter and reaching for a cloth to wipe up the tea. ‘I’m so grateful for you, and grateful to have Lyla come and stay, but don’t think for a moment that I don’t feel the loneliness too, that I wouldn’t like someone to hold my hand and take me to the pictures. I feel it too, Robin. I would give everything I have just to have one single day, even a moment, with Derek again.’ Kath’s voice thickens, and I can tell she’s so upset. ‘Now. I won’t stop, I really do need to get to the club to hand out these patterns, but I love you and this won’t last forever. It’s just a hiccup. You WILL be all right. Focus on Lyla, and all the blessings you do have.’ She starts walking towards the door, her chiffon skirt billowing behind her.
‘Kath, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘I know, I know you didn’t. Don’t worry, love. We’re not alone, we’ve got each other.’ She walks back over to the table where I’m sat.
‘I love you, Kath; I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I say, relieved that she hasn’t just stormed off.
‘I love you too, petal,’ she says, giving me a bending-down-breasts-in-face cuddle, and wafts out, leaving a trail of Giorgio Beverly Hills behind her. She really made an effort for Theo. As she leaves the room, I notice her wiping a tear from her face. She closes the front door behind her before I can get up and follow her.
I vow to spend more time with Kath and take better care of her. It dawns on me how self-indulgent I’ve been. I drink the rest of my tea in silence at the kitchen table. I don’t look at my phone or flick through the TV or open my laptop; I just sit. I do have a lot that’s good in my life already. I know I do. The problem is, when The Emptiness takes hold, it’s hard to see that. It’s hard to see anything.
‘Mummy?’ A very tiny voice comes from the kitchen doorway.
‘Yes, Bluebird?’ I answer.
‘Are you still crying?’
‘No. I’ve had a cup of tea and feel much better,’ I try to reassure her.
‘Are you sad?’ she says, slowly walking towards me, still with the same worried expression on her tiny, elfin face.
Deciding to be honest, I say, ‘Yes, I’m sad. Sometimes, though, it’s all right to be sad, and I won’t be sad forever.’
‘Mummy,’ she says with a weirdly authoritative voice. She’s planted her feet wide on the lino and has her hands on her hips. ‘We are a team. I’m on your side. Let it all out, we’ll have a cuddle and then we’ll get on with our day with happy faces, OK?’
I start to well up again. Good God, I’m more emotional than a chocolate-starved woman on her period. She’s mimicking me. Those are the exact things I say to her when she’s having a moment, and here she is, my baby, looking after me. She’s so right: we are a team.
‘Are you crying again, Mummy?’
‘Yes, but with happy tears because I’m so proud of what a beautiful little girl you are, inside and out,’ and I lift her onto my lap, wrap her into my dressing gown and give her the biggest, best cuddle I’ve had all week. Being with Theo makes me happy, but he can’t touch this feeling; there is no greater cuddle than this one.
AFTER A DAY AT home full of cuddles, streamed films and an ‘I deserve a treat’ Chinese takeaway, I decide we need some air. The next morning the sun is shining, the birds are cheeping.
After a quick Google search we’re in the car en route to a National Trust house and garden to enjoy the scenery and perhaps a scone or two (or four). I feel good about this. I’m actually channelling my inner yummy mummy vibe pretty well, Lyla’s relaxed and happy and we’re doing something I can tell the PSMs about at the school gates tomorrow. Who needs Theo Salazan? What a win!
Once we’re there, I can see why every couple over thirty-five with Hunter wellies and privileged children do this, it’s so, so lovely. There’s something surprisingly soothing about well-manicured lawns and summer flowers, and as we meander through, holding hands and pointing out ‘special flowers with magic powers, Mummy’, I feel a deep sense of peace. Theo can’t touch any of this, my perfect world with Lyla, just the two of us. He hasn’t even bothered to ring me to apologise yet, so it’s not that hard to be just a team of two right now anyway.
We admire each carefully kept bed of flowers and neat, winding hedges that lead you further and further through the gardens, down to a wild meadow and beyond that to a series of interconnecting ponds with mossy cherub statues all around them. Everywhere you walk the scent is light and fresh, and it’s warm and bright. We pass couples and families and elderly people taking in the view too, and nod politely or have a knowing giggle with each other, both parties realising how nice it is here and how stupid every other person in the world is for staying at home or subjecting themselves to soft-play centres.
‘Simon! Be careful! You almost stood on that mushroom!’ A familiar voice shrilly permeates my serene thoughts. Whipping my whole body round with the speed of an Olympic gymnast, I see them. My ex-fiancé and his flibbertigibbet girlfriend, who is bending down surreptitiously bagging wild mushrooms.
Fantastic.
Of all the Gardens of Eden, and they have to walk into mine.
Lyla squeals ‘DADDY!’ as she hurtles over.
Simon looks horrified. He freezes to the spot in his brown corduroy trousers, sensible navy wellies and white crumpled linen shirt. His pale skin has flushed bright red and his eyes dart all over the place, probably looking for an escape route. First, he probably didn’t expect to see the estranged mother of his child here, and secondly, he nearly murdered a mushroom, and who knows what kind of effect that would have had on the delicate balance of Storie’s world.
‘Hello! Oh, ha, hello, Robin. Ha!’ God, he’s so lame, he can’t even greet the mother of his child without making a div of himself.
‘Hey, Simon, you OK?’ I don’t know why he gets so panicked when he sees me. I don’t care any more. I haven’t cared for a long, long time.
‘Yes. I, we, ha, Storie and I are just out. You know, just, walking, having a walk here.’
‘Namaste,’ says Storie, nodding and putting her palms together as if in prayer. Oh Jesus. But then, thank goodness: ‘Hi, Robin, how are you?’ Storie manages to sound a bit more human than her less-than-eloquent boyfriend. I don’t think we’d be friends in the real world (a world I don’t think she inhabits anyway), but she’s all right. She’s not smug or spiteful, and you’ve got to give her credit for being so dedicated to her passions – including wild mushrooms.
‘Good, thanks, Storie, we just fancied some air and to get out of town for a little bit. I’ve had a long week, and this is lovely,’ I say, calmly and comfortably. I’m not the one who left and ran off with a hippy. I don’t have anything to feel nervous about, unlike Simon, who’s clearly feeling something, as tiny beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.
‘Mother Nature, Robin. She really can heal anything,’ Storie says sagely. She clearly isn’t worried about anything either.
‘Yep. Of course. Good for her.’
Storie smiles.
Lyla seems beside herself with joy that we’re all here together, and asks Daddy and Storie to walk round the ponds with us. Storie smiles again, serenely (water is made by Mother Nature too, after all), and Simon starts to melt down.
‘Oh, er, I don’t know, Lyla, maybe Mummy wants to, er, I, er, spend some time, errr …’ His dithering is so painful I have to cut him off.
‘Simon, it’s fine, it’s just a walk round a pond.’
As we set off, Lyla runs to her dad and slips her hand in his. He looks over at me awkwardly as if he doesn’t know if this is allowed while I’m here or something. This is the first time in, well, ever, that we’ve all been in the same place at once. After we split up and arranged custody set-ups, we just kept things separate. I’ve never questioned it or had an issue with it because I was glad to distance myself from Simon. Before I can give any kind of meaningful look back, Storie walks over, takes Lyla’s other hand and swings her high into the air with him. I take a moment to push down the lump in my throat. That should be me. I should be swinging Lyla like that, not her, not them. My heart doesn’t ache for not having him, but it aches for not being in the Mummy, Daddy, Lyla trio. It almost takes my breath away to see what I almost had, and then I hear Lyla screaming with pure delight. She loves it. She doesn’t mind that it’s Storie and not me; she just loves to be in the moment and feel the thrill of being off the ground and of having two adults who, in their own dithering, nature-obsessed ways, love her. The lump in my throat disappears. Storie isn’t the enemy here. She loves Lyla. She clearly loves Simon too, to support him so well, and they provide something wonderful for my little girl.
Just as I’m coming over all zen about the situation, Lyla breaks free from Simon and Storie, runs back to me, jumps up and says, ‘Come on, Mummy, you’re my team, come and see the magic spell pond!’ My heart almost bursts; she wants me as much as I want her. We squeeze hands, run down to the pond where Storie is now telling Simon about the nutritional values of algae and spend the rest of the morning as a happily dysfunctional family of four. Five, if, like Storie, you count the bag of mushrooms.