AUGUST
I CUT THE ENGINE of my car and look across at Lacey in the passenger seat as the late summer sun shines on us. ‘Come on, lovely,’ I say as cheerily as I can. Her eyes are still red from her tears, and I wish I could just make her feel better straightaway. We’re on the way to a special place I know, because right now my bestie needs some love.
I’ve been back four weeks, and life has been crazy busy. After the success of New York, Natalie’s booked me on more jobs than I’d normally take, and Lyla’s summer holidays have whirled past so quickly I’ve barely had a moment to sit down. There have been some lovely days out as a twosome, and there was one day when Auntie Kath came with us on a day trip to the petting zoo; there were ice creams, a thrilling (feel the sarcasm) minibreak to see Mum and Dad for three (long) days in Cornwall. Lyla’s seventh birthday party was a resounding success (Lacey, Kath and I perfected the wild animals theme – Wilde by name, wild by nature, ha) and Lyla really came out of her shell. She’s now best friends for life with Finola’s sturdy little son Roo, and for nearly all of this time Theo and I haven’t been in contact. A few months ago that thought would be panic-attack-inducing but now … not so much.
It was initially hard not to message back to the couple he did send, a bit like that first week you go on a diet and have to resist eating the entire tube of Jaffa Cakes, but I did it. This is a big step for me. I’m always the girl on the diet that does eat the whole tube of Jaffas. Always. Theo texting made my heart race in a way I didn’t like. Gone were the excited butterflies, and in their place was a tight, twisting sensation. But I remembered how different Edward in New York felt. No stress or fuss; I didn’t panic or worry about anything. Edward’s not on the scene, but that’s how I need to feel about things. Theo induces a horrible, neurotic anxiety within me, and so instead of agonising over replies, I just ignored them, put my phone down and carried on with my day. Thanks to my willpower, my mind doesn’t feel as foggy any more. I never thought I’d feel that way about Theo, or any man, actually, but I do. I feel clear-headed and able to see things for what they are; see myself for what I am.
At last, The Emptiness isn’t here anymore. Although, with a new term looming and Lyla going back, if I’m honest I have to admit I’m worried it’s hovering in the distance, just biding its time …
I’ve learnt that the key is keeping busy and booking positive stuff, for me as well as for Lyla, into my day.
This day, however, is about Lacey. As we walk in to the giant conservatory of Lawrence’s, the smell of freshly baked cakes wafts around us and I can feel myself unconsciously grinning. I must look like an absolute lunatic as I walk over to our table smiling like the Cheshire cat, but how can anyone not feel joyous when they are minutes away from scones and pastries? I’ve worn my boyfriend-fit slightly oversized jeans and a loose tee on purpose, because I know I’m not going to hold back.
I’ve brought Lacey to Lawrence’s because it’s the happiest place I know (huge oval windows with striped canopies and swirling wrought iron frames adorning them outside; display cases full of baked delights to lure you in; tiny, pastel-clothed tables groaning under the weight of gilded china and the most incredible afternoon tea goodies), and right now she needs a boost. I popped into Dovington’s earlier after dropping Lyla off at Simon and Storie’s – apparently they’re teaching her how to grow cress in eggshells this weekend; lucky little thing will be absolutely riveted, I’m sure – and found Lacey in the back room in bits.
Sat on the bottom rung of her storage unit ladder, Lacey’s face was soaked with tears and her eyes puffy and swollen. Her lavender smock dress had dark purple splotches down the front where the tears had dripped off her face and all in all, she was in a bad way. Apparently one of her suppliers had come in with the latest order and, with the sensitivity of perfume spilt accidentally on a cut finger, asked her if she was ‘up the spout yet’. He, of course, had no idea how long she’d been trying or how increasingly hard she was finding the monthly disappointment. He probably just assumed someone married and her age was bound to want babies and had probably never given a moment’s thought to the fact it’s not easy for everyone, but really, he should have kept it to himself. If I’d have been there, I’d have told him, in no uncertain terms, that a) not all married women need to have babies unless they want to, and b) it’s no one’s bloody business but hers! Poor Lacey.
‘I didn’t know what to say to him,’ Lacey stuttered between sobs, still perched on the ladder. ‘I just stood there blinking and trying not to cry. My period came again this morning – just before he came in – and this month, after all the months of it not happening, I really thought it was it. I was four days late, Robin. Four.’
‘Had you done a pregnancy test?’ I asked as I squatted down beside her and stroked her knee.
‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘The GP told us not to do a test until you’re two weeks late, but honestly, all the signs were there. Tender breasts, cramps, fatigue – I really thought this was it, but it wasn’t. It fucking wasn’t. The cruel irony of fertility is that all the signs for pregnancy are almost identical to the signs of your period coming.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lacey. I’m sorry it’s not the month, and I’m sorry that guy was so insensitive. You’ll get there. I know you will.’ Poor Lacey. They’ve been trying for the best part of a year – she was full of glee when she told me they started on Christmas Eve. I don’t think she ever imagined it might not happen. She and Karl have been trying all year to conceive, and it’s clearly just not happening for them. I could see wasn’t going to be on a good footing soon, so I suggested we throw in the towel for today, shut up shop (people can live without their bouquets for one day) and go to Lawrence’s to fill our faces with deliciousness and put the world to rights. Without much hesitation Lacey nodded, flipped the little floral OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED and we headed off.
By the time we arrived, Lacey had stopped crying, but chat in the car was thin on the ground and she was distracted. I could tell she was thinking about it still. I found a good parking spot and we walked in. Located on the outskirts of Cambridge, Lawrence’s is a hidden gem. You can always get a table but it’s never empty, it being a favourite of the locals. I’ve been coming here with Auntie Kath, as a special treat, since I was tiny. Mum was always glad to let me go with her and I was always glad to feel indulged in such a sweet environment. I can’t think of a better place to take Lacey right now. Lawrence’s practically serves love on plates.
Once I’ve got over my joy at the very visible cake trolley, and we’ve rearranged the table so we can Instagram the living daylights out of it – even without the food on it, it’s pretty – we look at the menus. Like everything else in here, even the menus are delightful. Light lilac card stock, printed with gold swirly ink and finished with a sheet of iridescent vellum over the top. If I ever do get married, my wedding stationery is for sure being based on these. I can see Lacey’s eyes are looking a bit less red and swollen and she manages a smile. Unsurprisingly we settle on the full afternoon tea and sit back, happy with our choice and our unadulterated grown-up girl time.
Lacey looks out of the window for a second and says, ‘I’d told Karl I was four days late. He told me not to get ahead of myself, but how can you not? We did everything right.’
‘Of course you did, Lace, it just wasn’t your time.’
‘I’m starting to think it’s never going to be my time, though. We’re doing everything the apps say. We’re waiting till the fertile days; I’m elevating my pelvis after every session; I’m checking to see if my discharge looks like school glue.’
‘Wait, what? Why?’
‘Because the bloody apps tell you to! Does it look like egg whites? Does it look like school glue? Is it thick? Is it clear? How hot are you? When did you last bleed? It’s like the most intense personal interview of your life, but if it tells me the perfect time to conceive, I don’t care. Once I tell it more about my vagina than I’ve told anyone in my life, it tracks my cycle and on ovulation day I get a notification. Like a text from my fanny, for fuck’s sake.’
‘OK, well, maybe next month is the month, then. It will happen, Lacey, it will.’
‘I’m just so fed up. I’m so sick of hearing people say they didn’t even have to try, or that it was a “happy surprise”, when I’m trying so bloody hard all the bloody time, having sex on my optimum days even when neither of us are in the mood, taking every vitamin I should, already avoiding soft cheese and pâté! I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me or Karl, or that I’m letting him down in some way.’
I don’t really know what to say or do, other than to just listen to her. I reach my hand out to lay it on her wrist. Lacey’s usually the one pulling us both along, constantly propping me up. To see her so upset is unsettling, and I think all she wants right now is to vent; it’s not like I have any solution to offer, after all. I was so lucky with Lyla, and as much as I won’t say it now, I really didn’t have to try. She just came along. I hate seeing Lacey struggle like this.
‘Look, let’s think of it like this, Lace: it’s been what, eight, nine months since you really started trying?’
‘Eight. Eight whole months,’ she says in a thick voice that sounds like she might cry any moment.
‘Well, that’s only eight eggs. And like you said last month, it takes the average couple a year of trying, so you’re only really three-quarters of the way through that, you’re under average. I know it must be so completely shit when you both want it so much, but keep in mind that even the doctors say you don’t need to worry yet. There’s nothing wrong with you; it’s just nature’s timing. And when you do hold your beautiful little baby in your arms, it’ll be all the sweeter. You’ll be such a gorgeous mummy, I already know it.’
‘Yes. You’re right. It will happen. It’s going to happen,’ she replies a little too fiercely, more trying to convince herself than agree with me.
‘Yes!’ I say in the most encouraging tone I can muster.
The food arrives, and we’re distracted by how amazing it looks. Everything looks almost too good to eat. On the bottom row, soft little sandwiches with straight edges where the crusts have been perfectly cut off. A selection of fresh fruit tarts; rose, mint and lemon macarons and miniature Victoria sponges on the middle row and then, oh wow, on the top row, two huge, warm scones with china pots of thick clotted cream and strawberry jam adjacent. I think I am in actual heaven.
I wish all my food was served on three-tiered cake stands. I might make that a thing. Buy a few colourful cake stands and just dish things up on them. If anything, it would be time-saving. No wasted trips back and forth to fetch the main course or dessert. I’d simply put starters, mains and desserts on each tier, and voilà! I could even do it with Lyla’s food. Fish fingers on one layer, mashed potato on another and beans on the top. I take a moment to imagine her trying to eat baked beans off the top of a three-tiered cake stand, and realise how insane that would be. Not to mention how messy.
‘Hello! Earth to Robin! Have you been hypnotised?’ calls Lacey, waving a hand in front of my face. Wow, I was really getting into that.
‘No; I was thinking about how I need to have more cake stands in my life. I’m going to treat myself in Lakeland next time I go.’
‘I think I just need more cakes in my life!’
Lacey seems to have perked up. She’s forgotten about being sad for a moment, and is stood up to hover her phone directly over the top of the stand to take the perfect picture. Nobody around us bats an eyelid, of course. They know when food is displayed this beautifully it would be a crime not to photograph it.
We dig into the sandwiches and swoon at how delicious they are. They’re light and fresh and crisp, and I could eat a thousand more. Lacey has some colour back in her cheeks, and looks like she’s feeling at least a bit uplifted. Good. We go quiet as we concentrate on the important job of savouring every bite.
‘You know what, Robin?’ says Lacey after her last bit of cucumber sandwich. ‘If I’d fallen pregnant this month, I would have the baby in May.’
‘Umm, yes, yep, that’s nine months.’ I’m not really sure where she’s going with this.
‘Well, May is the worst month to have a baby,’ she replies drily. I see what’s she’s doing. She’s trying to make herself feel better about it not being this month. I can’t quite work out why May is so bad, but I’m not going to stop her in the flow of talking herself into feeling better.
‘It’s the worst. May would be awful.’ I think that’s the right answer. She’s nodding fervently, at least.
‘It is, because it’s the beginning of hay fever season; I could never take the baby out for a nice walk in the pram. Being pregnant in May would be horrible, giving birth in May would be horrible and having to look after a newborn in June would be horrible.’
‘You’re so right, Lacey. It’s probably actually best that it didn’t happen this month, really.’
‘Yeah, definitely best.’ And with that, we start on the second tier. I’m pretty sure we both know we’re lying. Lacey doesn’t get hayfever. May would be fine, any month would be fine, but it’s not going to be May, so anything we can do to make that feel less painful for my best friend is OK with me.
The second tier is even better than the first. I usually think macarons are a bit emperor’s new clothes. Everyone goes absolutely gaga over them, but I think they just taste like overpriced icing halves with jam between them. These, though. Oh, these are different. Each segment melts on your tongue and releases perfectly mixed, sweet, delicate flavours before you reach the filling, which compliments the meringue. I’ve never enjoyed a macaron more in my life, and suddenly I see what all the lifestyle bloggers get their knickers in a twist over.
Buoyed up by my magical macaron moment, I look up at Lacey, who looks equally pleased, and says, ‘I’ve got a crazy idea!’
‘What?’ Mischief glimmers in Lacey’s eyes. She might be settled and married, but this girl loves a good time.
‘Why don’t we go out tonight?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Out, out. You know, big hair, bright lips, high heels. Let’s do it! It’s Saturday, Lyla’s with Simon and Storie learning how to live off the land or something, and what you need most, even more than these fucking delicious scones, is a cocktail. A big, strong cocktail.’
‘One condition,’ Lacey says, smiling.
‘Anything.’ I’m so eager to go, I actually do mean it.
‘You do my make-up,’ Lacey says, happily popping the last macaron in her mouth.
‘HURRAH!’ I say a bit too loudly, chinking my teacup against hers and sloshing tea onto the delicately embroidered tablecloth. ‘I’ve spent five weeks rushing about in jeans or jersey skirts and flats. The last time I made any kind of big effort was New York. I might actually keep an eye out for a nice man this evening!’
‘So Theo is definitely off the cards, then?’ she says through a mouthful of pink icing.
‘Nope, not really, I’m just not that bothered with him any more.’ Wow, that felt weird to say and actually mean. I hadn’t realised how little I cared until nudged.
‘Oh wow, you’ve changed your tune.’
‘Yep! About bloody time, as well! I’m starting to see what’s important and honestly, it’s not him,’ I say, nodding on ‘him’ as if to really make my point.
‘Hurrah again!’ Lacey says cheerily, and we clink our cups once more.