WE ARRIVE AT DOVINGTON’S to find Terri carefully bringing in flowers in tall white vases, ready to start tidying up for closing time. You can tell that, for Terri, this job is a labour of love. If she weren’t being paid, I suspect she’d still be here every day, tending to the plants, offering advice for their care and making up the most beautiful bouquets.
‘Hiya Terri, are you all right?’
‘Hello, lovey! Yes, thanks. Look at these wonderful camellias we’ve had in! Aren’t they divine?’ Terri is talking about the blush-pink flowers as if someone has dropped off a box of brand new puppies. ‘Lyla, have you seen these? They’re so delicate, and can you see how they look a little like roses?’
Lyla pootles over to have a look and a stroke while I have a quick scan round for Lacey. It’s hard to detect anything at first, because the space is crammed with botanical paraphernalia – stacks of plant pots; rotating wire racks holding cards to stick in bouquets with special messages lovingly written on; wall-mounted spools of ribbon in all the colours of the rainbow; and, of course, buckets and buckets of beautifully scented flowers – but she’s not here. She must be in the workshop out the back. This room is my favourite. Unlike the large, wide, front-of-house space with its practical concrete floor and bright lighting, this room is cosy and calm, with mismatched rugs, an electric heater and pretty little lamps dotted about to give a warm glow – the perfect retreat on this cold January night. Originally just a stockroom in the days of Granny Dovington, Lacey has turned it into a welcoming craft space to host small workshops for customers who want to make something incredible out of the flowers. Typically Lacey hosts sedate hen dos for those who want to know how to make floral crowns for the wedding, or groups of well-to-do teenage girls who want to learn how to put together a fresh prom corsage. From time to time Lacey hosts seasonal sessions for making Christmas wreaths or Easter planters, but for the most part, the craft room is our space. We sit around the sturdy giant oak table with cups of tea and we chat, laugh, cry and everything in between. And the real beauty of this space is that it’s a creative heaven for Lyla.
Lacey is like an aunt to Lyla and loves her unconditionally. They’re very easy around each other and hold no airs or graces. Lyla comes in, plops herself down by the smeared, could-do-with-a-wash window and asks politely for the biscuit tin. I always feel a pang of pride when I hear her use good manners. At least I’m doing something right! Out come the custard creams, out come the felt tips and left over bouquet wrapping paper and many a masterpiece is born. Here and there Lacey will let Lyla deadhead wilting blooms or make a floral crown, and so quite often our little house is strewn with flowery artefacts from the shop.
Thanks to the wobbly start, my telling off at school and the fact it’s such a miserable, sleety winter’s day, today feels especially bleak so it’s with relief that (after the obligatory rummage around the tin for a good biscuit and a flick of the switch on the kettle) we sit down to business.
‘I’m a shit mum, Lacey.’ I say as quietly as I can.
‘What? No you’re not,’ she says, gesturing to a completely engrossed-in-colouring Lyla. ‘Look at her! She’s great!’
‘I ballsed up her PE kit today and was completely dressed down in front of all the other mums. They already think I’m a mess. This is going to tip them over the edge.’
‘They don’t think you’re a mess! They think you’re the same as them, I bet. Everyone has bad days, Robin.’
‘Lacey, I love you, but no, you’re so wrong. One mum saw me getting out of my car with my coat over my pyjama top just before Christmas and said, “In a bit of a rush this morning?” in the most condescending tone I’ve ever heard. If snobbery were an Olympic sport, these women would be winning gold medals. What makes it worse is that I wasn’t even in a rush, I just couldn’t see the point in making myself look nice or putting in the effort because all I was going to do afterwards was go home, clean the worktops and watch a documentary about weird cults in America.’
‘Why do you care about what they think? Surely you don’t give a shit? They don’t know you. They don’t know how funny or caring or talented you are. They’re not anyone special in your life, so they don’t deserve such a high opinion from you!’
‘I don’t know. I just want to be a good mum. I’m so worried I made the wrong choice moving her there. I don’t think she’s feeling at all settled yet. I’m not helping her, am I? I thought this would get easier, but it’s getting harder,’ I take a big breath and look at my perfect child. Her dark brown, silky hair is tumbling down her shoulders and onto her arms while she daintily draws the bricks of a house with Lacey’s pens. Her skin, like that of most little girls, is perfect. Not a single spot or blemish. Her lashes are long and dark and create the perfect frame around those eyes that get me every time she looks into mine. She’s neither the shortest nor tallest in her class, but she sits slumped just now and looks smaller and more delicate than she is. Every time I take a moment to really consider her, I feel such a mixture of emotions. I love her and want to protect her and nurture her and keep her close and not damage her or ruin her zest for life or give her insecurities by making her do PE in ballet socks, or all of the other things that whirl through my tired brain on a regular basis. The Emptiness feels almost overwhelming right now.
Just as Lacey reaches over to squeeze my hand and I’m letting my mind fill with all the ways I’m failing as a parent (is her slumped posture a confidence issue she’s inadvertently picked up from me not being forthright with people and generally shying away?) Piper strides in like someone out of Vogue. She’s wearing tan skintight jodhpurs (I don’t think she’s ever been riding in her entire life), knee-high chocolate-brown flat boots, a soft cream cashmere jumper and her golden hair in a high ponytail. She is the walking embodiment of country chic perfection. I look down at my fraying jeans and see a little stain from the yoghurt I spilt earlier. Cool.
‘Hey Bister,’ Piper says to Lacey, walking towards the biscuit tin and giving Lyla a cuddle on her way past. Lyla takes the cuddle with one hand, so used to the women in her life loving her like this, and carries on drawing with the other.
‘Hello Lister,’ Lacey replies.
Secretly I wish I had a big sister or little sister to do the ‘bister’/‘lister’ thing with. Although Lacey is my very best friend in all the world, I know I can’t compete with the bond she and Piper have and will never get my own special greeting like that. But then I think how lucky I am to have these two in my life, blood relations or otherwise.
Piper sits down and starts picking at a stray petal on the table. ‘Mum’s driving me mad at home; I’ve just got back from a potentially very exciting appointment in London but she thinks I’m wasting my life by not “getting out there and finding a nice chap like your sister”, so I’ve come here to escape.’ She looks up at me with big eyes. ‘Robin, you don’t have a nice chap and you’re OK!’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, look at you! Successful job in something you enjoy, beautiful daughter, lovely little house, freedom, independence – you’re a badass single mum living the dream, doll! I’m stuck at home with moany Mum, still looking for my dream job, despite my best efforts, and actively not looking for a “nice chap” to settle down and be boring with.’
‘Hey! I’m not boring,’ protests Lacey.
‘You know what I mean. Not boring, but not doing what I want to do. You want to settle down and play happy families.’
‘Give it a few years and you’ll yearn for a copy of Country Living and some good upholstery too!’ Lacey says with a grin.
‘Please, no! The only thing I want to do right now on good upholstery shouldn’t be talked about in front of little ears!’
Lacey and Piper laugh and I try to stifle a giggle but change the subject in case those little ears pick up on the excitement and start asking questions. It’ll be the wax salon situation all over again, and Mrs Barnstorm’s blood pressure wouldn’t take it.
I’m just thrilled that I’m seen as the coolest one in all this. This is exactly what I needed to hear today. ‘Hear that, Lyla? Piper thinks Mummy’s cool! Do you think I’m cool too?’
‘Mummy, I think you’ve got yoghurt on your top.’
Oh.