I SPEND THE NEXT three days in a daze. I can’t focus on anything at all. I’ve let his words soak into me, permeating every part of my self-confidence. I don’t even tell Kath I’m home for the first day, in fear of him being right about me running to her at every turn. She finds me the next day (I’ll forever regret giving her that set of keys) after I ignored four of her calls and voicemails asking how my ‘special night’ went. Once in (and once she’s had a bit of a go at me for not telling her I was home, which seems odd for Kath, who’s usually so forgiving), she boils the kettle, wafts around fluffing pillows, opening windows (I haven’t bothered to wash) and picking up empty food wrappers (I ate my feelings, apparently) and I tell her everything. I flit between laughing manically about how hilarious the whole thing is, crying my eyes out because I know it’s truly over and wanting to go down to his office and flip the tables over because I hate him so much. He has validated everything The Emptiness was, and is. I’ve spent the best part of this year fighting my thoughts, proving to myself that I’m good, I’m worthy, but, right there, in that unreal, beautiful set-up, he laid out every hellish thing I think about myself. It’s like he knew. He read me. He knew my secret list of painful fears and one by one he took them and stabbed me with them.
I have never, in all my life, felt as shit as I do now. The Emptiness feels vastly unforgiving.
Kath has faffed around me, making unwanted cups of tea, telling me about how she had to miss Cupcakes and Crochet for a headache (I’d love having a headache to be my only problem right now) and throwing out benign phrases like, ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea’ and ‘it’ll happen when you least expect it’, which just make me cry even more because here we are, nine months past New Year and I’m in the same predicament. I ask Kath to leave me be. I can’t handle her. I don’t want to be force-fed cheery quips about fish. I want to sit alone and stare at the TV until I fall asleep and it fades into white noise. Lyla is at her dad’s and I’ve texted Natalie that I have a stomach bug and can’t take on jobs this week. I want to be as alone as I feel.
But on the third day, after I’ve sunk as low as I think I can, my tears dry up and I realise I’m not in the same predicament as I’ve been in the past.
I don’t have to drown in The Emptiness.
I have a choice.
I can make this choice.
If New York taught me anything, it’s that I can handle my life. I, Robin Wilde, am a confident and in-control woman, and whatever life throws at me can be managed. I can do this.
With my new-found determination and Lyla still with Simon, I decide it’s time to stop living off cupboard scraps and go to the shops. I don’t care what I look like – it’s not important, I’m above all that now. I’m just going about my life, handling it.
If I want to handle my life in a matted, greasy ponytail and sagging-round-the-bum jogging bottoms, then I jolly well will. I’m sick to the back teeth of conforming to society’s rules and being told what to do all the time. I’m rising far above all that. Find a man, be a good girl, bake a cake, take your child to soft play, don’t be too loud, don’t get too drunk, don’t talk about porn, don’t break out of your box. Fuck it all.
I park haphazardly across two spaces and slam the door shut as I march into the shop. I grab a basket and start walking through with the sole aim of filling it with whatever I want. I’m not going to do what I always do and try to be good. Why bother? I’m alone anyway, so I may as well enjoy my life. I walk over to the refrigerator aisle and dump in an eight-pack of white chocolate mousse, then I mooch over to the frozen foods section and throw in a couple of frozen pizzas, and finally I meander through the wine aisle, deciding which tipple tickles my fancy.
‘Hello, stranger!’ comes a familiar voice. It’s Gillian. Lovely, kind, sensible-things-like-peas-and-bread-in-her-trolley, Gillian.
I stand there in my sagging joggers, BO-smelling baggy T-shirt and bedraggled hair and look at her. She’s perfectly turned out. She’s in a lovely Boden cotton jersey dress with pretty, comfortable flats and her hair, unlike mine, looks like it’s been washed recently. A PSM is the last person I want to see. I feel like shit. A little part of me thinks maybe I am shit.
‘Gillian, hi. I was just … looking at the wine. Things have been a bit crap, so … you know,’ I say, trailing off.
I can see Gillian’s politeness going into overdrive. She’s clearly judging me and thinking I’m a disgusting mother for only buying chocolate desserts and frozen junk food. She’s probably going to tell Finola, and they’ll stop their children hanging around with Lyla because she’s a scuzzy bad influence, and then, somehow, Val will overhear and say poisonous things to Lyla again. I can tell Gillian wants to say something, but my defiance gets the better of me and I’m not going to let her.
‘Look, Gillian, like I said, things have been tough lately. The last thing I need is to hear your opinion on it. I know you’re perfect, you all are, but I’m not and that’s that. Let’s just leave it, shall we, and I’ll see you next week at school,’ and I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can, without looking like I’m going to wet myself, to the self-service checkouts.
I take myself and my eight chocolate mousses home and eat four in a row. Then, like the responsible adult I am, I feel sick, have a cry and go to bed. As Kath would, no doubt at the worst possible time, remind me, tomorrow is a new day. Thank fuck.
EXCEPT WHEN I WAKE up, it’s not a new day and a fresh tomorrow, it’s the same day, just later and with some loud knocking at the door. Surely not Kath? She texted earlier saying she wouldn’t be coming over because she’s feeling a bit under the weather, and Simon isn’t due to drop Lyla off till the morning.
As soon as I stand up, I regret eating the mousses and regret even more leaving the sticky pots all over the arm of the sofa as I knock past them and they all clatter to the floor. I check my phone and it’s 8 p.m., and there are four missed calls from Gillian and two from Finola. Has there been some kind of school emergency?
Further banging on the door indicates that I need to actually go and open it and so I do, and to my surprise and horror, it’s them. Gillian and Finola are standing on my step, holding a bottle of wine each, and I think I spy a large box of Ferrero Rocher too.
‘We don’t want to intrude or upset you further,’ Gillian starts nervously, twiddling the sleeve of her navy cardigan and smoothing down her very lovely white dress. She always looks nice, I note. Not like me.
‘But it sounds like you’ve got yourself into a state, darling, and we’re not going to leave you like that. Nothing’s as bad as all this,’ Finola adds, gesturing at me and my haggard condition. ‘Now, step back, let us in and let’s see what we can do to help.’
It’s pretty clear they’re not going home, so, still slightly dumbfounded, I open the door wider and step back to let them in. I inwardly pray that there are some windows still open upstairs and that the house doesn’t stink of mousse pots and sweat. I still haven’t showered, and all pride in my home has disappeared. God, this is embarrassing.
Finola being Finola bulldozes straight through the lounge and into the kitchen. Gillian tiptoes after her, and a little part of me dies inside that they are seeing my home like this. There are wrappers, boxes, pots and food containers littered over every surface; old teabags sit in a cold pile by the kitchen sink; the recycling box is full of M&S individual G&T cans, and all over the floor by the washing machine is a pile of my dirty laundry. It was this morning’s attempt at ‘getting on with things’, but I didn’t quite manage to get as far as actually loading the machine. I felt that, given the circumstances, filthy clothes on the kitchen floor would be perfectly fine. Now that I’m having Posh School Mums over for the first time, I’m not sure it is. Walking through the house, I can definitely smell fustiness. I want to die a bit.
‘Robin, where is Lyla?’ says Gillian slowly and loudly to me, as if I’m not following her.
‘She’s at her dad’s. Look. Obviously, all this will be cleared up by tomorrow.’
‘Would you like us to help you? I’m always tidying up after Clara, so this is nothing,’ she lies. Her wide eyes and furtive glances around at the chaos suggest that she’s having some mild anxiety about the environment she’s been thrust into.
‘No, no, it’s OK, just, er, sit down and I’ll, um, make you—’
‘Don’t play silly buggers, my dear – let’s pull our socks up and sort this mess out,’ orders Finola, hands on hips, riding boots still firmly on over her cream jodhpurs, ‘and then we can have a proper talk about what’s going on and see if we can get you out of whatever pickle you’re in. I’ve no doubt it’s a man-shaped pickle!’
At that, Gillian and I exchange eyebrow-raised looks. We pause. I think for a moment I might cry. And then we both burst into laughter.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake! You know what I mean!’ Finola says, ruffled at our immaturity but holding back a smirk herself.
We’re still laughing. My belly hurts from laughing, and oh, wow, it feels good to use those muscles and have a huge smile on my face! As I laugh, I feel myself relax and give in to their help. By the state – and smell – of things, I need it.
For the next twenty minutes, these lovely ladies bustle around my house with bin bags and the hoover while I ferry things upstairs to find them homes and put away last week’s laundry. It takes no time at all, and once it’s done, we flop down on the sofa, still feeling a bit giddy about Finola’s inadvertent penis joke.
‘Thank you. This is so kind of you,’ I say, still flopped into the sofa cushions, really very desperately needing a shower now.
‘You looked awful in the shop, Robin, I was really worried,’ Gillian says, turning her head to look at me but sinking into the freshly plumped sofa cushions too. I’ve never seen her look so relaxed. It’s nice. She’s nice.
‘I’m sorry for being so rude. I don’t know why I said those things. I was so tired and worn down. I’m really so sorry.’ I get up to go and get the Ferrero Rocher. They bloody deserve one and I’ve never deserved one more.
‘No, don’t be, it’s fine. I just want you to know, I wasn’t judging you at all. I was concerned for you. I’ve never seen you like this,’ Gillian says, waving her hand in my direction and raising her voice so I can hear her in the kitchen as I fetch the chocolates. ‘You’re normally the glamorous one of the bunch.’
‘Erm, what?!’ I say, standing in the kitchen doorway, completely flabbergasted.
Finola heaves herself off the sofa cushions and sits up straight to talk.
‘You know, dear, the sparkly froofy-floofy one with your hair and your make-up all just perfect. Gillian was quite alarmed to see you looking so dishevelled, and to tell you the truth, so was I when you opened the door.’
Gillian sits up too, and blinks excessively like she does when she’s about to say something big. ‘Robin, I feel I should say, and I know Finola will agree, you are a wonderful woman. You are raising a charming little girl, you work very hard at your job, you always look so pretty and your home is … lovely.’
‘Hear, hear!’ cheers Finola with gusto.
While we all know the last bit of that statement is a stretch, everything else feels so welcome and much needed. Coming from two women I look up to and respect, this is such an antidote to Theo. I feel looked after and cared for and it’s lovely.