DECEMBER
A few minutes to midnight …
PLACING HER WINE GLASS carefully and importantly (it’s quite the honour to be given a wine glass when you’re only seven years old) on the marble worktops of our new kitchen, Lyla says, ‘Mummy, this is our princess castle and you are the queen.’
‘It certainly is, Bluebird, and how glad I am to be your queen! We’ve had quite a year, haven’t we! What’s been your best bit?’ I ask, filling her glass up with more ‘wine’.
It’s 31 December. We’re having our very own exclusive, only-two-invites-sent, New Year’s Eve party in our new house, complete with actual breakfast bar (as opposed to my old stub of Formica posing as a one) in the very lovely marble-worktopped, under-cupboard-lit kitchen. We have Skips in bowls, cut-in-half Babybels, chocolate fingers and jelly babies as our buffet, and Appletiser on tap. It might not be the Sugar Factory with Piper, or even the stylish party Lacey and Karl threw last year but honestly, this might be the best New Year’s Eve I’ve had. I’m so far from where I thought I’d be. I’m content.
After Natalie’s big offer, we moved house. I loved Granny’s house. It was everything I needed when Simon left and the familiarity of Granny’s touches was like a warm hug. Now though, I realised it was time for something that was mine. Something I had worked for and that I can put my own stamp on. Also, something a little less draughty and rickety is quite the treat! I wasn’t planning on moving so quickly but when this house popped up for sale in Figgsberry Village, a stone’s throw from Lyla’s school, chain-free, with a beautiful garden for her to play in and ticking every box I had ever wished for, I pounced. Martin helped me with all the paperwork and Karl and Lacey helped me move in the day after my 29th birthday at the beginning of December. We all regretted having one too many glasses of fizz the next day – my god, shifting boxes and hangovers do not mix! It’s been a crazy couple of months and, thinking about it, I never imagined I’d have the strength to do any of this. That’s the thing about change, sometimes you don’t even realise it’s happened until it has.
Lyla is twizzling around on her bar stool, surrounded by cardboard boxes of our possessions still waiting to be unpacked. She starts shouting out all her highlights: ‘The Easter bonnet parade! When we took Auntie Kath on the dodgems at fireworks night! When Roo came to Dovington’s and made flower crowns with me! When Auntie Kath cooked Christmas dinner and your paper crown fell in the gravy! When you made me the giant tent in the lounge with the sheets! This party right now!’
It’s amazing how little something can be to be a child’s highlight. I’ve always thought a yearly highlight needed to be a huge achievement: a holiday, a promotion or a big life step, but in Lyla’s mind, each tiny life step is a highlight. She’s not looking to jump her life forward or to keep up with an imaginary timeline of achievements she’s imposed on herself; she just sets out to feel real joy, to sit in a tent made by her mummy or laugh with Auntie Kath at a funfair.
‘Do you know what’s been my best bit of the year?’ I say, looking at my sweet girl, happy just to be with me in the kitchen and call it a party.
‘What, Mummy?’
‘You.’
‘MEEEE?’ she shouts, swirling round again on the stool, her feet almost knocking over a tower of boxes. We might see those jelly babies again in a minute.
‘Yep. You. You’ve been my most perfect thing. You won’t understand this yet, Lyla Blue, but sometimes, being a grown-up is quite hard. Mummy feels like she’s made a lot of silly choices in her life. I worry about them a little bit because I want us to be happy and have the happiest life we can. I want to make sure you have everything you need and that I’m the best mummy to you. At the beginning of this year, I felt sad. It wasn’t anything you’d done – never think that – and I worked very hard to fix it, but sometimes, I just felt a bit down. I thought if I had Theo – remember Theo? – that we’d all be so happy every day, but it turned out Theo was a worm.’ Lyla laughs at the thought of me openly insulting someone.
‘A slimy worm!’ she says with glee, brandishing a jelly baby menacingly at the ceiling.
‘A slimy worm!’ I repeat, feeling a bit giddy, probably thanks to all the sugar. ‘Do you know what, though? I went to New York and found out that I’m actually good at things, and then I came home and felt like I was good at being your mummy and good at doing all the things mummies have to do in their lives. I found all those things were possible without slimy worm Theo and without anyone else to help us. Our life was a success without a boyfriend or a husband on the scene. We can do it alone!’ I raise my Pinot Grigio to my own speech and look at Lyla, expecting her to be ready to applaud me or something.
Lyla looks perplexed.
‘Not alone, Mummy. Together. Always you and me together, the best Mummy and Lyla team in the world!’
With that, we both raise our glasses and have a celebratory spin on the new actually-really-fun bar stools, and spend the rest of the night dancing round the kitchen to the cheesiest Spotify playlists we can find.
As the clock strikes midnight, and it’s time to put a very sleepy little girl to bed, I think about how much has happened since Natalie’s call in October. I think about how far this year has taken me, and how much further I know the next one will go, with us always as a team, the best Mummy and Lyla team ever.
Two months ago …
AS I RANG NATALIE’S doorbell a few hours after her phone call, I noticed my hand was shaking. Something about the tone of her voice really disturbed me. She’s always collected and professional, so I wasn’t expecting whoops and cheers, but this was different; something about her seemed so heavy, so finite.
‘Robin! Nice to see you!’ Martin said, as he answered the door. I don’t know a single person alive who wouldn’t like Martin. He’s classically handsome with his dark brown eyes and smooth, dark skin, and his voice is deep and silky. Just being in his presence for thirty seconds calmed my nerves considerably. ‘Come through, Natalie’s in the drawing room.’
Of course they have a drawing room. It’s actually just a casual second lounge at the back of their house without a TV in it, but if they want to call it a ‘drawing room’, I’m not going to argue.
Unsurprisingly, Natalie’s taste in interiors is impressive.
The heavy, luxurious gold curtains compliment her bottle-green velvet sofas, placed opposite each other on a cream carpet with a gold and glass coffee table in between. She was sitting in cream jeans and a loose black sweater with her laptop and notepad resting on the table at her knees. She looked serious. I felt sick.
‘Natalie?’ I said, coming through the door.
‘Come in, Robin, take a seat.’
Obediently I sat down and looked at her.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Natalie said, smiling.
‘Sorry, I am worried, though. What’s going on?’ I garbled. ‘Are you ill? Kath thought she was ill but it turned out it was just the menopause. Not that you’re old enough to go through –’ Fuck, I didn’t want to insinuate anything about age, especially if she was actually gravely ill.
‘Stop, stop, it’s all right, honestly. I’m not ill, nor am I going through the menopause’ – I noticed an indignant raise of an eyebrow at my suggestion – ‘but I am going through some changes, some life changes.’
Natalie took a deep breath and looked at the table. She seemed to be on the brink of saying something big, so I sat silently and waited, trying not to die from the tension.
‘Robin, this is a lot to say so I’ll say it all in one go and then you can comment.’
Efficient. Typical Natalie. ‘OK,’ I said.
‘For a long time I’ve poured myself into the agency. I have built it from the ground up, and I love it like it’s one of my children. I know every detail of it and care about every choice made within it. I’m proud of my staff, I’m proud of our reputation and I’m proud of myself for cultivating this living, breathing, successful business. It’s afforded me and my family a great deal. Private education for all three boys, a lovely house, fantastic trips and savings to fall back on.
‘The problem is, I’ve spent every day there since Nathan was three. I’ve taken it on holiday; I’ve spent hours at kids’ parties on my phone instead of chatting to the other mothers; I’ve missed school plays to work on jobs; I’ve been late for Martin’s wonderfully prepared dinners more times than I dare to admit, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a “girls’ weekend”.
‘And while I might not be hitting the menopause yet’ – I knew she’d taken offence to that suggestion – ‘I’m getting older and I don’t want to lose any more of my life to work. I want to see some of the world with Martin, I want to have dinner with my boys and I want to get to know my friends properly. I’ve been saying for a long time to Martin that I’m going to step back, but I’ve never had anyone to hand the baton on to. I want that person to be you, Robin.’
She paused. I could barely breathe.
‘I needed someone with moral integrity and a strong work ethic, as well as natural talent. I’m not saying the business is yours. I’m still going to direct it, but I’m looking for a deputy to run things day to day and take the load off. We both know you’re so much more than an assistant. You’ve showed me countless times that you have the skills to work on set and deal with people. I’m going to hire a manager for the office to handle the paperwork, but I’d like you to head up the big jobs, choose an assistant from our roster and schedule the right artists for the right jobs.
‘Obviously this is going to require more hours, but there’ll be a team to help you, and me, of course, so you don’t miss out on the things I did and, naturally, a considerable pay rise.’ She smiled and then continued, ‘Winning the film franchise contract was in large part thanks to you – we all recognise that, and so, after some thought, I’ve decided I owe you a bonus. I’ll have Sarah at the office include it in this month’s salary.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘So. What do you think? Are you up for the challenge?’
I sat stock-still, as if I’d just had a full body epidural and all I could do was blink and move my mouth. That must be what a good shock feels like. ‘Wow, Natalie, this is a lot. I’m honoured that you think this way of me. I can’t believe I’m being given this opportunity. I’ve looked up to you for years. I don’t think you’ve failed in anything; I think you are the perfect example of success.’ I could feel my body slowly coming back to life. My breathing was embarrassingly heavy; I was overwhelmed that someone I look up to so much was inviting me to be an equal. It didn’t need thinking about at all. I was so excited I wanted to run at it with both arms open. ‘Natalie, I’d love to accept your offer. I think you’re an incredible woman, and to work so closely with you would be a privilege. Maybe I’ll even look as good as you in cream jeans!’
‘Don’t count on it!’ Natalie said, smiling and giving a sassy wiggle on the sofa.
I PULLED INTO MY DRIVE and went inside. I was in shock. Everything Natalie had said was going to take a while to sink in. I’d always thought her life was so perfect. I didn’t realise that she had her own struggles too. But I guess everybody does. It’s how you deal with them that counts. She was the person I’d looked up to and had hoped to be like, and now, I felt like I was being given the chance to make it happen.
The house felt really quiet that day. Lyla was with Simon and I had had a good tidy round the day before, so there was something very still and tranquil about it. Against all the noise and buzz in my head, it was a welcome oasis of calm.
I flopped down on the sofa in my usual spot and switched on the TV, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was on a crazy dazed high. What a day. I couldn’t wait to get started.
Three weeks ago
WE’D MOVED IN IN mid-December but the house was still in disarray and there were boxes piled high in every room. Who knew I’d crammed so much stuff into Granny’s old house, even with my big clear out earlier in the year!
Lyla was playing with her sticker books and just as I’d opened the four hundred and fiftieth box to unpack, my phone flashed.
Unknown numbers horrify me, ever since the Inland Revenue called me and screamed at me for not paying my taxes properly. OK, they didn’t scream at me, but I did mess up my taxes, because being self-employed is complicated. In a fit of bravery – after all, if Natalie believes in me, plus I can move house without a partner and I can do the most perfect winged eyeliner you’ve ever seen, I must be doing something right – I answered.
‘Hello?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Robin?’ replied a man’s voice.
‘Yes, who’s this?’ I hate this game. Just start with who you are and what you want before you trigger my tax fears, dammit.
‘Robin, it’s Edward. From New York. Hi!’
Oh my God, why was sexy New York Edward ringing? I was both thrilled and confused by this. Obviously I wasn’t going to show him that, though.
‘Oh, hi Edward, how’s things?’ Yes, nailed it, so breezy.
‘Yeah, really good, just working, playing, you know the drill.’
I wasn’t sure I did, but hey, let’s play the game.
‘Yep, yep, ha ha, totally do! Me too. I just moved house actually, so I’m having a day of unpacking and organising.’
‘Oh wow, well done you, that’s awesome.’ He might be English, but he definitely had that American enthusiasm to him. It was like when Marnie Facebooked me the month before to tell me about the amaaaazing pilot she’d started filming in L.A. I could feel her beaming. Edward continued:
‘I’m actually ringing because I’m in your neck of the woods next month for a while and thought, maybe, if you fancy it, we could grab dinner?’
Shit me. Was I actually being asked out on a date by a one-night stand? This doesn’t happen.
‘Well, it would be rude not to celebrate my big move, so yes, sounds great to me!’ I realised it would probably be a bit weird to celebrate moving to a new house by going out with a one-night stand months later but this phone call business was throwing me completely off balance. Whatever happened to a series of texts where you can’t sense any tone but do spend plenty of time agonising over every full stop and emoji?
‘Amazing!’ he said, a bit more keenly than I think he meant to. ‘I’d better dash, I’ve promised the chaps I’ll meet them tonight, but that’s great. I’ll message you. Or call you. Or … yeah, message or call, ha ha.’
I loved that I was the cool, confident one here (on the phone, not in my head of course), and he was slightly floundering in a very cute way.
‘OK, sounds good. I’ll look forward to either a call or a message,’ I laughed.
‘Catch you later, Robin Wilde!’
We rang off and I sat back, sinking into the sofa. OK, then.
* * *
A COUPLE OF DAYS AFTER Christmas and Lacey popped round to drop off presents. She and Karl were on their way back from a trip to a rural lodge (complete with full maid service) in the Scottish Highlands to celebrate Christmas together as a couple. ‘Just think Robin, this time next year I’ll be here with my new baby’, she said, a little too brightly, sipping her coffee and looking out of the lounge window at my new sprawling garden. Half the reason I snapped this house up was this garden. Granny’s house had a little yard with an old crumbling shed but no grass or flowers – and no cherry blossom tree just waiting to bloom next spring.
‘I know, it’ll be perfect,’ I said reassuringly. ‘It’s a good job you had this last Christmas as a romantic one because next year is for sure the year it happens, Lace, I can just feel it.’
‘This month feels like a good month,’ she said nodding – she thought I couldn’t see the tears in her eyes – and continued to look out the window at a little robin hopping along the patio towards the seeds Lyla had scattered earlier. Lacey still thinks every month is a good month and I wasn’t going to be the one who rained on her parade. I hated seeing my friend struggle like this. She reached in to her handbag for a tissue.
Maybe next year would be the year.
Maybe it wouldn’t be long before Lyla had a little friend to play with on her new luscious lawn.
Breaking into my thoughts of frilly summer dresses and tiny children running through sprinklers, Lacey burst out, ‘Oh my God! I don’t know how I didn’t tell you this before! It’s Theo! Look! Look!’. She brandished a battered copy of OK! magazine at me. ‘I saw it on holiday and meant to call you but the signal up there was shocking so I’ve saved the article. I thought you ought to see this.’
Hearing Theo’s name after all those weeks jarred and I reached for the magazine with shaking hands, trying to control my spiralling emotions. I opened the magazine to the page she’d bent down for me and there it was. A photograph of Theo at some swanky celebrity Christmas Gala, with a face like thunder. After the initial shock had subsided I realised it wasn’t actually a photograph only of Theo. He was standing brooding at the edge of the photo with his back half turned, obviously not loving the camera, whilst a group of very well-to-do horsey-looking friends smiled beatifically down the lens. I read the accompanying article:
Lady Sophia Fennelsworth has announced her forthcoming marriage to Lord Freddie Goldman. Hot-shot property tycoon and only son of international financier Caroline Salazan, Theodore Salazan, 34, [also pictured, far left] has been linked with Lady Sophia on and off for more than 18 months, with bets being taken that he’d be the one to bag the heiress. But ‘Always the bachelor, never the bridegroom’ joked his school friend, Tommy Fitzherbert, adding that Salazan is currently on a two month-long ski break in Whistler nursing a broken heart. Sources close to Lady Sophia report she always knew there was only one man for her and marrying Goldman will make all her dreams come true. She and Goldman will tie the knot at Radboth Manor in early spring with Princess Florence of Denmark as the head bridesmaid …
I put the magazine down and expected to feel rage or anger or heartache. Lacey reached out to lay a supportive hand on my arm.
‘I knew I never had his full attention. I knew I was always second best,’ I said, still casting my eyes over the picture.
‘You’re not second best, you’re … first best.’ Lacey was smooth as always.
‘You know what? This doesn’t cut deep. This makes sense. Everything makes sense now.’
I put the magazine down and took a deep breath. I was exactly where I was meant to be, with exactly who I was meant to be with. If only Theo could have said the same thing.
1 January
My memory box lies open next to me on the sofa. I’ve had a good look through and it’s time to close the lid and look forward. I open my brand new journal – a Boxing Day self-purchase from John Lewis – to a fresh page and start to write:
New Year’s Day is back to being a favourite again. A lot of people moan when January starts because the magical cosiness of Christmas is fading away, decorations are being taken down and we’re all back to real life, in the grey, and with substantially weaker bank accounts to carry us through.
I don’t see it like that, though. For me, New Year’s Day has nearly always been a chance to reflect on the year that’s just gone and start afresh with the new one. I come up with goals (some more achievable than others – I never did become a minimalist or take up CrossFit) and I feel excited that, with a new year, there is a new chance to be the person I really want to be. To be content and able; to know deep down that I’m a good mother to Lyla without needing to be told it or have it validated in some way; to be able to walk confidently in skinny jeans, stilettos and a tucked-in shirt; to be proud of my home and make it welcoming (never having to shove chocolate wrappers behind the cushions when guests turn up unexpectedly); to have a secure group of friends and not be ashamed of being single.
Every year I dream up new ways to achieve those things. I’ve dated men, hoping they’ll rescue me; I’ve tried faddy diets or going to the gym four times in a row thinking my jeans will look that much better for it; I’ve bought all the mum-erabilia like bento boxes and Trunkis and an iPad with the huge foam kidproof handles round it so I’d look like a Good Mother; I’d stick to Lacey like glue, ignoring pangs of loneliness. I’ve been doing those things for years, in different ways and in different settings, and, let’s face it, they’ve never worked.
Last year, though, was different. Last year I found that I didn’t need to do all those things. Letting go of all my misconceptions freed me from being my own biggest critic. Theo wasn’t the answer; no man is. I worked my (a bit untoned but who really cares?) arse off at work and it paid off; I didn’t always send Lyla in to school with the right sodding socks and she didn’t die; the PSMs aren’t what I thought they were (except maybe Val, who’s probably a lost cause); and the only person who was judging my mothering was me.
I’ve spent all these years looking for the answer, the thing or person to rescue me, but ultimately I just had to do it myself, for myself. It just had to be me.
This evening, as I gently removed each delicate glass bauble from the now sorry-looking Christmas tree and wrapped each one in newspaper ready for next year, I found big, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.
Lyla gently stroked my arm and asked me: ‘Are you sad, Mummy?’
I smiled at my beautiful little girl, and answered: ‘No. I’m so, so, happy.’