Wilde Like Me Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Wilde Like Me

  Dedication

  Prologue: My Fairy Tale Ending . . .?

  Part One: Badass Single Mum?

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two: ‘Fortune Favours the brave’

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Three: I need a hero . . .

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Part Four: New York, New York

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Part Five: Home is where the heart is . . .

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  Coming soon

  Author Letter

  Join My Readers’ Club

  Copyright

  PRAISE FOR WILDE LIKE ME

  ‘I really rooted for Robin Wilde in this warm and engaging debut. She’s a chatty, winning yet poignant heroine, facing very real and relatable problems.’

  Sophie Kinsella

  ‘I’d love Robin Wilde to be my new best friend. In fact, I feel like she’s become it through these pages. Wonderfully written and full of humour that had me laughing along from start to finish.

  As a mum, as a woman, you can find yourself wondering whether it’s only you that feels a certain way or does questionable things, but this book stilled my pondering mind. We’re all in this together. Plodding through the murkiness, the judgement, the excruciating emptiness and insecurities of not being good enough … only when we know these are universal worries will we learn that all we actually need is a little self-love. Funny, heartfelt, tender and empowering! I can’t believe this is Louise’s first book. I’m thoroughly excited to read more!’

  Giovanna Fletcher

  ‘I’m smitten with this sweet and special story about love, life and motherhood. Reading Wilde Like Me feels just like sitting down for a (boozy) hot chocolate with your best friend and I love Robin Wilde.’

  Lindsey Kelk

  ‘I adore this book. Louise Pentland writes with so much warmth, heart and honesty – Wilde Like Me is a gorgeous, witty, reassuring comfort read. I fell in love with Robin and her family before the end of the first page. If you’re having a bad day, I think this book would instantly make it better. Pentland’s exploration of mental health issues is refreshingly honest. If you’ve ever felt like the only person in the world who isn’t perfect – and I sometimes do – this is what you need to read. A fabulous mix of escapism and relatability, this is a hug of a book.’

  Daisy Buchanan

  For Clare, Esther, Victoria and Maddie,

  the perfect cure to The Emptiness

  PROLOGUE

  MY FAIRY TALE ENDING . . .?

  ‘I RESISTED THIS FOR too long,’ I think as I step out of my black cab, bubbling with excitement. After a long call and an intense exchange of messages I’d finally agreed to meet him. He invited me to a rather exclusive bar at the top of the OXO Tower, one of London’s most iconic buildings on the River Thames with wrap-around views of the city from its terrace and, apparently, cocktails to die for. I was secretly pleased that the job I’d assisted Natalie, my boss, on today – make-up for a shoot in a trendy loft studio in Shoreditch – had finished early. With an entire afternoon to spare, I’d taken the time to pamper myself and really enjoy getting ready for this night.

  Stepping onto the pavement and gliding down the pathway to the riverfront, I feel like a peacock parading its feathers.

  As I approach the red-brick old factory building, I catch my reflection in the gleaming windows. For the first time in a bloody long time, I feel beautiful. I’ve always thought that my 5’ 6” frame, conker-brown hair and brown eyes were the dullest of all the potential ‘beauty stats’. They’re not exactly exotic or outstanding, are they? And they’re certainly not hailed as the epitome of perfection in the magazines, but today something feels special. My eyes seem softer and my hair bouncier, as I glimpse myself walking along with my head held high. I don’t think, ‘slummy mummy’ but, instead, ‘lovely woman, out on a special date’. Feeling this worthwhile makes me stand a little taller and, oh my God, am I sashaying my bum about?

  Happily, my make-up looks sultry and glowing. I’ve gone all out on the contour and highlight, but managed to pull it back before I gave my face actual corners (I still don’t regret that luxury make-up binge last month), and I’m in love with my outfit. I’m wearing a knee-skimming black layered lace skirt that I picked up for pennies in a tucked-away vintage shop. In between the light layers of lace and tulle are tiny stars embroidered with gold thread. You can barely see them until the street lights catch them, and then they look like the night sky swirling past. I’ve tucked a deep V wrap top into the satin waistband and paired it with black-patent heels passed down from my best friend’s sister, Piper, before she moved away. If I were deep-down ballsy enough to ask a stranger to take a full-length picture, I’d put it on Instagram with an #OOTD (Outfit Of The Day, for those not as obsessed with social media as I am) and pretend to be a blogger.

  Taking a deep breath and reminding myself of everything I am, I pull open the grand glass door, walk confidently to the lift and push the ‘up’ button.

  It’s going to be perfect.

  It’s going to be everything I want it to be.

  I say these things over and over in my head. I’m willing the universe to listen and make it so. After four years (and ten months and five days) isn’t it about time?

  I step into the lift, and take one last look at myself in the mirror, smile serenely at my reflection – without fretting over my make-up caking or my hair looking like a scarecrow.

  This is it …

  The doors open with a shrill ping, and it takes me a second to adjust to what I can see.

  Instead of being packed full of people, the glamorous blue-lit bar, leading out on to a stylish restaurant area on the patio, is almost empty.

  The sight that meets my eyes takes my breath away.

  Tiny white tea lights in mottled silver votives run from the doors of the lift, through the indoor bar and out on to the terrace, making a twinkling path for me to walk down. Next to the doors at the end of the candlelit path is a waiter ready to take me to the one occupied table, where he stands smiling at me with one arm outstretched in welcome.

  Strings of golden fairy lights hang from every railing creating a warm glow, and there is champagne already chilling in a bucket beside his chair. Our view is of the Thames and all the boats humming along with their coloured lights twinkling up at us, but I barely notice it.

  I’m mesmerised by him.

  I’m almost breathless at how beautiful all of this is; how beautiful he is. I notice the gentle piano melody tinkling in the background and how the breeze is soft on my skin.

  I feel like I’m the main character in a perfect-happy-ending movie. If I died right now, in this very moment, I’d be dying happy.

  He pulls out my chair.

  ‘Robin Wilde,’ he says softly, flashing me the smile my heart skips a beat for …

&
nbsp; ONE

  JANUARY

  OPENING MY EYES VERY slowly, I’m greeted by the glare of the mini Christmas tree lights (which I forgot to switch off before I fell asleep) and a hot body pressed up against me, with one arm draped heavily over my chest and the other digging a little painfully into my back.

  The first week of January is supposed to feel like a fresh start. This one really doesn’t. I’ve barely slept these last few days, even though I’m exhausted, and when I do close my eyes, I dream of falling into nothing and then wake up with a start.

  As my bedroom comes into focus, I roll over and ever so gently stroke her hair. Her lashes are longer than mine but her little nose is the same. I watch her breathe for a few moments and wonder how someone like me managed to have such a perfect daughter. Six years feels like six months. It’s true what they say about them growing up too fast. I’m delving into thoughts of how this tiny person makes my life what it is when I’m jolted back firmly to reality. There’s a rustling in my kitchen.

  I check my phone: it’s 7.45 a.m. I stagger downstairs, leaving a half-asleep Lyla where she is, to find my Auntie Kath in the kitchen surrounded by every single thing that lives in a cupboard or drawer. No longer in their assigned place, all my culinary possessions are strewn across every inch of counter surface available. This is a reasonable-sized kitchen and though the counters are scratched and the breakfast bar is a slightly wobbly stub of counter offcut and the dining table cost £4 in a charity shop, I love it. I love my cool mint tiles that Dad helped me put in last year (Granny, who lived here before me, had this waterproof floral wallpaper that even Dad agreed was hideous) and beach-themed art. In the summer, when the light streams in through the glass doors, this kitchen is the brightest, freshest room in the house. In the winter, when there’s less light and we string lights over the cabinet tops and make mulled wine (‘Mummy’s special Christmas Ribena’), it’s a great place to sit at the table and wrap presents or make cards. I love this space even more when everything I own isn’t stacked up on the worktops or in piles on the off-white lino (OK, my limited funds haven’t stretched yet to anything nicer, and, really who wants to spend money on flooring?). Instantly I wish I hadn’t given Auntie Kath a set of keys. And I really should have wiped down the surfaces before I collapsed into bed.

  ‘My New Year’s Resolution is to declutter!’ Auntie Kath says, with way too much gusto for the time of day.

  It’s six days into the new year and Kath is ready to go. I’d love to be that ready for anything.

  I’ve been alone with Lyla now for four years (and two months and twenty-four days). Fifty-one months. It’s my fifth new year as a single mum, and my fifth new year with my child being my midnight kiss and cuddle. I’m not alone alone, obviously. I have Kath and I have my friends. I do normal things like work and go out; I went to a great party at my best friend Lacey and her husband Karl’s for New Year’s Eve … but I’ve lost my pep a bit. I smiled politely a lot, and tried to have fun, but I left the party as soon as was socially acceptable (twenty past midnight), claiming I had ‘a lot on’ the next day. I never have a lot on, though. I’m not sure I could handle a lot right now. I just about manage with ‘some’, unlike Kath, who is a walking whirlwind of positivity and getting things done.

  I stare blankly at her, wondering what planet she’s from. A pause. Then she continues: ‘You really shouldn’t keep sweet potatoes in a cupboard, love. They keep better in the fridge.’

  There’s no explanation as to why she’s decided to declutter my kitchen. I chalk it up to a ‘Kathism’ and decide to let her be.

  ‘Right, yeah, thanks, Kath,’ I muster as I go to answer the door. Why is the world starting before 8 a.m. on Lyla’s first day back at school? Didn’t anyone get the memo that it’s Teacher Training Morning, and therefore my last lie-in for months? What is this fresh hell?

  Paul from over the road is plodding in with his toolkit and a ‘youallrighthow’sitgoingwhere’sthebrokenswitchthen?’. I realise he’s not fully awake yet either. Kath is, though. She’s all over it. You would be, if you were the kind of woman who’d arranged a handyman to call round at 8 a.m. to fix something that nobody needed fixing. The switch is fine; you just have to push it super-hard in the left-hand corner and it works a dream.

  ‘Hello, Paul! I do love to see a man with a well-packed toolkit in the morning!’ Chortle, chortle. Someone please make her stop.

  Paul heads off to the front room to fix the switch and, assessing that everything is under control, I head back upstairs. I can hear Auntie Kath talking at – not to – Paul.

  ‘How’s the missus, Paul? And how are those gorgeous kids? Ooh, I took Mollie to the vet last week. Terrible, she’s been. Off her food, off her walks – not like her.’ Paul interjects with a series of yeahs and oh reallys? as Kath chatters on. ‘Gallstones, they’ve found! Two! Poor thing, no wonder she’s been off her food, I wouldn’t want two little balls inside me either …’

  TWO

  AUNTIE KATH, MY DAD’S younger sister, lives five minutes’ walk away from us and is straight out of a children’s storybook: the lovely mumsy woman with a soft voice, wise words and a cuddle that could solve most of the world’s problems. Charity shop bargain-hunting is one of Auntie Kath’s main skills. Knowing everything about everyone is another. If there is news, a scandal or drama to be had within a four-mile radius of Edgeton Vale, Kath Drummond has it. With her thrifty shopping finds, Kath has a unique sense of style. Floaty, coloured skirts (often with her own added embellishments of sequins, lace, braiding or beads), crocheted cardigans and bejewelled sandals are her go-to staples and somehow, they work. Her face looks much younger than her fifty-two years with full lips and kind, sparkling eyes. She’s a good-looking lady who looks after herself with her ‘lotions and potions’, as she calls them. She spends her time attending her Cupcakes and Crochet Club (basically just an excuse for her and her friends to eat cake while they craft), or the Quilt Making Club. She also runs a village Dog Walking Club – which, technically speaking, isn’t a club. She, Moira and Alan from five doors up take the dogs out a few times a week to spy on the neighbours whose houses back on to the field.

  Apparently Anthea Lamb’s curtains have been closed a suspicious number of times during the day, coinciding with a large workman’s van being parked outside her house. By the time Gary, her husband, gets home, the van is gone and the curtains are open again. Kath, Moira and Alan would never actually face-to-face ask her what’s going on, of course, but they’re very happy to speculate.

  In Kath’s working life, she was a hairstylist in Cambridge city centre, but I think she spent more time gossiping in the salon than cutting any hair …

  I hear her voice again, calling to me this time.

  ‘Robin,’ she tinkles merrily. ‘I’ve made a lasagne, love, and left some out for you and Lyla. I’ll freeze the rest, shall I?’ She is a good egg. Or at least, she tries to be – as much as, at 8 a.m. on a grey and freezing Wednesday in January, it pains me to admit it.

  I start to feel stressed because there are too many people in the house, but then remember how the quiet moments don’t always feel so peaceful.

  I’ve named that feeling The Emptiness. When I feel far away and isolated. I have days where I am consumed by anxiety and loneliness, and just feel so flat. Lyla will be at school and I’ll be at home all alone and feeling like I have no place in the world, or like I am a speck of nothingness, desperate for my life not to feel so sad.

  I should be glad to have Kath and her so-called help. She means well, I know she does.

  After scaring Paul off (though at least he’s fixed the switch, I suppose), wreaking havoc in my kitchen and ensuring I never find my cheese grater or corkscrew ever again, she finally leaves when she takes Lyla in to school at 10.30. It’s a bit of a drive and it’s very sweet of her to offer. I think she’s guessed how I’m feeling. As she walks out to the car, she’s commenting on the fact that there was no such thing as ‘Teacher Training Morni
ng’ in her day and that they all just ‘got on with it’. I don’t bother to argue or explain it; I just zip up Lyla’s thick purple coat, cuddle her goodbye and let out a deep sigh of relief when I shut the door.

  Peace at last.

  But as the hours of the day tick by, I realise I’m looking forward to collecting Lyla and having some life in the house and somebody to talk to. I clean out my make-up kit ready for next week’s job on the set of an fruit-infused tea commercial. Apparently the creative team want the models’ make-up to incorporate a sense of the fruit infusions, so I spend a bit of time trawling the internet for ideas and inspiration. It would seem that ‘fruit-infused tea inspired make-up’ hasn’t gone viral with the YouTube beauty vloggers yet. Can’t think why.

  Admin done and dusted – and by done and dusted I mean I’ve ignored the pressing email from the accountant and spent forty-five minutes adding things to my ASOS if-I-ever-win-the-lottery-and-can-afford-to-treat-myself list – it’s time to collect Lyla from school.

  3.14 P.M., AND I’M AT the school gates a minute early. I enrolled Lyla here at the beginning of the school year. Dad and Auntie Kath released the last of our inheritance from my wonderful Granny so I could pay for this lovely school and I’m still getting used to it all. It’s nothing like the down-at-heel and rowdy primary and comp where Lacey and I went to school. Lyla was struggling in her oversubscribed local primary. As always, I blame this on her broken home and emotionally damaged mother. Hesgrove Pre-Prep School is a bit like a giant stately home, with ivy creeping up the exterior and huge stone-framed windows, except everywhere you look there is something wholesome or comforting: a row of low pegs for the juniors to hang PE kits on; artwork on the walls from their trips to the nature area; notices for jamborees or cake sales and that faint smell of new books and poster paints that instantly brings back your own childhood, when you didn’t need to worry about broken hearts or council tax bills.

  I know this is only the first day back after Christmas, but – deep breath, Robin, and start as you mean to go on – perhaps from today onward I will always be one of those mothers who is here before the bell rings! I look around hopefully, expecting some kind of mutual congratulations from the other smug mothers whose names I’ve yet to learn. Those who made it here early too. But no one seems to engage. These women are pros, and are unlikely to congratulate themselves (not publicly, at least) on winning first place at the PTA Bake Off, let alone making it to the school gates on time. They stand here waiting in their Hunter flat boots and skinny jeans, which somehow disguise any hint of a mum tum or muffin top. Please God let them have muffin tops! I glance around at their almost identical navy-and-white striped Bretons under padded Joules gilets with grey cashmere scarves, and swear never to succumb to the ‘mumiform’. My ripped jeans (avec muffin top), loose slogan sweater and leather (OK, pleather) jacket may not scream elegance, but at least, I tell myself, I’m not hiding my pyjamas under my trench coat today. I do wish that, given the January weather, I’d perhaps considered the grey scarf bit, though.