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‘Mummy’s not a big fan of sweets,’ I attempt to push back, even though I am running late and a regrettable three coffees down before nine in the morning. ‘Ooh look, this one’s blackcurrant!’ I wave an organic bar around like it’s a Fabergé egg in the hope that I’ll elicit some interest.
Lila looks mutinous. Poppy sighs demonstrably.
‘What’s wrong with sweets at pick-up?’ Poppy whispers when Lila stomps off to find her school jumper.
‘You try putting a young child to bed when she’s jacked up on sugar! It’s like trying to wrestle an octopus into a pair of trousers. Anyway, I’m just looking out for her and her tiny little milk teeth.’
‘You’ve got your crazy mum look going on again,’ Poppy points out. ‘Oh, speaking of crazy mums, that bonkers one with the big hair and the posh accent was talking about her son Oscar’s birthday party last time I was at drop-off. Lila didn’t get an invite when I was there, any chance it came to you?’
I pause, deflated, and shake my head.
Poppy pats my arm. ‘Okay, well, don’t stress. It’s early days and there’s loads of time for her to get invited to stuff.’
I’m irritated now by the fact that Poppy’s touched a nerve, and I say a little too sharply: ‘I have got to go!’
‘Before you do, I have good news. I was trying to tell you on the phone. You have a date tonight.’ Poppy produces jazz hands. My stomach lurches.
‘Can’t, I’m busy.’ I grab my bag.
‘Doing what?’
‘Being a mother?’ Right on cue, Lila bounds back in. She’s accessorised her school uniform with the Santa hat I’ve been trying to prise out of her hands since 26 December. It’s now February.
‘I can babysit,’ Poppy announces.
‘OH YES AUNTIE POPPY I LOVE IT WHEN YOU STAY OVER!’
She’s got my daughter on board, the wily devil.
‘I don’t want to,’ I whisper through gritted teeth. This will be the third blind date this month that Poppy has set me up on and I can safely say that they have all been dreadful. The crux of the problem is that Poppy’s convinced I need to ‘find love’ again and I feel very much that I have been there, done that and burnt the T-shirt.
Poppy opens up some garish games app on her phone, designed solely to turn small children’s brains into complete mush. She hands it to Lila and I’m in too much of a dash to argue.
‘This guy is perfect for you,’ Poppy says as she follows me into the hallway. ‘He’s called Paul, I met him at the gym and he is very fit. He’s thirty-four and I’ve already told him about your divorce. I’m really excited about this one, sis.’
I’d love to launch into a lengthy diatribe about precisely why I don’t want to go on yet another hell-date but the clock is ticking so I take the more adult approach of plugging my fingers into my ears, pretending I can’t hear her, and am out of the door with a coffee cream cruffin and my marbles hanging by a thread.
I get a real buzz from pitching my business consultancy services to new clients. While day-to-day life can be hectic to say the least, when I’m at work I just get it. I’m confident and knowledgeable. I think, if I’m honest, work is where I feel the most safe and secure too. There are no nasty surprises here. No matters of the heart to send me spiralling. It’s all cold hard facts, and that’s exactly how I like it.
The Bath clients own an art gallery but footfall at the shop is low and their website is a creaking relic of the mid-noughties. In steps me, Sophie Rogers, Business Consultant! Today I’m pitching a bespoke advice service where customers can upload pictures of their homes from anywhere across the world and get advice from the art experts on what and where they should display their work.
I find the owners, a chic couple named Arnaud and Alec (all beige outfits and colour-pop spectacles), at their gallery with five minutes to spare. Boom!
We meet, we greet, we shake hands and head through to their office at the back of the gallery. I smooth down my trouser suit and grab a seat, pleased that they’d have no clue I was in such a dishevelled state just a few hours ago.
‘Loving the stylish tattoo, Sophie,’ Arnaud says with a glimmer in his eye as I roll my sleeves up.
The protestation that I don’t have any tattoos falls short when I look down to see Elsa from Frozen half-peeling off my arm. Damn it. Lila had insisted upon it last night, and she didn’t do the best job, so I now have a peeling Disney character dangling about my elbow crease. How did it not come off in the shower this morning?
‘Ah. I’m just grateful my daughter didn’t make a case for the real thing.’ I smile.
It turns out Arnaud and Alec are expecting twins via surrogate later this year so talk turns excitedly to the baby years. This is perfect, I think, sharing some anecdotes about being a mum before leading the conversation back to how I can help them.
‘There’s no doubt you’ll have your hands full,’ I say, whizzing through the presentation, buoyed up by their enthusiasm. ‘Affordable art is having a moment right now and I think we should look at that market, too. People are shopping less these days but they are shopping with heart, and as a phase two, I’d suggest we start looking at some up-and-coming artists in the South West who might appreciate a platform to show their work.’
‘Yes,’ says Arnaud, up and out of his seat. ‘I love it. Obviously Alec and I will need to discuss your pitch together later but,’ he looks fondly at his partner, ‘I think it’s safe to say you nailed it.’
‘Thank you so much.’ I smile. ‘It’s been a pleasure working on these ideas for you.’
