Page 27 of Sex Ed

‘Mum…?’ I smile. It could be my mum, but her face is covered by a lot of foliage. She peers around it and brushes leaves out of her mouth. ‘You brought me a…’

‘Fern. It’s been looking sad in my house, I think I’m overwatering it. I was hoping you might bring it back to life. His name is Leonard.’

Yes, she is my mother and yes, she names her houseplants. Her relationship with them is such that when she goes on holiday and I have to water them, she’ll send me messages and ask about them, by name. I take ‘Leonard’ and she ushers me inside the house, embracing me in her usual, all-encompassing way.

‘Something smells good?’

‘Pork loin,’ I say, taking her large fur-trimmed raincoat.

She stops to listen to the music. ‘Are you also listening to disco? Are you ill?’ she says, putting a hand to my forehead.

As we go into the kitchen, I hear that Stevie Wonder has turned intoYou Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)by Sylvester which is a brave jump for which I don’t think my hips are quite ready. But I like that Mia thought it possible.

‘It was some random playlist. Alexa, play Fleetwood Mac,Rumours.’ And my mum smiles. This album, as majestic as it is, was the soundtrack to my childhood. It brings back memories of my mum dancing around our living room, telling me that she and Stevie Nicks were kindred spirits in their shared heartbreak.

‘So, how have you been?’ I ask her as she links her arm into mine and inspects what’s cooking.

‘I am good. I’m off to march later this afternoon.’

‘What are you protesting today?’

‘Fucking fracking.’

‘I hope you wrote that on your placard,’ I tell her as I busy myself over the stove. She opens up a cupboard and finds a wine glass, helping herself to the Pinot Grigio on the counter. It’s a well-rehearsed Sunday lunch routine that we indulge in once a month, one that I won’t mind saying I look forward to. Mum does what she does and starts sifting through random mail on my countertops.

‘You are welcome to join us? We’ll start at Pall Mall,’ she says to me.

‘I have marking to do. I’m sorry… Rain check?’

The fact is, I finished all my marking last night while I binge watched a new sci-fi space show on Prime, but I rarely commit to these rallies because I can’t quite handle everyone’s collective anger. Last time I went, an old lady screamed in my face and I believe that’s how I got flu and had to take a week off work.

‘Just be safe,’ I tell her.

‘I will, my lovely. I also need to introduce you to Mo.’

‘Is Mo a new houseplant?’ I ask tentatively.

‘No, silly. Remember I went on that protest about the new high-speed train tracks and the badgers?’ I nod. I remember it well. She bought a badger onesie for that rally. She was featured in the local newspaper and framed the article for her living room. ‘He was there and we’ve struck up a friendship…’

I stop peeling veg to catch her eye. ‘You have a boyfriend?’

‘Possibly.’ She pauses, looking unsure how much to share with me. She forgets I’m not a child anymore. I can partake in these grown-up conversations. ‘He’s got a ponytail.’

I don’t know how to reply to that. A stubby one or is it free-flowing? With a bald patch or without? It’s the difference between a rugged cowboy and a stage hypnotist. Mum stands there with her glass, awaiting my reaction. It’s always been just her. My dad left when I was five, when I was too young to really remember him or want to try and track him down as an adult. Mum had dalliances with a few men but no one serious, no one who imprinted themselves into my consciousness but the news that someone is on the scene will always pique my interest. That I may one day have a stepdad. With a ponytail.

‘Well, as long as you’re happy,’ I tell her.

‘Happiness is a state of mind, it’s not related to whether I validate my existence via another individual,’ she tells me. I drop my green beans into a pan of hot water. That was always an important life lesson learned from my mother. She hated the idea of dependency, she had lived what she thought was the ideal and the norm – a husband and baby – but when that didn’t work out for her, she was perfectly fine in her own company. I frown, thinking about this now. Is this why I’m a virgin – because I thought I was fine being self-sufficient? The oven timer gets my attention and I open the door carefully.

‘For me happiness is one of your roast potatoes,’ she tells me. I smile and take the pan out, scraping the outside of one of my potatoes for the full ASMR effect and hand it to her. ‘If I achieve nothing more in life, I will always take credit for the fact I raised a man who learned how to roast a potato. Do I also spy a crumble?’

‘Rhubarb, pear and ginger. At least if you get arrested at your rally, you’ll be well sustained before I have to come and bail you out.’

She smiles and nibbles on her roast potato, swaying toDreamsby Fleetwood Mac. She always did this when I was growing up; she liked a twirl and always had a freedom in how she listened to music. I wonder why it didn’t catch on. Maybe my mum knows?

‘I have a question…’

‘Shoot.’

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