Page 30 of Sex Ed

Yes, I went to a concert last night and woke up in a mate’s house using an actual plate as a pillow, but I don’t really see her point. I see her looking around this white linen-lined posh brasserie/restaurant, almost apologising to the other customers for me.I’m so sorry she’s lowering the tone, we had to invite her, she’s “family.”

‘Rach, I’m twenty-eight. It’s gold, it’s a party colour,’ I say, posing to make the little ones giggle.

‘I like it,’ replies Florence and I give her a high-five.

‘You should inject a bit of colour into your life. It’s your birthday, Ali, and that dress looks like a granite driveway.’

‘It’s Ralph Lauren,’ she says down her nose to me.

‘I don’t know what that means,’ I retort.

‘Rachel, she’s doing it again…’ she complains.

‘Doing what?’

‘Being a smart arse.’

The husbands sit there, tucking into their roasts, having been party to this drama for a number of years so they know when to butt out. However, you see the fascination in the kids’ eyes, the want to know more, to see who will win this fight. Rachel’s lips pucker into a moody pout. Since our mum passed six years ago, she’s taken it upon herself to be a parent to me. But maybe I didn’t need one. My sisters married quickly after her passing, almost as a response to not having a family anymore, so they could build their own. I did the opposite. No one should die at forty-nine. I saw it all so clearly. I wanted the opposite to my sisters. I looked to live instead.

‘Mummy, you said arse was swearing,’ Bella says, looking sternly at her mother.

I sit there smiling, biting into one of my mushrooms.

‘I did but there are exceptions to that rule,’ she says, sawing away at her beef, looking up at Rachel and laughing while the children sit there confused. I hope that beef gets stuck somewhere about her person.

‘Better a smart arse than a frigid witch,’ I mumble under my breath.

‘What was that?’ Rachel asks me.

‘Nothing, just a hot mushroom,’ I say, puffing out my cheeks. My fake blowing makes Bruce laugh and I like an audience so do it again. Again, a look. Just sit there and eat your food and blend into this very bland, middle-class establishment. So I am not allowed to gargle the gravy? Throw knives? Juggle the children? OK then. I push my chair back and my sisters eye me, looking panicked just in case I’m going to make a speech or sing.

‘I’m going to have a wee,’ I announce to the table, instantly knowing I should have phrased that differently. ‘Any little people need a wee? We can all go together?’ There are more laughs and eye rolls as I leave the table. Do I need a wee? No, but I need to take a breath. I grab my handbag and swerve my way around other tables and waiters to the toilets. Inside, I go into a cubicle, take a seat and put my head in my hands. I think back to a night of dancing with two sisters who were the complete opposite to the witches out there. Sisters who drank and danced into the night and held each other’s hair back as they chundered into a skip but two people who obviously worshipped each other. Maybe I go to these family events thinking it might turn into something resembling that. A moment where the sisters will finally accept me as one of them. But the pile on always happens. Today they’ve gone early, they’ve not even given me wine first. But I resolve to just grin and bear it like normal. Be here for the nieces and nephews. Get some colouring in, steal potatoes, ensure all those little people get the bags of Haribo in my handbag over the course of the meal so I can send them home completely sugared up and wired.

Whilst I’m sitting here, I take my phone out of my bag. Is it too soon to text the hot man I snogged outside the concert venue? Possibly. There was definitely some charm about him, potential, a very grabbable arse. But it’s not too soon to stalk him. I look up the contact on my phone. Howard Bean. Show me your socials, young man. I log on to Instagram as a starter. He likes the gym. And new trainers. And a sunset with a corny philosophical quote about tomorrow being the start of the rest of your life. Mini barf. And… Oh dear. It looks like he likes a girl called Carrie. It takes all of three clicks to find out he lives with Carrie, and they have a chihuahua together whom they refer to as their fur baby but also goes by the name of Boujee. For the love of crap. Seriously, Howard? I let you put your tongue in my mouth. I sit there staring blankly at the back of the cubicle door. I block his contact and let out a loud sigh of despair, one so loud the person in the stall next door assumes me to be straining in some distress. Bloody Howard. I open WhatsApp on my phone.

Eduardo, what are you up to today?

I wait for the three dots to appear, hoping they will. Bingo. I smile.

I’m just finishing lunch with my mum. Why?

Can I come round?

I thought you were busy all weekend?

I was. I’m not now.

Are you hungry? I’ve made a very nice crumble. I think there’s enough.

Yeah. See you in about an hour?

He replies with a thumbs up emoji. I put my phone back in my bag and leave the cubicle to look at myself in the mirror. All that running from the Tube did amazing things to my mascara. I look like a party badger. I will just eat my mushrooms then go.

As I leave the toilets, I think about how to leave. Should I fake illness? A Sunday teaching emergency? A house fire? I ponder this as I politely wait in the corridor for a group of people grappling to put their coats on, when suddenly, I catch sight of a box on a table in the corner.Table 25, birthday cake, Alison.I take a peek in the box. She’s got some nerve criticising my gold skirt when there’s gold sprinkles on this thing, her name ornately iced on in cursive font. I stare at the cake for a few seconds. I think about how she called me a smart arse. I then punch the cake. Whoops.

ED

‘Hello.’

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