Page 51 of Sex Ed

I drag a chair next to him and start laughing, watching as the string hanging out of his nose vibrates in time as he joins in. Somehow, he’s styling it out.

‘I’m so sorry, Ed. I really am,’ I say, through my laughter. ‘I can replace the shirt.’

He shakes his head and wipes his nose with a handful of paper-like toilet tissue. ‘How was your Friday, Ed? Oh, I got touched up by an old lady and then punched by another. I am not sure how this was supposed to help me,’ he complains to me. ‘How has this module taught me anything?’

‘It should teach you to move quicker when an old lady’s fist comes for you.’

‘First you kick me in the eye and now this happens to my nose.’

‘Love is a battlefield, my friend.’

I watch Yolanda and Donna conspire in whispers as Esther sits on the other side of the room with a wooden chip fork in hand, snarling. Never mind a code of conduct, I’ll have to get security in hi-vis vests. I shake my head, smiling to myself, but notice Ed turned towards me, studying my face, trying to catch my eye.

‘I’m sorry about your mum, by the way,’ he says quietly. The words are so out of the blue that I don’t quite know how to reply to them. I’ve never really spoken about my mum with anyone. It always feels too sad, too complicated.

‘Yolanda?’ I ask him, quietly, giving her some serious side-eye.

‘You told me to converse with people!’ he says, in his defence.

‘To find out about her, not gossip about me,’ I say, laughing but curious what else went down on that dance floor in the space of mere moments.

‘I never knew you did any of this,’ Ed tells me, turning to face me, his expression warm, proud even. I don’t quite know how to look back at him.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘Mia, you are the biggest over-sharer I know. You’ve told me stories. Like that time you had sex with that man and the dog ate the condom and needed surgery.’

‘Because that’s funny. That’s a good staffroom story,’ I tell him.

‘But you do all of this yourself?’ he asks me, looking around the room in wonder.

‘Not exactly. I just book the hall and make the posters, get the caterers in. They do the bunting and choose the music. Apparently, they don’t want to listen to Rihanna,’ I say, joking.

‘And you teach a writing class, too?’ he asks me.

‘You had a lot to chat about with Yolanda, eh?’ I say, looking back at him. ‘Yes, I teach a writing workshop, once a month.’

‘That’s really nice, Mia,’ he tells me, no condescension in his tone at all, almost praising me. The compliment is warming.

‘It was something my mum started, and I just took it over after she died. You’re giving me Mother Teresa eyes here, but you should see some of the erotic stuff Donna writes, it’d send you blind…’

I know what I’m doing here. I’m making light of every question he asks me or it’ll be far too sad. When I came back to London after university, I got an invitation from Yolanda to come to a farewell event in this very space. They were going to stop running the events and classes because of a lack of volunteers, zero funds – another part of my mother’s legacy erased – and I couldn’t bear to see that happen.

‘You’re a good person, Mia,’ Ed says. My eyes meet his and I stop for a moment. It’s a casual comment but one that really stakes at my heart. It’s not something people say, or that I think about myself. Maybe it’s pathetic to want or need that validation, but sometimes you need to be watered, to feel the sunshine of someone’s words, to grow, to stand tall, to bloom. Coming from Ed, too, his words mean something. Do I thank him? Maybe not. So I just put a hand in his for a moment to let him know I heard him. Thank you for being here and seeing all of this. He squeezes it back. It’s kinda cool.

The moment is suddenly interrupted by a change of tempo in the music. This is what happens when you put this lot in charge of their own playlists. They lure me into a false sense of security with all their war music and then suddenly, we’re in the Buena Vista Social Club. The problem is they watch far too much Strictly. We almost got in trouble last month when Stanley dislocated a hip. I watch as Frank leads someone to the dancefloor.

‘Wooo, FRANK!’ I call out to the dancefloor as I watch his side-step. ‘Look at him go,’ I say, shaking my shoulders.

‘That’s how Frank probably got crabs,’ Ed remarks.

‘How do you…?’ I enquire curiously.

‘Don’t ask. Is this salsa then?’

‘A version of it,’ I say, rising to my feet, dancing on the spot, uninhibited. For all that I can’t do in my life, I can shimmy when the occasion calls for it. Ed watches, studying my feet. I take his hands and pull him up so he can join in.

‘I can’t shimmy. My tampon might fall out,’ he says, matter-of-factly.

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