Page 86 of Sex Ed

‘Don’t you dare,’ Rachel tells me, gripping my arm tightly in restraint.

‘There are birds in a bush over there that are covering their young in fear…’

It’s Rachel’s turn to snigger and a woman looks over at us. I watch as a grandmother actively turns off her hearing aid. Is that the end? Please let it be the end. One of them has gone a strange raspberry colour from blowing way too hard. Take a breath, kiddo. The end. Out of sheer relief, I clap a little too loudly and wolf whistle, which results in an elbow to my ribs.

‘Is it all fucking recorders?’ I ask Rachel. This was not signalled to me. I was told there’d be alcohol, cheese and a raffle. In the sunshine. The sound from those pipes could make those llamas go feral.

‘Why do you have to say “fucking recorders”?’ Rachel mumbles.

‘That was not an answer…’

But before she can either confirm or deny, her attention is drawn to a marquee across the way selling patisserie. I’ve been in that tent. I refused to pay £5 for a Portuguese custard tart when I can buy two whole boxes of them in the supermarket for that price. However, by the tent stand Gareth and a woman, chatting merrily to another couple, having the temerity to laugh but also wear matching blue striped outfits, just in case anyone was mistakenly thinking they weren’t a couple. I hand Rachel my overpriced drink.

‘Just take a big sip of that…’

She does as she’s told but I see her hand shake, her breath stuttering, and a tear roll down her cheek ever so slowly.

‘Shit,’ I say, taking off my sunglasses and handing them to her. ‘Wear these. It’ll be OK… Breathe…’

‘Are they actually matching?’ she asks me.

‘Yes. But they look like twats. Don’t even look at them. Look at this little boy doing his tap dancing. Look at him, like a little Fred Astaire,’ I say, trying to divert her attention.

‘He’s not. He’s kind of awful… This is awful…’

‘Oi! Not here. I am here. Focus on me. Focus on that woman over there selling coasters with watercolour birds on them. We can go over and ask her if she does any with tits on them. We can give them to Ali for Christmas…’

Rachel turns away to scoop up tears with the edge of her dress sleeve and my heart breaks for her. This is some sort of public shaming for her and for the many times I’ve tried to persuade her to be strong and put on a front, I’ve maybe asked too much of her.

‘I don’t know what you want me to do? I really want to punch him. Please let me do that?’ I ask her.

‘You’ve just slapped your colleague and now you’re going to punch another person at another school.’

‘I’d do it for you…’

‘Permission to do it in a less public place. Wearing a balaclava so you won’t get in trouble.’

‘Consider it a deal,’ I say, fist-bumping her. ‘Where is Jane’s husband, by the way?’

‘I don’t know. We sometimes see him at school things, serious balding man, always in a suit.’

I scan over all the parents. Never mind the tap dancing, I can see what Rachel is really sad about and that’s the whispers, the people looking over at them and then at Rachel, seeing if this is affecting her in any way.

‘I don’t think I can do this, Mia. I’m going to go outside for a bit. Can you take a video of Flo? Please?’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I ask her, mortified to see her so broken.

‘To watch me cry in my car? Just give me a moment. Be here for Flo.’

She hands me her drink and slinks away and I stand there, torn about where I need to be. The tap dancing lad is done and bows a handful of times more than is really necessary, and I see Flo in the wings, ready to ballet for the masses. I watch as Gareth leaves Jane’s side for a bit and heads to the front of the stage to watch his daughter. As he does, Jenny congregates by her side. I shouldn’t do this, should I? But chaos. I like the chaos. And no one knowing who I am today may very well work in my favour.

I sidle up next to Jane and get my phone out as I stand there, filming quietly. I sense her looking me up and down. Florence comes out and scans the crowd and sees me, waving.

‘Excuse me, do you know Florence?’ Jane asks me.

‘Yes. My name is Clementine Le Saucisse. I’m from the Royal Ballet.’ I straighten my spine and turn my feet into a first position to cement this claim. ‘Florence’s dance school sent me.’

‘Oh, really? Are you here just to see Florence? My daughter is dancing soon… Cassie?’ Jenny asks me.

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