Page 28 of Sex Ed

‘Do you ever remember me dancing? When I was little?’

She seems perplexed by the question before snapping her fingers to recollect a moment. ‘I remember you dancing at your cousin Lorna’s wedding,’ she says. ‘You were eight. You had a little waistcoat on, it was tartan and very sweet. Someone took a video of you dancing to ABBA.’

I’m delighted that’s been immortalised somewhere, my only ever dance experience. ‘But I’m not really a dancer, am I? In general. Is that weird?’ I ask.

‘You just weren’t that sort of child. You were serious, you expressed yourself in different ways.’

‘Like?’

‘You read books, you liked running, you went through a phase of making your own badges…’

Nice. ‘But never dancing?’ I ask her, taking my pork out of its foil jacket and getting ready to carve it.

‘Have you been watching all those dance shows on the television? Is this some quarter-life crisis where you think you might like to learn?’ she asks me, confused. ‘I think you’d be quite good at tap…’

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘I was just thinking that maybe I don’t dance enough. In life.’

‘Didn’t you go clubbing at university, attend graduation balls?’

‘No, I’m a beer-cradling, wallflower sort.’

‘What about when you hoover?’ she asks me, getting plates out and topping up her wine.

‘You dance when you hoover?’ She gives me a look and I remember – of course she did. She used to wear earphones and dance like the spirit of Freddie Mercury had taken over her soul. It’s a good memory. I listen to podcasts when I hoover. We are very, very different humans, bonded by a shared eye colour and a love of roast potatoes.

‘Where has all this introspection come from, Ed? Did you want to have a disco break before lunch?’ she says, her shoulders shrugging into action. She takes my hands and pulls me into the middle of the kitchen. Mum’s dance style is contemporary dance twirling mode and I attempt to bob along. I can see she’s clenching her mouth to stop herself laughing. I stop dancing.

‘Are you pumping water?’ she asks.

‘I hate you.’ I return to stirring my gravy.

This doesn’t dissuade my mother who just dances on her own, in my kitchen, not really caring if her movements match the rhythm and beat at all. ‘The world is full of different people, Ed. You dance when you’re ready. Take your time,’ she says, looking me in the eye.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask her apprehensively.

‘If you haven’t danced before then it’s absolutely fine.’

I stop and stare at her. She knows I’m a virgin, doesn’t she? My own mother. She keeps swaying and spinning to the mighty Fleetwood Mac. I return to stirring my gravy.

SEVEN

MIA

‘AUNTY MIA!’ A herd of very little people run in my direction, and I bundle them into my arms, kissing their foreheads, loving that noise of them being so excited to see me. I will admit, I like to be surprised in life, but nothing surprised me more than how much my heart would grow to love my nieces and nephews so very much.

‘You’re late!’ my niece Bella tells me. Bella has the most perfect bob I’ve ever seen on a child. I love smoothing it down with my hands and squeezing her cheeks. I am late because that’s generally how I roll for social occasions given that I am a teacher and my timekeeping is usually governed by a very loud school bell. However, this does not impress my sisters much. My dear older sisters who are always on time, who always look like they’ve not done their make-up on the Tube. I try to steady my breathing, so it looks like I haven’t run here to this smart, North London brasserie for my sister’s birthday lunch. Not even run from my own house. I’ve run from Beth’s house where Lucy and I fell asleep in the bathtub and atop the kitchen table respectively, after a night of dancing, drinking and snogging strangers called Howard. I may have slept. I can’t remember.

‘How mad are your mums? Like on a scale of one to ten?’ I ask as I bend down pretending to still greet them, trying to avoid the side-eye from the other side of the restaurant.

‘A strong seven,’ Florence whispers to me, giggling.

‘They’ve been calling you bad names,’ adds her brother, Felix.

‘Felix, they’ve been doing that for years. I’m used to it. I like the new haircut, kiddo,’ I say, ruffling his blond curls.

Bella winds her body under my arm and I spin her, making her dress float up in a cascade of giggles. ‘Again?’ she asks me.

‘Not now, Bells – we’re eating… Mia…’ Rachel says from the table. In my head, all I hear is Mum telling me off for having my elbows on the table. In certain lights, she even looks like her reincarnated, from the sensible knitwear to the crow’s feet forming around her eyes. She glares at me with her angular mum bob, same chestnut colour as mine but sleek and straightened as opposed to my hair that looks like nesting material for a small pet.

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