Page 84 of Sex Ed

And that would break me.

ED

Hi, leave Me A Message. Geddit? Mia. Message. You know the drill.

‘Mia? It’s me. I’m sitting in a supermarket car park calling you because I’ve left you a few WhatsApp messages and you’ve obviously seen them because of the blue ticks, and you are refusing to message me back. I believe the young people call that being a ghost and I find it incredibly rude. Especially as it means I’m being forced into actually leaving you a voice message and it’s likely you will not listen to this too. I’m thinking back to all those times I’ve called you from Starbucks asking you what you want and you never reply and then you show up asking me why I didn’t buy you a drink. Hold up, excuse that noise. It’s someone just pushing the trolleys back.

‘Are you OK? What happened? Was it the review paperwork? If it was then I can go through it again and check everything was filled out properly. I hope you didn’t submit that draft copy where you said that modern languages could suck it because you were jealous of their school trips budget and you said you knew for a fact that half of them used it as a chance for an orgy and to get absolutely blotto on cheap continental wine.

‘Was it anything else at school? Anything to do with a kid? A parent? Exams? I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure it out and everyone I’ve asked either doesn’t know or they’re being very vague. I just don’t know what it could be because despite everything, I know you, you’re a really good teacher and it’s stupid that they would do this so close to exam season. It just makes no sense at all. You know you can chat to me if it’s anything like that and I will try to help you. Please tell me and just let me know you are all right. Hold up. Did you try to smoke on school grounds again? Did you say something to Alicia? Did Mr Bush catch you calling him ‘fire crotch?’ It’s either that or the shoe thing or maybe you racked up too many late marks. I keep telling you that the 7.42 a.m. bus is cutting it way too fine especially when there’s traffic on the high street.

‘Anyway, I’m in a car park because I’m on my way to pick up some stuff for dinner. I’m going to Caitlin’s and I’ve offered to cook for her. I was going to do a green curry but then I thought spicy and if there’s the remote possibility that we might have sex then I probably don’t want a sensitive digestion being a potential issue. So I may do lamb chops with herby gremolata, maybe fish. I think I cooked that for you once when we first met but then you were vegetarian, so you basically had to eat the gremolata like cereal. Umm… Things are going well with Caitlin. I think. I need to run some things by you with the sex side but that can wait. She’s into me doing things with her feet and, well, you know how I am with hygiene. I can’t ask her to wash them first, can I? I mean, fungal nail infections are a thing so putting a foot near a moist area like a mouth is not good. Sorry, I said the word moist.

‘Caitlin also said some things recently. About you. She’s not quite sure about our friendship. I’ve tried to explain things to her. I thought it’d be good if we went out for dinner together so she could get to know you. That would be good. I really like her. I really want this to work out.

‘I’m going to go and buy some lamb now. Mia, if you are listening to this in five months, then forget everything I’ve just said. I really hope you’re OK. Just send me an emoji or something to let me know you’re fine and that we’re good. I have to go as the people next to me are loading their shopping into their car and they think I’m weird. Bye. It’s Ed, by the way. Bye.’

NINETEEN

MIA

‘That’s the price per glass.’

‘Per glass? Are you having a laugh?’ I ask, scanning through my purse looking at my last bank note. ‘Do you take cards?’

‘We do actually,’ the lady behind the counter tells me. Of course they do. This isn’t some crappy summer school fair in a field with a Mr Whippy and a burnt sausage in a bun. This is Rachel’s kids’ private school summer bazaar. A bizarre bazaar where I can buy soy candle melts, partake in a Reiki workshop and have just paid eight pounds for a glass of Pimm’s.

‘There are carbonated beverages if you prefer?’ the lady tells me. The lady is wearing an Alice band and for reasons only I know, this means I dislike her instantly. I look over the carbonated beverages. Not a Diet Coke in sight. It’s all dandelion and burdock. I don’t like this one’s look. She thinks I don’t belong. I want to say it’s because she thinks I’m not posh enough for this event, but it could be because I do carry a Powerpuff Girls wallet. I can sense you judging me, too, but I like the size of it and the number of truly useful zipped compartments.

‘I’ll take the Pimm’s,’ I reply. It better not be a cheaper supermarket alternative. ‘Don’t be stingy with the fruit, that’s my five-a-day,’ I joke. She doesn’t laugh.

‘Excellent choice,’ she replies in snooty tones, questioning the morals of someone who’d not want to hand over their money willingly for the sake of children’s education.

‘Oh, there’s a £1.50 card fee, too.’

Do not throw anything at this woman. Be good, Mia. I promised my sister I would not embarrass her. Even though I might not have a job now, and that might be the last of my money, I tap my card on the machine. Bankrupted by a summer cocktail.

‘Thank you.’Would you like to leave a tip? the machine asks me. Yeah, don’t trust people wearing Alice bands. That’s an excellent tip.

‘All OK here?’ Rachel joins me at the counter, looking hassled. ‘I can’t do this… I don’t think I can do this…’ she blurts out. ‘It’s just the small talk and the chit-chat and pretending everything is OK when it’s not. I should have just thrown a sickie or not come.’

‘Do I need to slap you?’ I tell her. She stares at me and fake laughs, linking her arm through mine. ‘I’m here. It’s fine. You’re here for your kids. Flo is doing that dance thing on the stage in a bit and you’re here to support because at the end of the day, you are her mum and you’re a really good mum.’

I’ve had to feed Rachel these small positive affirmations recently to pep her up, reminders of who she is and how she’s not allowed to let her small-dick-energy husband win. It’s not a lie either. For all their failings as sisters, my nieces and nephews are proof that my sisters excel as mothers. They threw all their love and being into motherhood. It’s very reminiscent of how our own mum did things. I grab at Rachel’s hand to steady her. Since I went to Rachel’s, I never quite left. I hung around on the pretence that I could keep her company and spend time with my nephew and niece, but in essence, it was because I felt a bit lost. My confused feelings for Ed aside, I feel petrified without my work, directionless. Going home to my house would have made me feel worse, more alone, so I stayed with Rachel for the distraction, and we have essentially mothered each other through these awkward times. And none of these times is more awkward than today where I’m here to be some sort of social bodyguard.

‘We can leave as soon as Flo does her thing. Look, run me through the dynamics again because it’s a lot of women today with pastel nails, Gucci belts and matching midi dresses.’

Hoping this might distract her, we turn our backs to the bar casually, and look over to the event in full swing.

‘What’s wrong with a midi dress?’ Rachel asks me, as she lifts the floral skirt of her own to the air.

‘It’s mum uniform.’

‘It’s comfortable and appropriate,’ she says, looking down at my denim cut-offs. I’m not apologising for these. There’s a stage, I’m bringing a cool festival vibe that’s very much missing here.

‘Well, tell me about the ladies with the matching Chanel straw handbags,’ I say, subtly trying to point them out. ‘I don’t care for their body language,’ I tell Rachel.

‘They’re Penny and Jenny.’

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