Everyone stops talking.
‘Your parents are just human!’ I say. ‘I’m sure they’re trying their best. They might not always get it right, but I bet they have good intentions and love you, even if they don’t show it in theright way. Hasn’t it occurred to you that cutting them off instead of talking things through could be way worse than anything they’ve done to you?’
Holy crap, where did that come from?
I take a breath and Aimee immediately chimes in, taking off her sunglasses in an act of faux sincerity and sounding as if she’s regurgitating lines from a TikTok video. ‘Healing involves unravelling our narratives and embracing the raw emotions we’ve suppressed. Cutting ties with family members who aren’t part of this healing journey demonstrates a dedication to working through our triggers, comprehending them, and achieving radical self-acceptance.’
I’m not sure what she was expecting me to say, and indeed even I am surprised by my reaction. I slam my pint glass down on the table and shout: ‘Oh… GROW UP!’
And I stomp off to the loo.
I take my time. I’m shaking. Outbursts aren’t really ‘me’… Standing at the sink breathing heavily, trying to calm down, I pull out my phone to distract myself. But it only serves to stress me out even more, because the first thing I see are more of the#whereswultycomments on Instagram.
‘She’s back in her jail – where is it??’…
‘I’m sure I saw the Shard through her windows’…
‘Do they only let her out for exercise once a week? Cruel human experimentation!’
There is also now a meme of me wearing a red-and-white-striped top and hat like ‘Where’s Wally?’ holding up a mascara wand as though it’s a weapon, with the caption – ‘Find herbefore she finds you’. Sometimes I really don’t understand the internet.
I wash my hands – the sink has one of those heaters hanging over it for the hot tap that always serves up scalding water. There isn’t any soap either, or paper towels for that matter. I look at myself in the mirror, jowl-free and fresh-faced. Even my beer eyes look glassy and pretty rather than snake-like, as they would have done pre-WULT®. The toilets might be crappy but it’s all worth it for this. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure. Ninety per cent. Okay eighty-five, but I knew it would take some getting used to.
Walking back along the corridor towards the bar, and wondering what the mood at the table will be like when I return, I bump into Kai. He doesn’t appear to be looking for the loo, but rather for me. He asks me if I’m okay, but before I can answer, he asks if he can kiss me. How terriblyBridgertonof him – back in the day, I was lucky if I got eye contact before whoever it was pushed me up against the wall and tried to undo my bra. I’m three pints in and really need the night to improve. So I say yes.
Kai kisses me gently. I put my hand up to his face to make it more, well, assertive. But his cheek feels really soft and… how can I describe it? Oh, I know. Young. He feels young. And there is suddenly something about him that reminds me of… oh crap.
Oli. He reminds me of my nephew, Oli.
I break free from the kiss, turn and run back down the corridor into the toilets. I only just make it to the cubicle in time to throw up a lot of very purple vomit.
How sure am I now? About sixty per cent.
