‘I’m going to church on Sunday morning. Join me?’
I can’t tell if Beatrice is joking, but either way…
‘I’ve timetabled a hangover for Sunday morning. Sorry.’
I found a drink I like which I can order without getting weird looks from the bar staff.
I drank a couple of them one night and came dangerously close to kissing a guy I’ve liked for a long time.
I had the best night of my time in London so far, in the course of which I discovered I also like rum.
A week later, at 3am, in a flat somewhere near Victoria, I discover I also like white wine, though I forget to check which grape.
Later that day, I get the train home. My mother meets me at the station.
‘You look nice!’ I say. ‘Is the skirt new? I haven’t seen it before.’ I start to laugh. ‘Have – have you been to church?’
My mother laughs. It’s one of our jokes: whenever we’re trying to justify a clothes purchase, we say it will be good for church. She at least still goes from time to time.
She raises her eyebrows a fraction – she’s good at that. ‘You know it’s–?’
‘Remembrance Sunday. Yes, of course.’
I feel a wave of guilt. Things start to fall into place: streets oddly quiet in the mid-morning sun, an invitation to church…
‘How was last night?’
‘Yeah, good thanks.’
‘Did you have a few drinks?’
‘Might have had a few drinks.’
It’s a strange role reversal.
I take a seat. ‘How was church?’