peer into my wallet. I have a crumpled fiver, two one-pound coins, a fifty pence piece and a couple of twenty pence and ten pence pieces. I quickly add it up: £8!
‘Four please,’ I say, fishing all the money out and depositing it into Rita’s hand. She takes it, counts it and slips the coins and notes into her money belt, before handing me four more tickets. I place them in my bag, feeling warm and fuzzy with excitement. At least I think it’s the excitement and not just the punch I’ve had to drink.
She glances over her shoulder at Clive who is looking over. He waves and looks hungrily at Rita’s pad of tickets, clearly keen to get involved.
‘Good luck you two!’ Rita says, before heading over to Clive.
‘Thanks Rita,’ I call after her.
I pat my handbag, feeling pleased with all my tickets.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Will asks, eyeing me. ‘You only have fourteen tickets. I have twenty-one.’
‘You’re such a dick,’ I tut. ‘Anyway, I don’t care if you have twenty-one tickets to my fourteen, I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to win. I can just feel it.’ I cross my fingers, praying I’m right.
‘Ha!’ Will scoffs. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’
I devour another handful of crisps and wash them down with a third glass of punch, while listening to Rowena – the head librarian at the local library – extoll the mindfulness benefits of cross-stitch. Believe it or not, the party is in full swing now. A few people have taken to the dancefloor where they’re currently grooving to Katy Perry. The bowl of punch is nearly empty. The auction has been held – the highlight of which was a dark-haired woman bidding £100 for someone else’s used foot spa – and Mick gave a really moving speech about his wife Maggie and about the important work Cancer Research are doing. Will and I have mostly been avoiding each other the whole evening, but I keep glancing across the hall and catching him looking over at me, which is annoying but then I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t also looking over. God, I really do feel like I’m back at school.
At the moment, Will’s standing across the hall with his mum, Sharon – a softly spoken petite woman with an incredibly pretty face. She has a sort of Audrey Hepburn charm with sparkly eyes and a wide gorgeous guileless smile. She has a neat grey bob that always seems to have a natural bounce to it, the kind of volume most women can only achieve through a blow dry. She’s stayed single since Will’s dad passed away and I don’t think she’s particularly interested in finding anyone else – they were absolutely smitten – but that hasn’t stopped the hordes of admirers from flocking her way. From the looks of it, Sharon is currently being chatted up by Mr Price (a divorced history teacher from my old school known for his bad breath and terrible toupee), Matthew Black (a chronically single monotone-voiced bachelor who lives down the road and has a penchant for keeping pet rats) and some other guy I don’t recognise who appears to be totally over-excited to be speaking to a woman. So much so that his entire face is beaded with sweat. Will is standing protectively close, shielding Sharon from this onslaught of undesirable admirers and she keeps giving him grateful looks that, actually, now that I come to think of it, are bordering on desperate ‘get me out of this’ stares.
‘It’s incredibly restorative,’ Rowena insists, and I realise she’s still talking about cross-stitching. ‘It’s like meditation. Your mind relaxes but your body becomes centred too as you stitch. It’s almost better than traditional meditation because your mind and body are in harmony. You should try it sometime.’ Rowena eyes me hopefully. ‘Once you get into it you can use your creations as gifts or just decorations. I decorate my whole flat with them.’ Rowena picks up her phone and shows me an array of cross-stich creations in frames on the walls of her book-lined flat. If there isn’t a slightly dusty-looking bookcase against the wall, there’s an array of cross-stich designs in shabby chic frames. There are traditional floral pieces, which are quite charming, if a little twee. There are a few slightly bizarre but surprisingly life-like portraits of her cat, who she tells me is called Mittens. There’s even a feminist design of a uterus and ovaries with the slogan ‘Grow a pair’. It’s pretty cool.
‘Oh wow!’ I say, both shocked and impressed as I take in the fine needlework on the cervix.
‘You should come over sometime and I’ll show you how it’s done,’ Rowena suggests enthusiastically. As sweet as she is, cross-stich is hardly my thing.
I have a sudden vision of myself in a few years’ time, still living at home with my mum, cross-stitching portraits of Mr Bear for Hera or cross-stitching a penis with an angry slogan about toxic masculinity or something, while drinking tea at Rowena’s place night after night, having forgotten what it feels like to be touched by a man. I suppress a shudder.
‘I’m quite busy with work and with Hera. It’s hard for me to get out much.’ I glance towards Hera’s carrier. She’s still fast asleep, sputtering slightly as she dreams. I feel a fresh wave of maternal love for her and not just because she’s the loveliest baby ever, but also because she’s a brilliant excuse to get out of doing stuff I don’t want to do.
Rowena looks a little disappointed. ‘Well, maybe I could come to yours. I could bring my kit.’
‘Err …’ I utter. I can’t seem to come up with an excuse and just as I’m beginning to think there’s no way I’m going to get out of this, Mick’s voice suddenly booms from the stage.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’
Everyone goes quiet and looks towards the stage. Mick’s wearing the same outfit he had on last time I was at this fundraiser back when I was 12 – an eye-catching red three-piece suit teamed with a white shirt and a black bow tie.
‘It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for!’ he says, grinning broadly. ‘The raffle!’
A few cheers erupt across the hall.
‘Oh my God!’ I grin, gripping Rowena’s arm in excitement.
I look over at Will to see him looking back at me, steely-eyed. He smiles smugly as he holds up his crossed fingers. I smirk and wave my crossed fingers back at him.
‘This year, we have a host of brilliant prizes,’ Mick enthuses, gesturing at a table piled high with goodies. ‘From a bottle of Fortnum’s vintage port, Amazon gift cards, a year’s subscription to Good Housekeeping and many others, to the star prize – a five-star romantic getaway for two in Marrakech!’
We all cheer.
‘Big thanks to my lovely niece Hannah for pulling out all the stops to get the travel agency she works for to gift us this marvellous prize,’ Mick continues, explaining how Hannah couldn’t make it to the event because of her ‘busy London life.’ Ha. Unlike me and Will who now spend our Friday nights in village halls. I look over at him and catch his eye, we exchange a wry smile.
‘I’m delighted to reveal that we’ve raised a total of £4,428 tonight for Cancer Research, making tonight our most successful fundraiser ever! A big round of applause to everyone! To everyone who’s bought a ticket in the raffle and gifted prizes; to everyone who donated items for the auction and all the generous bidders; and to everyone who’s taken the time to help with everything from the buffet to the
