June

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

31/05/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

I am sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the Only Fool and Horses DVD box-set that you sent to us through the post. As we have made extremely clear to you in the past, we are only able to accept items that contain actual gold (i.e. chemical element AU). Thus, although I am sure that many reviews do claim this product to be "comedy gold" as you stated in your letter, this item remains entirely unacceptable.

On several occasions, you have posted products that cannot be valued. Each time, our dedicated staff members have explained our company policy and have outlined examples of products that we are able to accept. However, your behaviour continues and it is beginning to become a strain on our resources. Therefore, I am forced to ask you to refrain from contacting our company again. Should you continue to send in unacceptable items, further action will be taken as deemed appropriate.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs B. Marcroft

(Customer Services Manager)

Not even Jay being threatened by the long-suffering folks at Gold for Cash could cheer me up. May had been a complete shitter of a month on so many levels, and I was just about ready to cash in my ticket to those Pearly Gates. Not that I believed in Heaven. I actually felt sorry for the morons who believed that dead people floated out of their bodies into the clouds, where they were greeted by a giant, bearded dude in sandals, who handed them a halo and told them to go nuts in their own personal paradise. Plus, if Heaven (in the traditional sense) did exist, wouldn't that mean I'd have to spend eternity with all the people I never actually liked on Earth in the first place?

My musings on spirituality were consolidated at University. In a familiar moment of procrastination (that is, the main art learned at University by any undergraduate), I came across a term called 'existential nihilism'. I felt as though I had finally found a place for my beliefs. I discovered how religion was borne out of people's fear of death. In order to comfort themselves century after century, people continue to seek out meaning in the existence of the human race. They are unhappy to leave questions simply unanswered and therefore begin to manufacture stories and theories that tell them what they want to hear: everything's going to be alright; what goes around comes around; and when they die, good people go to heaven. Despite the comfort I found in laughing at such foolishness, I still struggled to tolerate that kind of religious bullshit.

Sunday 2nd June signalled the end of half-term and therefore my final day off work. The holiday had been eventful, but not in a good way: my cons piggybank was practically overflowing. Firstly, Mr Harding had been in touch, outlining the conditions under which I would to return to work. Every word of his e-mail was torturous.

You will attend a weekly counselling session with a qualified occupational therapist, as ordered by the school. Your discussions with him/her will be 100% confidential, but the therapist will notify the school in the case of a missed appointment.

Lesson observations will increase, beginning on a weekly basis as of 03/06/13. Members of the Senior Leadership Team will observe your lessons and offer feedback. This feedback will be passed onto me. You will be given notice of at least 24 hours (via e-mail) before each lesson observation. Any issues reported as a result of these observations will be discussed in detail; appropriate support will then be put in place until improvement is evidenced.

You will be monitored closely by your Head of Department over the next half-term. This monitoring process will include: informal lesson drop-ins (no notice provided); a weekly 'weigh-in', during which you can discuss any triumphs, concerns, etc. on an informal basis with your Head of Department; and regular appraisal of your students' exercise books, to ensure that work is being marked effectively (according to the school's marking policy).

Even if I did manage to jump through all of those hoops, there was still no guarantee that my school life would go back to normal or that I wouldn't be let go. With 6 rent-paying months left until my rooftop adventure, I needed to keep hold of my job. Despite the fact that playing to Harding's tune might actually induce daily sickness, I wasn't so selfish that I planned to leave Jay in a financial mess.

Unfortunately, work wasn't the only part of my life heading up Shit Creek. April had called at the flat to see me during half-term and that visit hadn't gone so well either. When I first heard Jay letting her in, I assumed she'd come to check that I was ok; with everything that had been going on, I'd neglected to contact her since The Road Trip From Hell. I wondered whether she'd heard about what happened at work and rushed over to cheer me up with sex and a platter of deep-fried treats. However, as she burst into my bedroom, it became clear that her motive wasn't anything to do with making me feel better.

'How COULD you?' she screamed.

'Erm…hello to you too.'

'Well?' She was staring at me so intently I thought her eyes might pop out of her head.

'April, I have no idea what you're so worked up about. What's the matter?'

'Oh, I don't know, does the 23rd of May mean anything to you?'

'Huh?'

'Thursday last week, Simon – the 23rd of MAY!'

'I really don't know what you're talking about. And, to be honest, now isn't exactly a good ti-'

'Not a good time? NOT a good TIME? Oh, I can tell yer all about not havin' a GOOD TIME! What about waitin' around on yer BIRTHDAY for a bloody card to arrive? Or maybe flowers? Then thinking: Ooooh, I know – he's not sent anythin' through the post 'cause he'll be coming round after work to surprise me instead! So, y' get all dressed up, even straightening yer HAIR, which yer HATE, but y' do it all because yer want to look gorgeous for the big BIRTHDAY SURPRISE – whatever that might be. So, it gets all the way to six o'clock in the evenin' and yer sittin' there all dolled up and ready to go but – guess what? Can yer guess? Eh? He STILL hasn't arrived. Yer gettin' hungry, but you know you 'ave to wait in case he's takin' yer out fer dinner. 8pm comes and yer still ALL ALONE. You told yer family yer'd be busy w' yer boyfriend all night,'

Boyfriend?!

'…and it's too embarrassin' to call them now and tell 'em he's stood yer up. By 11pm, that first day of life as a 26-year-old has been WASTED. Totally FUCKING WASTED. Yer biggest achievement has been eatin' two BLOODY litres of BLOODY cookie dough ice-cream!'

'April, I di-' I tried to interject but she cut me off.

'Oh no, no, no – I'm not finished yet! The next mornin', after yer birthday, you end up thinkin' that maybe his no-show was all a big ruse to throw yer off the scent, and that he'll be round after work that night instead. So, what d'yer do? You wait. And you wait. And you WAIT. Try doin' that for ALMOST A WEEK, Simon, only to find out that yer own bloody boyfriend doesn't actually GIVE a SHIT!' Her eyes swam and blue mascara stencilled patterns down her cheeks. I was still reeling from her use of the B-word. Apparently, I'd managed to lose a father and gain a girlfriend in the same week. Neither of these revelations had come with a warning - or even my permission.

While April composed herself, I tried to explain that I'd had a lot on my mind; for God's sake, she had been at Mum and Dad's with me. She had seen some of what I'd been through. According to April, however, she knew what it was like not to know who your real parents were – therefore, that was not a valid excuse. Being suspended from school the day before her birthday and consequently refusing to leave bed for almost an entire week was apparently not a valid excuse either. I didn't even bother pointing out that I wasn't sure she'd ever told me when her birthday was. Instead, I just let her storm out of the flat.

So, the worst half-term of my life (at least, it was up until that point – little did I know what was round the corner) came to an end. The only silver lining to the entire fiasco was Jay. He watched me slob around wearing the same jogging bottoms for days on end, refusing to leave the flat and replacing all meals with Budweiser, but not once did he press me for information or even ask me what was wrong. Some people might perceive that as a lack of caring. I interpreted it differently.

Pro: Having a flat-mate who understands the need for a bit of bloody privacy.

By Sunday afternoon, I was determined to pull myself together. If I didn't head back into work in a mildly fit state, I'd be sacked for sure. I tackled the process in stages.

Step 1: Have a shave. Don't get me wrong – if I'd managed to grow a big, bushy, Tom-Hanks-in-Castaway sort of mane, it would have stayed without a doubt. Unfortunately, all I ever managed to produce were patchy clumps of fluff that made me look almost pre-pubescent.

Step 2: No alcohol. Not in the afternoon. Not before bed. And certainly not for breakfast.

Step 3: Eat something green. Something proper. (The spinach on top of takeaway pizza probably didn't count.)

Step 4: Face the voicemails I'd been ignoring all week.

After completing Step 1, it dawned on me that it was going to be difficult to achieve Step 4 without breaching Step 2. With this in mind, I made an extra strong coffee before punching the voicemail code on my keypad. Emma was up first; I took a deep breath. 'Simey, it's Emma. I still haven't heard from you and I'm starting to worry. Look, I really am sorry for the way I spoke to you. I was out of order and I realise that now. Also, if you don't want to tell me about that piggybank thing, then I understand. Ignoring me is not going to solve this though! If you get chance, please call me back. I really need to talk to you. Henry's being a bit of a- well, things on that front haven't improved. Can you just, please, just call. Ok? Bye.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

Dad's voice came next. 'Simon, it's me. Your mum and I are going out of our minds with worry; you really shouldn't have just stormed out of the house like that. I doubt you were even safe to drive – I mean, you were probably in shock, understandably. Listen: there's so much we still need to talk about. Give us a call when you get back to Sheffield. Please, son.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

Number three was from Dad as well. 'Simon, can you just give us a call to let us know you got home safely? I've tried your house phone but I can't get through. Alright…waiting to hear from you.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

The messages continued in much the same way: mostly from from Dad. All apologetic. He thought Mum's affair was his fault – that none of this would ever have happened if he'd just paid more attention to her after Emma was born. Instead, he'd buried himself in his work and now he had to live with that regret for the rest of his life. He apologised for James walking out on me before I was born, even though that wasn't his fault either. He explained how he'd stepped in and accepted me as his son. How they hadn't even told their friends and family members the truth. He said that all they'd wanted was for life to carry on as normal, but it'd been so hard to watch me grow up and look more and more like James every single day. He apologised for the way in which I'd found out about Mum and Uncle James; Mum must have told him everything – about fucking time. He told me how sorry he was for blaming my reclusive teenage behaviour on my hormones and how he wished he could go back in time to sit down and ask me what was really bothering me. Even though it would have humiliated him to know that I knew, he wished he could have helped me through. He even congratulated me on wrecking James's hand (his brother had always explained it away as an accident that happened at work) and jokingly said he now planned to take care of the other hand some day.

The final voicemail featured a less emotional version of Dad: 'Simon, me again. Look, I appreciate that you need some time to process all of this and that's understandable. Just please remember that we're here if you need any help getting through this. You can call or visit anytime. I mean that. Oh, and your mother's asked me to remind you that Emma still doesn't know about any of this. We really would prefer if it stayed that way – at least until after the baby's born. Mum pointed out that we can't be putting Emma under any strain - not in her condition. Ok, son? I hope you understand. Speak soon, hopefully.' Great. Nice to know it only takes a few days for their number one priority to be back on top.

I'm not sure what I expected to gain from listening to the voicemails. I'm not sure why I thought they might make me feel better or to help me accept the things I'd been told. Admittedly, it did feel pretty satisfying to have everyone falling over themselves to apologise to me for a change. Plus, at least I finally understood why I'd never felt good enough, always been second best behind Emma, always felt like the black sheep of the family. Why animosity flamed in Mum's eyes whenever she saw me: me, the child she never wanted. The child who sent her precious James running. Yes, there was an explanation for all that now…but experiencing catharsis didn't make the truth any easier to swallow.

When I actually looked at the evidence, Dad had been right; it was pretty impossible to understand how I hadn't figured the truth out for myself. Uncle James and I looked so similar we could be mistaken for twins: over 6 feet tall, mousey hair, broad shoulders and square jaw. Hazel eyes, too – not striking blue like Dad's and Emma's, but not deep, chocolate brown like Mum's – just a sludgy mixture of green and brown. Like mouldy sausage-meat. As if our similar appearance wasn't enough of a clue, there was the fact that I'd actually caught him and Mum at it myself, albeit almost sixteen years after my conception. I shuddered at the thought. I guess it's easy not to see something when you really, really don't want to acknowledge it's there. Maybe conscious ignorance was a skill I'd learned from Dad. Or was I supposed to call him Robert now? No. James might have produced the swimmers but that did not make him my father.

I went to bed that night trying to figure out how my relationship with Emma changed in light of this new information. Obviously, when you share one parent, you are classed as half-brother-and-sister. However, James Bramwell and Robert Bramwell came from the same genetic line, so that surely increased us up from half-siblings? Was there any such thing as three-quarter-brother-and-sister? Sleep snatched the train of thought away from me before I had time to decide.

By the time I arrived at school on Monday morning, I'd turned into an overnight celebrity. Groups of staff hushed their conversations as I passed and there were more eyes on me during morning briefing than there were on the Deputy Head who was actually delivering the thing. Since so little happens in your average high school on a day-to-day basis, any actual gossip spreads like wildfire. As it spreads, it also becomes subject to Chinese whispers; each busybody adds their own little tidbit of made-up information to spice the story a little. I was intrigued to see what heights my story had reached in my absence.

Being self-obsessed adolescents, most of the students in my classes had forgotten that I'd even been off school before the holidays; in Teenage Land, a week of half-term is a very long time. Even the few who did remember my time off seemed too scared to ask about it. However, when one over-confident little arse-hole asked me if it was true that I'd got in trouble for shagging Miss Spalding from Geography, I needed to find out exactly what my Chinese whispers entailed.

At lunchtime, I went to track down coffee-breath Noreen in the staffroom. After five minutes of listening to her spout on about how much I reminded her of her own son, Colin, I was able to get to the point. 'Noreen, I just wondered what sort of things people have been saying about my little, erm, extended holiday? I'm guessing everyone knows I was suspended?' She'd been so eager not to bring the subject up and to act normal that she blushed a little and fiddled with her egg sandwich. 'It's all right, Noreen, honestly. I really want to know what people have been saying. I mean, you'd want to know if people had been talking behind your back, wouldn't you?'

Jackpot. She opened up like a Catholic at confessional. 'Oh Simon, there were stories flying about all over the place by Wednesday afternoon! Kyran Kershaw was harping on to anyone who'd listen that you'd called his family a bunch of,' she lowered her voice and moved closer to me – so close that I could taste the Nescafé – 'wankers. A bunch of wankers! Can you believe it? He's going to 'get you' for that, apparently. Courtney Weston was informing people you were on drugs; she was genuinely convinced as well – telling everybody. A few of the staff had seen you being escorted down to Mr Harding's office by Mr Greggan and somebody swore they heard him tell you that he'd really 'caught you at it this time'. From that, a certain young teacher from the Art Department decided Greggan was using code language because it was clear you'd be caught having you-know-what in school! Ridiculous, of course, but so is the curse we call hearsay.'

'So, that's it then? That's not too bad, actually.'

'Oh no, dear! I'm afraid not. Those rumours were just the start of it all. By the time we all went home for the holidays on Friday afternoon, you'd: publicly threatened to have all the members of the Kershaw family killed; snorted a line of cocaine from your desk whilst teaching Period 1; and made your way around several female members of staff, preying on them like a sexual predator.' Noreen's face was hot with embarrassment now. She scratched at the eczema between her fingers anxiously, awaiting my reaction. I couldn't help it. I literally burst out laughing. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt. Granted, it wasn't that funny, but I hadn't exactly had much comic relief of late. The staff room fell quiet, as all eyes turned on us. Noreen's face flushed deeper and I stood up to leave her to her cheese and onion crisps. (Seriously, the woman with the bad breath chooses egg sandwiches and cheese & onion crisps? No wonder nobody wanted to sit next to her in the staffroom.) As I moved to walk away, she tugged at the sleeve of my shirt. 'Simon…you never told me! What did you actually do? I mean, you said yourself that he suspended you but…what for?'

'You've got all the stories, Noreen. Take your pick.' I winked at her and sauntered slowly out of the staff room, painfully aware of the gazes following my every move. Why the hell not give some boring, middle-aged saddos something to talk about on their lunch-break? Plus, everyone knows the coolest teachers are the ones who come with a back-story.

Pro: My accidental reputation as a bad-ass.

The rest of the week wasn't a total disaster, but it was probably the hardest I'd worked since I first trained as a teacher. On the plus side, the chaos kept me almost entirely distracted from what was going on in my 'family life', if I could really even call it that anymore. Committed to keeping my promise to Jay, I carefully tracked both the positive and negative consequences of my new rock star status within school.

Pro: Since everyone at work now thinks I am a violent, drug-sniffing lothario, people dart into classrooms as I pass by just to avoid me. I barely have to converse with anyone anymore.

Pro: Year 7 pupils are now too scared to make eye contact with me during lessons, let alone ask reams of mindless questions.

Pro: 4 extra P.P.A. periods per week - thank God for Year 11 buggering off to begin their unfulfilling lives of ASBOs, hairdressing apprenticeships and petty crime.

Con: Almost all 4 extra P.P.A. periods being filled up with 'monitoring meetings'.

Con: Having Harding up my arse every 5 minutes. (Not literally: if I were to turn gay, I'd rather shag a male sheep than him.)

Con: First lesson observation scheduled by ancient-looking, beige cardigan-ed Deputy Head called Lynne.

Pro: Lynne – the lovely old bat who graded my lesson as 'Good'.

My rollercoaster week took a steep nose-dive on Friday when the time came for my first school-ordered counselling session. Harding's view was that I shouldn't miss any teaching time in order to attend my appointments: since the Health Centre was a 30-minute drive from school, that meant my sessions would have to take place after school. To piss me off further, he told me that the only time my designated therapist had available was 4pm on Fridays. I wondered whether it was a test, waving a red rag at my anger management issues to see whether he could get me to burst and just slap him around his shiny face. If I did, I would thereby enable him to fire me on the spot. I would give him no such satisfaction; instead, I toddled off at 3:15pm on Friday with a fake smile plastered all over my indignant face.

I arrived at the Health Centre fifteen minutes early in the hope that I would be rewarded for my punctuality with early release. A grey-haired, weary receptionist informed me that my therapist, Rosie, was with another patient until 4pm and sentenced me to the waiting room until my allotted time. The centre functioned as a normal Doctors' surgery, and therefore housed the usual assortment of wheezing old people and burnt-out mothers cradling howling babies. Having forgotten my headphones, I endured the meaningless chitter-chatter that predictably ensues whenever a room is filled with strangers.

Old woman: 'Oh, he's cute as a button, isn't he?'

Exhausted mother: 'Mmm…most of the time! *Insert fake laughter here* His name's Alfie but he's not very well at the moment. No, you're not very well, are you? No, you're not my ickle sweetie pie.'

Old woman: 'How old is he?'

Exhausted mother: 'Can you tell the nice lady how old you are? Can you? Awww. He's 19 months.'

Old woman: 'Oh, what a lovely age!'

I opened my mouth to point out that the bag of wrinkles would've uttered that phony response regardless of whether she was told he was 2 days, 19 months or fifteen years old; people talk utter shit when they're asking about other people's kids. However, before I had chance to share my views, my name flashed up on the oh-so-modern-announcement board that reduces the need for lazy health professionals to actually get off their arses and walk to collect their patients from the waiting area. I bit my tongue and hurried to Room 4: the sooner we got started, the sooner I could go home.

The walls of Room 4 were white and clinical, displaying the usual posters about flu vaccinations and free screening protocols for chlamydia. One wall, however, was covered in children's pictures: scribbled drawings of monsters in red and black. As Rosie would later explain, the pictures were drawn by school children she treated for anger management and behavioural issues. She encouraged them to draw the 'Anger Monster' who lived inside them and encouraged them to do nasty, hurtful things. She wanted the children to see the malice as a separate being: one to whom they could assign a name and therefore distance from themselves. The names chosen by these children ranged from Blade and Shadow to Fred and Agatha. Allegedly, once these psycho-kids no longer saw their monster as an inherent part of them, they were able to tell it: no.

NO, Shadow, you will NOT stab Sarah's finger with your pencil lead.

NO, Agatha, do NOT shove Thomas's chicken finger up his nose so hard it bleeds.

This was the kind of horseshit that came out of Rosie's mouth on a daily basis. Rosie was attractive and fresh-faced with long, brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She couldn't have been out of University for much more than a year and was stuffed full of stock phrases she'd learned by rote, some of which she dutifully churned out as she explained how the sessions would work: 'No judgement here'…'Open and honest communication'…'Free space to share our thoughts'. Her hippie-jibberish made it difficult for me not to walk straight back out into the germ-infested waiting room. When she asked her first question:

'So, Simon, why do you think you're here?'

I knew I had a choice to make. Option one: tell the truth – illegitimate child, under the influence at school, suicide plans – the whole shebang. Option two: imitate repentance and Get Out of Jail Free. Option two seemed far more appealing.

'Well, Rosie, I'm here because I acted in an inappropriate way in front of some of my students. I called them distasteful names and made fun of them in a way that was both unprofessional and offensive. However, my suspension from school gave me a lot of thinking time and I have accepted that my attitude needs to change. I love my job and I respect both my students and colleagues immensely. Finally, I am ready to show that.' Can I go now?

'Tell me about your suspension, Simon.'

'Erm, I just did.'

'Tell me how it made you feel.'

'I felt, erm…' Excited by the extra days off? '…embarrassed…very embarrassed of my behaviour.' She smiled, nodding, and rolled her hand in a keep-going motion. 'And I regretted my actions almost immediately, but I realise I can't take them back and I'm ready to move on as a changed man.' Is that right? Can I go now?

'Simon, I can see that you're anxious about the time but I want to assure you that there's no rush. We're here from 4 until 5pm every Friday for what will undoubtedly be several weeks. You just take your time. Relax.'

Several WHAT?

'So, tell me more about how your suspension made you feel. And remember: we are in absolutely no rush.'

Con: Rosie. And her stupid bloody questions.

It had been 10 days since April had blustered out of my flat in a birthday-related rampage. Assuming that whatever P.M.T. issues she'd been suffering with were long gone, I drove over to Heart & Sole on Saturday lunchtime. I'd survived an entire week of monitoring at school and I was ready for some recreation. When I arrived, the bearded man (who I now knew to be April's dad, Darren) was working and I was conscious to make a good impression. I asked super-politely whether it would be all right for me to go straight upstairs and see April, labelling myself as 'an old friend from school' once again, just to be safe. I still wasn't sure how I felt about her use of the B-word, as I didn't think it was a very good idea, yet I could hardly tell him of his daughter's actual link to me: fuck-buddy and suicide-bucket-list-cheerleader.

'I'm afraid April's not home at the moment,' he said in his stronger-than-hers Yorkshire accent.

'Oh, right. I see. Do you happen to know when she'll be back?'

'I'm afraid not, mate.'

'Could you please tell her that Simon came to see her?'

'Ah hah.' He placed his spatula down and stopped what he was doing. 'So you're Simon, are yer?' The arch of his eyebrow didn't exactly imply she'd been speaking of me kindly. I made my excuses and got out of there as quickly as I could. And it wouldn't have been too bad if I hadn't seen April ducking down to hide under the windowsill when I glanced up at her living room on my way out.

'Hi, is that Mrs Fenwick?'

'Why hello, Mr Bramwell. Long time no see,' Cheryl's silky voice prowled down the phone.

'Indeed. Sorry to call so early but I was hoping we could reschedule that meeting we set up before half-term? Regarding Morgan's progress?'

'Yes, I was very disappointed to hear that you were off school when I came in; I was so looking forward to having a good, long chat.' She paused to allow the undertone of her words to sink in. 'Morgan tells me you've been unwell recently, Mr Bramwell?'

'Yes, but I'm feeling much better now.'

'Oh, well that is a shame: I was hoping I could nurse you better.'

'How odd,' I replied with visions of Cheryl's healing hands beginning to whirl around my head. 'Now that you mention it, I think I actually can feel a headache coming on…4:30 tomorrow OK for you?'

That's one way to cheer up a boring Monday morning.

By the time Tuesday lunchtime dawned, I was in two minds over whether or not to keep my appointment with Cheryl. Firstly, I'd received an e-mail letting me know that Mrs Graham, one of the Assistant Heads, would be coming to observe my lesson with 7SB the next day. That meant I had a lot of preparation to do overnight; if I taught the lesson in my usual way, i.e. 15 minutes of silent reading (the English teacher's God-send) followed by whatever came first off the top of my head, I was sure to fail miserably. Secondly, I kept feeling as though I had to justify to myself that it was fine for me to be seeing Cheryl, which was so idiotic because I knew it was fine. April hadn't called for almost two weeks, she'd ignored me when I'd tried to visit her and it wasn't like I'd ever given her any inclination that we were more than just friends with benefits. Plus, it was my life: why should I answer to anyone? Exactly. I could do whatever I wanted.

The guilty feeling was still loitering at the back of my mind when I went down to Reception to collect Cheryl. She'd cut her blonde hair shorter but looked just as good as always, if not better. Her cherry lipstick matched both her nail polish and towering high heels perfectly. She wore a nude trench coat, in spite of the day's warmth; I began to wonder whether she had some kind of malfunctioning hypothalamus. I wouldn't ask, though. That was hardly a sexy question.

Once we reached the English corridor, I was irritated to see that other members of the department were still in the building. The teacher-training student was hunched over her desk weeping into her hands and Helen, my Head of Department, was surrounded by spreadsheets in the classroom next to mine. Usually, Cheryl and I would close the blinds in my classroom and conduct our business in the dark, hoping no-one would see us. However, this visit called for a new plan. I unlocked the store cupboard and gestured for Cheryl to get inside quickly before she was seen. With the door closed, there was barely enough room for both of us to stand up straight and the fluorescent light was blinding. Rolls of brightly coloured display paper lined one side of the room, whilst stationery-stacked shelves stuck out at awkward angles from the other side. It wasn't exactly a candlelit dinner for two but, then again, Cheryl didn't have what you'd call high standards. She surveyed her surroundings and shrugged. Loosening the knot from around the waist of her trench coat, she let it fall to the staple-covered floor. Underneath, her body was clad in a short, white nurse's uniform complete with red cross and fake stethoscope. She pulled a little white hat out of her pocket and smiled. 'Mr Bramwell, if you could just unzip your trousers, I'd like to conduct a quick examination. I'm sure we'll have you feeling better in no time.'

'Simon? I asked you what you think about that?'

Shit. I've zoned out. Rosie had been talking for several minutes about some flower-power article that promoted the use of meditation to combat stress and I'd barely listened to a word. My second Friday afternoon counselling session wasn't going well.

'Is there something on your mind, Simon? You seem a little distracted today.'

Distracted? Oh no. What could I possibly have on my mind other than keeping stupid, mandatory appointments with you? I mean, it's not like I've recently found out that my dad's not my real father and the man I've always thought of as the world's biggest dickhead actually is instead. It's not like I've noticed how full my cons piggybank is becoming and therefore had to comprehend that December 2013 might actually be my last month of life. Or that I've realised how frighteningly large my bucket list still is and that I've only got 6 months in which to complete it. Oh, and I'm certainly not distracted by the fact that April seems to have turned against me and, in true I'm-a-total-twat-Simon-Bramwell fashion, I decided to deal with her rejection by sticking my dick in a middle-aged slut whom I pity almost as much as I fancy. No, no, I've got absolutely nothing going on in my head to distract me, Rosie. 'I'm fine. What was it you wanted to talk about?'

Rosie wanted me to tell her about my lesson observation with Mrs Graham and how I felt about my Grade 3 result. In teaching, you see, there are four possible outcomes at the end of an observation:

Grade 1: 'Outstanding'.

Basic Translation: You're a fucking teaching God and everyone in the world should bow down to you and worship you. You have the ability to be cheerful, inspirational, authoritative and super-organised all at the same time, whilst working 80+ hours a week. In reality, you cry in your car every night on the way home to your house full of cats. You have no social life and everyone in your department hates you for setting the bar too high and making them look like lazy shits.

Grade 2: 'Good'.

Basic Translation: You're a try-hard but you draw the line at kissing arse. You care about your job and you put in more hours than you should, but you are able to achieve a reasonably good work/life balance. You look upon those who are 'Outstanding' with pity, as they tend to sleep for one hour per night and look forward to lunchtime because they get to sit in the school canteen to eat lunch with their favourite students.

Grade 3: 'Requires Improvement'.

Basic Translation: You probably realised a long time ago that teaching is a thankless job. The kids you teach don't care about their grades, so why should you? Society labels teachers as lazy, work-shy moaners who get too many holidays, and you intend to live up to that reputation. You put in the minimum amount of effort that is required to keep your job but everything else in your life comes before teaching.

Grade 4: 'Inadequate'.

Basic Translation: You really have taken it too far now. The line between laziness and pure incompetence has officially been crossed. Get out of the profession immediately.

I explained this system to Rosie in the hope that she would see Grade 3 was exactly where I desired to be in the teaching world. In fact, if life were graded in the same way, then I'd be happy to have a life that 'Requires Improvement'. Rosie raised her eyebrows and scribbled furiously onto her pad of lined paper when I said that. Come to think of it, she always did that a lot whenever I was talking.

Although Rosie had it right in sensing my mind was elsewhere, she had the source of the preoccupation all wrong. I genuinely didn't care about the result of the observation; it was my liaison with Cheryl that had thrown me off kilter. Since Tuesday evening, I'd had a strange feeling lurking somewhere inside me that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Like an itch that was just out of reach. My encounters with Cheryl usually felt incredible; she was so smooth, so soft, so well-groomed - and her nurse's uniform had sent her hotness soaring to new levels – but something was amiss. Even while Cheryl's stethoscope had been trailing down my chest, followed by her hot, salty mouth, all I saw was April. April's silky lips. April's clumsy wave. April's fleece pajamas with the sheep jumping over the fences. April had nowhere near the refinement or the expertise of someone like Cheryl, so I couldn't understand why I'd be thinking about her at a time like that. Yet, I could think of nothing else. Even the next day at work, once sleep should have distanced me from my conscience, I still couldn't concentrate. What I needed to focus on, in order to keep my job, was teaching Creative Writing and Media. I needed to mark the pile of assessments from 9SF. Input the data from 9SF into the school system. Discuss the upcoming 'Next Steps' day with the Year 11s in my tutor group. But whenever I attempted to concentrate on those things, April stomped and danced and silent disco-ed all over my thoughts. I didn't want to see her face in my mind: pale, freckled and smiling. I didn't want to think about the way her tongue lolled out to one side when she concentrated. Or the weird games she concocted. Or the way her brimstone hair shone in the sunlight, thin and brittle from years of bleaching. I especially didn't want to think about the way I'd pushed Cheryl against the wall of the store cupboard and closed my eyes, imagining April instead. Or how I would feel if I found out that April had, at that very moment, been having some store cupboard fun of her own with someone else. I convinced myself over and over again: it wasn't cheating if you weren't in a relationship. And we were not in a relationship…officially. Could I just keep pretending it hadn't sent a little spasm of electricity up my spine when April had used the B-word? Yes, I could. I brushed everything I was feeling neatly away under my increasingly lumpy rug, and told Rosie I wasn't feeling well. Apparently, being unwell was the only form of escape deemed acceptable. Release time from second appointment: 4:38pm. Result.

I ate my microwave lasagne early, although I wasn't hungry, and made sure I was in bed with the light off by the time Jay got back from work at half 7. I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.

On Saturday morning, I awoke to the sounds of someone trying to violently bash the front door off its hinges. I glanced over at my phone: 9:45am. Jay would already have left for his 10-6 shift, although I could hardly rely on him to get off his arse and answer the door when he was at home. Heaving myself out of bed, I shuffled towards the source of the incessant sound. Outside in the hallway, jiggling up and down with excitement, was April. 'MORNING!' she shrieked, whizzing past me and into the flat entirely uninvited. She wore a baggy, grey hoodie over the top of what appeared to be a green sundress. Gigantic yellow sunglasses conquered her face. 'Coffee?' she shouted over the sound of the beans she was already grinding in the kitchen. 'Bloody hot in 'ere, isn't it?' She stretched out the sleeves of her hoodie and pulled it forwards over her head. As her arms became visible, I noticed that they were covered in what looked like scribbles of red biro. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that they were not pen marks but thin, bloodied scratches.

Oh fuck - she's an undercover Emo. She listens to whining, self-confessional music and thinks that dressing in black makes her different from the other 7 billion people on the planet. She cuts herself and then blogs about it online. But where's her dark make-up and shabby, black hair? Is this the start of the Emo in her? Could my missing her birthday really have upset her so much that she'd resort to self-harm? Is this my punishment – for her to come to my home and parade the scars in front of me?

I was struggling to decide how to tackle the subject when she noticed me staring. 'Oh, I suppose I should explain these? Ha, it's SUCH a funny story! I've been up since half 5 this morning and in the park from 6. The little buggers did NOT want to get close to me, as you can see! In the end, I had to go t' supermarket and buy a bag of mixed nuts. Laced those with a little bit of a powdered sleeping pill and…voilà!' April brandished a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her sundress and flattened it out on the worktop.

April Barnes' Bucket List

High five a monkey.

Use a funny fake name at Starbucks.

Be happy forever.

Go Trick-or-Treating.

Stroke a squirrel in the park.

Get those braces with the cool multi-coloured elastic bands on.

Sleep overnight in a zoo.

Eat dinner with strangers in a restaurant.

Moon somebody important.

Hire two private investigators and get them to follow each other.

Find my parents.

'Well? Aren't yer gonna congratulate me, Simon? I did it! Number five - all ticked off! How are you gettin' on with yours?'

It was all a little too much to take in. Last time I'd seen her, she'd been yelling at me for leaving her lonely and humiliated on her birthday; then, she'd refused to see me when I'd visited the chip shop; and now…this? She handed me a hot, brimming mug. 'April, I…I don't really understand what you want from me.'

'Want from you? I don't want anything from you, silly. I'm here to help you! Yer never gonna get through that list without my help. Now, where is it? Let's see where we're up to.' She skipped into my bedroom to retrieve the list and lined it up next to hers.

Simon Bramwell's Bucket List

Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

Make some new friends.

Steal something.

Visit Mum, Dad and Emma for a final time.

Have a fight.

Get a tattoo.

Tell my moronic Head-teacher what I actually think of him and his 'policies'.

Tell Dad the truth.

'See what I mean? You 'aven't made any bloody progress without me, have yer? Now, go and get dressed. We're goin' out.'

I didn't even have time to drink my so-strong-it'll-send-your-testicles-rocketing-back-up-inside-you-coffee before she dragged me out of the flat and walked me to a part of town so grimy I was afraid I might catch something just by breathing in. 'Nearly there!' she kept sing-songing, as we spiralled deeper and deeper through dark alleyways and past boarded windows. 'Usually, yer'd need an appointment - well, at most other places anyway. But I know a guy, and he said he'd fit yer in but it had to be this mornin'.' I had no idea what she was babbling on about, but then again I rarely did. She finally stopped in front of 'Inkspiration': a small, shabby tattoo parlour with two cracked windows. Behind the cracks, the display wall flaunted countless designs from Tweetie Pie and Betty Boop to pictures of angry skulls and celebrities' faces. Without any caffeine pumping around my body, it took a second for the purpose of our visit to dawn on me.

'Oh, Christ, no – April – I didn't really put in on the list intending to actually do it. I mean, I've always thought of maybe getting one, one day, but I can't just- you can't just- I mean, you have to think about-'

She completely ignored me and started running her finger along the images. 'So, what theme are we looking at? There's a whole section on cartoon characters over here?'

'Erm, April, you may not have noticed but I'm not actually an eight year old child.'

'Animals? A butterfly? Or a dolphin?'

'I'm also not female.'

'Somebody's name written through a picture of a heart?'

'Annnnnd I'm not a chav.'

'Tribal designs?'

'Oh please.'

'Simon! Yer over-thinking this whole thing! Come on, let's just get inside and you can make a decision on the spot. Honestly, it'll be fun!'

'Look, I just can't. I'm sorry. Tattoos are permanent - you do realise that? I can't walk in and do this on the spur of the moment.'

'Yeah, I know they're permanent, Simon. But, for you, permanent probably only means 6 months. So, what's the big deal? Trust me; this is a brilliant idea!' Refusing all logical objections, she pushed me forcefully through the front door.

Looking back, The Day of the Tattoo was a little like an out-of-body experience. I floated up out of myself and watched this ordinary guy – just a secondary school English teacher – nowhere near cool enough to walk around sporting ink – walk into that dingy, scruffy place. He spoke to a large, leather-jacket-wearing, bearded man for less than five minutes, and then took his t-shirt off. Topless, he lay down on a discarded dentists' chair and pretended to feel no fear. Next to the chair, a saffron-haired woman laughed and joked and held his hand. She pretended not to see him flinching every time the needle perforated his skin, and she ignored the glittering in his eyes that threatened his manhood. Most importantly, she didn't let go of his hand for one second until long after the ordeal was over.

After almost an hour, the mousey-haired English teacher and the woman who carried the sunshine with her wherever she went stood in front of the mirror in the back. They laughed when admiring the memento now stamped across his shoulder blade:

Just say 'fuck it' before you kick the bucket.

And he didn't regret it: that permanent reminder of the feeling he had that day. Not once. Not even on the day he died.

The next ten days of June flew by in an April haze. With her birthday-related dismay forgotten, April and I spent as much time together as we could. I worked hard for a few hours after school each day, so that I could fit in as much evening time with her as possible without losing my job. As a result, my lesson observations increased to a Grade 2. Obviously, this improvement meant nothing to me but at least it got Harding off my back and gave Rosie hope that I was beginning to, as she put it, 'see the error of my ways'. To be honest, I think any man would see the error of his ways if given a dose of April: relentless, imaginative enthusiasm and the sex drive of a nymphomaniac on Speed – no wonder she had a positive effect on my motivation. She seemed to have a positive effect on Jay too, who morphed into a grinning idiot whenever she came round. April wasn't the only thing making Jay smile, though. The doctor looking after his mum had been in touch and reported good news. Apparently, the most recent, gruelling cycles of Chemotherapy they'd put her through had reduced the size of her most aggressive tumour and she was feeling better than she had in months. Jay even went out and bought her a £95 bouquet of flowers to celebrate; unfortunately, he neglected the meagre size of his pay-packet and had to borrow most of it from me.

To mark the 25th June, April wanted to host a Halfway to Christmas Party at her flat; apparently, it was an annual tradition. Jay and I received our invitations in the post several days prior to the event, and it took all of my self-restraint not to point out to her that people over the age of ten don't generally send postal invites to a party. I also had to fight my natural urge to ignore the R.S.V.P. instruction and decline the event in my usual fashion: by simply by not turning up. In the past, that method had proven to be most effective. However, since April was so ridiculously excited about the whole thing, I not only found myself planning to attend but even agreed to help her with setting it all up.

Finding Christmas decorations during the summer is not easy. After spending Saturday 22nd enquiring at many of the city centre's shops (and being stared at like we were deranged lunatics in the process), we managed to convince the manager of a local supermarket to let us case out the old stock he'd stored away in the back. I'd love to say our success was all down to my wonderful way with words, but I think it was more strongly influenced by the huge, pleading eyes of April, who looked far younger than her 26 years. Oh, and the fact that her pink bra was almost entirely visible under her white vest top. Inside the supermarket stockroom, we found the following questionable selection:

13 silver baubles (assorted sizes)

10 metres of ugly, green tinsel

9 Santa hats

17 gold-sprayed pine cones

And a three-foot high plastic snowman intended for outdoor use only.

April was absolutely thrilled. She hugged the store manager and immediately reached for her purse. Due the hug (I assume), the horny bugger requested £10 for the lot. I wondered whether a flash of boob might have got her everything for free, but she'd paid up before I could suggest it.

Unfortunately, the 25th fell on a Tuesday. Jay, in his ecstasy at being invited somewhere by an attractive female (there's a first time for everything), had booked the Wednesday off work the moment the invitations sailed through our letterbox. For a teacher, nonetheless, there is tragically no such thing as a pre-booked day off. Following my previous alcohol-related school incident, I thought it best that I remain sober for the evening.

Usually, Jay's outfits consisted of food-stained jogging bottoms and a t-shirt featuring one of his favourite bands. When he came out of his room that evening dressed in a pair of clean, black trousers and the only shirt he owned, I knew he was out to impress. My outfit was largely similar to his, only I had now taken to wearing white t-shirts underneath my shirts: a visible tattoo stating the words 'fuck it' on your shoulder blade was hardly a desirable asset in the work place.

The invitation stated that we were welcome to arrive any time after 6pm and that food would be served at 7:30. I, obviously, intended to arrive a couple of minutes after half 7, but Jay insisted we set off at 6 in order to 'impress all the hot girls with our punctuality'. I started to wonder whether Jay's perpetual singledom was due to the fact that he had literally no idea what women look for in a potential mate.

We arrived not long after 6pm to find that Heart & Sole was shut. All the lights were off downstairs and there was a note on the door apologising for the closure. It explained that the owners had to attend a family function and would be back at work first thing the next morning. Jay wasn't in a good way - not only had he carried a 24 pack of beer under his arm for the entire journey, but he'd also walked quickly for what appeared to be the first time in his life. He needed a moment to soothe his wheezing lungs and to mop the torrent of sweat from his brow, so I sat him down outside the front door and moved around the corner to throw grit at April's window. She was at the door in moments, excitedly ushering us in and jabbering about the preparations she'd been busy making all day. At the top of the stairs we were greeted by Wibbles (the three-foot plastic snowman) leaning precariously to one side. Apparently, he'd been Christened after April had attempted to carry him up the stairs by herself and smashed a section of his base on the doorframe. 'See?' she asked, poking Wibbles in the stomach and watching him lurch back and forth. 'He wibbles around!' Our host, dressed in a reindeer onesie, complete with antlers on the hood and hoof designs on the feet, led us through into the silent living room. Once we sat down on the sofa, the oppressive silence made it clear that we were a) incredibly over-dressed and b) the only ones there.

'So, can I get you boys somethin' to drink?' April asked.

'Beer, please,' said Jay. 'And lots of it.'

She smiled. 'Simon?'

'Erm, yeah. I'll have a beer too – but just the one. I'm not drinking tonight.' The human reindeer toddled off into the kitchen leaving Jay and I to assess our awkward surroundings. The entire ceiling of the living room had been decorated with scraggly, tattered paper-chains that looked as though they'd been cut out by children with advanced motor neurone disease. The table that usually lived in the kitchen had been moved into the centre of the lounge and covered with April's purple sofa throw. In the middle of the table, a large plate was stacked high with golden pine cones and silver baubles. Six places had been set, each complete with individual Santa hat and tinsel-wrapped chair. My hopes for a not entirely excruciating evening lifted. Places set: six. Current number of people present: three. 'April?' I called through into the kitchen.

'Yeah?'

'Who else is coming tonight?'

'Oooooh, that would be tellin'! Let's just say that our surprise guests should arrive any minute now!'

I looked over at Jay who winked back at me. 'It's girls, Simon. I can tell by her voice. Hot girls! Who else would she invite to party with us? They're probably friends she's known since school or something – hot twenty-somethings with loose morals. Right, let's put some music on and down a few beers before they get here; it's up to us to set the mood.' Jay hoisted himself off the sofa and plodded to the corner of the room where April's T.V. and speakers had been pushed right up against the wall. He plugged his phone into the out-dated sound system and selected a particularly explicit rap album. The lyrics seemed to revolve around 'them bitches' being 'all naked up in here' and 'doin' 'em up and down, round and round'. I was about to question whether his choice of music was entirely fitting for what was looking more like a dinner party than the wild house party we'd anticipated, but Jay jumped in: 'It's all about subliminal messaging, Simon. Trust the Phelps Lurve Machine. All four ladies will have their pants around their ankles before we've finished the first course. Guaranteed.'

April bustled through from the kitchen carrying two beers just as the door to the flat creaked open at the bottom of the stairs. 'Can we come up?' enquired a cheerful, female voice. April squealed and ran to greet the newcomers.

Jay stood up and rubbed his clammy palms against his trousers. 'Here we go! Hold on to your hats – this night's about to get steamy.'

April reappeared in the hallway, beaming with pride as she began her introductions. 'Simon, Jay, this is my mum, Claire, and my dad, Darren.'

Holy. Shitting. Fuck.

'Mum, Dad, this is Simon, my boyfriend, and his lovely flatmate, Jay.'

There it was again, picking at the scab of the wound it made last time: the B-word. I mean, I liked the girl, but she was going to have to stop throttling me with that word. I wanted to dive headfirst out of the window onto the street. Maybe this was it – my ideal moment to commit suicide. I was just sizing up the length of run-up I'd have between current standing position and window when Claire grabbed my hand in hers. 'It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Simon. We've heard so much about you!' Then, she moved quickly on to Jay, clasping his sweaty palm and shaking it eagerly. I glanced over at April's dad, who was eyeing me warily from across the room. He still hadn't said a word.

Of course! This is his first proper impression of me. He's challenging my manliness. Fathers want a strong, masculine partner for their daughters; I must prove myself by not breaking first. Accepting the challenge, I met his glare and held it. This is macho stalemate. I am proving myself. I must not communicate first. Our silence grew louder and louder as conversation between the other three dried up. All eyes were on me. I could practically hear April's silent pleading for me to introduce myself, but this was a situation no woman would understand. Manly deadlock. And I was winning. I could see the crinkling of Darren's brow, the wavering of his lips, all the indicators telling me that he was about to break first, when Jay swept right over to him with a friendly handshake.

'Darren! Pleasure to meet you. Sorry about this dickhead over here!' Jay thumped his chubby hand on my shoulder. 'Get's a bit nervous around new people, don't you mate? He'll thaw out eventually - just give him a few minutes.'

'Nervous?' Darren scoffed in response. 'He looks like a bloody deer in 'eadlights! At least one of yer can bloody talk. 'Ave yer got any more of them?' Darren signalled towards the can of lager in Jay's hand and Jay nodded. 'Come on then, lad. Let's crack a few open.' The two new bloody BFFs headed over to the fridge, leaving me – the strong, silent deer in headlights – with April and her mum. After a few seconds, April broke the silence.

'Is Hannah drivin' over separate then? I thought she'd come w' you guys.'

'Oh, she couldn't make it sweetheart,' Claire replied. 'Someone called in sick for their night shift and Hannah offered to cover. She's workin' 8 while 8. I'm sorry, duck. She sends her love, though.'

At the mention of a girl's name, Jay's ears pricked up from the kitchen. 'Who's this delightful-sounding Hannah creature, then?'

Claire pulled her purse from her battered, black handbag and opened it to reveal a picture of their two daughters. She pointed towards the woman hugging April and smiled. 'Hannah: our eldest. She works in a care home for the elderly. Floral Hill. D'ya know it? Got a heart of gold, that one.'

Jay's initial reaction was to recoil in horror, and I could hardly blame him. Staring back at us, her arms slung around gorgeous, round-faced April was the oldest, frumpiest thirty-something female I'd ever seen. A mass of grey/brown frizz covered her head, stopping just above her masculine jawline. She wore thin, wire-framed glasses of such an incredibly high prescription that her goggly eyes appeared to bulge against the lenses. I shot Jay my best you-better-be-fucking-nice glare and he recovered quickly. 'Gosh! Yeah. Mmmm, heart of gold. You can tell just by looking at her. Such…kind eyes.'

During the elongated pause that followed, Jay's rap album reached an exceptionally offensive song. Angry lyrics blasted out across the room: 'and I fucked you so hard on that three-legged chair/You thought you cheat on me?/Bitch hoe: don't you fucking dare.' Claire's mouth dropped open in horror. I ran over to the speakers and turned the volume knob so violently it nearly came off in my hand. Of course, what I hadn't realised was that rushing to solve the problem made me look like the guilty one. I turned around to see April's parents staring at me in dismay, Darren's hands clamped firmly over April's ears as though she was an innocent little six-year-old girl.

'Erm…ok! Maybe we should listen to some Christmas songs instead?' Claire suggested. 'It is a Christmas party after all! Maybe that would be more, err, fitting than your music, Simon?'

Jay shook his head in slow, melodramatic disapproval and put his arm protectively around April's mum. 'Yeah, Simon. I think Christmas songs would be more suitable than your music.'

I was calculating exactly how much worse I would make the situation if I punched Jay in the face when April started shepherding everyone towards the table, intending to glaze over the prickly atmosphere with lashings of Christmas food. Jay and I hung back, gesturing for Darren and Claire to choose their seats first. Once we were out of earshot, Jay whispered: 'Mate! Did you see that picture of April's sister? You definitely picked the right one; what a munter that Hannah is! Honestly, I think I threw up in my mouth a bit when her mum whipped that monstrosity out.' And that really was something coming from a man whose last sexual encounter had cost him over £250.

Dinner was, at best, uncomfortable and, at worst, traumatic. The only Christmas songs Jay had on his phone were wishy-washy religious ones sung by a local choir his mum was a member of. The group had recorded a CD years ago and sold it around their area to raise money for some charity. Somehow, the choral warbling about 'God's first light' did even less to relieve us than the rap music had. We all reacted to the burning discomfort in different ways: I embraced the if-you-got-nothing-nice-to-say-then-don't-say-nothing mantra; Jay immersed himself in food (his standard reaction to pretty much any situation, emotional or otherwise); Darren barely said a word, yet continued to stare at me across the table like he'd just seen me on an episode of Crimewatch; and Claire tried her best to fill any silences with appreciative food-enjoyment noises. Meanwhile, April spent most of the night running to and fro the fryers downstairs. The menu for our Halfway to Christmas meal was as follows:

Starter: Deep-fried King prawns with sweet-chilli dipping sauce.

Main: An entire deep-fried turkey (I kid you not – I thought Jay was going to tumble off his chair with excitement) served with assorted vegetables.

Dessert: Deep-fried Christmas pudding with custard.

'Wow, April – this is amazing!' Jay mumbled through a mouthful of pudding. 'Honestly, you've really opened my eyes to the possibilities of cooking at home. Simon, I think we should get a deep-fat-fryer!' Despite the evening turning out rather differently than the MTV Beach Party scene he'd planned in his head, Jay actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He washed every course down with a couple of cans of beer and managed to make some polite conversation with April's parents. I, on the other hand, was residing in my own personal hell. I couldn't drink to numb the pain, not unless I wanted to be fired the next day. I couldn't speak for fear of making an even worse impression than I already had. And I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the cheap, wiry tinsel wrapped around the back of the chair; it felt as though it was trying to claw its way through the back of my shirt. I spent the entire three-course disaster keeping my mouth stuffed with greasy chunks of batter and avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Thankfully, April's parents announced that they needed to be leaving once the final course was over. I think we all knew that they could've stayed longer – they had closed the shop downstairs especially – but I was hardly about to try and convince them to stay. Although I'd never met a girl's parents before, I was pretty confident that my debut had not gone well. Claire embraced me in an awkward hug, slapping her stocky frame against me and holding it there for longer than necessary. Standing at not much over five feet, her face nestled uneasily around the level of my nipples and I could barely hear her muffled voice telling me how nice it was to have met me. While Jay and April cleared the table, April suggested I walk her parents out. Once we reached the shop floor, Darren told his wife to go and start the car. The two of us stood silently as Claire left, shutting the ringing door behind her. From upstairs, I could hear the return of Jay's rap music - louder this time. For a moment, I wondered whether Darren was going to kill me and shove me in the deep-fat fryer whilst no-one was looking. 'Look, Simon,' he began, 'yer seem like a nice enough lad – aside from yer taste in music that is. Just…be careful, reyt? Our April is more- well, she's fragile, even though she might not seem it. We've been through all this before, boyfriends an' all that, but it never ends well. She needs someone dependable. Someone who's gonna stick around through the good times as well as the bad times. And, lad, there will be bad times.' He looked at me as though he was sharing some deep secret that I needed to treasure.

April, like all those born with two X chromosomes, is bat shit crazy? Yes, Darren, you're not the first person to notice that.

Running his hand through his brown, thinning hair, he sighed. 'All I'm sayin' is: if it's just a bit of fun yer after, there are plenty of other girls out there that yer can 'ave fun with. It might be time to move on, eh?' He shook my hand and walked out of the shop.

By the time I returned upstairs, Jay and April were dancing around the living room and waving shot glasses above their heads. Feasting on my brief absence, they'd become bored of clearing up and instead invented a drinking game whereby they took a shot of tequila every time a swear word was used by one of the rappers on Jay's album. Judging by what I'd heard of the songs so far, it wouldn't be long before I was cleaning somebody's vomit off the floor.

Thirty minutes later, sickness avoided, Jay collapsed onto the sofa and started snoring like a broken chainsaw. Considering he weighed several stones more than April, I was surprised to see that she was still standing. Well, that is if you count 'standing' as leaning over the back of a chair giggling and sloshing alcohol over your own feet. I wrapped her arm around my shoulders and started dragging her unresponsive body in the direction of her bedroom. It was only 11pm but she was roughly a 3am level of pissed, so I decided just to slump her down on the bed and leave her in her reindeer onesie. Once all four limbs had made it onto the mattress, I turned to leave.

'Simunn?'

'Yes, April?'

'You nice.'

'Thanks. Now go to sleep.'

'Simunn?'

'Yes, April?'

'Yer know how sum people say life – that life – itsa gift?'

'Mmm?'

'Well, wif most gifts, you getta gift receipt. Don'tcha?'

'Yeah, I suppose you do.' What the bloody hell's she rambling about now?

'And, if yer had it – gift receipt – for yer life, then yer could take it back. Get- get new one. Exchange.'

'I guess you could.'

'Simunn?'

'What?'

Her voice was softer now. 'I think I wan' take mine back. I wanna swap. New life. Don't wan' live dis one neemore.'

'Ok, April. You've had too much tequila. Get some sleep now. You'll feel much better in the morning.'

'No more black days, Simunn. Don't wan neemore black days.' Her pale eyelids drooped and I pushed a few strands of hair from her face. As she drifted into sleep, she mumbled my name a few times and I wondered whether to just shake her awake and tell her about Cheryl. Get it all out. Being so drunk, I figured she might not remember in the morning. It was a win-win situation: I'd have a clear conscience and she'd have nauseated memory loss. But she looked so peaceful lying there, so serene, I decided it would be too cruel. Plus, was there really any point in telling her? In just over 6 months, none of it would matter. We were enjoying some casual, short-term fun together and that was the end of it.

I'd heard of people watching other people sleep before but always assumed they were perverts or paedophiles. For the first time in my life, I finally understood why someone might do such a thing. As she slid deeper and deeper, her breathing slowed and shallowed. I followed the rhythmic swell and fall of her chest as it moved in steady patterns. One of her hands lay unfurled on the mattress beside her and I placed my hand inside it for a moment and squeezed. Her mouth opened and a gentle stream of dribble began to saturate the cotton of her pillowcase.

Looking back, although I refused to acknowledge it at the time, you could probably pinpoint that as the moment I fell in love with April Barnes.