Feeling panicky, I rubbed as hard as I could and then tried to peel it off. The sticky wax caught under my fingernails and I tried to scrape it off with loo roll, but the paper stuck to the skin on my hands and vagina.
I looked at myself in the mirror, bent down with my legs spread open and my hand on my vagina, stuck there with wax and loo roll. This was not how I’d imagined the start of my first ever grown-up date.
The door swung open and a middle-aged woman wearing a brown fur coat stood in the doorway, staring at me in disgust.
My mouth dropped wide open and our eyes met in the mirror. There was a squeal and I looked down and saw the child next to her.
“Mummy,” he asked. “Why is that girl rubbing her front bottom?”
The woman put her manicured hand over the little boy’s eyes and spun him around. She looked at me with something close to revulsion and shook her head slowly.
“You’re disgusting,” she hissed under her breath as she propelled her son out of the bathroom.
I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how this was my life. I could hear her hushing the boy outside: “Orlando, sweetie, are you feeling okay?”
I snorted. Orlando was five years old and didn’t have a vagina covered in dried wax. He was bloody fine. I, on the other hand, wanted to crawl back into the loo cubicle and never leave.
I stood inside the restaurant, looking nervously for Jack. I had tried to sort out the mess as best as I could, eventually resorting to my Vaseline lip balm and scarf to scratch the wax off. My skin was now raw and had a couple of actual blood spots on it. I ignored the itchy feeling of the lace rubbing against the sore skin and scanned the room.
The restaurant was a tiny little Japanese place with a conveyor belt. I loved sushi but my experience was limited to YO! Sushi with its nice commercial chains and colored plates. This place looked kind of grimy but it had Japanesey plates on the belt and there were loads of Asian people, which could only be a good sign. It still looked like it had pretty low hygiene ratings, though.
I saw Jack sitting on a stool by the belt and I walked over to him. My heart started to beat wildly and the nerves crept up on me. In a way, the wax crisis had been a blessing because it had distracted me from my nerves, but now they were swooping back to me in full force.
I smiled shakily and called out, “Hi,” as I approached him.
“Hey, Ellie,” he said, standing up to give me a hug. “Did you find it okay?”
“Yeah, it was easy, thanks,” I said as I took off my leather jacket and sat on the stool next to his. I awkwardly laid my jacket across my lap as there was nowhere else to put it. It slid off my legs and fell onto the floor.
“I’ll just, um, leave it there,” I said, and kicked it gently against the side of the counter.
“Right. So, how was your week?” he asked.
“Not bad, thanks. Hung out with a friend—you remember Emma, right, my friend from that party? She was back from holiday last night so we ended up having a six-hour coffee. How about you?”
“I’ve never understood how girls can chat for so long,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve had a quiet week. Just at work, then as much writing as I could during the evenings.”
“That’s so cool you’ve been writing so much. Is it more of the political columns and stuff?”
“I’ve actually started a series of short stories—which aren’t political, for a change.”
I perked up. “Ooh, I love creative writing. What are they like? Can I read some?”
“Sure, I’ll show you one now,” he said, and pulled a Moleskine notepad out of his pocket. I looked at him in surprise.
“You have them with you?” I asked curiously.
“I was writing earlier,” he explained. “You’re welcome to have a read, but shall we order first?”
I took the laminated menu he offered me. We quickly realized sharing dishes wouldn’t work as we wanted totally different things. Relieved that we wouldn’t end up fighting over the last maki, I happily selected my own choices.
“So, can I read it now?”
He grinned. “Okay, but you can’t be cruel. Deal?”
“Deal!”
I picked up his notebook and absentmindedly nibbled on a fried prawn roll from the conveyor belt as I read. It was a six-page story about a young boy playing by a spring and enjoying nature. It was Wordsworth-meets-Enid Blyton, and it was the exact opposite of what I had expected him to write.
“Wow, Jack,” I said. “I had absolutely no idea you could write about things like this. I’m so surprised. It’s not at all political—unless the whole thing is a metaphor and I’ve completely missed the point of it?”