1.1 | When Rehearsals End

01 | first position

I hate birthdays. The only thing worse than them creeping up each year is celebrating them, or, in my case, being begrudgingly made to at least try and celebrate.

            My friends have always known of my deep hatred. When Brittany, Cillian and Ethan told me that they were going to take it upon themselves to make this year's celebrations different, travelling four hours out of Buckinghamshire to rural, ass-end middle of nowhere Wales had not been on my wildcard. Isolation aside, nesting in a cosy wooden cabin overlooking a peaceful lake, with my friends, has been a welcomed change. The plot twist of celebrations has opened up a realisation that too many past birthdays ended with eating too much cake and going to bed feeling sick.

            Back home, Mum has insisted that she hasn't had a glass or four of wine. Her tearful gushing from the end of the phone, nestled between my ear and shoulder, beg to differ. "Imagine my shock when all nine pounds, three ounces of you came out! I thought your sister was bad but you? I haven't been the same since."

            Same story, twenty-seventh time of hearing it.

            "I can only apologise for ruining your vagina," I reply curtly. Half of me is focused on our conversation, the other half focused on leaning over the bathroom sink and reapplying the perfect shade of nude lipstick that Brittany has let me borrow.

            Lipstick successfully applied, my eyes focus in on the clock in the mirror. I'm going to be fucking sick.

            Mum exhales heavily, my iPhone not quite managing to even out the weight of her theatrics and almost deafening me. I have to smile; she's just like Tabitha.

            I press my lips together, evening out the pigmentation and straighten up, taking my phone in my hand. "Thanks for calling, Mum. I'll see you tomorrow."

            My thumb hovers over the red button on screen, ready to end the call when she cuts in. "Have a safe journey, my darling."

            "Yep. Will do."

            "Is Brittany still—?"

            "Driving me back to Aylesbury? Yep."

            It's just as well that Brittany—primary school friend since the age of seven—proudly flaunts her driving licence because the rest of us are fucking useless; either failed multiple tests or are yet to have taken lessons at all.

            "Remember to give her money towards petrol."

            "She won't take it."

            "Don't stop offering."

            I roll my eyes. "I'm not a freeloader."

            "I wasn't insinuating that you were—"