End of term

It was hell sitting there in the green twilight of the marquee, fidgeting on a hard folding chair, trying not to mind about the nausea and the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I’d tried so hard. My dress was beautiful, just the colour to bring out the indigo of my eyes, my hair glossy and styled. I had had such high hopes that summer day. It would be fun, I had decided. I knew a few of the parents. I knew a few of the girls. I had had a few pleasant experiences with some of the staff at the parents day. What could go wrong?
Well, first off, there’s nobody to sit beside. Where are Tiggy’s classmates’ parents? There is just a sea of strangers. And what strangers. They just ooze money and confidence. Jaeger, Karen Millen, LK Bennett. Hair expertly coloured and stunningly cut. Men in bespoke suits. Everybody slightly suntanned. And they all know each other. All around me people are smiling and crying out greetings, giving each other mwaw mwaw kisses. I could be invisible. I shrink further and further into the uncomfortable chair. I bury my head in the prizegiving programme. All the usual scholars gathering heaps of awards. The weird school song in Latin with the tune that nobody can remember from one year to the next.
At last the platform party arrives and we are all united as we stand up for them. I can relax while the Headmaster reads out the longwinded report of the school year. The speaker might be entertaining. Oh, God, the Headmaster is making Tory jokes and everyone except me is laughing. I really do not belong here and I hate them all. Soon I will feel so small that I will be able to crawl out of here like a woodlouse.
Something in me snaps. This is not on. Why do I feel like this? Why am I so ashamed? I have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing. They have all made it. They are successful. They are stinking rich. I am a single parent, living in a shitty little flat with a part time job, no pension and no prospects. And whose fault is that? I am getting hotter. My heart is racing. This has got to stop. I am a writer. I write. That is what I do. I have been published. I have. It is okay that it was in My Weekly. Lots of people read and enjoy My Weekly. I don’t care if it is Orange Bag fiction (for speedy recycling). For a few minutes I have entertained – what is the circulation of My Weekly anyway? – lots of people. Hah! I’ll show them.
And just how exactly will I show them? Write a bloody good blockbuster, that’s what I’ll do. Bet JK Rowling doesn’t feel like this at her daughter’s prizegiving. I can feel my spine straightening, my head is closer to the roof of the marquee. My breathing is steadier and I’ve stopped sweating. The speaker is not very entertaining but who cares. I am covering the programme with notes for my opus magnus.