Adults. Emma Jane Unsworth

she’d finished, the applause was deafening. The crowd demanded an encore. At one point she looked to the side and winked at me and I got a thrill so electrifying it made me judder. I blew bubbles into my lemonade. Lemonade spilled over the rim of my cup, onto the grey top of the temporary stage block. The stage manager told me off and sent someone for a cloth, but I didn’t care, I was too busy watching my mother, in mid-flow, bowing and smiling and saying thank you, soaking it all up. I wanted to capture that sight of her, preserve it forever, that scene. I remember thinking that sentence to myself: You are mine, all mine.

      When she got off stage, we walked around the festival together. It was a goblin market. We stopped at a stall called ‘The Horned Goddess’ selling dream-catchers, angel cards and gemstones. It stank of joss sticks. My mother was wearing her full regalia. A child jumped away from her. ‘Mummy, that lady’s scaring me!’

      My mother affected a look of horror. ‘I’m not a lady!’

      We stopped by a small gypsy caravan. MADAME AURACLE: AURA READINGS AND MORE it said on the side.

      ‘Do you want your aura reading?’ my mother asked.

      ‘If it’s all right I’d rather have a jacket potato with coleslaw,’ I said.

      ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘After this.’

      In the caravan there was a photo studio of sorts set up in the lounge: a Polaroid camera on a tripod. A sectioned-off area under a curtain.

      The madame was sitting on a tasselled stool. She was as wide as she was high, and dripping in turquoise. ‘I am Madame Auracle,’ she said.

      I sat in the electric chair, awaiting my execution. The assistant was wearing a baggy olive-green T-shirt. She instructed me to place my hands on the metal plates either side of the chair. I obeyed her because she looked like Christina Ricci, and I would have done anything for Christina Ricci. She stood in front of me with the camera. ‘Smile!’ I obliged.

      A few seconds later, the photo chugged out of the camera. I peered at the picture. I looked startled and stern, like a constipated headmistress in an Adidas T-shirt who had farted a rainbow.

      ‘Now for the reading.’ Madame Auracle took the photo in her hand and raised her eyebrows. ‘Lots of red … You are an enthusiastic and energetic individual, forever on the lookout for new adventures. You are quick to anger and can lose your temper over the smallest thing. You are generous with your time and energy when called upon for help. You are easily bored.’

      ‘She won’t even sit still to watch a film,’ my mother said.

      Madame Auracle continued. ‘And so now we come to the other side of your personality – we have lots of yellow here. The yellow part of your aura represents the highly critical part of you. But those who have high standards, that exacting voice inside that is so harsh on the world and others, that same voice is even harsher when it turns on you, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ my mother said, ‘definitely. She has VERY high standards.’

      I nodded.

      ‘And if you were easier on yourself, then you might find it easier to allow others to love you for who you are.’

      ‘Too true,’ my mother said.

      Madame Auracle nodded sagely. ‘Your main fault is that you can be overly analytical. And this creates a fear that makes you unable to communicate openly and freely.’

      I said, ‘Sounds like a lot of people I know, to be honest.’

      Madame coughed. ‘That concludes the reading. Most auras stretch three feet around the physical body; however, if you’re a trauma survivor your aura stretches fifty feet around you – which means people around you on the bus will be sitting in it. Your mother will be sitting in it. We’ll all be sitting in it, right now. Your aura mess. I can clean it up for you for an extra £5.99.’

      I shook my head.

      ‘You should have a quick clean,’ my mother said.

      ‘I’m not traumatised.’

       THEY SAY

      you should never look at the comments. That to go ‘below the line’ is to open the portal to death and damnation. BTL = the Gateway to Hell. I say, that kind of self-control is one for the healthy of mind and heart. Meanwhile, you’ll find me shrieking and wallowing in the lake of digital hellfire with all the worst people on the internet. Waving, drowning, backstroke, who knows what I’m doing – but I’m not for being saved. Come on in! The water’s … excruciating.

      My column goes up around 4 p.m., for bored souls on the homeward commute. In that way, you could say it’s asking for trouble. I sit at my desk and refresh the comments over and over. Nice, nice, nice, nice – my brain trips over these like they’re just air, like they’re nothing, like they’re fuck you what are you trying to do be my friend? – then – Ah!

      A mean one.

      I read it over and over, savouring it.

       OVERPRIVILEGED VANITY PUFF PIECE – DOUBT MUCH OF THIS IS ACTUALLY TRUE

      I feel the words like holy fire. I am vanquished, but also victorious. They are right! This person understands me completely! (Maybe they’re the secret love of my life??) I knew I was heinous and here is the proof! Let me burn! Let the flaming be righteous! I deserve it. I deserve it all. Moar!

       Three times you mention your weight in one article. Seek help.

      MOARRRRRR.

       I hope you die

      Oooh! Old school. Satisfying on a basic level.

      Another, somewhat on theme:

       Maybe you should start writing something more appropriate like obituaries

      I ponder this. I do like thinking about death, so it’s not a terrible idea. I think about my own death approximately once a day. I don’t think about the actual moment of dying; I think about my own autopsy. Or I think about the person, or people, who’ll discover my body. I hope they will be beautiful, and weep tenderly. I think beautiful people weeping tenderly over your dead body is one of the very loveliest thoughts a human can have.

      A little way down the thread, I see a comment from Sid. She has written:

       How could you do this?? Do I get financial recompense for this exposure of details from my private life? Great piece tho babe! X

      I panic. What if Mia sees the comment and deduces that I am no longer living with Art and in actual fact living with AT LEAST ONE WOMAN? My palms sweat. Could I go over to the tech woman and ask her to delete the comment? Or would that make things too obvious? I should have access to my own comments, surely! I’m wide open here. It’s not right.

      I call the lift, but when it arrives there are a few people in there, so I smile politely and walk away because the last thing I want is a conversation. As soon as I am on the stairs I am on my phone again.

      I sit on the Tube, scrolling – harried, fraught and febrile.

      Nicolette is waiting for me outside the Yoga Shed, sucking on her vape. Nicolette looks like a Russian supermodel: rail-thin with puce-tipped hair. She always smells of applemint. She is a new friend, even though I swore off those when I hit thirty-five. We met at a fancy dress party a few months ago – a friend-of-a-friend’s thirtieth. The theme was 1988. I went as Garfield and Nicolette was Jessica Rabbit. My costume was sweltering and I’d just had a Brazilian so was doing neat, dry, rasping farts. I was timing them admirably with the music. I saw a woman who looked like she was concentrating, too. What secrets did she have in her pants? I moved towards her in stages, casual, doing a humble smile when she caught my eye. I stood next to her and it was like slotting into a puzzle I’d been trying to finish for a