Your Own Kind of Girl

long time to make small talk, which was a skill I had lost in Oxford, along with my mind. Fortunately, Jenny could talk, and she did, first about her engagement, then about her wedding plans. She told me that from the moment she and Tom met they knew they were meant to be together, that their families shared the same Catholic values, but then—and I don’t know quite how this happened exactly—she jumped into a rather detailed monologue about her and Tom’s sex life. Or, to be clear, lack of. Without any prompting, she proceeded to tell me how they had been saving their virginity for marriage, how much they were looking forward to it, but how sometimes when they were kissing, things got out of hand (she added much detail of the stuff they did to each other that wasn’t technically sex—Sweet Jesus and Mary, help me now, make her stop) so much so that it could probably still see them both in hell unless it were properly confessed, which wasn’t easy these days, because half the priests didn’t even know how to take a proper confession, not like in her parents’generation, yadda, yadda, yadda. I was sweating by now—s w e a t i n g. As hard as I was trying to do my FAFL, my breathing was getting shallower and shallower, and eventually I squeaked, ‘Could someone please roll down a window?’

This was not the conversation I’d imagined. At most, I’d anticipated perhaps a light brainstorm about whether there was any evidence of early Catholic feminism in the writings of, well, I didn’t know—I thought maybe they could tell me. I was hoping the experience would leave me feeling better about the church, feeling there was more openness, not less. I wished, for a moment, I had not come.

But as we arrived at the gathering, which was at a church, I decided to keep an open mind. It wasn’t a pretty church. There was none of that old-school Oxford charm. It was one of those 1970s-designed brown-brick affairs with an oddly angled roof and a carved wooden cross hanging on the wall behind the altar. All I needed was one little sign of kinship—perhaps someone with a facial piercing, or sporting a beret. But, alas, the only remarkable thing about this Catholic gathering was that everyone was young and, also, there appeared to be a rock band setting up next to the altar.

Turns out, this was not so much of gathering—it was in fact just a mass. Friendly people filed into the pews, I along with them. The service began with a bang—loud Christian rock music, blaring out across the crackling speakers. I quickly realised I was trapped. I felt the old panic start to gurgle inside me. Then the priest began to welcome the congregation. The last thing I needed was more fire and brimstone, there was enough in my head already, but too late—here it came. I tried my best to maintain normal facial expressions, to sit and stand at the right times, but when the charismatic healing portion of the service had arrived, and Jenny asked me if I’d like to take part, I knew I had to get out of there. The crescendo of the Christian rock grew so loud that all I could think to do was stand up and run. I said, ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ as I fled the pew, going straight to the toilet cubicle, where I locked myself in. To myself, or perhaps aloud, I said, ‘Face Accept Float, Let time pass. Clare, you are not in any danger. You are just overwhelmed. Face Accept Float, Let time pass.’

I heard the door creak open, heard Jenny’s voice say, ‘Clare, honey, are you okay?’

I lied, told her I was just fine, just feeling a little sick, a little dizzy—I was just going to sit there for a while, on the toilet seat. All good.

She stayed quiet for a while, and then apologised. She said she’d thought it was going to be really low key, but it was surprisingly intense, even she felt it. She kept talking then, saying she also needed to apologise for what she had said in the car about her and Tom, about sex. (Not again! I thought. Please God, spare me!) But this time, she did not go on. She waited for a while, then just asked if I wanted her to take me home, and I squeaked, ‘Yes, please, that would be very nice.’

The drive home was dark and long, and my panic was loud, and I couldn’t seem to think of anything to say but I didn’t need to, Jenny was talking, talking, talking, careful this time to keep the topics chilled.

I was pleased to arrive home. I thanked them as I closed the car door. As kind as it was for Jenny and Tom to invite me, my fervent hope as I walked into my house that night was that we would never have to speak of this night again.

Upstairs in my bedroom, my relief felt soft and sweet. I did something then that I hadn’t done since I’d got home from Oxford—I took out my writing book and jotted down everything that had happened. Every detail. It felt so good to write, and to remind myself that it was okay not to have enjoyed myself, it was okay that I didn’t want to force myself to sit and listen to things I disagreed with anymore, nor should I feel compelled to argue against them. It was none of my business, really, what other people believed. None of their business what I believed, either. Was I going to hell for thinking the way I thought? I couldn’t say for sure but I doubted it.

What else did I believe, or not believe? That night, I wrote it all out. I believed in love. I believed that two people who loved each other, and enjoyed that love, had not done anything wrong. I