Looking at the clock and feeling a little bit tipsy from the wine and obligatory few cheeky sips of sambuca I had consumed, I realised that it was only just eight in the evening and that I was two hours early. After twiddling my thumbs and searching for something to do, I decided I’d go to the restaurant early and hang out in the back with the staff. I quickly called a cab, and fifteen minutes later arrived at a very busy Ristorante Girasoli.

In the months that we had been in Calgary, I had been to the restaurant more times than I could count. I always used the staff entrance, as they all hung out there when things were quiet or when the wait staff were on their scheduled breaks. There was always someone to talk to and always music playing, with each staff member rotating their iPhone playlists – although the back room was always a lot quieter on Tink’s playlist night – funny, hmm?

The best thing was that you could have a laugh and talk without the patrons seeing you. Tink had truly landed on his feet working there, and he knew it too. The Italian contingent of Calgary were some of the nicest people we had met since we had moved. I had become a bit of a permanent fixture on weekend nights, always showing up to neck a grappa or two just before closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.

I swung open the back door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’ tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of servers.

As the chorus kicked in I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction, who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him. However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over his throat. Mmm, strange. But in my alcohol-addled brain, I thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding routine.

When I made it to the group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she missed him ‘so, so bad’.

When I looked up, I saw several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight, Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.

I put my hands on my hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is everyone acting so weir-,”

“Ms. Munro? Ms. Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”

It was that moment that every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.

Shit, a student.

I plastered a fake smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.

What the heck is going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?

At the table, someone second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn Jones.

Fuck.

Sucking in a breath, I began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.

“Ms. Munro! Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed Boleyn excitedly.

Looking down at myself I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a cle**age-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad extra on the set of Moulin Rouge.

This is just awesome.

“Hey,” I said weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a nice meal.”

I briefly surveyed the dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of men and women, all around my age or older.

In the corner farthest away from me sat an enormous hulk of a man sporting a grey woolly beanie hat, with his head resting on the heavily-tattooed arm covering his face from view. It all seemed very mafia-like.

“Yeah, we are. We are out celebrating my part in Les Mis. It was the first night all the family could get together in weeks,” Boleyn bubbled.

Getting up from the table, Mrs. Jones held out her hands and greeted me. “Hello, Ms. Munro, nice to see you again. Sorry if Boleyn got a bit over-excited then. We didn’t mean to interrupt your night.”

“No problem, it’s nice to see her so lively. I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone back here. Sorry if you witnessed my little performance just now. It’s kind of a tradition I have with the staff, it’s not really meant for public viewing,” I squirmed, looking down at my hands while I beamed a lovely shade of crimson.

A few laughs came from the table, and Boleyn chimed in. “I thought it was funny, Miss!”