All You Need is Love

by Carole Matthews

  On the other side of the pitch, Kyle’s stepdad, Paul, was standing there shouting encouragement to the youngest of his six inherited kids. Johnny wondered why the man couldn’t be like this more often. Although he was unemployed, he very rarely turned up to see the training sessions, let alone the matches. He seemed to spend most of his time in his armchair at home thinking up more and more creative ways to reduce Kyle and his mother to pulverised wrecks. One day – maybe the next time he saw Kyle with the big black bruises that were the bastard’s trademark – Johnny would go round there and give the guy a taste of his own medicine.

  Johnny looked over at Charlie trying to get a touch of the ball. What would he do if Sally took up with some tattooed, meat-fisted bloke like Paul? If anyone laid a finger on a hair of Charlie’s head, they’d have him to answer to. From what little he’d seen of the guy in the Porsche who’d brought her home last night, he didn’t look like a child-beater. He looked like a rich tosser who’d be able to give Sally everything she could ever want. But, if he was truthful, it didn’t make it any easier for him to think of Sally shacked up with someone like that either.

  The ref blew the whistle, signalling half-time. Johnny was grateful for the break. He was absolutely knackered. All he wanted to do was lie down on the hard ground and sleep for the rest of the evening. Charlie, untroubled by forty-five minutes of running around, came bounding over to see him.

  ‘Wotcher,’ he said, and flopped down on the ground next to Johnny. ‘You looked buggered.’

  ‘Language,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Tired,’ Charlie corrected. ‘Was Mum late home?’

  ‘Nah,’ Johnny said. ‘Not really.’ He might not have liked the fact that Sally came home after midnight, but he wasn’t about to run and tell tales to her ten-year-old son.

  ‘She looked bug . . . tired this morning too,’ the boy observed.

  As well she might. Johnny wondered whether Sally had spent sleepless hours, as he had, thinking about what the future might hold.

  ‘Johnny,’ Charlie’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘It’s the salsa thing at the Community Centre on Friday night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mum’s gonna be there.’ Charlie’s eyes were bright with excitement. ‘You should go too.’

  ‘Who’s going to look after you?’

  Charlie wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ve got to go with her. If you went, we’d all be there.’

  ‘Is her new bloke going too?’

  The lad shook his head and said empathetically, ‘Nah!’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to impress her with my Latin-American dance skills?’

  Charlie gave him a guileless shrug. ‘You might do.’

  Johnny laughed.

  ‘If you were there, she might want to go out with you again.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple, lad.’

  Charlie pulled a face. ‘If you’re there, then I won’t hate it so much,’ he pleaded. ‘Please come. For me.’

  Johnny held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll be there.’

  Charlie grinned. ‘Maybe you can have a dance with Mum too. Women like that kind of thing, Kyle said.’

  Johnny ruffled his hair. ‘Get back on the pitch. You’ve got a match to win.’

  The boy turned and raced away. Johnny sighed. So, he was to impress Sally with his salsa skills and make her fall in love with him again. If only he had the blind enthusiasm of a ten year old again, he might just believe it was possible. As it was, he knew that he had about as much chance of doing that as Charlie did of playing in the Cup final.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We’re on our weekly trip to Kirberly market and it’s heaving today. This place has been going for as long as I remember. Before she fell ill, my mum used to bring me down here as a kid for our cheap fruit and veg. The same bloke that ran the bread stall then is still here today, flogging his loaves for fifty pence. Now, the fruit and veg are largely gone, and the stalls stretch out along the road before us as far as you can see, selling knock-off designer gear and the best of fakes. Want Chanel sunglasses? Yours for three quid. The latest Burberry handbag? A fiver. Whatever you want, you can usually pick it up here for under a tenner.

  Debs and I ease our way between the rows of stalls, winding through the crowds. You have to dress up to come here as most of the women look like they’re on their way to a nightclub with their short skirts, high heels and hooped earrings. Debs and I are no exception as we totter along on our heels. My friend tugs my hand as she spies her favourite clothes stall – a place that features more sequins and glitter than a drag queens’ convention. I’ve no idea why I let Debs convince me to go shopping today because I’m absolutely skint. I should have been sensible and stayed at home.

  ‘What about this?’ Debs picks up a silver shift covered in sequins that shimmer in the sunlight. She holds it up against her.

  ‘That Wayne Rooney’s bird was down here last week, girls,’ the stallholder shouts over at us. ‘She bought the same dress. It’s sixty-five quid in Debenhams.’

  I nod. ‘Looks great.’

  Debs does a few slinky moves that are reminiscent of a lapdancer. ‘Think I’ll knock them dead at the salsa night on Friday.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, and I feel a look of fear flit across my face.

  With a menacing frown, Debs casts her dress aside. ‘You haven’t forgotten?’ she says. ‘How could you have forgotten?’

  She’s right. How could I? The thing is, this salsa night has been planned for ages. The Council have threatened to pull our Community Centre down, so we all thought that we’d better start making use of it to try to prove that it’s needed. The trouble is, that like everywhere else round here, it’s a dump. The walls are covered in graffiti, the windows are covered with metal grilles. It’s not exactly the place you’d plan to spend an evening out of choice. But we have what’s commonly known as a chicken and egg situation – because the place is a dump, we don’t use it and, because we don’t use it, it’s becoming even more of a dump. I’ll swear that the roof is held up by fresh air alone.

  ‘You have to come,’ Debs says. Her arms are folded and she looks a moment away from stamping her foot.

  I wince before I say, ‘I’d agreed to go out with Spencer again.’ Since our date earlier in the week, my brain has been completely scrambled, and when he asked me to have dinner with him again tomorrow night, it never occurred to me that there might be something else looming on my busy social calendar. I thought I’d just be missing EastEnders.

  ‘You’re not wriggling out of this,’ my friend insists. ‘You promised that you’d do an hour behind the bar.’

  So I did. ‘I’d completley forgotten. I was so amazed that he even asked me out again, I just said yes without thinking.’

  My friend’s frown deepens. ‘You’ve not said much about your first date with him at all.’

  I give a wistful little sigh. ‘It was lovely. He’s lovely.’

  ‘Nicer than Johnny?’

  ‘Different,’ I reply. ‘He’s different from Johnny.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘He took me to this really posh restaurant and then back to his apartment. He has an amazing place down by the docks. It’s got its own lift and a roof terrace.’

  ‘I need to meet this bloke.’

  ‘I think you’ll like him.’ My friend likes very few men, but I think that Spencer’s charm, sophistication and money could win her over.

  ‘You’ll have to bring him along then,’ my friend tells me.

  ‘I can’t do that!’

  Her frown morphs into one of her best scowls. ‘And why not?’

  Why not? Think, think. ‘It’s probably not his sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re not ashamed of us?’

  I try a tinkling laugh and fail. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Then bring him. He could meet Charlie too.’

  Crumbs. Don’t know if I’m ready for all this.

  ‘Christ,’ Debs says. �
�There are worse places than Kirberly Community Centre.’

  If there are, then I can’t think of any.

  ‘You’re turning into a right snob, Sally Freeman.’

  Shrugging, I say, ‘I’m not. I’m just worried about this all moving too quickly. I don’t want to introduce him to Charlie if he’s not going to be around.’ And the quickest way to make sure that he’s not around is to take him for a wild night out at the Kirberly Community Centre.

  Debs has on her I-won’t-be-messed-with face.

  ‘I’ll see what he says,’ I concede. I’m going to have to cancel our date, see him another night. There’s no way on God’s earth that I’m going to be taking him to Kirberly Community Centre for a salsa dancing night. Does she think I’ve lost my mind?

  ‘See if he’s got a mate he can bring.’ Debs smiles to herself and picks up the spangly dress again. In the street, she wriggles it on over her jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘It looks very nice,’ I concede.

  ‘Better get yourself one then.’

  The dress is very sexy. And not too scratchy. I pick one up in black. It’s incredibly short.

  ‘Black’s too boring. Get silver. Then we’ll look like twins,’ she tells me as she tugs off the dress again.

  Debs and I will never look remotely alike. Or, if we do, I will kill myself.

  I stroke the dress that’s over my arm. It glitters alluringly. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘And a bargain.’

  The dresses are £14.99 each, but they might as well be £1499.00. Then I sigh. ‘I’ve no money. Absolutely no money.’ Not even £14.99.

  My friend takes both of the dresses and flings them at the stallholder. ‘And when did we ever let that stop us?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Johnny stood at the weathered door in Walton Street, wringing his hands together. It was just a door with no hint of frontage to give away what the place might actually be. He knew in his heart that this was a really bad idea, but sometimes in life you were compelled to do things by a power that was beyond reason. This was one of those moments.

  He rang the doorbell before he could think better of it. Ringo sat at his feet whimpering anxiously. Moments later, the door was whisked open. A man stood there in pink Lycra trousers with kick flares and a white silk blouse with ruffled sleeves. This must be Ronaldo. Johnny took a step backwards.

  The man waved his arms. ‘Don’t do that, lover. Come in, come in.’ His voice was high-pitched, heavily accented with what could have been Mexican or Brazilian, but there was more than a pinch of Scouse in there too. ‘No need to be shy with me!’

  Johnny wasn’t shy, he was terrified. ‘I’m Johnny Jones,’ he offered. ‘I phoned earlier and left a message.’

  ‘Come in, come in, Johnny Jones.’ There was more arm-waving.

  Jerking a thumb at Ringo, Johnny asked, ‘Is it okay to bring the dog in?’ It was the first time in his life that he’d wished Ringo was a Rottweiler.

  ‘The more the merrier.’ And the man minced away from the door.

  Johnny followed him into the building, Ringo trotting so close beside him that he kept tripping his master up. They all trooped up the badly-lit, narrow staircase with fraying carpet, and into a spacious room with a wooden floor that had to be the nerve centre of Ronaldo’s Latin-American Dance Centre. The place was painted a hideous shade of lime green, except for one wall, and that was covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Johnny hadn’t bargained for that. He wanted to learn to salsa but he certainly didn’t want to watch himself doing it.

  In the harsh light of the studio, the dance instructor looked older than his leery outfit suggested. His Day-glo tan couldn’t hide the lines on his face, and his black, bouffant hair looked unlikely to be his own. It was clear that, like his dance studio, Ronaldo had seen better days. The teacher fluffed his sleeves. ‘What can I do for you, lad?’

  ‘I want to be able to salsa.’

  ‘A beautiful dance.’ Ronaldo rolled his eyes in ecstasy. ‘So sexy.’ He sang a little tune and threw a few moves. ‘We can book a course of private lessons for you, my friend, or you can join my dance classes. They are Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at seven o’clock.’

  ‘One lesson,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s all I can afford. I’ve got twenty-five quid on me.’ He pulled the money out of his pocket and held it out. ‘What can you do for that?’

  Ronaldo pouted thoughtfully. ‘I can take you through some of the basics.’

  ‘I need to learn by tomorrow night. I need to be impressive.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ronaldo put a finger to his pursed lips. ‘That may be a little more difficult to achieve.’

  ‘My future happiness might depend on it.’

  ‘Then, Mr Johnny, we had better start right away if I am to turn you into a wonderful dancer overnight.’

  ‘In an hour.’

  Ronaldo shrugged. ‘Nothing is impossible. You will be the belle of the ball.’

  That was hard to imagine.

  ‘I will be the woman,’ Ronaldo said.

  That was easier to imagine.

  He came and gripped Johnny in a close embrace. Ringo growled. ‘Go and sit down, boy,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m fine.’ And he hoped that he would be.

  The little dog sloped away to the corner of the room, tail between his legs. He circled a spot suspiciously before settling cautiously on the space. The dog fixed his eyes on Ronaldo. Johnny shifted uncomfortably. Ronaldo pulled him tighter. Ringo bared his teeth.

  ‘You have very good hips,’ Ronaldo said.

  Johnny avoided eye-contact with him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope that you have a natural rhythm.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  Ronaldo put his hand on Johnny’s bottom and pressed their bodies together. ‘This woman you want to impress? You love her very much, I think.’

  ‘I guess I must do,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Chassis. Chassis. La, la, la. Swing those hips. Volta turn.’ Johnny’s arms were held high, his back was aching and his feet were killing him. His dance instructor was still twirling him round the floor and they sashayed to the perky beat.

  ‘Mambo. Mambo. Cucaracha. Cucaracha. Oh yes, move those feet to the beat!’

  It was coming up to three o’clock. School home-time. He’d been learning to salsa since mid-morning without a break and, frankly, he’d had more than enough of bloody cucaracha-ing. Ronaldo, however, was still in full flow. For an older man, he had boundless energy.

  ‘One more time,’ Ronaldo instructed.

  Johnny glanced again at his watch. His feet hurt. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He broke away from his teacher. ‘I’m picking up a friend’s son from school. Can’t be late.’

  Ronaldo looked disappointed. ‘You have done very well, Mr Johnny. You are a salsa star.’

  Johnny somehow doubted it. But in five hours’ worth of private lessons, he supposed that he ought to have learned something. He might not be feeling as if he could be the winning contestant on Strictly Come Dancing, but at least he wasn’t likely to fall over on his arse tomorrow night. Or stand propping up the bar like he normally did. It might not be a big start, but surely even something like this would prove to Sally that he was capable of changing?

  ‘Thank you,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time. You’ve been very kind. I’m sorry that I can’t pay you more.’

  Ronaldo waved his comment away. ‘How can I stand in the way of true passion? Now you must go and make her fall in love with you all over again.’

  ‘It might take a bit more than some fancy footwork to do that.’

  ‘You must come back and tell me all about it.’

  ‘I will.’ The two men shook hands warmly. As Johnny walked to the door, he gestured at the lurid lime-green walls. ‘Do you like this colour?’

  ‘Hate it,’ Ronaldo admitted, with a dismissive wave, his accent slipping to pure Scouse. ‘Looks like frog puke.’

  ‘If you pay for the materials, I’ll co
me and spruce it up for you.’

  The elderly man’s eyes brightened. ‘You have a deal, Mr Johnny.’

  Now he had to wait until tomorrow night and see whether his newfound dancing skills would make Sally go head over heels for him, or whether she’d simply laugh her head off.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Spencer assures me. ‘Stop worrying. I’m sure I’ll have a great time.’

  I, on the other hand, am not sure at all. Because I couldn’t think of any way out of it, I took the bull by the horns and decided to ask Spencer to come to the salsa evening with me at the Community Centre. Now I’m panicking and thinking that this wasn’t a good idea at all.

  ‘Do you like to dance?’

  Spencer nods his head, and then says, ‘No. Not really.’

  We both laugh at that.

  I really wanted to avoid doing this when we’ve only had one date, but at the end of the day, this is my life, and the sooner Spencer sees me for what I really am, the better. Then there’ll be no pretence between us, with me trying to make out that I’m something that I’m not. I’m not going to put on any airs and graces for him. This is how I am. This is where I live. And Spencer Knight will have to like it or lump it. Besides, Debs will never speak to me again if I don’t take him.

  Spencer thought we were going to some upmarket restaurant and has dressed appropriately in a smart black shirt and trousers. In some ways, he’s probably relieved that we’re going to a salsa night as he did look slightly shocked by my silver sequinned slip dress. He’ll probably be even more shocked when he sees my bezzie mate, Debs, wearing the same frock. My date hands over a beautiful bouquet of red roses.