Strictly My Husband: It's funny, it's romantic and it's got dancing - what's not to love!

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  ‘I took Carly to the station,’ he said gravely. ‘Rehearsals start on Tuesday so I told her we’d see her on Monday. She insisted on paying the rent in advance.’ He handed over a wad of notes from his back pocket.

  She swallowed, taken aback at how much money there appeared to be.

  ‘I’ll put it in the baby fund,’ she said, looking at the cash in her hand.

  ‘Good idea,’ he enthused. ‘Maybe by the time Carly has gone, we might be able to start thinking about what we need to buy with that fund?’

  She looked back up at him. His smile was utterly devastating. ‘I really hope so,’ she said, gazing at him.

  ‘So do I,’ he replied, softly.

  ‘Really?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, putting his arms around her and pulling her in close. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said into her hair. ‘I really can’t. But in the meantime I’m very happy to keep practising.’

  She grinned and some of the tension that had built up over the last twenty-four hours drained out of her. Maybe it was going to be all right. Maybe she was worrying about nothing. She breathed in his warm familiar smell and then pulled away.

  ‘Chinese tonight?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘You read my mind,’ he replied.

  By early evening, the two of them were crammed on the sofa eating off plates on their knees as the usual ritual of watching Saturday night telly with a takeway unfolded. The familiar theme tune struck up and she glanced over at Tom feeling content, something she would not have predicted a few hours earlier.

  ‘Do we have everything to hand?’ asked Tom glancing around. ‘Food, wine, my favourite lady beside me and dancing on the telly.’

  ‘I believe everything is in place.’ Laura grinned happily. ‘Can’t believe we are in week four already,’ she added, waving a chopstick at the TV as all the stars of Strictly Come Dancing popped up on the screen during the opening credits. ‘I really feel for Chris Whatshisname, don’t you? You’d be gutted if you went out in week one. Everyone’s forgotten him already.’

  ‘I’d be ashamed,’ replied Tom. ‘He deserves to be forgotten. And as for Patrick – he’d better be in the dance-off this week. His jive was just embarrassing. I want to see him gone before the Halloween show starts.’

  ‘Oh no,’ cried Laura. ‘I’d forgotten your show clashes with Strictly.’

  ‘It’s only two weekends but you will record it, won’t you, and promise not to watch it without me?’

  ‘Will you miss my hugely insightful commentary if I don’t watch it with you?’ she asked.

  ‘You mean your opinions on the outfits and who’s had Botox?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Of course I would. Now shhh, Darcey Bussell is speaking.’

  Laura listened to Darcey’s expectations for the evening before looking down to help herself to more food.

  ‘Damn,’ she exclaimed. She’d dropped sweet and sour sauce on her lap. ‘That’s going to stain. Did you bring the kitchen roll in?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ replied Tom, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘Won’t be a sec,’ she muttered, easing herself off the sofa to go and find a cloth.

  By the time she had come back the first couple were already dancing. She picked up her plate and wedged herself back on to the sofa.

  ‘Can you pass me the wine?’ asked Laura, noticing her empty glass.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Tom, mesmerised by the dancers on screen.

  Laura shooed away the memory of Tom topping up Carly’s glass without being asked to the night before. She leant forward to grab some more prawn crackers before Tom absent-mindedly polished them off.

  ‘She let her top line fall halfway through,’ said Tom, shaking his head as the couple on screen took their bows. ‘And she forgot all about her heel leads, don’t you think?’ He looked over as Laura held up her wine glass expectantly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, reaching down his side of the sofa and handing her the bottle, forcing her to precariously balance her plate on her knee whilst pouring wine into her glass.

  ‘Did you notice her heel leads?’ he asked again.

  She nodded, taking a gulp of wine. She hadn’t noticed the heel leads but she’d had time to note that, in her opinion, the split up the thigh of the woman’s dress was perhaps inappropriate for someone of her age.

  They both shouted out their scores as the judges gave their verdict. Laura awarded a safe seven, which seemed to be in line with the critics on screen as well as the one sitting next to her in her living room.

  ‘Yeah, it’s Selina next,’ said Tom, as the ex-Olympic athlete posed on the dance floor with the very handsome professional dancer, Besnik from Albania. ‘I reckon Selina should nail a tango. She’s a natural.’

  ‘Just like me, eh?’ muttered Laura, taking another glug of wine.

  ‘Just like you,’ agreed Tom, flashing her his dimples.

  Laura glowed and picked up a spare rib as they both fell into silence watching the pair go through their routine. To Laura’s untrained eye they looked spectacular as they proudly strutted around the dance floor, changing direction with quick clean steps; she marvelled at how anyone could make their bodies move together that way. In a final impassioned movement Besnik flung Selina across the floor and she slid to a halt in front of the judges, casting them a victorious glare.

  ‘Wow,’ said Tom, putting his plate on the floor and standing up to applaud the couple. ‘That was close to perfection.’

  Laura watched as Besnik stalked across the floor to take Selina’s hand and pull her to feet. They maintained their dance faces to take a bow and then broke into rapturous beams in response to the standing ovation erupting around them in the studio.

  ‘They are so sleeping together,’ said Laura, wiping her sticky fingers on a piece of kitchen towel.

  Tom sat down and picked up his food. ‘Do you think so? You always say that. They’re just doing a job.’

  ‘A job that requires them to touch each other all the time,’ replied Laura raising her eyebrows.

  ‘You don’t have to be shagging to dance like that. It's just part of the performance.’

  Laura turned back to the screen to watch Selina and Besnik as they embraced, kissing and hugging, twirling round and round, never taking their eyes or their hands off each other. If you’d seen a newlywed bride and groom look as happy or as in love you would have done well.

  ‘So you don’t think they have feelings for one another?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Well, I can’t be sure, can I, but just because you dance together doesn’t mean it’s going to lead to anything.’

  ‘But it does though, doesn’t it, quite often?’

  ‘Occasionally, I guess.’

  ‘How often is occasionally?’ asked Laura. ‘Let’s take your department, for example. How many of your performers arrive single and then end up dating a fellow performer. I bet it’s high, right? Like over fifty per cent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tom shrugged. ‘They’re all at it as far as I can tell, to be honest.’

  ‘All at it?’

  He shrugged again, digging his chopsticks into some chow mein. ‘They’re all young and good-looking, aren’t they? Bound to happen.’

  ‘And they get to spend all day every day touching each other’s bodies,’ added Laura.

  Tom looked baffled. ‘It’s not like some orgy down there every day.’

  ‘So how many times did it happen to you?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You falling for someone you danced with?’

  He stuffed some chow mein in his mouth halfway through her question. Laura kept looking at him until his mouth was empty and he could give a response.

  ‘A few times,’ he said, reaching forward to grab his wine and taking a big gulp.

  ‘A few?’

  He s
hrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  She looked away. She’d only ever been aware of Natalie in his past. It had never crossed her mind that of course he must have had girlfriends before her.

  ‘In fact all my girlfriends have been dancers apart from you. You saved me!’ He grinned. ‘Thank the Lord,’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Then he caught sight of the TV screen again. ‘Oh my God, Patrick’s on. Let’s see how much he can screw it up this week.’

  Laura stared at him for a moment before putting her plate down on the coffee table, no longer hungry.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom

  Tom leant forward and banged his head on the boardroom table.

  ‘Tom!’ exclaimed Hazel. ‘What is the matter?’

  Tom slowly raised his head and gazed into Hazel Gough’s eyes. She was wearing eye shadow. He should have known their fifty-five-year-old, people-hating, undiplomatic, indiscreet and yet head of Human Resources only ever wore eye shadow when she knew she had a presenting slot during the regular Monday-morning management meeting. He thought enduring the usual pointless debate about the state of the previous week’s visitor numbers (including a twenty-minute discussion about why the north-west coach market was in decline) was bad enough. But a meeting when HR was given licence to blind the entire management team with a slew of unnecessary paperwork they had dreamt up to prevent anyone from being able to get on with their real jobs was sheer torture.

  Hazel’s eyes were still boring into him and he realised he had to respond.

  He looked around the room for a glimmer of revolt, a sense of camaraderie, or just any sign of support that it would be acceptable to tell Hazel exactly what the problem was. But the General Manager was also giving him a disapproving glare. Head of Operations was flicking through some paperwork mentally rehearsing his response to whatever complaints might have been caused by his team that week. The Head of Food and Beverages was tapping her pen on the table keen to get it over with so she could go and work out how on earth she was going to open all her units given the huge amount of absences that had called in that morning. Only his mate Sam, Head of Technical Services, was grinning at him whilst fiddling with his radio, itching to get a call that he was urgently needed on park so he could escape the tedium of Hazel.

  ‘Do you need some air?’ asked Hazel tersely.

  ‘Yeeeees,’ exclaimed Tom, just stopping short of doing a fist pump.

  ‘Bastard,’ he heard Sam mutter under his breath.

  ‘Yes, I do need some air,’ Tom said, leaping up and gathering his papers at rapid speed. ‘Been feeling a bit odd all morning, to be honest. Thank you, Hazel. You are so right. I need fresh air.’ He was already walking to the door as fast as he could when she called after him.

  ‘I’ll drop by your office later and take you through the Y2H Health Benefits Rights Form and the Casual Dress Awareness Review Away Day that you need to prepare for,’ she shouted.

  ‘Thanks, Haze.’ He waved over his shoulder. ‘If I’m not there then talk Amy through it.’

  He shut the heavy door behind him and leant against it, heaving a sigh of relief. He turned round and peered though a small glass pane three-quarters of the way up. Hazel was already in full flow, undeterred by the blank looks being directed her way. Sam was waving two fingers at Tom out of Hazel’s eyeline whilst trying to look as though he was listening. Tom gave him a thumbs up and dashed back to his office.

  ‘Good meeting?’ asked Amy, when he banged his notepad on the desk and reached for his coat.

  Tom grinned. ‘Excellent. Hazel gave me a pass-out.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Amy. ‘Doesn’t sound like the old bat.’

  ‘She thought I might pass out so she gave me a pass-out. Best meeting ever.’

  ‘Oh,’ Amy grunted, before looking back at her computer. She looked different today but Tom couldn’t work out why. ‘Louise rang,’ she added. ‘She’s refusing to use fishnet stockings for the female sexy zombie costumes. She says it’s sexist and against her feminist principles. And that we as a market leader should be making a stand and not succumbing to traditional stereotypes.’

  Tom stared at Amy, at a loss at what to say. Amy blinked back at him expectantly. When he didn’t reply she put the words in his mouth as she quite often did.

  ‘I told her to put the male zombies in fishnets as well.’

  ‘Genius,’ exclaimed Tom. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that wasn’t the point she was making.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said if she had a problem with costume design then perhaps she shouldn’t work in costume?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Again, genius.’

  ‘And perhaps she should therefore consider herself more suited to a position serving hamburgers since there is nothing remotely sexy or sexist about a polo shirt, elasticated trousers and a hairnet.’

  Tom gasped. ‘What did she say to that?’

  ‘She put the phone down on me.’

  ‘Amy,’ declared Tom, putting his hand on her shoulder, ‘an excellent morning’s work.’

  Amy blushed slightly and shrugged, pretending to scrutinise something on her screen.

  ‘Right, seeing as you’ve got it all under control here, I’m going on park,’ Tom told her, grabbing a litter-picker. ‘To, er, go and check out how the Halloween set build is coming along.’

  ‘Say hello to Jerry,’ said Amy, turning to face him.

  ‘How do you know I’m going to see Jerry?’

  ‘Because you only take a litter-picker if you are skiving off somewhere but want to look like you are busy and still willing to muck in with everyone and pick up litter. If you’re really going out to do something you don’t bother.’

  Tom looked down at the metal extended claw in his hand. How come he was so transparent? He carefully put it back in the corner.

  ‘I’m going out to see how the building of the Halloween set is coming along,’ he repeated.

  ‘Say hello to Jerry,’ replied Amy.

  ‘I will,’ he said and left at speed for the second time that morning.

  It took Tom fifteen minutes to walk across the park to a wooded area located next to the Wonderland Hotel. There was six-foot-high hoarding surrounding the area and an intimidating number of men walking around in hard hats and yellow high-visibility jackets. There had been much cause for celebration when Jerry’s firm had secured the contract to build twenty-five woodland lodges for guests who wished to extend their stay on park. Tom was delighted that he suddenly had a bolt-hole he could disappear to when his work got too depressing and Jerry was very happy to have a project so close to home. He was taking full advantage of being able to legitimately escape the office on the edge of town and avoid any administrative duties that Hannah tried to put in his path.

  As Tom walked through the site-access gate he bent his head low, trying to avoid all eye contact with the hard-hat men scattered everywhere. However many times he visited, he never stopped feeling less of a man when he stepped into the macho environment of the building site. He was so intimidated by those who could do the manly things he couldn’t – like drive an enormous beast of a digger when he could barely work a domestic drill. As they strutted around in their steel-toecapped boots and neon jackets he knew what they were thinking: that you’re not a real man if your job doesn’t require you to wear a hi-vis vest.

  Tom tiptoed around the huge muddy tracks in his immaculately polished, on-trend brown brogues and prayed that he wouldn’t fall over. The humiliation, surrounded by so much testosterone, would be too much to bear. Breathing a sigh of relief, he reached the Portakabin which acted as the site office and hoped that it would be empty apart from Jerry and he wouldn’t get the an-alien-has-landed looks from the real workers.

  Thankfully Jerry was sitting there alone with his steel toecaps up on an untidy makeshift desk, his red hard hat set at a jaunty angle and a mobile phone glued to his ear.

  He motioned Tom to take a seat and stood up, hau
ling his canvas trousers up over his protruding belly. Somehow, despite his outfit, Jerry never intimidated Tom. Probably because Tom knew that Jerry never really got out there and dirtied his hands doing the real work. Jerry was definitely the outward face of the company; his skills lay in schmoozing prospective clients rather than any of the actual heavy lifting.

  ‘You are an utter dog,’ cackled Jerry into the phone. ‘And a dirty dog at that. If I’d been Kempy I’d have left you there, I can tell you. At least until you’d dried out . . .

  ‘No way was I as bad, you lying fucker,’ he continued down the line after a comment. ‘I was completely sober . . .

  ‘Fuck off. I never did that, did I?’ Jerry collapsed in hysterics. ‘Pair of dirty dogs, you’re right. Now, I can’t waste any more of my extremely valuable time chatting with you, my next appointment’s just arrived.’ He winked at Tom.

  ‘Yes, it’s someone way more important than you. Now piss off and I’ll get the office to send those contracts out today. See you. Bye.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Tom, wandering over to a site plan on the wall.

  ‘Richard Marsh. Ops Director for Horncliffe Hotels. I think I hooked him for another new build during that shooting thing I went to at the weekend.’

  ‘Good.’ Tom nodded. ‘When do you reckon our chalets will be done then?’

  ‘Chalets!’ exclaimed Jerry. ‘We don’t build chalets, Tom, these are dreams. This development is fulfilling every middle-class family’s desire to shell out a fortune to stay in a wooden shed.’

  Tom smiled.

  ‘Honestly, this project is the most bonkers thing I have worked on,’ Jerry said in amazement. ‘All our conversations are about de-speccing to fit in with this so called “Rustic Theme”. We’ve downgraded the toilets three times and your bosses still aren’t happy. But it’s hard to source a rustic toilet. Where would you go for a rustic toilet?’

  ‘The loos in the Celebration Theatre could be described as rustic, if not decrepit. Take one of them out and show them. Put new loos in the theatre.’

  ‘Do you know what? I might,’ said Jerry, getting up. ‘Rustic toilets – I ask you. Tea?’