The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I can imagine.’ He blew on the black coffee he’d poured and sipped.

  She liked the sweep of his expressive lips that were neither full nor narrow; in fact all of his features were like that – so clearly defined she could draw them – and yet hard to describe because they were the idealised shape of eyes, nose, mouth. And like a chorus of individuals suddenly singing together they formed a whole song of beauty. She had to look away but not before noticing that he hadn’t bothered to shave this evening, which the stubble around his jaw attested to. There was something exciting about this fellow and his slightly mysterious, definitely non-establishment ways – both of which she was sure he was hiding.

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘What?’ he said, swallowing his coffee but she caught the bounce of his Adam’s apple as though he knew he’d been caught in a lie.

  ‘Can you really imagine my situation? I suspect you’re not short of a penny and you certainly can’t be short of dance partners, so why you have to pay for it is anyone’s guess. That aside, how can a wealthy man possibly understand my situation? You are rich, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She gave a murmur of disdain. ‘You suppose,’ she said softly. ‘There you go again.’

  He looked at her quizzically. ‘What am I doing again?’

  Stella added a cube of sugar and a splash of milk to her tea. She stirred gently with the silver spoon and focused on the whirlpool of bronze liquid. It felt dangerous to bait him but she was feeling in a careless frame of mind, knew the anger of self-pity was behind it and frustrated that he’d managed to unleash it again by encouraging her to talk about her situation.

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said, fixing him with an accusatory stare.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Monty – if that’s even your real name – let’s just share that I think you’d make a fine conjuror.’ He smiled uncertainly and she knew she’d hit a nerve. ‘You’re adept at finding out about me but you clearly don’t believe I’m owed your respect of telling the truth. I’ve been honest with you – too honest, I suspect – and while we don’t come from the same social backgrounds I don’t deserve your scorn. I’m nothing to you, I know that; a girl in a dance hall with dreams of making something of herself, who thinks sixpence is worth humiliating herself for.’ As she said it she knew she would never sell herself cheaply again. She could see his jaw grinding at her quietly spoken but heartfelt tirade as the steam from their drinks mingled, curling and twisting around each other from barely touched china. ‘Thank you for the tea but I’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee alone. Perhaps if you see Madge, you could let her know I found my way home.’

  He sat forward, about to say something.

  ‘No, please, really. I don’t need your money or a taxi. Goodnight . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, hoping in that final gesture he picked up that she already regretted her attack.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, and then murmured something to her back that she didn’t catch.

  She turned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said it’s not Monty . . . at least not the name I prefer.’

  Stella stared at him, waiting.

  ‘My name,’ he continued, ‘the one that people who loved me once called me by is Rafe.’

  Rafe. Now, that did sound like it belonged to him. Simple, el­egant and as straightforward as his suddenly open expression appeared and her shoulders relaxed in apology to see a hint of horror in it.

  ‘I appreciate your telling me – wasn’t that hard, was it?’ She frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Very few people know it. I’m frankly surprised I shared it.’

  ‘Why is your name a secret?’

  ‘It’s not,’ he said, standing, and she was aware – as surely were most of those envious women staring – again at how well the dress suit hung off his shoulders and hips. ‘It’s just . . . private.’ He took her arm. ‘Come on, I’ll see you into that taxi or I’ll hate myself forever.’ He signalled to the waiter and signed for their refreshments.

  ‘Do you have an account here?’ she said as they walked to the main entrance.

  He laughed. ‘No, but Fruity does.’ He helped her on with her coat. ‘I hope you have gloves?’

  She pulled the small leather pair from her coat pockets with a smile of triumph. ‘Fruity?’

  ‘Sorry. Basil. His surname is Peach, can you believe it? Poor fellow. School must have been hard for him.’ Stella chuckled, relieved that they would not part on her harsh words. He must have heard her thoughts. ‘I’m glad we could say farewell with a smile, Stella. I do regret making you feel anything but valued. If it’s any consolation, I loathe events like this,’ he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the ballroom. ‘My mood is always slightly off when I’m forced into my penguin suit.’

  He paused at the cloakroom and handed in a ticket. Moments later he shrugged into an overcoat but pulled his bow tie looser and undid the top button. She looked away, suddenly shyly aware of how dashing he appeared. There was no doubt he wore his ‘penguin suit’ with an effortlessness suaveness, but that gesture of undressing made her blush and she hadn’t felt the full weight of his attraction steal up and tap on her shoulder until this moment.

  Stella cleared her throat and glanced towards the concierge, who opened the door so they could step out to wait at the top of the three shallow steps at the entrance to the Berkeley and into a bone-shakingly cold spring evening.

  ‘Cab, Sir?’ the man asked, breath swirling in a fog around him.

  ‘Please,’ Rafe replied, clapping his now gloved hands together.

  ‘Where to, Sir?’

  ‘Er . . .’ he glanced at Stella.

  ‘Just off Clapham Common,’ she said to the man and the concierge touched his cap.

  ‘Right away.’ He smiled and moved away to blow into a whistle as she hugged herself to conserve warmth. Her toes already felt like Jack Frost was gnawing on them.

  She began to move from foot to foot. ‘Why come to these dances if you loathe them?’ she asked.

  ‘Fruity enjoys them. I’m sure it didn’t escape you that he likes a drink or two; he also likes women and is starved of female companionship, I suspect . . . of the young and extremely pretty kind. Poor old Fruity is caring for his invalid mother.’

  ‘And you don’t drink, do you?’ she queried, sensing a jigsaw piece fitting into its rightful place.

  ‘Not much. I kept tipping the champagne and gins into pot plants, even onto myself.’

  She laughed. It was her first genuine sound of delight since she’d walked into her parents’ bedroom and found them in one another’s arms and dead for hours. ‘I could smell you yards away – I fell for it, but only briefly.’

  He grinned. ‘Thank you for not saying anything. It makes Fruity feel better if I’m looking as intoxicated as he’s feeling. Listen, have my coat? I can’t bear to see you shivering like that. My suit has to be a whole lot warmer than your dress and coat together.’

  She stopped him taking his thick coat off but she felt warmed by the gallant offer. ‘No need. Look, the taxi’s here,’ she said as an Austin High Lot took a wide turn into the hotel’s forecourt. She normally took buses or the underground. Stella had hoped this would be a night she could put behind her and forget, but a ride in the handsome taxi with the moonlight bouncing off its shining black exterior would deny her that. What a treat.

  The concierge opened the door and gestured for her to enter a world she had not previously experienced. She could smell the polish on the leather seats as she admired all the gleaming metal of the vehicle. Best of all the heater was turned up and she could detect the remnants of a previous client’s perfume that had been warmed enough to linger. She was aware of Rafe muttering to the concierge with a slight frown.

  ‘Good evening, Miss,’ the driver said, touching his hat. ‘Cold one.’

  ‘Good evening.’ She smiled. ‘Deliciously warm in here, though,’ she replied as she clambe
red onto her higher positioned seat to the cabbie as gracefully as she could.

  Rafe leaned in and she could clearly see the flesh bared from undoing his tie and collar earlier. It was only in this moment of seeing his skin, unexpectedly dark in that triangle with pale flesh either side, that she realised his teeth appeared so white because his face was tanned. What a lazy life he must lead, she thought, as she regarded his squarish face. Other men must hate him.

  ‘Stella, would it be awkward of me to ask if I might ride with you back to Clapham? The concierge tells me there are few taxis available tonight and a high demand. I could be waiting a long time for the next one.’

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’ She could hardly refuse as he was paying and she was eager to get the door closed. ‘Um, but where are you staying?’

  He hopped up easily next to her, thanked the concierge and tapped on the glass separating them. ‘Thank you, driver, we’re heading to Clapham Common and then back to Mayfair, please.’

  ‘Right you are, Sir.’

  They lurched off and the looming golden presence of the Berkeley was left behind as they merged into the careening night traffic of Piccadilly.

  ‘You’re going to have to cross the river twice,’ she said in a tone suggesting only a madman might.

  ‘I do odd things on full moon nights,’ he quipped and gave a grin full of mischief. ‘But I promise I shall deliver you safely to your door and then you will never have to put up with my irritating presence again.’

  ‘You’re not irritating. I’m just not comfortable with insincerity.’

  ‘Well, you can be sure I am most sincere in my apology.’

  ‘I misjudged your intentions, so I’m the one who is sorry. You were being a good friend.’

  ‘Friend? I don’t know about that. Basil is a colleague.’

  ‘You both looked friendly enough.’

  He gave a small shrug.

  ‘But it doesn’t explain why you protect your name. Not even Basil knows, obviously.’

  ‘Which if we follow that theory surely makes you my friend, Stella, because I have told you.’ His smile was disarming. How many women in his past had fallen for it? How many women continued to fall for it?

  ‘Why keep it hidden, though?’

  ‘I go by many names, actually. Don’t you know my type has about three Christian names?’ His tone was self-mocking and she couldn’t help but like him more for the dry observation.

  ‘Like royalty, you mean.’ She smiled.

  ‘Exactly. Rafe – well, Rufus, actually – is one of them. It’s the name my mother and sister called me by.’

  ‘Sister? You said you didn’t have siblings.’

  ‘They’re dead,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘All my family is. It’s why I say I don’t have a sister because I don’t like explaining. It was a boating tragedy. The only reason I survived is because I was on my way back from school and supposed to meet them on the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He shrugged as though he didn’t allow himself to get upset over it. She was the one caught out now and was glad of the dark interior of the taxi as she reached quickly to lighten the conversation. ‘So what did your father call you by?’

  ‘My third name!’ he said archly, eyes widening in mock horror. ‘Because it is a family name he wanted me to be known by. It’s the official name that every eldest male is called as a matter of course. Now, the name most people know me by, Montgomery – the one that I was introduced to you by – is my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side and as my first name is a silent family name, Montgomery comes next in the tiresome trio – without brackets,’ he added in a tone loaded with irony, ‘so it’s the one they used at school, on formal paperwork and so on. Complicated, isn’t it?’

  She gave a mock expression of dizziness but the gesture had an edge of truth to it for her companion had been leaning closer during his conversation about his various names and at one point their heads almost touched. Stella was sure she could feel the wispiness of a few licks of his mid-brown hair just touching her own. He was also close enough that she could feel his breath caress her cheek and she could smell the rich roast of coffee on it. On her old boyfriend, Harry, nicotine and coffee smelled old. On Rafe it smelled enticing. How could that be?

  Stella cleared her throat. ‘Is your home in Mayfair?’

  ‘No, my club is,’ he said, leaning away as if suddenly uninterested. ‘The family home is south, quietly rural, you could say.’

  He was being careful again, she noted.

  ‘How is it that you are what . . . twenty-four?’

  ‘Twenty-six,’ she corrected.

  ‘But your brother and sister are so young.’

  She nodded with a sad smile. Maybe she didn’t need to know him better to open up; it suddenly felt easy to explain. ‘My mother had me out of wedlock – and far too early in her life.’ She watched his expression shift. It was slight but it was there, the inevitable judgement of her mother, a lovely, shy, fragile woman. The explanation hurried with the desire to be shared as if someone else was in control of her will in that moment. ‘You see, she was attacked by a group of youths when she was barely into her teens. She was —’ She stopped; the details didn’t matter. ‘I am the mistake, not my brother and sister. I was conceived in shame and horror, birthed in despair, no doubt. My little darlings were made with nothing but love.’ She watched him swallow but he stared back at her unblinking and she was glad to see his expression didn’t reflect pity. ‘My grandparents were brave to send my mother, Dianna – she was known as Didi – to family in Wales; she was even braver to demand that her child be allowed to live. I was not quite two when she met Evan Myles and fell instantly in love with a young, brash, ambitious Welshman who would become the only father I’ve known and someone who cherished me as he did my mother. If they had cross words, I never heard them.’ She shook her head. ‘They made a perfect bond. But they couldn’t make a child for a long time together.’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘My mother was badly hurt in the attack,’ she explained. ‘And then a beautiful pair of gifts arrived. My brother came along when I was sixteen, my sister two years later. I didn’t resent them, I adored them and had already enjoyed so many years as a beloved only child.’ She looked away and out of the window to where they moved through Whitehall, passing the Houses of Parliament in silence as the taxi gained speed heading towards the newly redesigned Lambeth Bridge. She recalled its opening by the King the previous year and how its odd red painted colour scheme was a reflection of the leather on the bench seats in the House of Lords.

  He finally spoke. ‘When did you learn the truth?’

  ‘On my twelfth birthday. We all cried, but I think for them it was tears of relief to unburden the truth.’

  ‘And for you?’

  ‘Oh, as you would expect. Shock, grief. We never spoke of it again but from thereon it lived with us, like an extra person we didn’t set a place for at the table.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She took a breath and let it out. ‘My real father. Invisible but present, casting a shadow.’ She gave him a cheer-up smile. ‘I learned to live with it. I loved my parents deeply and never felt anything but love in return but I did feel changed from that day.’

  ‘Changed? In what way?’ He was leaning forward again and she could feel the warmth of his body; moonlight and street light conspired to show her that triangle of skin beneath his throat that she suddenly wanted to touch. Forbidden flesh. She looked away quickly as the taxi passed Lambeth Palace and she saw the familiar crenellated gatehouse that she passed daily on her way home in the bus from work.

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t belong, it’s just that I felt suddenly responsible for her fragility – why she relied on my father for every decision, leaned on him . . . I didn’t want to be like that – I’m not like that . . . I’m independent, even rebellious at times . . . perhaps more like the man whose blood I share.’

  She cut a hand through the w
arm air that had built in the taxi and breathed out. ‘Anyway, enough of all that and the reason for her cowardice. Now you know my other secret, which I suspect I can trust you with, but I note you remain a mystery,’ she said with an accusatory smile to lighten the tension that had also formed itself around them.

  ‘Listen, Stella. Can I offer some help for your situation?’

  ‘No,’ she said with bright alarm in her tone. ‘Absolutely not. I do not want charity from —’

  ‘I’m not talking about charity,’ he insisted, grabbing her arm gently to stop her next outburst. His hand was large and closed around her thin wrist, encompassing it like a manacle. She was surprised by the roughness of the texture of his flesh against hers. Caught unawares by his touch, she did stop talking.

  ‘I’m suggesting a different line of work – just to tide you over.’

  She frowned. ‘I earn a decent wage at the store.’ She sighed. ‘Although I’m suddenly called trainee again, now that I’m learning to be a buyer.’

  ‘I happen to know you can earn more in the short term.’

  Alarm bells sounded in her mind now as dawning occurred. She twitched her wrist out of his grasp. ‘Gosh, what do you think I am?’ she growled in a murmur only for his ears. She glanced at the taxi driver who was making a wide turn and was heedless of his passengers’ conversation.

  ‘No, you’re getting me wrong again,’ Rafe appealed, as he put his hands up in defence. ‘Just listen to me. There are wealthy families up and down the country who would pay you a very good wage to help them with their children.’

  ‘A governess?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could describe it that way.’

  ‘How thoroughly Victorian,’ she remarked.

  ‘Not really. Wealthy families hire in help for all sorts of reasons. You said your mother was French. Are you fluent?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Music?’

  Stella lifted a shoulder. ‘Piano, flute.’

  ‘You can read it?’

  ‘Read it and write it. I had a very good education; my parents saw to that but I’ve got my own brother and sister to look out for.’