The Ballroom Class

by Lucy Dillon

  ‘Oops! You caught me – I was ravenous. Haven’t stopped all day. Hello, Laurie, love,’ said Bridget Armstrong, leaning forward to embrace her daughter.

  Lauren hugged her, breathing in the familiar smell: primary-school children, and fresh wipes, and the Chanel No 5 which her dad bought her every birthday and Christmas. ‘For the femme fatale beneath the sensible shoes,’ he said, every year, and every year Bridget laughed in the same rueful way. A couple of times Lauren had suggested to him that maybe a foot spa or a gift certificate for a manicure might be more up her mum’s street, and he’d nodded and agreed, and given exactly the same thing.

  She’d begun to wonder if it was some kind of a shared joke.

  Bridget hesitated with the empty banana skin for a moment, saw nowhere to hide it in Irene’s pristine porch, then stuffed it to the bottom of her school bag. ‘So, how’s it going?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ said Lauren, stepping back to let her in. She and her mum used to talk about Lauren’s fantasy wedding in the little kitchen at home, to cheer her up when she’d traipsed home after another miserable netball match. The only problem was that, now it was all real, Bridget didn’t seem to grasp the first thing about the sheer scale of what planning a dream day actually involved.

  Lauren didn’t mind cutting her mum some slack because it wasn’t as though she’d ever had to organise one before. Billy, Lauren’s older brother by fourteen years, emigrated to New Zealand when she was eleven, and married there, totally doing her out of being a flowergirl, which was what she’d dreamed about before graduating to bridal fantasies. David, her other brother, had got married up in Scotland when she was fourteen, and his wife Vivienne had sorted out the whole thing, up to and including her foul tartan outfit. Vivienne was an event manager and wouldn’t even let Bridget choose her own corsage.

  No wonder Mum’s a bit out of it, Lauren reminded herself. She hadn’t even heard of bridal showers.

  ‘I’ve got one bit of good news.’ Bridget unwound her scarf and hung her parka up next to Irene’s white wool wrap coat. ‘I spoke to Marjorie in the canteen about the cake. You know, the sugarcraft lady? She does lovely wedding cakes, with homemade marzipan, and she’d give me a staff discount.’ She winked, her bright brown eye vanishing, then sparkling open again, like a dormouse. ‘Three tiers for the price of two! And a sugarcraft bride and groom thrown in. If you tell her what your dress is like, she can make them look like you and Chris.’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ said Lauren automatically. It would have been nice too, if she hadn’t seen the enormous tower of heart-shaped croquembouche enmeshed in golden spun-sugar Irene had ripped out of Central Brides magazine.

  Enmeshed. Croquembouche. God. Getting married really expanded your vocabulary.

  ‘Shall I tell her yes, then?’

  ‘Tell who yes?’

  Irene emerged in the doorway to the diner-kitchen, brushing imaginary dust off her immaculate cream trousers. Not for the first time, Lauren thanked her lucky stars that the chances of the two mothers wearing the same outfit were low to minimal. Although the chances of Irene turning up in something white and bridal were worryingly high.

  ‘The cake, Irene! I think that’s one thing we can cross off the list. How are you? What a lovely pair of trousers.’

  ‘Mwuh.’ Irene squinched her face round to airkiss Bridget, who did not, as a rule, do social kissing. ‘Jaeger. All in the cut.’

  ‘Very nice. Ooh! Is that a cup of coffee I can smell? I’m just about ready to drop.’

  ‘I’ll put the machine on again,’ said Irene.

  ‘Poor Mum,’ said Lauren, following her through to the kitchen. ‘Kids playing up?’

  ‘And the rest. If I put all the little devils on the naughty step every time they deserved it, we’d need a four-storey infant school. Oooh!’ She sank down on to a stool, and sighed with relief. ‘You’ve got that to come, Lauren.’

  ‘Mum! I’m twenty-two! I’ve got years before we even think about having kids,’ Lauren protested. Then she saw Irene’s face freeze as she frothed milk in her special silver jug, and she added, ‘I mean, all in good time, eh?’

  Irene tipped her head on one side and gazed balefully at her. ‘Well, I hope you won’t make us wait too long,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to be a grandmother. Of course, you are already, aren’t you, Bridget? It must be wonderful.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ agreed Bridget, eyeing the coffee.

  ‘Aren’t you sad they’re so far away, though?’ Irene paused, the cup and saucer held within tantalising reach. ‘That’s a terrible shame.’ She sighed and put the cup down. ‘Would you like some sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Bridget stirred the foam into the coffee with brisk movements, then sipped it straight away, not even stopping to comment on the loveliness of the Italian deli cups, bought by Irene on holiday in Milan. ‘Ah, lovely – I needed that. So, where have you two got to?’ asked Bridget, cheerfully, unaware of the faint moustache of foam on her upper lip.

  ‘Well, we’re definite about the fairy-tale theme, but which one exactly is still under discussion.’ Irene drew her notebook towards her and reviewed what she’d written. Twenty years as an executive-level PA didn’t vanish overnight. ‘Did you have any thoughts?’

  Bridget directed a straight primary-school teacher look at her daughter. ‘So we’ve abandoned the Jane Austen wedding idea now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Irene.

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Lauren, wishing Irene wouldn’t make it sound as if she was the one making all the decisions. ‘Thing is, I tried on some of those empire-line dresses that were in that magazine and they . . . To be honest, they weren’t that flattering.’

  ‘I think what Lauren means is that they made her look as if she was four months gone,’ explained Irene. ‘And that’s all very well for those girls that are four months gone, but there’s no point making things look bad when they’re not. Isn’t that right, Lauren? We were both agreed, weren’t we, and so were the girls in the shop. White just doesn’t do much for you, not with your colouring. You want to look peaches and cream, not Bride of Dracula.’

  Lauren’s head jerked back and forth between Irene and her mother.

  Bridget stirred her cappuccino with a deliberate casualness that Lauren knew at once was put on. ‘I didn’t know you’d tried them on.’

  ‘I popped in on my lunchbreak,’ she said, quickly. ‘The dress shop was just round the corner from Irene’s charity shop, so she dropped in to give me a second opinion. It was just a spur of the moment thing. We can go again this weekend if you want to see for yourself. But honestly, they were grim.’

  ‘Very much so,’ agreed Irene. ‘Not that you won’t look fabulous in the right dress, Lauren. We just need to find it. At least we can cross empire line off the list now.’

  ‘It’s just difficult,’ sighed Lauren. ‘They look so lovely in the magazine spreads, but then when you get them on . . .’ She grimaced. ‘. . . it’s not what you hoped.’

  ‘You’d look gorgeous in a bin bag, love,’ Bridget insisted. ‘I still don’t know how we managed to produce such a stunner in the first place.’ She beamed proudly at Irene. ‘I always told her that she’d be grateful to be tall like a model when she grew up. Not a shrimp like me.’

  Lauren squeezed out a little smile. That was typical of her mother. Always looking on the bright side. She’d never had to stand with the lads in school photos.

  ‘I know,’ said Irene. ‘It’s a great comfort to me how much our Christopher looks like Ron. He’s the image of him in his youth. Anyway . . .’ She looked pained, and drew the notebook towards her. ‘So to recap, Snow White’s Lauren’s theme preference, or Sleeping Beauty. Which I myself think would be more romantic.’

  ‘But I’ve had this idea about the dwarfs . . .’ Lauren tried, to no avail.

  ‘Whichever – you’re going to need to sign up for some dancing classes now,’ Irene went on. ‘According to this magazine, most people leave it far too late to learn, a
nd then they make a mess of it on the big day, what with nerves . . .’

  ‘And champagne, if I know Lauren,’ Bridget added.

  Irene looked up at Lauren. ‘Now you don’t want that, do you? I’ve been looking into it and apparently there’s a class starting tomorrow in the Memorial Hall in Inkerman Street. Shall I get you and Christopher signed up?’

  ‘You think Chris’ll go to dancing lessons?’ asked Lauren, dubiously. ‘They’ll love that at work.’

  Chris was the assistant showroom manager at the car dealership his dad had run for years, before dropping dead of a heart attack just after the speeches at his lavish sixtieth birthday party (‘The way he’d have wanted to go,’ Irene insisted. ‘Surrounded by his friends, with a drink in his hand.’) Chris was just as natural a salesman as his dad – good at chatting cars and rugby with male customers, just boyish enough to make the ladies want to mother him. The blond good looks and cheeky smile didn’t hurt, either. But ballroom dancing wasn’t something the lads at the rugby club were going to let him get away with.

  ‘Well, why not tell him about the horse-riding lessons, and if he won’t do that, suggest dancing instead,’ said Irene, briskly. ‘One or the other?’

  ‘Horse-riding lessons?’ enquired Bridget. ‘Have I missed something?’

  ‘We were thinking about creating a Sleeping Beauty theme with Chris arriving on a horse, like the prince in the story,’ Lauren explained. ‘Then we could both leave on it, at the end of the ceremony.’

  ‘And what would you do with the horse while you were in church?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lauren. ‘Well. I was thinking we could have the service in the park? They’re licensed to do ceremonies and we could get that pagoda bandstand whatsit, and cover it in roses so it looks like a bower, or we could do something with thorns that Chris has to cut his way through to get to me, and . . . What?’

  She looked up to see her mother glaring at her as if she’d said something stupid. The smile had vanished from her mother’s eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lauren,’ Bridget said firmly, ‘your dad and I are happy for you to plan whatever you want for your reception – eight-tier cakes, bridesmaids dressed up as rabbits, whatever you like – but you’re getting married at St Mary’s. You’re not getting married in the park.’ She raised her hands. ‘Isn’t that right, Irene?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with going down a less traditional route,’ murmured Irene. ‘I mean, yes, a church is very nice, but it does rather limit you in terms of putting your own stamp on your special day.’

  Bridget looked stunned, but managed to keep a tight smile on her face. ‘But, Irene, it’s not just about the—’

  ‘It is only the once.’ Irene’s large blue eyes drooped sadly. ‘The one special day in a woman’s life, something to look back on and remember for ever. If I had my time again, I know I’d make every possible effort to have the day exactly the way I wanted.’

  Bridget softened. ‘Yes, well, wouldn’t we all, Irene, but . . .’ She turned to Lauren. ‘You can do whatever you want for the reception, love – I’m sure we can have the whole thing as romantic and fairytale as you want, but for the service . . .’

  ‘Mum, I can hardly do a romantic fairytale with Chris waking me up to symbolise the beginning of our lives together if the vicar’s going to make a big fuss about having a horse in church, can I?’

  ‘Well, if you think the horse is more important than the actual service, Lauren, then I see your point.’

  ‘You’re twisting what I’ve said.’ Lauren’s lip jutted out.

  ‘It’s not the same as it was in our day, Bridget,’ agreed Irene. ‘Things have moved on. Young people now, they want to make their own special day.’

  With horses, despaired Bridget. When neither of them can ride? The trouble about Lauren’s dream wedding was that it was just that – dreams. In her opinion, too many of these weddings set up the happy couple for the worst kind of reality check when they got home and the cake had gone and the bills started to come in. Not that Lauren and Chris were paying for this wedding; she and Frank were standing most of it, at Frank’s proud insistence. But then Frank seemed to think it would cost about the same as their modest sit-down-meal-and-one-round-of-drinks affair had done.

  Lauren was looking hopefully at her, still holding a magazine advertising Edinburgh Castle as a venue.

  It’s not real life, thought Bridget crossly. And we shouldn’t be encouraging her. But it was something she’d dreamed about so long, through all that teasing at school . . .

  ‘Well, maybe I’m old fashioned,’ she said. ‘But if you ask me, there’s a lot to be said for sticking with tradition, and getting married locally, with your family, in a church.’ She paused, and pursed her lips. That hadn’t come out right.

  Lauren held her breath. The last thing she wanted was for her mother and her mother-in-law-to-be to get into some kind of massive fight even before they’d got the blessing venue booked.

  A tense silence filled the kitchen-diner.

  Is Irene going to cry? Lauren wondered. She looked on the verge of it. Poor Irene, she thought. It’s not that long since she lost her husband. This must be bringing it all back for her.

  It was Bridget who spoke first. ‘Oh dear. Sorry!’ she said, over-brightly, waving her hands in the air. ‘I’ve had a very long day. Don’t mind me. Now, what was that about dancing lessons? Eh? Maybe we should go along too, Irene? Brush up on the old foxtrot for the first dance. Frank’s not a bad mover, for all he moans about his knees!’

  Lauren winced – what was Mum thinking, being so insensitive? There’d be no father of the groom for her to dance with, but the tears had vanished from Irene’s eyes as if by magic. ‘I’ll look into it. Now, have we had any more thoughts about numbers?’

  On the way home in the car, bought and fixed up for her by Chris, Lauren drove too quickly for Bridget, and she knew her mother was trying to be diplomatic because she didn’t say anything.

  On the other hand, she could tell she was brooding about something too, on account of the occasional little sigh escaping from her.

  Lauren racked her brains for a way of currying favour.

  ‘Do you want to go round to the big Tesco’s while I’m in the car, Mum?’ she asked, as inspiration and guilt struck at the same time. ‘It’s my turn for the shopping, isn’t it? And I think we’re out of cereal. And crisps,’ she added.

  Before Chris and Lauren got engaged, they’d been sharing a house on the outskirts of the town with two friends from school, but in an attempt to save up for a deposit of their own, Lauren had moved back into her old room at home, while Chris had moved in with his mate, Kian. Lauren missed cuddling up on the sofa, but if she was being really honest, the thrill of 24/7 sex was starting to be balanced by 24/7 cleaning duties. Happily, the old frisson of illicit quickies had returned, just in time to make the wedding seem even more romantic and old fashioned, and Chris certainly made it clear how much he missed her then.

  Plus, her mum was mad keen to spoil her, as usual, which Lauren didn’t object to at all. There were a few bumps, of course, what with Bridget seeming to think she was thirteen sometimes, not twenty two, but on the whole it wasn’t so bad, considering she’d been living away for a few years now. Lauren thought she was pretty lucky to have such a good relationship with her mum and dad. The longer she spent going over wedding plans with Irene, the more Lauren understood why Chris had been so quick to take up Kian’s offer rather than go home himself.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Bridget, as Lauren had known she would. ‘Your father and I’ll go late-night Thursday. You know what he’s like now he’s retired – he likes to take charge of something.’

  ‘Well, let me give you some money, then,’ Lauren persisted. ‘Towards it.’

  Bridget flapped a hand. ‘Get away. You’re barely eating anything anyway. You need to save up, don’t you?’

  She wasn’t sayi
ng anything odd, but there was a funny edge to her voice: a sort of tightness. The outward show of normality wasn’t quite covering something beneath, especially when Lauren knew her mum so well.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘There is. I can tell.’

  Bridget sighed, then said, tetchily, ‘Since when did we start calling weddings Special Days?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it one of these non-denominational PC things? If Irene refers to it as “Your Special Day” one more time . . .’

  ‘Mum, it is a special day for her. She’s only got Chris left, and this is the only wedding she’ll get to help with.’ Lauren looked across with some surprise at her mother. It really wasn’t like her to be catty. ‘Can’t you give her a break? She was showing me photos of her own wedding the other day – poor Irene had a register office do, in 1978, in Guildford. Pink suit, a bridesmaid with massive glasses, Babycham, and ten guests. She just wants me to have what she didn’t.’

  Yes, but Irene isn’t paying for it, thought Bridget. And it’s not her wedding.

  Instead, she said, ‘Lauren, this is your day, not some re-run of hers. I don’t want you to end up agreeing to some three-ring circus, just because you’re too nice to tell her to, I don’t know, calm it down.’

  ‘Well, maybe if Ron was still alive, she’d be able to have some kind of vow reaffirmation, but she can’t.’ Lauren paused, not liking the feeling of her mum sounding jealous. ‘Mum, you’ve got Dad, you’re lucky. And you know I’ve always dreamed of a lovely wedding.’

  Bridget sighed. ‘I know, Laurie. I want you to have a lovely wedding.’

  ‘Well, then, let’s just be grateful I vetoed the contract she wanted the ushers and bridesmaids to sign. Fines for unauthorised weight gain, tattoos or hair colour changes? And that was just the men.’

  Bridget laughed, and nudged her daughter – carefully, since Lauren’s driving was still a bit unpredictable – and they drove in companionable silence for a few minutes, passing the big new supermarket, the posh white villa that Bridget usually told her she’d like to buy if they won the Lottery, and even the 24-hour Donut Diner where Lauren sometimes pulled in to treat them.