by Lucy Dillon
‘I never know whether to be inspired by Angelica, or whether just to give up now,’ sighed Chloe enviously, as Angelica and Baxter shimmered past in a flawless pattern of complicated turns and locksteps, their feet moving with swift precision, punctuated by pauses that seemed to hang, suspended in the air. The fact that Angelica’s pale forehead was clearly visible above Baxter’s own Brylcreemed head didn’t stop them looking like the only proper dancers in the room; he led and she followed with a skill that made it look like the most natural thing in the world.
‘Mum says she was a professional for years,’ said Lauren.
‘She was a world champion,’ said Peggy, gazing out at them. ‘Best dancer I’ve ever seen.’ They turned, surprised to hear her speak without Baxter. Katie had almost forgotten Peggy was sitting there with them.
‘Her mum and dad were in the formation team, weren’t they?’ she asked, thinking of the archive pictures. That would explain where she got it from.
Lauren nudged her, nodding at Peggy’s unwavering eyes, following Baxter’s effortless motion across the floor. ‘Sweet, isn’t it? After all this time, she still can’t take her eyes off him.’
‘Peggy?’ Katie repeated. ‘Were Angelica’s parents on the formation team?’
Peggy’s attention seemed to snap back. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘They were, yes. Very good.’
Katie felt her energy dive at about ten, when she’d normally be slumped in front of the telly, and for a few songs in succession, she waved away a couple of offers, pleading sore feet and exhaustion.
Surreptitiously, she checked her phone, in case Ross had called. She didn’t think she wanted him to, but at the same time . . . she sort of did.
‘Care for the next dance?’
Katie glanced up and realised a man had been standing there waiting for her to finish with her phone. The slinky introduction to ‘Fever’ was almost through, and Lauren and Trina had both been whisked away by partners, leaving her and Chloe guarding the handbags.
She tried to arrange her face into a polite putting-off smile, so the man wouldn’t feel too offended. He wasn’t bad looking – dark hair, clean-shaven, thirties. Some distant part of her brain registered surprise that young guys like that went to evenings like this.
He’s probably here to meet women, she thought. Divorced, probably. And if you divorce Ross, you’ll have to start meeting men somewhere. You’ll be on the dating scene, like Trina and Chloe are.
And so will Ross. Finding someone new. Finding someone who loves him more than you do.
A sudden plunging dread took Katie’s breath away.
‘I’m sorry, I’m . . . sitting this one out,’ she stammered. ‘Blisters!’
He angled his head regretfully. ‘Maybe later, then?’
‘Um, yes, yes,’ said Katie. ‘Maybe later.’
‘How about me, then?’ asked Chloe, with a boldness that surprised Katie. She was on her feet before he could reply. ‘I’m trying out partners for an exhibition!’
He smiled, nervously, and nodded.
‘Don’t tell Trina,’ Chloe mouthed, as she followed him to the floor.
‘Now then, Miss Picky, I hope you’ve got a good excuse for turning Rod Coward away – he’s an excellent lead,’ said Angelica, materialising next to Katie. ‘You can’t just turn men down because you don’t like the look of them – it’s the height of bad dancing manners! Word gets round, you know.’
Katie shoved her phone back in her bag with trembling fingers. Did Angelica know everyone? And see everything?
‘Will you let me do this?’ she went on, reaching into her own bag and pulling out a big red silk flower. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this all night, put some pizzazz on that black dress of yours. I know you’re not a girlie girl,’ she went on, pinning it deftly to Katie’s shoulder strap, ‘but you have to think of the dancefloor as a stage, where you can play a role for the evening. Imagine yourself as Scarlett O’Hara on the floor, or Liz Taylor. Let yourself go! Be someone else!’
‘But I’m not sure I . . .’ murmured Katie.
‘And,’ Angelica went on, not seeing her stricken face, ‘I hope you appreciate Ross’s footwork a little more after tonight! Hmm? It’s a shame he’s not here. I hope your foursome hasn’t given up on us?’
‘No,’ said Katie, and blinked.
‘Because you and Ross have got the makings of a good ballroom couple,’ said Angelica. ‘If you stopped being so self-conscious and let him lead you more. But that’ll come, once you stop thinking so much. And your friend Jo’s a natural Latin dancer . . . Katie? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Fine.’ Katie didn’t feel fine: she didn’t want to think about Ross. She didn’t want to think about Jo.
Particularly after what Trina had said about them going off together with the kids. It had niggled away, mainly because it had never even occurred to her, but if it was so obvious to everyone else, was she being stupid?
Don’t be so ridiculous, Katie told herself, but the uncomfortable creeping sensation wouldn’t go away that easily. Hannah worshipped Jo. How much time was Jo spending with them?
‘Katie?’ Angelica said again, and this time Katie made herself meet Angelica’s eyes.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, pulling on her unreadable business face, the one she’d developed to hide her inner feelings during years and years of meetings with patronising surveyors and accountants. It was a tough face.
There was a flicker of acknowledgement in Angelica’s face: she seemed to recognise the mask for what it was, and changed the subject.
‘Bridget was telling me she wants to start a campaign to get the hall listed.’ Angelica’s feet tapped as the introduction to ‘Moon River’ picked up.
‘Yes,’ said Katie. ‘Will you write a letter?’
‘I’d love to,’ Angelica said, with a little smile. ‘The happy hours I’ve had in here . . .’
She was going to say more, but they were interrupted. ‘Would you care for a waltz?’
Katie looked up and saw Baxter’s neat figure in front of her, his hand outstretched in a formal gesture of invitation.
‘Go on, we can talk later,’ said Angelica. ‘I don’t teach wallflowers.’
‘Thank you,’ said Katie, and stood up. Dancing with Baxter required total concentration, what with one thing or another, and she was glad of the chance to empty her mind.
There were only five more dances for Katie to fill, and between Frank, Baxter, Mr Sunbed (not just a Singer-Along, but a very flat one with clammy hands), a skinny Polish man whose close hold Katie made a note to warn the others about, and a subdued Chris, she didn’t have time to think much beyond getting out of the corners.
But at ten to eleven, the lights went up, chasing the moonlight and vintage romance out of the spangled dancefloor and turning it back into a community hall filled with plastic chairs. The dancers, so elegant and polished in the flattering dusk of the final slow waltzes, were transformed like frog princes and princesses back into grandmothers and postmen, hairdressers and accountants, glowing and fanning themselves as they kissed and shook hands, and pulled off ‘crippling’ shoes in the cloakroom outside.
Trina was busy swapping mobile numbers with a bloke she’d had ‘six dances’ with, according to Chloe. Chloe herself was wiping out her plastic cup, and peering anxiously at her coat, which she’d only reluctantly handed into the cloakroom.
‘Oooh, see you on Wednesday, then!’ said Lauren, wrapping her scarf round her neck and nearly knocking the remaining cup of orange squash to the floor.
The poised Lauren only lasted as long as the music, thought Katie with a wry smile, as Lauren grabbed Chris round the middle and hugged him. ‘Come on, Fred Astaire, it’s time for bed.’
Chris caught Katie’s eye and looked away, embarrassed.
‘Not now, eh, Loz?’ he muttered.
‘You won’t be able to say that when I’m your wife!’ she replied, still under the spell of the dancing. ‘Grrr! Are
you giving me a lift home?’
Katie bit her tongue. Lauren looked so happy she couldn’t even see the cloud over Chris. Maybe it wasn’t a cloud, she argued; maybe it was a sign that he was thinking about what marriage really meant. He’d made her realise something too; when she’d told him she’d broken it off with Steve, to marry the right man, it had been her heart speaking. They’d both been honest.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ Frank asked her. ‘We go your way, don’t we, Bridget?’
‘Um, we do,’ she said. ‘Yes, and we can have a chat about . . . you know what,’ she added, casting her eyes meaningfully around the painted walls.
‘That’s kind of you but it’s fine, I drove here,’ said Katie, and suddenly the effort of the dancing and the strain of keeping her face calm and her emotions at bay crushed her last remaining defences. Lauren was cooing something about how romantic the songs were, and whether all the couples could dance at her wedding in a display team.
I want to go home, thought Katie. Even if it’s silent and empty.
‘We’re off, or we’ll never get a cab. Bye, Katie!’ said Chloe. ‘See you next week!’
‘Wednesday?’ said Bridget. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, thought Katie. ‘The four of you?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Katie. ‘Bye, Frank, thanks for the lovely dances.’
‘You drive carefully now,’ said Frank, kindly.
Katie managed to keep herself together till she was safely in the car, and then she put on the radio to distract herself, but tears still slid down her face all the way home.
But when she stepped into the silent house, somehow she couldn’t cry any more. She just had to wait, and that filled her with a very sobering dread.
Ross and Hannah and Jack would be home in twelve hours.
25
Katie took two Nytols but she still couldn’t sleep. The swinging quickstep rhythms of the social kept going through her head, with snatches of the hopeful, romantic lyrics repeating over and over in a mocking loop: ‘You do something to me . . . You made me love you . . . You’d be so nice to come home to . . .’
How come romance was so much easier in those days, Katie wondered, staring bleakly at the ceiling. Even the heartbreaks? Was it because they only expected to find perfect harmony and romance in four-minute bursts on the dancefloor? The rest of your married life never had to live up to that magical courtship, what with you doing your bit in the kitchen and him dutifully providing. Lots of rules to follow, but if you followed them you were safe. Not like now.
No wonder the stupid ballroom lessons were doomed for her and Ross. They were doing it the wrong way round: trying to put some sparkle into their marriage by faking the courtship, when they both knew the happy-ever-after wasn’t that happy.
Katie threw back the covers, and got up, even though it was barely five-thirty in the morning, and still pitch black outside. Her toes hurt where people had trodden on them, and by the door, her dress hung like a shed skin over a chair, with Angelica’s big red flower still pinned to the strap.
I don’t even make the grade when it comes to dressing like a ballroom dancer, let alone being the perfect partner, thought Katie, miserably, as she ran the shower.
At half-nine, she wiped her hands on a tea towel and drew breath. The house actually looked OK when it wasn’t covered in toast crumbs and Lego. Ross never cleaned. He just didn’t seem to see dirt, something that annoyed Katie, who did, but who rarely had time to do much about it. As she was Hoovering and wiping and stacking magazines, all she allowed herself to think about was how she could help Bridget organise a letter-writing campaign for the Hall, and, underneath that, a steady hum of how satisfying it was to see order reappearing in the rooms.
Katie pulled off the Marigolds as she looked round for something else to take her mind off things.
Jo. You could go and put some flowers in Jo’s house. Tidy round. Make it nice for her coming back too.
What if the kids haven’t missed you? What if Hannah hasn’t been wishing you were there?
What if Trina was right about Ross and Jo?
No, thought Katie. That is one thing I’m sure of: Ross isn’t unfaithful. That’s just not him. Greg, the competitive, ambitious alpha male, probably; Ross, no.
She took a deep breath and went back upstairs for another shower. Tidying seemed to have worked up a sweat.
Katie let herself in at the Fieldings’ with her new spare key, and couldn’t stop her habitual rush of envy at Jo’s show-perfect house sweeping over her. Today it only lasted a split second before her sympathy for Jo’s horrible situation surfaced, and she went into the kitchen, looking for a vase in which to put the roses she’d picked up at the supermarket on the way, along with some milk and fresh bread. Jo’s massive American fridge was bursting, but Katie needed to feel she was doing something helpful.
‘Right, a vase,’ she said, putting the flowers on the kitchen table, still in their Cellophane. They were forced foreign roses, raspberry-ripple pink with no smell, but something about them reminded Katie of the dancers last night: they had an old-fashioned corsage-y feel to their frilled petals.
She opened and shut cupboard after cupboard until she found where Jo kept her vases.
‘Nice flowers,’ said a dry voice behind her. ‘Very thoughtful.’
Katie jumped, and spun round, her heart banging as everything she’d been told about self-defence vanished from her mind.
But it wasn’t an intruder. It was Greg.
She clapped a hand to her chest as her blood carried on spiking in her veins. ‘Jesus, you gave me a shock.’
‘So did you,’ he replied. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. Least of all you – shouldn’t you be in Center Parcs?’
Katie registered that he was carrying an empty overnight bag, with two bulging Hamleys bags and a giant fluffy Tweenie.
Bribes, she thought, nastily, then hated herself for jumping to take sides.
‘I couldn’t go – work. They’re not coming back until later,’ she said, quickly. ‘I just thought I’d pop over and . . .’ Katie trailed off. There was an awkward atmosphere building up between them, and she didn’t like it. He knew she knew. But not how much.
Greg raised his eyebrows. For a man who’d just left his wife and kids, he didn’t exactly look haggard, thought Katie. His angular jaw was clean-shaven, his brown hair was tousled, and he was wearing the complete Boden weekend kit, as rejected out-of-hand by a scornful Ross every time she’d waved the catalogue at him: artfully washed-out polo shirt, dark jeans, suede trainers, smug expression.
In fact, thought Katie, her mind racing ahead, he looked suspiciously like someone making an effort. Someone whose clothes were now being chosen by a different person . . .
‘I thought I’d leave these,’ he raised the bags, ‘and pick up some more of my stuff.’ The studied casualness slipped, as his face tensed. ‘I suppose Jo’s filled you in on my evil home-wrecking ways, has she?’
‘She told me you felt your marriage was over, yes,’ said Katie, evenly.
How can I feel so disgusted and furious with him when I’m doing exactly the same thing to Ross, she thought. But at least I’m upset. At least I can’t sleep.
‘Hmm.’ Greg looked cynical. ‘And that’s all?’
‘Yes, that’s all. She’s pretty loyal. She didn’t go into details, just that you wanted to leave.’
‘Right,’ said Greg, and pushed his lower lip out, nodding.
‘Greg, I’m sorry, but I can’t understand how you can be standing there looking so calm!’ Katie burst out.
‘Well, when it’s over, it’s over,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘There’s no point dragging it out, is there?’
Katie stared at him, unable to believe how dispassionate he was being. This wasn’t the Greg she’d secretly fancied in the past. Or if it was, she had no idea that business-like exterior went all the way down to where his inner sensitivity was meant to be.
‘Jo’s devastated.’
She didn’t want to lay into him, but they were standing only feet away from where Jo had slumped, her natural cheeriness crushed by misery, only days ago. Suddenly Katie couldn’t stop her anger breaking through. ‘You know how she feels about her family. She’s a great mother! A great wife! I hope you know what you’re losing, Greg, because you’re bloody lucky to have someone like her.’
Greg dumped his bags and ran a hand through his hair. He looked bitter, and it didn’t suit him. ‘Yeah, well. Maybe that’s the problem.’
‘What?’
‘That’s all she does these days – be a mother. It’s her only topic of conversation. What they did today. What they ate. Where we should send them to school. Whether we can afford another one.’
‘And?’ Katie glared at him. ‘That’s important stuff. She’s trying to include you. You miss out on a lot, with the hours you spend at work, and she’s trying to keep you in touch!’
‘Oh, and I should be grateful for that, should I?’ Greg raised his arms sarcastically. ‘What about our marriage? What about us? All right, I know it’s selfish, but it’s like I don’t exist in this family, except as a cash machine! She’s not my wife any more, she’s Molly and Rowan’s mother! We had five fantastic years together before . . .’ He bit his lip, as if he was trying to stop himself saying too much, then shook his head. ‘It’s not that I don’t love the girls. I’d do anything for them. But the stuff that held me and Jo together, it’s getting pushed out. I thought you’d understand. You, of all people.’
Katie didn’t feel inclined to help him out, especially when a tiny, controversial voice in her head was reminding her that, yes, she did understand what it felt like to come second all the time. To see her children turn to Ross before her, to feel she was failing them for being out at work, which was, in turn, her own choice for marrying someone who’d never support them . . . It was like a knot that kept tightening.