The Ballroom Class

by Lucy Dillon

  Angelica’s plan was to lend Katie one of her ballroom dresses to try on. She knew it would make the world of difference to the way Katie saw herself, and she hoped it would help her understand that dancing the woman’s steps didn’t mean the end of feminism as she knew it.

  Angelica felt sorry for Katie. She was the only woman she’d ever taught who hadn’t turned up for the second class in her most gorgeous party dress, just for the chance to wear it out. Every week, the same plain black dress, the same awkward posture.

  Katie could be a much better dancer than she realised – Angelica knew it, even if Katie didn’t. She was athletic, and though she wasn’t the quickest at picking up steps, she didn’t forget them, or get confused when the music changed. What was really holding Katie back, thought Angelica, picturing her self-conscious cha-cha, was her inability to let herself go, and to trust her partner to lead her properly. She wouldn’t even relax with experienced leads like Frank or Baxter; Angelica watched her resisting them until they gave up. She was so focused on being Katie, that she just couldn’t relax enough to play the waltzing princess, or the unbridled hot-to-trot Latina.

  Lauren, on the other hand . . . Angelica smiled, just thinking about her. She was a natural because dressing up and playing was something she actively enjoyed. When Angelica watched Lauren in class, she saw her blue eyes were miles away, and she knew Lauren was letting her own imaginary love scene play out in her mind, sweeping round the floor with her lovely long arms and legs in perfect instinctive lines.

  And Jo was good too, because she knew how to hold herself. It was a curious thing, a dancing cliché that Angelica had learned over time was true, but bigger girls really did have much more grace on the floor than their skinnier friends. Being constantly aware of their bodies meant they carried themselves carefully and lightly. Jo had hips that moved, and she danced like someone whose inhibitions had long gone from romping around with kids; she wasn’t afraid to get things wrong, or look silly, and Angelica could tell from watching Frank’s face, or Ross’s, that she was a pleasure to dance with because of that.

  She looked down at the tango dress in her hands. Its old sequins glimmered in the soft light of the table lamp, as if they longed to be spangled by a glitterball again, shimmering like serpent’s scales as the dress whisked about.

  Angelica had a moment’s doubt. Was it interfering to give it to Katie? Something was wrong between Katie and Ross, though Katie seemed to think no one could tell. She was better at disguising her unhappiness than he was. But years of scrutinising couples who were hiding furious quarrels behind the rictus grin of their show faces had given Angelica x-ray eyes for tension. Tony always said she could predict couples splitting even before they knew themselves.

  Well, you had to, didn’t you? Angelica had reasoned. It wasn’t prurience, it was smart business sense. Good partners didn’t come on the market often, and when they did, it was all change for everyone.

  No, something was definitely wrong between Ross and Katie and it made her sad, because they were a nice pair. Decent, she felt, unlike Jo’s Greg, whom she didn’t trust an inch. He was good looking, but a pushy lead, too forceful, refusing to slow down a little for Peggy, tutting when Trina messed up her steps in front of her, so Angelica would know it was Trina who’d messed up, not him.

  Worry about one couple at a time, she told herself. And that’s if you’ve got the nerve to tell them how to fix their marriage – in this dress of all dresses?

  She hugged the fabric to her chest, releasing another memory-tingling noseful of ballrooms and starch and hairspray. She closed her eyes to smell it better, and when she opened them, she realised there was one more dress in the box, screwed up in a ball so small it had got lost in the packing.

  Angelica leaned forward and pulled it out: it was Tony’s favourite – the slinky black jersey practice dress, cut very simply, but with a deep v in the back which showed off her angular shoulder-blades. It had been thrown in the back of her wardrobe the last time she saw him, and it had stayed there, to be packed up for storage with her formal gowns when she moved to Florida with Jerry. New partner, new dresses, that was the rule.

  She held it in her hands, feeling its heaviness, and imagined it on Katie, falling in drapey folds over her neat hips and slim waist. She had good legs, Katie, and with that boring blonde bob slicked back or held with some glitzy diamanté headpiece . . .

  Maybe.

  Angelica smiled, then sighed.

  It would be something else she was bringing full circle. And that was the point of coming back to Longhampton.

  29

  Lauren woke early on Sunday morning, and her first thought, almost before her eyes were open, was about Bridget’s worry-lined face last night. She’d seemed old and anxious. Not her reliable, ageless mother, but a middle-aged woman with a huge problem.

  That was closely followed by her wedding, and the realisation that matching white horses weren’t just a possibility – they were now totally out of the question.

  Lauren lay motionless in her warm bed, and struggled yet again to work out how she felt, and what she should do.

  There was no sound from her parents’ room next door, and she wondered if her mum was lying there too, unable to sleep for worrying.

  Were they too old to remortgage? What if her parents had to sell the house to pay those bills? Move somewhere smaller?

  She closed her eyes as her heart sped up and her chest tightened.

  Deep breaths, she told herself, as Dr Bashir had trained them to say at the surgery if a patient started to come over too emotional at the desk. Deep breaths. Focus on the breath going in . . . and out. And in . . . and out.

  It was fine going out, but as she breathed in, she saw her mother’s drawn and worried eyes, and that file of cold red bills, and the slashes of misery it would put through their happy, loving marriage when it came out that Mum had kept all this from Dad.

  Then on the out breath, she saw the croquembouches and the beautiful fairy-tale dress, and the gold plates at the buffet, everything being swept away and replaced with – well, with what? Her dream wedding, the one she’d planned in her head since she was fourteen, gone, just like that. Never to be had again.

  Her throat tightened just thinking about it and her eyes snapped open.

  They fell immediately on a brochure for a local castle venue, one with a real maze where you could have your wedding pictures taken.

  ‘Come on, Lauren,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s going to be fine. I’ll tell Chris everything, and he’ll know what to do.’

  She was still a bit annoyed with him after that face-off at the pub the previous night, but on balance, the thought of sinking into the comfort of Chris’s warm arms, and feeling his hands stroking her hair, tipped the scales in his favour. Plus, she reckoned, he’d be desperate to show how supportive he could be. She and Chris didn’t argue. Not for long anyway.

  Once Lauren was in her car on the way to Kian’s flat, things started to look brighter. Chris was doing well at the dealership; maybe he could get an advance on his bonus and they could pay for more of the wedding themselves? Or better, he could ask Irene for some money to pay for some stuff? She was always offering to chip in for the cost of things.

  Then there were her brothers. I could ring Billy, she thought; he’d just sold his house, so he’d have some spare cash to lend Mum – and then we wouldn’t have to cancel quite so much.

  A few gold plates slipped back, and her mental wedding dress flounced up from its scaled-back Monsoon stand-in state, to a bridal shop one, with an extra ruffly skirt.

  For a second, Lauren remembered the look on her mother’s face when she’d suggested talking to Irene, and she felt a bit uncomfortable. And there was always the off-chance that Billy might tell Dad. But what was the point in being so proud? Mum was in trouble, and Irene was only too happy to pay. What else did Irene have to spend her money on anyway?

  I can sell my car too, she thought, nobly, parking outside th
e flat and locking her little Clio. It’s not worth much, but it’s a start.

  A bell rang in the back of Lauren’s mind that the handmade wedding dress currently under construction cost exactly three and half times more than Chris had paid for her car, but she didn’t pay too much attention to it.

  ‘Chris!’ she called, letting herself in. ‘Chris?’

  The curtains were still drawn in the flat, but she could hear the shower running.

  They must have had a late one after I left last night, she thought, picking her way through the pizza boxes in the sitting room. The whole flat stank of lager and stale smoke. Lauren felt bad about storming out of the pub like that, but Chris needed to know that she wouldn’t stand this stupid competition between her and Kian for his attention.

  He was an adult now, a fiancé. And now they had adult-sized problems to deal with.

  Lauren was just about to go through to Chris’s room, through the sitting room, when a small girl with an even smaller towel wrapped round her Fake Baked body, and another round her head, stepped out of the bathroom, and right into her.

  They stared at each other in mutual shock, as the girl clung to what Lauren knew was actually a hand towel.

  She must be Kian’s pull from last night.

  The poor thing, thought Lauren. No wonder she wanted a shower.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, with a friendly smile, dumping her handbag on the sofa, where various clothes still lay crumpled as they fell. Lauren tried not to look, as did the other girl. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m not stopping. Kian up and about yet, then? Or is he still sleeping it off?’

  ‘Kian?’ The girl’s face was blank.

  ‘Oh, my God, you mean you didn’t even get to exchanging names?’ exclaimed Lauren. That was bad, even by Kian’s standards. Still, the girl was pretty cute: dark hair and eyes, no visible tattoos. Not very Longhampton. Whatever it was that Kian had, he certainly knew how to use it. ‘For future reference, his name’s Kian Matthews, and he sometimes talks about himself in the third person, so I’m surprised it didn’t register, to be honest. He must have been really plying you with booze!’

  ‘I wasn’t that drunk!’ she protested, angrily. ‘I didn’t come back with a Kian! I came home with Chris! Excuse me, but I have no idea who Kian is!’

  ‘What?’ Lauren’s knees went weak, as if someone had tripped her up. Her body suddenly felt completely empty, and she could barely form words through her shock. ‘Chris? You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, Chris. Chris Markham, works at the Jaguar dealership. I’m not some slapper!’ The girl pouted, and through her rising hurt and anger, Lauren couldn’t help noticing that she was one of those small, sexy pert girls who’d always made her feel so galumphing and lanky. The girls who always ended up with cool guys like Chris.

  All of a sudden, Lauren felt fourteen again; gangly, red cheeked and, worst of all, the last to know anything.

  ‘And who are you?’ the girl demanded. ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘I’m his fiancée!’ yelled Lauren, drawing herself up to her full five foot ten. She towered over her. ‘I am Chris’s fiancée!’

  The fury of Lauren’s words knocked the wind out of both their sails.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said the girl in a small voice. ‘Shit.’

  Lauren might have looked fierce, but she was falling to bits like a jigsaw inside. Am I asleep, she wondered, frantically. Am I in the middle of some horrible, cruel dream? First Mum, behaving so out of character, and now Chris. It’s just wrong.

  So that’s why Chris hadn’t answered his phone after she left the pub! Her mind filled with excruciating images of him chatting this girl up with that flirty little twinkle in his eye, buying her drinks, laughing at her jokes, then taking her home in a taxi, with Kian egging him on, telling him he was too young to be settling down – she could just hear him now.

  And then, undressing her, and kissing her, doing all the intimate things that he’d learned to do with her! In their bed! Lauren’s skin crawled and she couldn’t think any further.

  Just then a bedroom door opened, and Chris’s bleary figure emerged, a hand over his face to shield his eyes from the light. His bare chest was visible under the dressing gown he’d hauled on over his boxers, and Lauren felt physically sick at the sight of his pale golden chest hair. This girl had been kissing that moments ago, touching him . . .

  ‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ he demanded, rubbing his eyes. ‘Some of us aren’t feeling so great . . .’

  Lauren marched over, and before she knew what she was doing, she gave him an angry shove.

  Chris roared in surprise, staggering back into the sofa with the impact.

  ‘You bastard!’ she sobbed, raining down blows on his chest with her balled-up fists, shock and humiliation fanning the flames of her fury. ‘You cheating, lying bastard! Is that why you didn’t want me to come out with you? Is that why you were so keen to move in with Kian? So you could see other girls on the side, without me knowing? Is it?’

  Chris looked dazed, and tried to grab hold of her flailing hands. ‘Slow down, Loz. What are you talking—’

  ‘Don’t try to get out of it! She told me! She told me you took her home! She . . .’

  Lauren stopped, and looked round, but the girl had slunk off, and the clothes were missing off the sofa.

  ‘Loz,’ pleaded Chris, ‘I can explain everything, it’s not what it looks like, honestly, it’s—’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ spat Lauren. ‘Tell Kian – tell him he’s got what he wanted. You can have as many single nights out as he wants now! Because you’re not having any with me!’

  She would have said a bit more, but the thick tears were already choking up her throat, making it raw, and her heart was beating so hard she was surprised he couldn’t see it, banging away in her chest.

  Chris was still yelling, ‘Lauren, Lauren!’ as she stumbled down the stairs, her feet slipping on the nasty carpet, and she had to cling onto the banister to stop herself falling as tears blurred her vision.

  She knew she wasn’t really safe to drive, but yanked open the car door anyway, wanting to be gone before Chris could run out and give her some cobbled-together ‘explanation’ straight from the Kian Matthews Book of Slimy Male Behaviour. As she turned the ignition the CD player came on, and it was the compilation of songs Angelica had made for them to practise to.

  ‘Once Upon a Dream’ from Sleeping Beauty – she’d been singing along to that only yesterday, thinking how amazing it was that a guy as good looking as Chris wasn’t a dog, like some of the men her girlfriends were always being messed around by.

  With a groan that seemed to come straight from her stomach, Lauren ripped out the CD and hurled it into the back seat, before pulling off the hand brake and driving away.

  She didn’t know how far she drove round Longhampton but for once Lauren didn’t mind its bossy one-way systems and endless traffic lights. It left her free to concentrate on crying and feeling numb. Eventually, she found herself driving down the broad old road that ran alongside the park, where every seventeen-year-old went to do three-point turns.

  She saw a large space, pulled into it, and turned off the engine. It ticked in the silence as she stared through the windscreen at the painted spike railings and leafless trees. She and Chris used to go to the park a lot when they were at school, to be ‘alone’. They even had their ‘special bench’. A few brave dog-walkers were up and about, being hauled round the ornamental duck pond by their pets. One couple was juggling a spaniel, a toddler and a double buggy, but seemed to be enjoying it.

  That’s not going to be us now, thought Lauren, as her heart contracted in pain. Me and Chris, we’re never going to have a toddler and a spaniel. He’s ruined everything.

  She grabbed her coat and got out. It really was cold, and she had to set off walking at some pace to keep warm. Longhampton’s park was surprisingly big, built for the town by some Victorian factory owner who felt his minions should have somewhere to go f
or their daily sunlight ration, and Lauren had covered nearly a mile of winding path before she suddenly ran out of energy and slumped on the bench, where she and Chris used to snog until their lips were sore, and sat staring miserably into space.

  She probed her broken heart ruthlessly, making herself picture Chris with that girl, whose name she didn’t even know, wallowing in the pain of it all. How could he do that to her? When they were so far down the line with the wedding? He knew the deposits were paid!

  Well, it was all off now. And he’d be lucky if her dad didn’t go round there and thump him.

  From nowhere, Lauren suddenly thought of her mother. Mum’s gone into all that debt for nothing, she realised, horrified, and even though she didn’t think she could feel any worse, she did.

  The town hall clocked chimed the half-hour, then the hour, and Lauren still couldn’t find the energy to move. Footsteps came and went, sometimes slowing, as well-meaning passers-by peered to see if she was OK, and despite feeling as if she were filled with broken glass, Lauren somehow managed to mumble, ‘’M fine, thanks. Really, thanks,’ and force a twisted smile until they walked on.

  After a while, though, she heard a voice she recognised. A man’s voice.

  ‘Lauren?’ it said, tentatively.

  The accompanying footsteps slowed, then stopped in front of her.

  Slowly, Lauren parted the fingers covering her face, and saw two pairs of trainers standing on the pathway. Two pairs.

  She looked up. It was Chris, and he had Kian with him. Both looked as if they’d only just stopped yelling at each other; Chris looked furious while Kian just looked weaselly.

  ‘Kian’s got something he wants to tell you,’ said Chris, and gave Kian a shove.

  ‘Chris didn’t pull that girl,’ admitted Kian. ‘It was me.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to cover up for him,’ said Lauren, dully. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, really,’ said Kian. ‘It was me. I told her my name was Chris because . . . well, I’m lying low for a while, put it like that. Not exactly . . . off the leash at the moment.’