by Lucy Dillon
‘Laurie,’ said Bridget, slowly. ‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. And I’m only telling you, because I don’t want you to feel that you’re under pressure to do anything you’re not ready for.’
Lauren raised her head, and realised her mum was gearing herself up to be very honest. Her heart sank. She wasn’t sure she’d got her head round the credit cards yet.
Inside the Hall, Angelica had moved the class on to a vigorous cha-cha, loud enough to drown out any potential crying. The Latin rhythm clacked and shuffled through the glass doors, with Angelica’s voice yelling instruction over the top.
‘Move your hips, Trina!’ she bellowed. ‘Your hips! Don’t your knees bend at all? You’re too young to have replacements!’
‘Your dad and I very nearly eloped, on my twenty-first birthday,’ Bridget began. ‘We’d been planning it for months – he had the ring, and the licence, and we were going to go up to Gretna Green on the bus. I even went out and got myself a white mini dress and matching knee-high boots. It was very romantic and secret, because your grandad wasn’t very keen on your father, you see – thought his hair was a bit long, because he’d not done National Service. Dads don’t change, do they?’
Lauren shook her head.
‘Anyway,’ sighed Bridget, ‘I don’t know why we’d got it into our heads that we had to be married, but in those days people didn’t live together like they do now. Not round here, anyway. So the day started getting nearer, and we’d come up with our clever cover stories as to where we’d be, and then I woke up the day before my birthday, and I thought no. I can’t get married yet. I haven’t met Paul McCartney.’
‘What?’ Lauren stopped gazing at her feet and looked up at her mother. ‘Were you likely to meet Paul McCartney in Longhampton?’
‘No, I mean, I hadn’t been to London.’ Bridget widened her eyes as if it was perfectly obvious. ‘Paul was the only Beatle still not married, and I hadn’t had a chance to go to London and bump into him in a pub in St John’s Wood and be swept off my feet. If I married your dad, that would never ever happen. Obviously, yes, it was a bit of an outside chance, me bumping into Paul, and him not minding the fact I’ve a tin ear, but I still didn’t want to rule it out. I was terrified of hurting your dad, though. I didn’t want to tell him, but I knew I couldn’t marry him. Not yet.’
God, thought Lauren, I’m seeing a whole new side to Mum this week. Paul McCartney! Of all people. And she’s not been to London my entire life so it’s not like it made much difference.
‘So how did you tell him?’ she asked, curiously.
‘Well,’ sighed Bridget, spreading her hands on her knees, ‘I didn’t need to do anything, in the end. I made myself so sick with worrying that my mother had to call for the doctor, and I was told to stay in bed for three days, no visitors. Your dad came to pick me up – although we’d had a code for that, I mean, talk about planned like a James Bond film – and my mum told him I’d got bad nerves and he should come back at the weekend.’
‘And did he?’
‘Oh, yes. But we never spoke about eloping again. I think he’d gone off the idea as much as I had. Not that he ever said as much. No, it was the planning that was so lovely, you see. Having a secret just the two of us knew.’ She sighed again. ‘They were more innocent days. But happy.’
‘But you got married in the end?’ Lauren pressed her. ‘You did want to?’
‘Of course! Well, we had to. I found out Billy was on the way. But the funny thing is, it wasn’t a case of having to – soon as I knew I was pregnant, Paul McCartney didn’t so much as cross my mind.’ Bridget held her daughter’s hands and looked hard into her eyes. ‘That’s what I’m trying to say, not very well, I know. I just knew your dad was the right man for me, for ever. But it was because I was ready. Our wedding wasn’t anything like the big romantic plans we’d made – we arranged the whole thing in about a week. Then Billy was late, thank God, by over a fortnight, so it didn’t look so bad.’
‘Oh, is that why Gran looks so lemon-faced in the photos?’ asked Lauren, as the penny finally dropped. ‘Not because of your dress at all!’
Bridget nodded, then her wicked grin turned serious. ‘Now, your father doesn’t know any of that. I don’t think he’d want to anyway. But you know what I’m saying here, don’t you?’
‘If a part of me still wants to marry Justin Timberlake then I shouldn’t marry Chris just yet?’
‘I’m not sure I know which one Justin Timberlake is, but yes, that’s the gist of it. And,’ Bridget went on, patting her hand, ‘turns out I got the better of the two in any case. I don’t see your dad dyeing his hair, do you?’
Lauren laughed, then bit her lip and looked up at her mum, her eyes wide with fresh distress. ‘But what about the money?’
‘I keep telling you, Lauren, we’ll worry about that later. The main thing is you. Your happiness. Now, I think you and Chris need to have a proper conversation – not about the wedding, not about the house, just about what you two feel.’ She squeezed her hand again, feeling how slender Lauren’s fingers were. ‘Be honest with each other. It’s the only thing that matters in the end.’
‘I know,’ said Lauren, getting to her feet, and wobbling like a newborn giraffe. ‘I’m going to ring him now. I think we can wait a while.’
They paused for a moment, enjoying the bubble of tenderness that surrounded them. It made Bridget’s heart lurch, seeing how much like Frank Lauren was: his pointed nose, his kindness, his reassuring solidity. She adored Billy and Dave, but Lauren was her little girl, still. I’d have given up all of the Beatles to have my beautiful daughter, she thought with a fierce tug of pride.
Next door, Angelica instructed everyone to change partners and locate their sense of rhythm before she came round and started bending their knees for them.
‘I won’t get to dance at my wedding,’ said Lauren suddenly, in a small sad voice. ‘If Chris and I call things off, I mean. If we do.’
‘You’ll get to dance at the social night instead!’ said Bridget, trying to sound more cheerful than Lauren’s crestfallen face made her feel. ‘With your dad, and all the other chaps lining up to dance with you. And you’ve got to admit, Chris could do with a bit of extra practice before he does anything in public . . .’
Lauren managed a brave smile. ‘Yeah. I suppose.’ She leaned down, hugging her mum tightly. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I love you. You and Dad.’
‘I know,’ said Bridget. ‘We love you too.’
Lauren unfolded herself, then pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right,’ she said, and with a final crooked smile, she marched across the tiles to the heavy front door.
Bridget watched her go, and sent up a silent prayer to whichever helpful deity was in charge of dodgy relationships that Lauren found the right words. Or, failing that, that some random act of God would spare her the awful conversation, just as she and Frank had been saved from theirs.
Then she heaved herself up off the bench (When did I get so creaky and ancient? she wondered) and went back into the main Hall, to find the husband she’d loved every day since then.
It was easy enough to tell Lauren to be honest, but she wasn’t looking forward to the confession she knew had to be made that evening.
31
After Lauren left, the class never really got going again properly; Frank and Bridget danced together in the sort of close hold that suggested they were engaged in a conversation they didn’t want anyone to overhear, while everyone else pretended not to look curious as to what that might be about. Angelica, the seasoned pro, maintained her glossy smile and cheerful encouragement, but even she seemed distracted, and Baxter had to take her to task about her definition of a fleckerl.
At half-eight, Angelica finally called it a day, and Katie hurried over to catch Bridget before she left.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asked. It didn’t come naturally to Katie to interfere in other people’s problems, but there was some
thing in Bridget’s eyes that she couldn’t stand to see.
‘Oh, I think it’ll be . . . I don’t know.’ Bridget shouldered her handbag like a soldier and smiled wonkily.
‘Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .’ Katie knew it was a lame thing to offer, but Bridget seemed to be grateful for it. Her eyes turned more animated as she seized on a distraction.
‘I’ve written a letter to your boss at the planning department, about this place. And I’ve suggested we do it as a school history project too – which’ll be a nice local interest feature for the paper, don’t you think?’
‘Clever!’ said Katie. ‘I mean, you’ve obviously got lots else to be thinking about but—’
‘I’m happy to think about this,’ said Bridget. ‘Believe me.’
Then Frank came back from the loo, and Katie saw a new determination come over Bridget as she waved goodbye.
As she was changing her shoes in the entrance hall, she heard Angelica’s heels clicking over to her.
‘Katie, are you dashing off?’ Angelica’s red dancing courts were standing about a foot away from her.
She straightened up. ‘I’ve got to get back to Hannah,’ she said, feeling rather fraudulent. ‘She’s not too well.’
‘Oh, right. Of course. Um, I’d like a quick word, if you’ve got a moment,’ Angelica went on, then glanced around the vestibule where the class were slowly getting their things together to drift out into the cold evening. ‘If we could just wait a second until . . .’
Oh God, thought Katie, as her heart sank. It’ll be about Ross and what we’re going to do for this display. Everyone else had chosen their songs, apart from them. And Jo and Greg, of course.
‘Night, all!’ called Baxter. ‘Another lovely evening! Your footwork’s really coming on, Katie!’
‘Thanks.’ Katie raised her voice a fraction too loud. ‘Night!’
Angelica watched, smiling, as Baxter helped Peggy on with her coat, then she turned and walked over to the chair where she put her own bag and coat.
Katie watched her walk, fascinated by her grace. Each step was a mini dance, thought Katie, admiring the flex of her calves and the way her skirt swung like a bell. Angelica was just the right side of cartoon womanly. It was the sort of womanly you could see at a distance.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Angelica was saying, returning now with a large paper carrier bag. ‘But I’ve been watching you and Ross and there’s something I wanted you to have.’ She handed Katie the bag. ‘I’m having a clear-out,’ she added. ‘Everything must go.’
It was from Fenwicks, in London, and much heavier than Katie was expecting.
Cautiously, she looked inside at the glittering folds of dark fabric, with a red lining like strawberry jam and dotted with heavy layers of hand-stitched jet-black sequins.
‘Angelica,’ she said, lifting it out slowly. ‘It’s . . .’
‘I think we’re about the same size,’ Angelica was saying, ‘give or take an inch or two. It’s one of my old competition dresses, a bit elaborate for practice, perhaps, but you’re really never going to get into dancing until you let a little femme fatale break through those boring office suits. Short of marching you to the shops and making you buy something to do justice to those legs of yours, I thought this might help you find your inner drama queen.’
Inner drag queen more like, thought Katie.
She paused when Katie didn’t respond, and added in a kinder tone. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way. You only have to let her out on the dancefloor if you want. Pack her up at the end of the evening. Maybe Ross might appreciate a bit of feminine glamour when you’re dancing? Men aren’t as subtle as us. Sometimes they like a bit of obvious. Make him feel he’s dancing with his gorgeous wife, and not his bank manager?’
Katie said nothing, but held up the dress by its sequinned shoulder straps and let it fall past her chair to trail its handkerchief hem on the floor. It weighed a ton, but the dress seemed to wiggle on its own.
Angelica was right – the bias cut looked as if it would slip over her curves perfectly, although it was handmade and didn’t have a size label inside. It was far too stagey to wear outside, but she knew that under the right lights, like the mirrorball at the social, it would come to life in a different way. It was a dress that danced with you. A dress that made everyone turn to look at you and the man who was guiding you proudly around the floor.
‘It’s lovely, Angelica, but it’s not really me,’ she said, and her voice wobbled. She pressed her thumb and forefinger against her eyes to stop the tears starting.
‘Well, yes, it’s pretty nice,’ Angelica agreed after a pause, ‘but not enough to make you weep over it.’
Katie let the dress fall into her lap and blinked hard.
Come on, Katie, she told herself. Don’t let Angelica see you upset.
But it was all bubbling up inside her, all the pain and despair she’d felt in the last week, and pressed down so the children wouldn’t see, so the team at work wouldn’t see. There had been no one to tell – no Ross, no Jo, no one.
‘It’s too late. Too late for me to find my inner dancer. Ross and I won’t be coming any more,’ she gulped, straining under the control. ‘He’s . . . we’re not . . .’
‘You don’t want to do the demonstration?’ Angelica’s skinny eyebrows shot up her forehead. ‘But you’re my star pupils!’
Katie screwed up her face. It was so stupid she almost wanted to laugh. Part of her did feel bad about missing the class’s moment of glory, but a bigger part suddenly realised how much of her life she’d wasted worrying about exactly that sort of thing. Doing well. Jumping through hoops. ‘No, we’re going to separate.’
‘Oh my God. Not you as well.’ Angelica crossed her arms, then raised them heavenwards. ‘What is it about this class? What am I doing wrong?’
‘We tried. We really tried but it’s over.’
‘Are you sure?’ Angelica peered at her, her eyeliner making her narrowed eyes seem feline. ‘Because you don’t look that over to me.’
Katie looked up. ‘Angelica. We were only coming to class as part of our relationship counselling. We’ve been having crisis sessions for the past couple of months.’ She swallowed. ‘But I said some things I can’t take back, and now, we’re sharing a house but that’s it. He’s cutting himself off from me. And . . .’
She closed her eyes, and heard her own worst fear come out of her mouth.
‘I think he’s fallen in love with someone else. Someone who probably suits him more than me. And I don’t know what’s going to happen now.’
There, she thought. I’ve said it. Somehow it made her feel slightly better.
Angelica took a few deep, thoughtful breaths, then looked at her sideways, tipping her smooth dark head to one side like an exotic bird.
‘Mind if I give you some advice?’
Katie shook her head.
‘I’ve seen hundreds of couples dancing. Learners, amateurs, pros, the lot. I see them dance with other people, and, sometimes, I see little fires starting where they shouldn’t.’ Angelica leaned forward and tapped Katie’s knee so she’d look up. ‘Sometimes I see little fires go out. But in all the classes you and Ross have had, and in the social dances too, his eyes have never left you, whether you’ve been dancing with him or not. He watches you when Frank’s giving you a turn around the floor, he watches when you go to the loo, he watches when you’re dancing together and you refuse to look him in the eye. Not all the time, not in a possessive way, but now and again, to check you’re all right. When you’re dancing with him, he dances differently – his back’s straighter, his step’s bouncier. I promise you, he isn’t having an affair with Jo.’
‘Jo?’ Katie froze, and immediately backtracked. ‘I never said anything about . . .’
‘You didn’t need to. It’s obvious from your face. They’re not, though,’ she assured her. ‘They’re friends.’
‘But I think they are!’ protested Katie. ‘It’s my fault
– I’ve pushed him around and made him feel like I don’t appreciate him when I do. He’s great with the children, and I understand now how much he’s given up to look after them. I just . . . I just don’t feel what I did.’
Angelica sat back in her plastic chair and crossed her legs. ‘Katie, do you think it’s over? If you could get in your car and drive away, tomorrow, would you?’
Katie paused, and thought hard. ‘No,’ she said, after a moment or two. ‘I can’t imagine a life without him. But I just don’t see how I can see the old Ross again – I can’t tell whether he’s stopped being sexy, or whether I’ve just shut down all that side of myself.’ She raised her eyes sadly. ‘Isn’t that sad? I’ve forgotten how to be a woman.’
Angelica abruptly changed her plans. The dress clearly wasn’t going to be enough.
‘Katie,’ she said, ‘I’m going to teach you a dance, on your own, that’ll help. I promise. It’ll make you feel better about yourself, for a start.’
‘Really?’ asked Katie, doubtfully. ‘I’m not that good at dancing.’ She looked pained. ‘Ross is the dancer.’
‘No, but you’re good at standing up for yourself, and that’s what this dance is all about.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Argentine tango,’ said Angelica.
Katie’s hopeful expression dropped. ‘Oh God, not that one with the stomping up and down, and the whiplash-neck thing? No, I don’t think that’s going to help.’
‘No, no – you’re thinking of the ballroom tango.’ Angelica shook her head. ‘That’s totally different, that’s all about the man. This is something much sexier, much more sensual.’ She smiled encouragingly at Katie. ‘It’s about two strong people, dancing together. You learn this, and I promise you, you’ll remember how to be a woman.’
‘You say that as if you’ve tried this yourself.’ Katie suddenly realised how little she or anyone else at the class actually knew about Angelica, aside from a few snippets about professional competitions and cruises. Did she have a husband? A lover? A dancing partner? Children?