Ballroom Class a Form

  Hannah’s feet came thundering down the stairs, and Katie pulled herself together with her very last shred of energy, just as Hannah burst through the door, her chubby arms and legs peachy-soft in her frilly red swimsuit, and her silky hair flowing round her shoulders.

  ‘Mumm-ee-ee!’ she yelled. ‘Look at me! I’m a mermaid!’

  She did look like a mermaid, thought Katie, with a pang. Fragile and perfect and that hair – shimmering with golden light in a way hers never had as a child. And she wasn’t going to see her screaming with laughter as she splashed in the pool – how could Ross believe she wanted to put work first?

  She’s forgotten I’m not coming, she thought, painfully. I’ll have to tell her again.

  ‘You look lovely!’ she said. ‘Now, are you going to help Mummy put Jack to bed while Daddy puts his feet up? I need a big girl to help me with his bath . . .’

  Katie lifted Jack out of his chair, and the sleepy heaviness of his body as he clung to her made her want to curl up with him and Hannah, just feeling them near her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get out of bed if she did.

  ‘Yaaaaaay!’ said Hannah, still giddy with excitement. ‘Tell me about the pool again, Mummy!’

  ‘Is Greg coming?’ asked Ross, as she shuffled to the door, with Jack in her arms and Hannah clinging to her leg.

  Katie turned back with some effort. ‘Jo doesn’t know. Work’s busy. He’s going to try. It’s not that easy, Ross. We can’t always do what we want to do.’

  Ross turned away, so she couldn’t see his face. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said.

  Ross’s sulk continued throughout the evening, while they watched television in silence, and through the night when his back, protected in the T-shirt he always wore to sleep in now, was turned to her even before she got into bed.

  He kept it up through breakfast, where Katie had to field Hannah’s new questions about the pony-riding (names of ponies, colours of ponies, magical powers of ponies) and had subsided into a sullen antipathy by the time she came home the following evening, her brain numb after a day of disentangling lawyers’ letters about freeholds on the scabby, unloved precinct. She had tried to start conversations, about the new shops that were coming, or the phone call she’d had from Lauren, about whether the council hired out London buses for transporting wedding guests, but Ross was determined to punish her with disinterested grunts and dead eyes.

  The thought of the counselling session on top of that was, Katie thought, like finishing a marathon and seeing there was an assault course at the end.

  Peter looked particularly happy when they shuffled into the counselling room – not, Katie assumed, because he was pleased to see them. His eyes had a sparkle left over from a nice day, his beard was freshly trimmed, and he was wearing what looked like a hand-knitted Aran jumper.

  ‘New jumper?’ asked Ross, as he sat down.

  ‘Absolutely! Anniversary present from my wife!’ beamed Peter, smoothing it over his chest. ‘She made it for me herself.’

  From the size of it, thought Katie, his wife must have been knitting it since they got married.

  ‘Congratulations. How many years?’ she asked, politely. Really, if relationship counsellors were going to pass judgement on other people’s stuttering marriages, they ought to post their own marriage certificate on the door by way of authorisation, like cabbies or beauticians.

  ‘Ten years,’ said Peter proudly, then added, seeing the expression on Katie’s face, ‘second time round for both of us. Which goes to show, it’s perfectly possible to find happiness more than once in your life. Now, let’s get started on you two, shall we?’

  Katie wasn’t sure whether she felt consoled that if things weren’t going to work out with Ross, Peter would vouch for her desire to get out and start again, or faintly cheated that clearly he hadn’t followed his own advice and ‘worked on the good parts’.

  ‘Ross, why don’t you tell us about your parents’ relationship?’ Peter began, and Katie half listened as Ross described his dad, Julian, the local newspaper journalist, and his mum, Lynn, who’d done ‘all sorts – helped out in a school, run a café, whatever she could fit in around us really’.

  ‘And did they argue?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No more than usual,’ said Ross. ‘You know, the odd squabble.’

  ‘What did they argue about?’

  ‘Does that matter?’ demanded Katie.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Peter replied. ‘Sometimes it can show you what sort of arguing style you learned, what sort of issues trigger conflict . . . Ross?’

  ‘Money, normally – my dad freelanced quite a lot, so Mum had to find part-time work to make up the difference. But we got by. I suppose it’s because of that that I’ve always known that you can manage, that things come and go.’

  Katie realised Ross hadn’t really ever told her that. She thought his dad had always been full-time on the paper. As he talked, revealing flashes of his past she hadn’t seen before, a little of the old interest flickered, reminding her of the days when they hadn’t heard each other’s best anecdotes three million times.

  ‘But you had a happy childhood?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I loved having Dad around,’ he went on, ‘because we used to go off for walks and adventures and stuff with him so I didn’t associate him being at home with money pressure for Mum . . . I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mind the idea of Katie going back to work and me staying at home.’ He paused and his open face darkened defensively. ‘One thing I don’t like about our arrangement is having to ask Katie for cash. It makes me feel . . . like a beggar.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Katie. ‘You’ve never ever said that in all the time I’ve been working.’ She looked at Peter. ‘He’s never said that before,’ she repeated.

  Peter shrugged non-committally. ‘That’s the point of counselling,’ he said. ‘People often feel able to say things here that are too hard to say at home. Can you explain that for Katie, Ross?’

  Ross’s ears turned pink with effort. ‘It makes me feel like I have to account for everything I spend, and then you give me a hard time about a fiver here for a birthday present, or why do I need more money for swimming . . . I hate having to ask you for money, Katie,’ he said, turning to her, his eyes full of hurt pride. ‘As if I haven’t earned it.’

  ‘It’s our money,’ she said. ‘In our joint account! For us!’

  ‘Is it? When you go through the statement with a fine-tooth comb every month, querying every cash withdrawal?’

  ‘I just worry,’ she said. ‘I worry about where it all goes!’

  ‘We’re getting a little off-topic here,’ said Peter, ‘but we can come back to this, it’s very relevant. Katie, how about your mum and dad? Did they argue?’

  ‘Never,’ she said at once.

  Peter’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Never?’

  ‘Not once.’ Katie felt quite proud about that. Her mum had been too: ‘not one cross word in forty years’, as she used to tell people.

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  Katie’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean, how did it make me feel? Secure, of course, like my parents loved each other. They had a great marriage.’

  ‘Right,’ said Peter. ‘And did they show you they loved each other in other ways? Were they openly affectionate? Lots of cuddling?’

  Her confident manner faltered. ‘Well, no. They’re not . . . touchy-feely. Not everyone is. It’s not the only way of showing love.’

  ‘Are you still close now?’

  Ross couldn’t resist. ‘They emigrated to Spain just after she qualified,’ he pointed out. ‘So, no, not really.’

  Katie glared at him. ‘Don’t try and make that an issue. They’re entitled to their own life. But,’ she turned to Peter, ‘they never argued in front of me, and they always supported one another unconditionally. I make a point of never arguing with Ross in front of Hannah – if we’re having problems, that’s not something she needs to worry about.’


  Ross gave her a funny look. Sort of sad.

  ‘Of course, as Ross says, we don’t always get the real story of our parents’ relationship.’ Peter took off his glasses, and looked absently for his hanky. ‘It’s wonderful, of course, if you don’t have anything to row about, but it’s perfectly natural for adults to disagree. And it’s quite healthy for children to see that parents can fall out and resolve those conflicts and still love each other.’ He looked at Katie. ‘Children do pick up on far more than we’d like to think when it comes to tension. They’re like little radio sets, they tune in. They might not understand words, but they’re very good at body language.’

  Stop talking like a magazine article, thought Katie, but didn’t say anything. What was the point?

  ‘Mmm,’ said Ross. ‘That’s really true. I mean Jack’s not talking much yet, but he can tell when Hannah’s cross or I’m tired.’

  Katie’s irritation started to build, like a quick flame starting to lick dry twigs into a bonfire. So Ross was some kind of child psychologist now. She turned her annoyance on Peter. ‘So you’re saying we should be yelling in front of the kids?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he insisted. ‘I just get the impression, Katie, that even admitting you have problems is something you’re reluctant to do. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with renegotiating now and again. All Ross is saying is that because he spends more time with the children – being their primary carer – he’s noticed things that perhaps you don’t get quite so much time to—’

  ‘OK, OK,’ snapped Katie, as Ross’s face took on a new mix of smugness and martyrdom.

  Where is this going, she asked herself. So far, I’ve been made to feel bad about forgetting the colour of Ross’s T-shirt when I met him, for working hard to support my family, now for having parents who didn’t squabble. Angry, exhausted tears prickled at her eyes, as she thought of how she might have been able to put it right on this surprise holiday, but would end up looking evil.

  ‘Katie?’ asked Peter, reaching for the paper-hanky box. ‘Are you all right? There’s really no need to bottle your emotions up in front of me, you know. Better out than in, as I tell my kids!’

  No way, thought Katie. There’s no way I’m going to break down in front of you. Crying in public was something she didn’t do. Ever.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, fighting back the tears with deep breaths. ‘I’ve just had a hard day at work, and I’m really tired, and—’

  ‘Katie’s feeling guilty because she planned a surprise getaway for me and Hannah, for our birthdays,’ said Ross, as she turned, open-mouthed, to him. ‘But she can’t leave the office to join us – that’s not the surprise, by the way, it’s totally predictable. Personally, I’m sick of her thinking she can buy her way out of our children’s lives when all they want is her time.’

  ‘Stop making this about the children!’ protested Katie, twisting inside as Ross jabbed right on her sorest, weakest spot. ‘That’s totally underhand! I love our children! It’s only because of them that I’m still in this marriage!’

  There was a hideous pause.

  It took Katie a moment to realise what she’d actually said.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Ross. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you mean that, Katie?’ said Peter quietly. ‘It’s a very strong statement.’

  The silence stretched out like a swimming pool in front of her, flat and blue and still.

  I just have to say the words, thought Katie, her blood pulsing with an awful recklessness. All the words I’ve been biting back for the last few years, trying to keep things together. I can’t keep it up for the next forty years. Why put Ross through this too?

  ‘Yes,’ she said before she quite knew what she was saying. It was like being drunk, this unsettling permission to speak her mind. ‘It’s only the thought of hurting the children that stops me from leaving.’

  ‘And me?’ said Ross. ‘You don’t feel . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘You don’t feel anything for me any more?’

  Katie shook her head, very slowly, from one side to the other, as the words tumbled out. ‘I love you . . . like a brother? Or a son. I care what happens to you. I don’t want you to be unhappy. But I don’t love you . . . The way I used to. That’s all gone, with the rows and the stress. We’re not lovers any more. Just parents, and you won’t even let me be a proper parent. You want that all to yourself. It’s only because I loved loving you once that I can’t stand not feeling that way. I don’t think it’s enough.’ She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

  ‘And that’s it?’ said Ross, bitterly. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘You know, it’s not unusual to feel a bit emotional at this stage in counselling, Katie,’ said Peter. ‘You’re facing up to a lot of realities that you’ve both been ignoring – but that doesn’t mean it’s the end. Don’t you feel that, in some ways, you’ve learned something new about each other from being so honest? Look at Ross.’

  She couldn’t.

  ‘Look at Ross,’ said Peter, more sternly. ‘You’ve just said something very hard for him to hear. You can’t just ignore his reaction.’

  ‘That’s one of the things I like about dancing,’ said Ross, quietly, ‘you have to look at me when I hold you.’ His voice wobbled. ‘But even then you stare over my shoulder. Like you’d rather be dancing with someone else.’

  Katie suddenly realised she didn’t have the energy any more. Her and Ross – ballroom dancing? They thought ballroom dancing would save their marriage? It was embarrassing to think she’d ever thought it might help. What good were silly clothes? Prancing around with strangers? All that fake romance?

  She made herself look at Ross, and immediately saw how distressed he was. His brown eyes were filling with glassy tears, thickening his long lashes as he tried to blink them away. He lifted his sleeve, like a teenager, and wiped pathetically at his eyes.

  ‘Ross?’ said Peter, with absolute kindness.

  Feel something, Katie yelled at herself. Feel something for this poor well-meaning man sitting here crying because you’ve hurt him! But she couldn’t feel anything beyond pity. If Ross had chopped off her arm with an axe, she wasn’t sure she’d feel anything.

  Is this what it feels like when you’re going mad, she wondered. Or depressed? Wasn’t that a sign of depression, when you couldn’t feel happy or sad or anything any more?

  ‘If that’s what she thinks, then what’s the point in anything I can say?’ he managed. ‘I don’t want to make her stay, if she doesn’t love me.’

  And that was it, thought Katie. He’d rather let someone else make the decision for him, and . . . I need someone who’s tough enough to help me carry this family.

  ‘For once in your life, Ross, stop being so fucking nice,’ she said, and got up and walked out.

  17

  Katie didn’t know where she was walking, but she found herself on the precinct, and when she saw the warm bright lights still on in the new deli, welcoming in the gloomy concrete, she pushed open the door. The checked tablecloths suggested the owners had tried to turn it into a pizza parlour in the evenings, but she was the only customer, bar a few teenagers making a milkshake last as long as possible.

  Katie slumped at a table and tried to get her thoughts in order, but couldn’t. All she could think was that she wanted to close her eyes and wake up somewhere else.

  So, what are you going to do? Now you’ve told Ross your marriage is over and stormed out like you’re in Coronation Street?

  It was all right in soap operas. They just cut to a different scene with different people. But in real life, Katie knew she’d have to deal with the messy aftermath with Ross. She had to go home and deal with what happened next.

  But what would happen? Part of her was electric with the prospect of having finally stirred them out of their miserable rut; maybe now he’d yell and have an opinion she could respect him for. But maybe he wouldn’t, and she’d have to drag it out of him, and be responsible for this too.

  She stared
out at the drizzle-slicked high street, but her brain stayed sullenly empty, like the abandoned electrical shop opposite, its windows smeared out with white paint. The council’s going to knock all this down, she thought, as her thoughts ran back onto the research/check/confirm track of her in-tray. The architects who designed this horrible, sterile precinct thought they’d made something that would be here as long as the abbey, something modern and fresh. And now we know better, we’re going to flatten it and replace it with a Waitrose and outdoor coffee retail units and eco-friendly light.

  Ross walked in an hour later and she still hadn’t got any further.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You know they’re sweeping up around you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Katie. She hadn’t even taken off her coat.

  ‘I thought I might as well stay to the end of the session,’ he went on. ‘Seemed pointless not to, after what you said. I needed the counselling after that.’

  ‘And what did Peter say? Called me a selfish bitch, probably.’

  ‘No, we talked about me, actually,’ said Ross. He rubbed his chin. ‘He gave me a hard time about how I let you shoulder all the decisions and transfer my frustrations on to you, rather than dealing with them.’

  Katie stared at Ross, amazed he was being so calm. Was he in shock or something? Why was he acting so normal? As if she hadn’t just said their marriage was over?

  He frowned. ‘Shall we go home?’

  ‘Home?’ Katie repeated. ‘You want to go home?’

  ‘Where else is there to go? We’re about to be late for Gemma – she’s got revision to be getting on with, and I need to make sure the kids have got clean clothes if we’re going away.’

  He must be in shock, thought Katie. Delayed reaction.

  Ross drove home in silence, and out of guilt, Katie gave Gemma a tenner on top of her usual money for the extra half-hour. She looked thrilled.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Parkinson,’ she said. ‘That’s really sweet of you!’