Ballroom Class a Form

  ‘You’ve got messages,’ said Scott, the second she walked in. He waved a string of Post-it notes at her. Since she’d bawled him out about messing up her holiday allocation, he’d adopted a bolshie work-to-rule attitude that was bringing out the worst in both of them.

  ‘Can you read them to me, please?’ Katie dumped her bag on the desk and started searching the drawers for her super-strength Tylenol. She was dying for the loo, and her head ached from the constant arguments and counter-arguments running through it.

  ‘Phone Jan in HR about your new holiday allowance, phone Paul Bailey about the maintenance contract on the sports centre, your car’s been clamped in the car park because your permit ran out yesterday . . .’

  Katie swallowed two tablets with a mouthful of cold coffee and with a superhuman effort summoned up a beady look. ‘Scott, as my assistant . . . you’re meant to keep an eye on things like parking permits.’

  ‘I’m a graduate trainee,’ said Scott, huffily. ‘Like we established, I don’t have to do personal stuff.’

  ‘Like we established, that’s not personal stuff. It’s a company car.’ Katie took a deep breath and gave Scott her scary, level glare, the one that reduced wolf-whistling builders to meek apology. ‘Someone must have called up here to tell you my car had been ticketed. Before it was clamped.’

  He waved further notes. ‘Yeah, if you’d let me finish – can you ring security about your car, can you ring security about your car again, and can you phone home?’

  He said ‘phone home’ in exactly the same way that Eddie Harding said ‘phone home’.

  Katie counted to ten in her head, pretended to be looking at something important on her emails, then when she was sure she could speak without hissing, said, ‘Thank you, Scott. Leave me the messages and I’ll get right on to them.’

  It was ten past five. God alone knew how she’d made it through that far. Anyone else would have taken a day off to rescue their marriage, she told herself. Instead Katie was almost ashamed of what a relief the rhythms of work had been. There’s no point, she told herself. No point until Ross gets back and we talk.

  Scott was hovering by the door, looking as if he was hoping to sneak off home early. He can forget that, thought Katie, spikily.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘There was a personal call.’

  Her heart thumped. Ross. Surely.

  ‘Can you ring your friend Jo,’ he added, as he sloped out of the door.

  Once he was out of sight, Katie slipped her shoes off under her desk and rubbed her eyes. Jo. She’d have to tell her what had happened with Ross, if he was planning to mooch around ‘thinking’ while Jo looked after Hannah, Jack, Rowan and Molly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Maybe she should call it off, keep the kids at home with her. It was typical of Ross to think that her friend wouldn’t mind going away with him, in these circumstances. Poor Jo.

  The answering machine cut in at Jo’s end, and Katie frowned, then dialled her mobile. Answering machine again.

  It would be something about the surprise, she thought. A present for Hannah or what Ross might like. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. Or ballroom dancing. Katie was acutely aware of her diary commitments now. Probably something about a bloody dress. Well, it’s too late for that.

  She pressed redial and got the answering machine again.

  She can’t want to talk to me that much, she thought, turning back to the forty-three emails that had appeared while she’d left her desk.

  It wasn’t a conversation she was looking forward to having in any case. It could wait another ten minutes.

  Katie tried to leave the office as soon as she could, to get back home so she and Ross could at least start to talk before he went away, but it took her half an hour to despatch Scott’s letters, which were riddled with grammatical errors and worryingly casual promises about forthcoming service provisions.

  Finally, when the cleaners arrived, she forced herself to drive home. Jo still wasn’t answering her phone, and Katie left a short message, just saying she and Ross wouldn’t be coming to the ballroom class that evening and could she apologise to Angelica.

  The lights were on downstairs as she let herself in, and the sound of Girls Aloud and excited children’s voices twanged her tense mood.

  For Christ’s sake, she grimaced, how can we talk about our future with that racket going on?

  She reined in the thought at once. Don’t be mean, Katie, she told herself. Look on the bright side, the kids are still up. I can spend some time with Hannah before she goes!

  It was even more important now to be good to the kids. They weren’t to blame for what was going on, and they mustn’t think they were.

  But what came out of her mouth when she went into the kitchen and discovered some kind of small-scale flapjack factory, complete with sticky, syrupy spoons, loose oats covering the floor, chocolate and margarine everywhere, including Hannah’s hair, was, ‘For God’s sake, Ross! What’s going on? This is meant to be wind-down time! Why are you filling them with sugar?’

  Katie hated herself as soon as she said it.

  Ross gave her a broad, obviously fake smile, but his eyes were dark and warning. He turned down the CD player just a little bit. ‘Oh, we’re just having fun! With Molly and Rowan!’

  Now Katie looked, Jo’s older daughter, Molly, was stirring up bowls along with Hannah while Rowan was sucking her fingers happily, squashed into the beanbag chair with Jack. Rowan and Jack didn’t look remotely sleepy, and had chocolatey mouths, while Hannah was in her element, standing on a stool, cooking and bossing in her dancing tutu. Katie already knew something was afoot: Hannah loved making cakes, and Ross only had to show her the scales to get her to behave.

  ‘We’re making cakes!’ Hannah announced.

  ‘I can see! They look delicious!’ said Katie automatically. ‘But it’s nearly bath-time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Daddy! Help me with the tin!’

  ‘Let me have a quick word with Mummy and I will, sweetie,’ said Ross as he pulled Katie to one side. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he muttered urgently.

  ‘Site meetings,’ said Katie. ‘Is something up with Jo? I got a message from her, but she wasn’t picking up her phone, so—’

  ‘Greg’s walked out.’ Ross shot a quick sideways glance at Molly, who had almost as good a nose for trouble as Hannah, but she was happily sticking her fingers in the syrup tin. ‘He turned up out of the blue this afternoon, said they “needed to talk”. She was in a total state, so I brought the girls round here, and Jo and Greg have been talking at home ever since.’

  Katie’s mouth dropped open, then, thinking of Molly and Hannah’s sharp eyes, she closed it at once. Remorse swept through her at the unanswered messages. ‘Oh my God. Really? Greg – he’s walked out? I can’t believe that. Is there someone else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She felt an uncomfortable reprimand in Ross’s expression. ‘Jo didn’t really go into details. I think she’d prefer to talk to you about it. But I thought the best thing to do was to keep Molly and Rowan busy here so Greg and Jo could . . . I don’t know. Do whatever it is they’re doing.’

  Katie tried to process it, but couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. Greg – responsible, hard-working, family man Greg – walking out? On Jo? The beautiful, home-making mother of his kids? It couldn’t be right: their marriage was fantastic. There had to be a reason. Maybe Ross hadn’t understood it properly. Maybe Greg had to move them away for work, or something, and Jo had refused. Or there was a problem with the business. Something like that.

  Damn, she thought, helplessly. Why didn’t I ring again? Why didn’t I have my phone on?

  Because you were at work, she reminded herself, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  ‘I’ve had the girls here most of the afternoon,’ Ross went on. ‘We’ve run out of everything else to do, so in the circumstances, flapjacks seemed like the only . . .’

  ‘Forget it, I didn’t realise, I’m
sorry.’ Katie squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, as her mind began running, sorting the problem into boxes. If it had happened this afternoon, then Greg might have gone. Jo would need someone there. She was probably going to pieces. ‘Well, is he still there? Did she say what’s happening? I mean, I assume he’s packing his bags – he’ll have to be the one to move out, not her, with the kids.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears, trying to remember what you were meant to do in the event of a huge bust-up. ‘I mean, if he has decided it’s over, she’ll need to get the locks changed as soon as possible.’

  ‘I don’t know the ins and outs,’ said Ross. ‘But I don’t know if she’s up to thinking about locks at the moment.’ He glanced back into the kitchen and frowned. ‘Hannah? No! Put that down. Wait for Daddy to do that, OK?’

  Katie reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile, which she’d had on silent driving home. She had twelve missed calls, and it was already buzzing again.

  Jo Home.

  ‘Jo?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Yes. Hello!’ she said, keeping one eye on his reaction.

  He didn’t say anything; he only pointed towards the sitting room and turned his attention back to the chaos in the kitchen.

  ‘Wow! Molly! Those are the best flapjacks I’ve ever seen!’ she heard him marvel in a voice that bore no trace of the anxiety he’d shown a second ago. He didn’t want to upset the children. It was sensitive, and kind. It was typical of Ross, she realised, suddenly.

  As he carried on talking over the excited gabbling, a bitter sweet little wave of affection for him washed over Katie’s heavy heart. He was good at being a dad. ‘Are you going to let me taste one? No? Oh, please?’ The girls squealed with delight.

  He’s kind, she thought, staring at his long back, bending over to cuddle Hannah so the T-shirt pulled out of his jeans. He’s gentle.

  ‘Katie?’ said Jo. She sounded far away.

  ‘Jo, I’ve just got back in, what’s happened?’ she gabbled into the phone. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘Um, yes, please.’ Jo’s voice was high, and hoarse, as if she was trying hard to sound normal after hours of talking and yelling. ‘Are the girls all right? Are they upset?’

  ‘They’re fine, honestly. Making cakes with Ross.’

  ‘Oh, Katie, he was so sweet this afternoon. I don’t know what I was thinking . . .’ Jo’s voice wobbled. ‘Greg’s such a thoughtless bastard, he met us outside playgroup of all places, and Rowan thought he’d come to pick us up and she was so excited, but he hadn’t, and Ross just . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Ross just took the kids and I knew at least they’d be all right with him.’

  Katie heard a terrible in-drawn breath and then, away from the phone, guttural choking noises that were too raw to call sobs.

  ‘Is he still there?’ she asked, trying to sound calm, though she raged inside at Greg’s cruelty. ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes. He’s gone.’

  ‘Jo, listen, Molly and Rowan can sleep here tonight if you want,’ said Katie, firmly. ‘You can too, come to that. I’m coming over now, OK? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Oh God, how am I going to tell Molly?’

  Her heart broke at the sound of Jo’s gasps. I should have done this hours ago, she thought. God, I’m a rubbish friend as well as a terrible mother.

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ said Katie, so Jo didn’t have to reply, and hung up.

  Hannah nearly bowled her over, rushing out of the kitchen with something sticky.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, have some flapjack!’

  Out of habit, Katie was about to swerve to avoid getting Hannah’s syrupy hands on her best suit, but she stopped herself, dropping to her knees so she could wrap her arms around her daughter’s small frame instead, breathing in the little girl smell of her oat-strewn hair. Her arms went round Hannah and back on her own, and she had to stop herself squeezing her right into her chest.

  ‘I love you, Hannah,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ said Hannah, rather muffled. ‘More than flapjack.’

  Katie drove the two miles to the new estate where the Fieldings lived, trying to think of practical positive things she could do so Jo wouldn’t have to think too much. That was how she coped with major upsets in her life: channel all that energy into doing things, then at least when you fell apart, you didn’t have to worry about the locks being changed, or the post being redirected because it was already done.

  She pulled up on the three-car drive, where deep grooves in the gravel suggested that Greg’s BMW had left in a hurry. It was a big house, with large Georgian-style windows and a conservatory, but only one sad little light was on: downstairs, in the children’s playroom. It glowed pink, through the princess curtains.

  Katie got out, and crunched her way over to the door, ringing the bell, then stooping to call through the letter box. ‘Jo? Jo, it’s me.’

  She drummed her fingers and the door swung open to reveal Jo, her curly hair mad and Medusa-like around her head, her eyes red and swollen with tears.

  Quickly, Katie stepped in front of her, so any nosy neighbours wouldn’t see her looking so upset, and guided her indoors.

  The hall was exactly as it always was – uncluttered, airy, but the gold-framed family photograph that usually stood on the telephone table had gone, and there were blank, brighter spaces on the wall where the glossy wedding photos had greeted visitors. Katie’s quick surveyor’s eye spotted a dustpan and brush just inside the kitchen, full of broken glass.

  ‘Oh, Jo, I’m so sorry,’ she said, putting her arms around her friend and hugging her with a sympathy she didn’t trust herself to put into words. Katie felt Jo’s chest shudder up and down as the tears started again beneath her, and held on tighter, resting her chin on her shoulder until they’d subsided.

  Dealing with Jo’s pain meant she could ignore her own for another hour, as Jo wept and went silent by turns while Katie made contingency plans.

  ‘Now, then. Can I make you a cup of tea?’ she said, with brisk kindness. ‘Hot sweet tea. That’s what you need. I could definitely do with some. Come on, come through to the kitchen. Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’ Jo slumped, stunned, onto a high stool.

  ‘A biscuit?’ Katie opened up the fitted cupboards, to find teabags and mugs. Her hand closed on an ‘I love you daddy’ mug, with a baby handprint, and she pushed it to the back.

  ‘He’s leaving us,’ said Jo, before Katie even had time to work out how to ask. ‘Our marriage has been over for ages, apparently, only I’ve been too wrapped up in family stuff to notice. He’s been trying to drop hints, he says, but you know, stupid me, too tied up with raising his kids.’ She looked at Katie through watery, angry eyes and counted off her fingers. Her hands were wobbling with so much emotion that she had to grab each finger firmly. ‘I’m not the woman he married, he’s fed up with our boring life, I’ve let myself go, I don’t talk to him, I put the kids before him every time, it’s never going to work, and he wants to get out now so he can start again. So both of us can start again, sorry,’ she added, bitterly. ‘He’s thinking of me too.’

  ‘Jo, I’m so sorry.’ Katie poured boiling water onto the tea bags. That sounded really final. Why hadn’t she noticed? What signs had she missed that things were so bad?

  Jo had no idea we were going to counselling until I told her, Katie reminded herself. It’s amazing how much you can hide if you don’t want people to know.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were so unhappy. I wish I’d known.’ Katie bit her lip.

  ‘Well, neither did I,’ said Jo, bitterly. ‘I’m still . . . shocked! I mean, Greg was always obsessed with work, even when he had all this, so how he’s got the nerve to tell me now that I wasn’t putting him first, when he’s put his business before everything else . . .’

  That hit a sore spot in Katie, and she reacted automatically. ‘I’m sure he was doing it for you and the kids, Jo.??
?

  ‘He didn’t have to tell me I’d turned into a flabby, boring housewife, though!’ she spat, and Katie put the kettle down and hugged her fiercely.

  ‘You’re not! Of course you’re not! What have you done since he left?’

  Jo deflated. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Well, you have to do something. Let’s get the locks changed, for a start, and call your solicitor about where you stand financially. He hasn’t closed any bank accounts, has he?’

  She shook her head. ‘He knows I need money for the girls. He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he?’ Katie grabbed Jo’s shopping notepad and started making a list. ‘Right – solicitor. Locksmith. You drink your tea and I’ll pack up his clothes. In bin bags.’ She tried a smile. ‘I won’t even bother to fold them neatly, either.’

  ‘Katie, I’m so grateful to you and Ross.’ Jo stood up, wobbled, then sank back down, defeated. ‘You know, you’re so lucky. Ross is the sweetest man I know. Look after him.’

  Jo spotted her flinching and pounced at once. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  Katie considered not telling her – this was Jo’s hour of need, after all – but she and Ross were going away, he’d tell her anyway.

  ‘We . . .’ It stuck in her throat but she made herself say it. ‘We’re having a rough patch. I think it might be a make or break one.’ Katie’s stomach plummeted as she heard the words coming out of her mouth. ‘Last night at counselling – I, I told him we were only still together because of Jack and Hannah.’

  Jo covered her mouth with her hand, and above it, her brown eyes were round with surprise and horror. ‘Katie!’ Her hair bounced as she shook her head in disbelief. ‘I mean, I know you were having counselling, but I thought things were better, Ross seemed so much happier at dancing and he told me that . . .’

  She paused, as if aware she’d said too much, and Katie looked more closely at her, suddenly angry that Ross had been discussing their problems with her.

  ‘He told you what?’

  Jo pressed her lips together. ‘Katie, I’m not taking sides between you and Ross. You know that.’