Ballroom Class a Form

  The dancefloor was crowded, and as she walked in ‘In the Mood’ drew to a close, setting all the ladies off into their ‘big finish’ twirls and there was the usual ripple of thank yous and nods, before ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’ started and the dancers sprang back into their close holds. Nearly all the tables were empty, bar a few wistful single girls and flushed men talking about the football with their ties undone.

  Katie edged her way round the dancefloor, until she saw some familiar faces: the ballroom class had pulled two small round tables together and the empty plastic glasses were already piled up.

  Lauren, in a rose-print prom dress that showed off her model-long arms, was wedged between Trina and Chloe, who were obviously marking the outfits out of ten as they twirled past. Trina was actually pointing as her mouth moved nineteen to the dozen, which Katie didn’t think was very tactful, and the look on Chloe’s face was a mixture of profound embarrassment and secret agreement.

  Chloe, ever exacting about hygiene, had brought her own plastic cup, Katie noted.

  When Lauren spotted her, she nudged the other two, and they all smiled with genuine pleasure to see her. It was just a tiny thing, but it made Katie feel better.

  It turned a little sour when they looked over her shoulder to see where Ross and Jo and Greg were, but she forged on and sat down in the spare seat next to Trina.

  ‘Hi, Katie!’ said Lauren, warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you!’

  ‘You on your own?’ asked Trina, getting straight to the point as usual.

  ‘Um, yes.’ Katie scanned the dancefloor hopefully for Bridget. Bridget was the sort of mum who knew when certain topics needed skipping over. But there was no sign of her.

  ‘Why?’ Trina went on. ‘I always had your Ross down as the keen dancer. Didn’t think you were really into it.’

  Chloe glared at Trina, then smiled apologetically at Katie. ‘Are you having a night off on your own? Good for you!’ She nudged her. ‘Hey! Girls’ night! Great!’

  ‘Yeah,’ deadpanned Trina. ‘Get the orange squash in for the lasses.’

  ‘Ross and Jo have taken the kids away to Center Parcs for a few nights.’ Katie met Trina’s inquisitive gaze dead straight. ‘It’s half-term. I couldn’t get away from work, so they’ve gone on their own. And I’m here, because the house feels really empty without the kids running around.’

  ‘Aw, poor you,’ sympathised Lauren. ‘I bet it does. Still, we’ll take your mind off it. Have a nice dance tonight.’

  ‘Ross and Jo, eh? Gone off on their own, have they?’ said Trina, arching one eyebrow. ‘Is that good-looking husband of hers with them? Or is he stopping at home with you?’

  ‘No,’ she protested, ‘Greg’s not . . .’ Then she realised it wasn’t really up to her to let Jo’s problems out of the bag, but as her mouth snapped shut, she realised Trina had taken that as meaningful, and wished she hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Will you give it a rest, Trine?’ demanded Chloe, embarrassed by the loud cackling Trina let out. ‘Sorry about her – she’s peed off because we still haven’t found partners for this dance thing. Plus, Baxter told her she had heavy arms when he took her out for a foxtrot.’

  Trina’s wrath was distracted at once. ‘What would he know, the oily little shortarse? I don’t know how Peggy puts up with it. I know he’s good, like, but he’s like a bloody driving instructor, never shuts up. And as for that polyester ruffled shirt he’s got on tonight . . .’

  Chloe ignored her. ‘Anyway, you’ve picked a good evening – this is the first chance we’ve had to sit down since we got here! Even Chris has got a dance!’

  ‘With his mum,’ said Lauren, leaning over. ‘My future mother-in-law, Irene, has graced us with her presence. But be nice to her, because she’s giving us her old suite for our new house!’ She raised her thumbs and grinned wildly. ‘Me and Chris! Homeowners-to-be!’

  ‘You’re buying a house? Congratulations!’ said Katie, grateful for the change of topic. ‘When are you moving?’

  Lauren’s grin faded slightly. In the excitement of getting her deposit, and Chris wrangling his share out of Irene, it was easy to forget they’d not be moving for a while. ‘Yeah, well, it hasn’t actually been finished yet, but in the spring hopefully. Before the wedding anyway!’

  ‘Is it one of those ones on the old cattle market site?’ Katie had seen the plans for that estate; the builders were the same ones Eddie was pushing for the regeneration project. They seemed to get pretty much every contract going, and completed with a speed that would stun Six-Day Creation theorists.

  Lauren nodded. ‘Do you know them?’ Her hand went over her mouth. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me they’re built on an old graveyard or something?’

  ‘No, no. They’re fine. There’s going to be a new bus route and everything. But you need to get new houses checked for snags – little problems the builders leave for you to deal with. Here.’ Katie reached in her purse and fished out a business card. She scribbled her mobile number on the back and passed it over. ‘Give me a ring and I’ll get it checked over for you – someone I know’s a specialist. If you mention me, they’ll do you a deal.’

  Lauren’s face lit up with her easy, open smile and Katie felt her tense mood thaw. ‘Aw, thanks, Katie,’ she said, ‘that’s really kind of you!’

  ‘Your mum and dad must be pleased you’ve found somewhere,’ she said, spotting Frank leading Bridget back through the crowds.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lauren, doubtfully. ‘I thought she’d be more pleased, but she seems a bit . . . off tonight. I think she’s just sad I’m moving out.’

  ‘Hello, Katie!’ beamed Frank, as they got nearer. ‘Can you put me down for a foxtrot, once I’ve got my breath back?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Katie. She smiled at Bridget, who was, as Lauren had said, looking a bit distracted, not as smiley as normal. ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello,’ murmured Bridget, but before Katie could think of something nice to say about Lauren’s house, a tall skinny woman in a champagne bias-cut dress swept over, hauling a mortified Chris behind her. Her silvery-blonde hair bounced for emphasis as she spoke.

  ‘Just remember that everyone’ll be looking at you,’ she was reminding him in an undertone that coincided unfortunately with a lull in the music. ‘Your father would turn in his grave if he could see the way you—’

  ‘Katie!’ said Chris, seizing her hand. ‘Do you want to dance? Great! Come on!’

  There wasn’t much Katie could do but allow Chris to drag her onto the floor, and as the music changed to ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, they found themselves swept up into the crush of dancers, and away from the table.

  Chris’s brow furrowed in concentration as they went into their social foxtrot basic in the limited space they had. It wasn’t easy when you were worried about treading on other people, let alone your partner, and Katie could hear him counting under his breath as he guided her round, his big hand pressing on her back.

  Counting was a real social no-no, according to Angelica’s etiquette lessons. Counting (and not smiling) at your partner was tantamount to telling them they had two left feet and a tin ear. But Katie didn’t take offence. She’d danced with Chris before, and sometimes it was reassuring to know your partner would only ever do the basics and not try to swing you into some fancy new step, just to prove he could, as Baxter was wont to do.

  After half a lap of the floor and a series of awkward smiles and nods, they hit a traffic jam, and were forced to do little boxes backwards and forwards on the spot until it cleared. Suddenly Chris looked panicked and said, ‘Is it me, or are we doing a different dance to everyone else?’

  ‘Does it matter? So long as we’re moving in roughly the same time.’

  Chris didn’t look convinced. ‘Try telling my mother that.’

  ‘You’re not dancing with your mother, you’re dancing with someone who can’t tell a foxtrot from a merengue,’ said Katie. ‘We’re doing fine. Congratulations about your new house, by the way!’


  His face tensed even further, and Katie felt sorry for him.

  ‘It’s a good thing to do,’ she added, encouragingly. ‘Sensible.’

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  Katie raised her eyebrows. ‘Depends how personal. No, go on.’

  ‘Did you . . . ?’ he began, then stopped.

  ‘Did I what?’ said Katie. ‘Go on, Chris, I was only joking.’

  Chris seemed to struggle with himself, then blurted out, ‘Did it freak you out, when you signed your mortgage?’

  ‘What, the amount of money? Yes, absolutely,’ she said. ‘I still get freaked out by it – what would happen if I lost my job, what’ll happen if the rates go up again . . . But you just have to get on with it. Get insurance!’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . No. What I mean is . . .’ He looked at her and Katie realised he was genuinely spooked. There was a complicated emotion in his pretty blue eyes that she’d never seen before – she’d rather dismissed Chris as one of the popular lads, a ‘beer and a curry and the cutest sixth-former’ type. Now she had to look at him properly, and she saw he was desperate to get something off his chest.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, gently. ‘I won’t tell Lauren, or Bridget, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘God, no, don’t!’ He looked horrified and then Katie knew it had to be something to do with the wedding.

  Like she was in a position to advise on that.

  ‘Promise,’ she said, in what she hoped was a big-sisterly way.

  ‘Did you look at the twenty-five-year-term thing, and think, God, when this is paid off, we’ll be forty-eight! And we’ll have been together longer than I’ve been alive now?’ The words poured out of him as tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. ‘And we’ll probably have kids? Twenty-five years! I mean, it’s a hell of a long time! Like, 2032! I don’t even know what I’ll be doing in five years from now!’

  ‘Um, well, I was a little bit older than you,’ said Katie, taken aback by the force of Chris’s panic. ‘You’re still quite young to be taking on a mortgage, but . . .’ She looked him firmly in the eye. ‘Chris, have you and Lauren been to pre-marriage counselling? To discuss the vows and everything?’

  He nodded, a bit wildly. ‘Yeah, but to be honest, it was just the usual guff about listening and compromising, but this mortgage business kind of brought it home . . .’ His eyes skated nervously over her head towards the class table where Lauren was chatting animatedly to Bridget, who was in turn staring out into space. ‘I’ve had a ton of emotional stuff from my mum about what my dad would have wanted, and then Lauren’s dad had to match the deposit money, because I don’t think he thinks I can look after his little princess, and Kian reckons . . .’ Chris dragged a smile up from somewhere but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘It’s getting out of hand. And the only thing anyone ever tells me about the wedding is how my crap dancing is going to spoil the whole reception.’

  ‘Marriages aren’t just about the wedding,’ said Katie, wearily. ‘It’s what comes after that that you need some proper advice on. No one ever tells you about that.’

  They’d come to a sort of halt now, doing boxes in a corner while the more proficient dancers swirled and sashayed past them. Katie found she was able to do boxes and talk at the same time, which came as a pleasant surprise. Although they were holding each other with an intimacy that would lead to kissing anywhere other than a dancefloor, there was a matter-of-factness about their steps, danced so many times in practice with Angelica yelling at them about heartbeats and knee-flexing, that made frank conversation quite easy.

  It was a bit like being in a confessional, thought Katie. You felt you could say things within the privacy of one song, while it was just the two of you, experiencing that particular song and dance together.

  ‘I . . . I had to call off an engagement,’ she heard herself say. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, because it was a gut feeling, not a rational one. It wasn’t like me. But now I know it was the right thing to do, because I’d have married the wrong man.’

  She looked up and met Chris’s eyes, not feeling as awkward as she’d expected. He looked surprised, but curious.

  ‘That must have been . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Tricky.’

  ‘Listen, I’m not saying you should. But don’t ignore your instincts. You’re agreeing to share your life with someone,’ she went on. ‘Through everything – good and bad. That’s a big promise.’

  ‘But Lauren . . .’ he began, his shoulders slumping.

  ‘Lauren loves you, she’ll want to sort this out. Now. Chris, this is the happiest time,’ she added, trying to smile so it wouldn’t sound so depressing. ‘When you add children and money worries and everything else to the mix it gets even tougher.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chris, and chewed his lip.

  Katie didn’t want to drag anything else out of him if he didn’t want to talk but the poor lad looked about as stricken as a blond rugby player ever got.

  ‘I’m no expert, but talk to Lauren,’ she said, gently. ‘Forget about in-laws and mates and other people’s advice. She’s the one you’ll be waking up with for . . .’ She was about to say ‘for the next fifty years’ but realised that would probably make him sprint for the door. ‘But talk to her now, so you’ve got time to work things through. The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll get.’

  ‘I’m not having doubts,’ Chris protested rather too emphatically. ‘I just feel . . . like it’s going a bit quick. It’s not about me and Lauren, it’s about her getting a dress out of Cinderella, and my mum making a big deal about a stupid cake.’ His eyes hooded. ‘But if I say anything I’m going to look like a real bastard, like I don’t want to get married.’

  ‘Do you want to get married?’ asked Katie, with a directness that surprised even her.

  Come on, she thought, it’s not like he can tell anyone else. And it had been Peter’s direct questions that had brought her own true feelings out from under a rock.

  Chris looked stricken; clearly the ambush tactic was having similar effects. ‘I think I do . . . And then . . . I don’t. But no, I do. I do.’

  ‘If I asked Lauren the same thing and she gave me that reply, would you be happy with it?’ asked Katie.

  ‘Nnnnno?’ He stumbled in his step and they had to stop. It broke the tension that had built up between them and they had to look each other in the face so Chris could start them off again.

  ‘And two, three, four, and . . .’ said Katie, stepping back.

  ‘You’re leading,’ said Chris.

  ‘That’s what marriage does to you,’ she replied without thinking. ‘Sorry,’ she added, smiling wryly.

  Chris gave her a more confident look from under his thick row of dark eyelashes, and suddenly Katie felt ancient: she could see exactly why he was a heartbreaker – and just out of his teens.

  ‘You’re very young to be settling down with a mortgage at your age, Chris,’ she said, as non-patronisingly as she could. ‘Don’t you want to travel? Work abroad?’

  ‘That’s what Kian says.’ Then his glum expression switched into one of panic, as the music changed to a slower song that Katie didn’t recognise, and Frank’s broad figure loomed up behind them as the singer (Ella Fitzgerald? Julie London?) started warbling about her broken heart.

  ‘Gentleman’s excuse me!’ said Frank, cheerily. ‘I think Katie’s seen about enough of that corner, Christopher! Katie? May I?’

  Chris looked crestfallen as Frank swept her back out into the main current of dancers, and she watched as his beady-eyed mother swooped down on him like a seagull on a sprat, her French-manicured nails just missing his eye as she grabbed him in a close hold and started counting aloud, her mouth exaggerating each word.

  ‘He’s a nice lad,’ said Katie, feeling a sudden need to defend Chris.

  ‘Nice enough,’ said Frank, turning her capably, his knee moving inside hers to guide her around. Frank’s hold was more reassuring than Chris’s had b
een. He would, Katie thought, make a good Santa Claus. ‘Bit of growing up to do, I reckon, though, between you and me.’

  ‘He is only twenty-three.’

  ‘When I was twenty-three I’d a wife and baby. But things were different in those days.’ Frank spun Katie in a series of reverse turns, swinging her as if she was light as the feathers on a ballgown. The lights glittered in front of her eyes, and she caught sight of a pair of old dears in fabulous peppermint-green dresses, sitting the dance out. When had those dresses first seen the mirrorball? The sixties? Earlier? Were they part of Longhampton’s formation team, still wearing their gowns out?

  He smiled down at her. ‘That’s the trouble about being a dad – you know what twenty-three-year-old lads are like, because you were one yourself once. You wait! Ross’ll be the same with your little girl when the time comes. Where’s he tonight, then? We all missed you on Wednesday.’ He winked. ‘It’s much harder work without you and Jo to partner! Don’t tell Trina, but it’s not the same.’

  If he hadn’t said it so kindly, his words wouldn’t have cut through Katie so sharply, and she pleaded the need to concentrate on her steps to avoid any more explanations.

  The hands on the big Hall clock swept round the hour in a whirl of Cole Porter and Frank Sinatra, as the Hall got hotter and hotter, and the chatter rose above the slow dances, then stopped as the quicksteps filled the floor and left everyone gasping for breath. The orange-squash cups piled up on the tables as, one by one, each of the ballroom-class dancers were whisked off, sometimes with each other, sometimes with friendly strangers.

  Even Trina was kept busy, although each time she flopped back into her seat it was with a fresh critique of some poor bloke’s personal hygiene or a devastating remark about the need for support tights.

  ‘I should tell her – as a friend to fashion,’ she kept saying, and Chloe kept squeaking in panic, and flapping her to quiet down. Before long, Katie and Lauren had joined in the ringside judging, awarding marks to ‘Mr and Mrs Jive Bunny’ or ‘Mr Action Man Gripping-Hands’, and passing on key information about the smartly turned-out men who paid the charming old-fashioned courtesy of asking for dances.