‘Did we just do a corner?’
‘We did indeed.’ Frank twitched his eyebrows and smiled, and the bags under his eyes deepened. He had a comforting, dad-like smile, and she felt some of the tension in her arms melt away. ‘Rather neatly too, if you ask me.’
‘We haven’t done waltz corners,’ marvelled Katie.
‘Well, you have now. And you didn’t feel a thing, did you?’
Her brow creased, trying to work out how it had happened so she could practise it. ‘How did we do it? What were the steps?’
‘I’ll show you later,’ he said, as she forgot to change feet. ‘Let’s not get tangled up in details now, shall we?’
They danced on, and Frank let her concentrate, giving her an encouraging smile now and again.
Lauren was so lucky, having nice Frank to practise with, thought Katie. If only Dad had taught me to dance, I wouldn’t have to be here having lessons now.
She couldn’t imagine her father dancing. He didn’t have time for that sort of thing. He barely had time to play golf at the weekends, which would definitely have taken priority over waltzing.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ she said, as her brain suddenly froze as Frank tried to turn her into a spin of some kind.
‘My fault, I should have let you know that was coming,’ he said easily. ‘Ba dah, pah, pom, pom, pom . . . When I was learning all this, about a hundred years ago,’ Frank went on, conversationally, ‘my mother told me that her mother had told her that the trick was to listen to the music, not the voice in your head counting. I reckon that’s the secret. Enjoy the music, and forget about where you’re meant to be putting your feet. That’s not your problem – that’s the man’s! Leave the tricky stuff to him, eh?’
‘Things have moved on a bit since then,’ Katie said, automatically.
‘At work, maybe, but not on the dancefloor, love.’ Frank nudged her into another corner, deftly slipping between two twirling couples who passed in a ‘’scuse me, ’scuse me’ flurry of hot breath and Magie Noir.
One of them, Katie noticed, was Ross, holding Bridget’s little hand up high, as if he’d been doing it for years. When had he learned to turn around like that? They were chatting away, Bridget nodding and laughing as Ross’s eyebrows moved, obviously in the middle of some story. They looked like proper dancers.
‘Ross seems to have picked this up much faster than me,’ she heard herself say, and hated how petulant it sounded.
Frank gave her a funny smile. ‘Well, Bridget’s been making me look like Fred Astaire for years. Good partners can do that.’
And suddenly the music came to a close in a flourish, and around them couples separated in gracious curtsies and bows.
‘Thank you, I very much enjoyed that,’ said Frank, nodding his head. A few beads of perspiration had appeared on his bald spot, but he looked flushed in a happy way.
‘No, thank you,’ said Katie, as they squeezed their way back to the table. ‘Sorry about your poor feet. I just can’t get mine to do what’s in my head.’
‘Oh, it’ll come,’ he said. ‘Penny’ll drop and we won’t be able to keep you off the floor!’
Katie smiled politely. That was hardly likely. Prisoners who learned basket-weaving in prison didn’t usually end up master furniture-makers.
‘Lauren? May I have this quickstep?’ he said, as the band on the sound system struck up a brisk forties rhythm.
‘We haven’t done the quickstep.’
‘Nothing to it, love. Just follow me.’
She saw Frank offer his hand to his daughter, who pretended to pull a face of sheer embarrassment at her mother, but then took it with a half-hidden smile of genuine love that made Katie want to sigh inside. Lauren and Frank stepped onto the floor, about the same height, with Lauren in her wedding heels and they sailed off.
That’s a lovely relationship, she thought. I hope Hannah and Ross will be like that one day.
If we haven’t screwed up the kids by getting a divorce by then.
We’re not going to split up, Katie told herself. We’re going to fix it. Somehow.
She sat the next few dances out, preferring to watch as Angelica came back for Ross, and then for Greg, then sailed off with Baxter, at which point swathes of dancefloor cleared so everyone could admire their fancy linked steps and trailing arms. Ross was in demand, from Chloe and Trina, and every so often she would catch sight of him.
‘Katie?’
She turned. Ross had led Bridget back to her seat, and was standing very close to her, so close that she could smell his deodorant and the more intimate musky smell of his warm skin. ‘I’m reliably informed that this is a cha-cha,’ he said, seriously. ‘And I think that’s the one we can do, isn’t it?’
His hair had turned darker and flopped into his eyes with the exertion of dancing in a crush of bodies, and he’d undone another button on his shirt. Ross wasn’t unattractive, she thought with despairing objectivity, trying to fan her earlier flickers of attraction into something more – so why can’t I feel it any more? Why don’t I respond to him as a man, the way I used to? What’s wrong with me?
‘I’ve been waiting to dance with you, but it’s so hard to say no when people ask and you feel a bit sorry for them,’ he added. ‘Come on.’ He led her into a little space. ‘There isn’t so much moving around in this. We can just stand here, near the table . . .’ His expression was mildly ironic. ‘Nice and safe.’
Ross took her hand, slipping the other one around her shoulder-blade and she put hers on his arm.
Come on, Katie told herself. Feel his hand touching you through the dress! Feel his hip brushing against yours! Fancy him! But there was nothing. She looked at the shirt and was reminded that unlike Greg’s, Ross’s wardrobe depended on what she decided to get for him. That wasn’t sexy. That was being his mother.
‘Katie,’ said Ross, warningly. ‘Don’t lead.’
She was about to protest when Greg and Jo came rushing up. Jo’s hair, carefully piled into a chic updo when they entered, was escaping in messy spirals, and her shiny face was creased with concern.
‘I’m so sorry, but we have to go,’ said Jo, putting her hands on both their shoulders. ‘There’s a problem at home.’
‘Oh God, what?’ Katie’s head filled with a slideshow of disasters, the ones that sometimes tormented her in long meetings when her phone was turned off. ‘Is it Hannah? Are they OK?’
‘Honestly, Jo, don’t be melodramatic,’ snorted Greg. ‘We don’t all have to go. The babysitter called,’ he said to Katie. ‘Apparently Hannah’s complaining of a tummy ache, and so Molly is as well. You know what they’re like at that age. No puking or anything, but she’s worried. Didn’t want to leave it till we got back.’
‘Just when we were having so much fun!’ said Jo, apologetically. ‘Listen, if you want to stay, Greg’s right – I can look after her and Jack, if you want. Stay. Call a cab.’
Ross looked at Katie, without taking his hand off her shoulder. His face was asking the question, but he obviously didn’t have the courage to come out and say it.
‘Of course we can’t stay,’ said Katie, already reaching for her bag.
15
‘In terms of dessert, I’ve had a brainwave – how about a cake of cheese?’ suggested Irene brightly. She moved the plate of Duchy Original Shortbread towards Chris. ‘Have a biscuit, Christopher. You look peckish.’
‘A cheesecake?’ repeated Bridget, taking one herself. She knew they were Duchy Originals, because Irene had made sure she’d seen the packet before she arranged them on the plate. ‘Are they fashionable again then?’
‘No,’ explained Lauren, ‘a cake of cheese. You know, a whole Cheddar with a whole Stilton, with a whole Roquefort then a whole . . .’ She racked her brains for the right size cheese.
‘Chevre,’ Irene supplied, helpfully. ‘It’s very continental.’
Chris helped himself to a couple of biscuits, and said, ‘Sounds better than profiteroles.’
It w
as the first comment he’d made in the hour they’d spent around Irene’s dining table, which was now cluttered with papers and files. Bridget thought he looked about as interested in proceedings as Lauren’s celebrated sugarcraft Prince cake topper, taking pride of place in the middle of the table. Possibly less so. Maybe Lauren could find a couple of wedding mice to go on top of the cake of cheese. There was probably someone in Texas who specialised in making them, for fifty pounds a go, not including P&P.
Amazing how amounts just lost all relative monetary value once a cake cost four hundred quid.
She shook herself.
‘Your dad would like that, Laurie,’ she agreed, trying to think of a nice way to say no. ‘You know how he is with his Stilton at Christmas. But how about a proper pudding, for those that don’t . . . like cheese?’
‘Well, of course,’ said Irene. ‘We were planning on a selection of four, weren’t we, Lauren? Plus the cheese cake. That’d be on a separate buffet table.’
Lauren looked uncertainly between the two women, torn between wanting four puddings and sensing her mother’s unspoken tension. ‘Um, yeah. Mum, did I give you the new catering quote? Here . . .’ She passed her a set of papers, stapled together at the corner.
‘No, you didn’t.’ Bridget braced herself as she flipped through to the end, but even so, she couldn’t stop herself flinching as she read the figure.
I have to say something, she thought. This is now officially out of control. It’s all very well Irene suggesting these things, but she isn’t the one who’s just about to put fifteen hundred pounds down to secure ‘peak time’ caterers.
‘Does this include the plate hire and so on?’ she asked hopefully.
Lauren shook her head. ‘Well, no, because we wanted those special gold plates Irene saw at the bridal show, remember? For the banquet theme?’
‘It’s a bit more than the budget, love,’ Bridget pointed out. ‘I mean, what would you rather have, gold plates or that special punch fountain?’
‘Oh, Bridget! We can’t expect Lauren to choose!’ exclaimed Irene. ‘It’s a very special day! There’s absolutely no point cutting corners – I’ve been to too many weddings where it’s all been spoiled for the sake of a few pennies here and there. That’s not going to happen to Christopher. And Lauren.’
‘No, no, of course we want it to be lovely,’ protested Bridget, stung by the idea that she was about to spoil Lauren’s wedding out of meanness. ‘I just think we need to make some decisions . . .’
She could see Lauren’s forehead wrinkle between her eyebrows, and her round blue eyes tilt down at the edges: she had such a sunny face that the first signs of distress had always been easy to spot. Bridget knew Lauren hated conflict more than anything, apart from not getting her own way. Her dad was the same.
Irene spotted it too, and immediately patted Lauren’s hand: a tiny gesture that annoyed Bridget.
It wasn’t Lauren’s fault, Bridget told herself. She’d just had so little of either in her life – conflict or the word no. She and Frank were equally to blame for that. Blame. That wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong.
Irene looked over at her. ‘Hear me out, Bridget, before you say no. Now, I’ve said it before, but if you’d like me to pay for the reception, you know I’d be more than happy to do so,’ she said, grandly. ‘It’s what Ron would have wanted to do, were he still with us, bless him. He’d have wanted Christopher to have the very best wedding . . .’
‘No,’ said Bridget. There was something about Irene’s attitude that made her stubborn where she’d normally be happy to give in graciously. ‘No, we agreed. You’re going to pay for the cars and the flowers, and we’ll stand the rest. It’s what Frank wants,’ she added. ‘You know what proud fathers are like. Especially old-fashioned Northern ones like Frank.’
Lauren shot a quick smile at her mother and Bridget felt a mixture of pride and panic.
‘Mum, can I put some washing on?’ said Chris, unexpectedly.
‘You brought washing home?’ demanded Lauren. ‘To your mum’s?’
‘Yeah? Kian’s machine doesn’t work. And he doesn’t have an iron.’
‘You’ve been there months!’ exclaimed Lauren. ‘Have you only just noticed?’
‘Of course,’ said Irene, already getting up from the table. ‘Where is it? No, don’t get up, I’ll put it in for you. Make sure it’s on the right setting . . .’
‘In the hall.’ Chris leaned back in his chair, until Lauren dug him in the ribs.
‘You pig!’ she hissed. ‘You knew she’d do it for you! What are you like?’
‘Oh, come on, she enjoys looking after me,’ he hissed back, trying not to look at Bridget. ‘Makes her feel she’s still my mum.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t expect me to do all the washing when we’re married.’ Lauren glared at him. ‘I haven’t been brought up to run around after my husband. Have I, Mum?’
‘There!’ said Irene, returning with an overflowing sports bag of dirty laundry. ‘I’ll just pop this on – anyone want more coffee while I’m up?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Chris. ‘And more biscuits.’
‘Now, Lauren,’ said Irene gaily, pointing her finger. ‘Are you sure you’re feeding him enough?’
‘He feeds himself,’ Lauren replied, tartly. ‘If he and Kian aren’t eating anything apart from pizzas that’s his look-out.’
‘You can never feed lads enough,’ said Bridget pouring oil on troubled water as Irene’s heels clicked away across her kitchen tiles. ‘And I should know. Your brothers used to have that fridge emptied before I’d even unpacked the shopping. Anyway,’ she went on, racking her brains for something that would break up the simmering mood. ‘I thought you were looking very smooth on the dancefloor the other night, Chris! Don’t you feel you’re starting to get the hang of it?’
The stormclouds left Lauren’s face. At least she was easy to cheer up, thought Bridget.
‘Sort of,’ Chris grunted.
‘You just need a bit more practice,’ said Bridget, encouragingly. ‘It’ll fall into place soon enough. Your dad said you were really coming along when he took you for that spin round the floor.’
‘Did he?’ Lauren looked pleased. ‘It felt much easier dancing with Dad. Even though he sang all the words right into my ear. Didn’t you ever tell him not to do that, Mum?’
‘Frequently,’ said Bridget. ‘You learn to tune it out.’
Lauren cut a sidelong look at Chris, and asked, with an air of disinterest that didn’t fool Bridget for a second, ‘Is Kian around tonight, Chris?’
Chris was too distracted by the arrival of Irene and a plate of biscuits to think two steps ahead of what Lauren was saying. ‘No, he’s out with some bird he met last weekend.’
‘Good. Forget the pub. We can go back and have a practice.’ Lauren helped herself to another biscuit. ‘Before we forget what we learned.’
‘Ah, Loz!’
‘Practise what?’ Irene’s sharp eyes turned immediately to Bridget. ‘Their waltz?’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget. ‘Turns out Lauren’s quite the Ginger Rogers. Her granny was a keen ballroom dancer, and of course that’s where Frank and I met – it must run in the family!’
Lauren beamed shyly.
‘Really?’ Irene didn’t need to put into words what her doubtful expression said so much better.
‘Really,’ said Lauren. ‘It’s like . . . when I know what I’ve got to do, my feet just do it. I don’t need to worry about knocking stuff over or treading on things.’ Her smile increased. ‘Dad said I didn’t tread on his toes once on Friday.’
‘I’ve given Christopher some DVDs,’ Irene told Bridget. ‘Instructional ones – very helpful.’
‘I know,’ said Lauren. ‘We’ve watched them.’
Chris grunted.
‘Well, I’ve watched them,’ she added, unable to lie confidently with Bridget there. ‘Chris has been really . . . busy. But we’ve watched my Dirt
y Dancing DVD again, haven’t we, Chris? And Strictly Come Dancing? It’s not exactly what we’re doing yet, but . . .’
‘Maybe I should come with you to the class,’ mused Irene. ‘I don’t know how experienced this teacher is. I might be able to give her some pointers.’
‘No!’ said Bridget and Lauren at the same time.
Bridget’s eyes met Lauren’s, and she widened them in pretend shock as Lauren suppressed a giggle. The idea of Angelica taking pointers from Irene was unthinkable. Almost.
Chris glanced at Lauren and rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t think Angelica needs any help, Mum,’ he said, firmly.
Irene pursed her lips. ‘We’ll see about that.’
‘We’re never going to get any better if we don’t practise,’ said Lauren, as Chris accelerated out of Irene’s smart cul-de-sac. There was a bag of M&S ready-meals in the boot, while the sports bag of laundry was still in Irene’s tumble dryer, and would, Lauren knew, be ironed before it was returned. Even his jersey boxers.
Chris turned to her, letting his hand slide further along her thigh. ‘I can think of a few things we’re not getting much practice at right now.’
‘I mean, dancing.’ Lauren tried to ignore Chris’s fingers wriggling up her leg. He always drove too fast, probably even faster when his mates were in the car. She replaced his hand on the steering wheel. ‘Your mum’s right – you don’t just pick it up overnight, and I don’t want everyone watching when we fall over each other’s feet, do I?’
‘Who says we’re going to fall over each other’s feet? Anyway, it’s a long time off . . .’
Lauren bit back a snotty reply about him needing every minute between now and then. It wasn’t like her to get annoyed with Chris, but there was something weirdly annoying about the fact that he couldn’t pick up even the basic steps. Normally it was she who had trouble getting it together, but he didn’t even seem to care that they were way behind everyone else, and even the dim giggly one from the tax office didn’t mess up the waltz box now.