I Hope You Dance (24 page)

“I know that,” she said, pressing her hand over her eyes. “But I am so very cross and sore I can barely control myself. I never expected this. I never for one second imagined we could end up like this. Maybe that's the problem. We should have seen the signs, protected our love better.”

“You haven't ended up anywhere yet. You can still get through this if you work together.”

We held each other for a long time, my mum and me. For the first time in forever, I gave her comfort, words of wisdom;
offered strength and hope. Mother and daughter switched roles inside that embrace.

“I love you, Mum. You are amazing.”

“I love you too, Ruth. Will you take me home?”

“No. I think Dad should do it. Go and see in the New Year with your man.”

I struggled to regain my party spirit after watching them shuffle out of the door. Once the last act had finished, the winner was announced and the dancing began, I decided to walk home. I bumped into Ana Luisa and Lois in the car-park.

Not a good sign.

“What's happened?”

Ana Luisa shook her fist at the sky. “Pah! Nothing happened – that's what! He…he…he…”

Lois grimaced. “He told her what a lovely song, and whoever it was for was a very lucky man.”

“What?” I didn't believe this. There was no way in a zillion years, in any way, shape or form, that David would not have known who that song was for. Even if he did not, after all, feel – or want to feel – Ana Luisa's love, he should have told her, with as much kindness, grace and tact as the situation deserved. Why wasn't he out here, in the car-park, with the woman who had just bared her soul before him so publicly? I felt a rustle of anger, confusion and frustration that this wasn't all sewn up and sorted.

“You have to confront him then,” I said. “Be even more obvious. Tell it to his face. Give him no option to misunderstand.”

“Exactly what I said.” Lois clutched Ana Luisa's hand. “It will be
unbearable
to leave things like this – it's worse than before. Go for it, girl. I'm right behind you.”

“Are you coming, Ruth? I need as many friends as possible to catch me when I fall on my face.”

I shook my head. “Lois'll be more than enough for you. I'm not feeling great. I'm going to walk home, clear my head. Lois, can you bring Maggie home later?”

“No problem. Feel better, Ruth. And Happy New Year!”

I walked up Nottingham Road, turning the long way home onto Westgate. Passing the glow of floodlights illuminating the striking Minster, I reached the centre of town. Here the pub on the corner thumped out seventies disco as various revellers swayed along the pavements. As I waited to cross the road onto Queen Street, a slick, sleek, sinister black car pulled up alongside me. Before it had reached a complete stop, I began hurrying down the main road in the opposite direction. Despite being the town centre, it was a narrow road with no room to park, and the car already held up a taxi behind it. The driver had no choice but to keep on moving away from me. I waited until it disappeared around the corner, and ran across the road up an alleyway that led into a car-park. Sprinting, grateful for the strength produced during four months' hard graft with a mop and bucket, I ducked between the rows of cars, making for the footpath at the far side. That would lead me up past the primary school field and to the top of the hill only two streets away from home.

I didn't make it. The last car in the row sat idling, engine on, weird jazz music blaring. As I scurried past, the window hummed open. I tried to ignore it, head down, moving forward. Behind me, I heard the door close. Too frightened to turn left onto the footpath, where I would be flanked by overgrown trees and the empty field, I instead moved right, back onto the main road. It felt like only a second before the car pulled up beside me again. Carl crawled along, keeping pace with my frantic strides.

“Ruth, it's me. Didn't you recognize the car?”

I said nothing. Kept moving. It was a five-minute brisk walk back home. Thank goodness Mum and Dad would be waiting for me.

“Ruth? Get in. I'll give you a lift.”

He wasn't going to go away. Against my better judgment, I looked across at him. “I'd rather walk.”

“I can't let you walk home alone. Let me give you a lift.”

“No. Thanks.”

My eyes were back on the road, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “Suit yourself. But I'm not leaving you out here on your own.”

The window hummed back up, but Carl continued crawling along at walking pace next to me. If I sped up, he increased his speed to match mine. I knew if I turned around, he would loop back again and find me. Three minutes to home. If I tried something else – running off, hiding somewhere – he might get out of the car and come after me. I kept walking, head down, lungs heaving, mind racing. It didn't feel like a coincidence that he had spotted me walking home. Even though, as I hurried into the cul-de-sac, already fishing in my pocket for my key, he beeped his horn twice and sped away, I knew something for certain, with a cold dread that wrapped around my windpipe and stole my breath.

Carl Barker was not going anywhere.

New Year's Day, Ana Luisa came round to cut Maggie's hair. A strange day to do it, but Maggie had a statement to make, and when fourteen-year-old girls have something to say, it's now, yesterday or never, and the world had better stop what they're doing and listen.

I found them in the kitchen. One glance and I knew.

“You told him.”

“I did.” She looked up from her snipping, and I swear a thousand peacock butterflies flew out of her smile and did a lap around the kitchen.

“At the party?”

“Yes. At the party, walking home from the party, after the party. We brought the party home with us!”

I filled the kettle and switched it on. Took three mugs out of the cupboard and carefully measured out scoops of coffee into the cafetiere. Lifted Mum's best jug off the dresser and poured milk into it. Found the sugar bowl and a spoon. Sucked in a deep breath. Patted the top of my chest a few times.

“So? Tell us everything.”

“It was nearly midnight, and I knew it was now or never. I asked him to dance. He said no, about four times, but I was a woman on a mission! I dragged him onto that dance floor. I could not be stopped. And, Ruth, I
danced.
As if my life depended on it, which I think it almost did. The last time I danced for a man, hmmm,
my life depended on it that time also. But in a different way. I have danced many times for oily men with sweaty hair, bad breath and worse morals. I tell you, many times I thought I would never want to dance with a man again.

“But this time, girls, I was not dancing for my life, my livelihood. I danced for love! And I told him that when he found me I did not know what a woman was. But he gave me a safe place to heal and to forget, and he makes me happy to be a woman for the first time. To be a woman who is loved by a man.”

Maggie's eyes were wide. “You told him that?”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a lot. He was very shocked, I think. And a little intimidated by my sexy moves. But then the clock struck midnight, and while everybody cheered and hugged, I grabbed his face between my two hands and kissed him.”

“And he kissed you back.”

“Oh, yes, Maggie. Once he had remembered what to do, he kissed me back.”

Ana Luisa had to stop cutting to twirl about the kitchen in rapturous delight.

“And then he walked me home, and we talked and talked, and he held my hand the whole way. A man has never, ever held my hand before. It made me feel like that old, degraded, cheapened husk of Ana Luisa was finally, really dead. She has been dying for two years now, getting weaker and fainter, but last night she breathed her last.” She resumed snipping, no doubt itching to get finished and back to her new man.

“And this morning, when I got up, there were flowers on the kitchen table. We made breakfast together and watched the sunrise, and the whole time he never let go of my hand. I tell you, Ruth, you need to get yourself a man like this someday.”

“Maybe someday.”

Maybe not.

“Ta-da!”

Maggie was finished. Gone were her red, orange and yellow autumn streaks. Left behind was a head covered in one-inch spikes of mid-brown.

I tried to mumble something about how it made her eyes look bigger.

“Chill, Mum. I look like I sold my hair to pay for the upkeep of my secret love child. It'll grow. And it'll get better. It's time to embrace my new start. No more hiding, or wishing I was somewhere else or someone else. No more crying in the bathroom because I'm so sick and tired of being me.”

She did that?

“Sometimes we have bad hair days. Or bad days. Or bad years. But hair grows again. I'm over it. Bad hair won't decide my life. Or stop me deciding that I'm going to be happy. And it could be worse.”

Could it? And, incidentally, who was this wise woman and what had she done with my daughter?

“Some people don't have hair,” Maggie continued.

“That's true,” I nodded.

Ana Luisa frowned. “Do you hate my haircut, Maggie?”

“It's not pretty, Ana Luisa. But that's the whole point. I love it. You can go back to the Big House and hold hands with your new boyfriend now.”

 

I spent the next few days as a robot: wading through piles of information on debt advice and administration, helping Mum help everybody else, watching endless repeats of cheesy American sitcoms. Anything to stop thinking about the romance unfolding next door. I avoided windows, stayed inside, took my animal posters off the bedroom wall and replaced them with photographs of Maggie.

The first Saturday of the New Year, I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of my phone ringing. Lurching out of bed,
knocking the lamp on my chest of drawers to the floor, I fumbled through the pockets of discarded clothes until I found it. A ringing phone at three o'clock in the morning was one of two possibilities. Either my sister Miriam calling from Australia, who after twelve years is still seemingly incapable of working out the time difference, or an emergency.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello? Miriam?”

I waited another few seconds; was about to hang up when I heard a rustle down the line.

“Hello?”

I hung up. Registered that the caller had blocked their number. Sat on my bed for a few minutes as the coil of dread in my stomach uncurled itself a little, stretched and settled back down again.

I added a third possibility to the list of middle-of-the-night callers. A sick, scary man who did not take rejection well.

The next night, my phone rang at one-thirty, three-fifteen, three-twenty and five. I should have turned it off, but I needed to know.

Monday, Tuesday – I lay in bed awake for hours waiting, but no more calls.

Wednesday afternoon, the day before I started my new job, someone knocked at the door. I answered it in holey jeans and a saggy sweater. David stood grinning on the doorstep.

“Hi.”

“Hi, David,” I answered, forcing myself to look at him.

“I'm off again in a couple of days, so I need to store up some calories and reckoned a few slices of your mum's cake should do it. Are you busy?”

“Um… I'm trying to slog through a six-inch file on church procedure and policy before tomorrow.”

What are you doing here?

“Sounds like you could do with a break, then.”

This can't be a good idea. Where's Ana Luisa?

He ran his hands over his hair – neatly cropped. I hated that it stabbed me in the gut to know who had carefully cut it.

“Okay. The truth is, I needed to get out of the love nest for a few hours. It's driving me crazy.”

“What?”

“Way too much holding hands and soppy grins and darling and sweetheart and I love yous. It's all very nice, don't get me wrong, but I'm beginning to feel slightly nauseous.”

Oh no. Poor Ana Luisa. He felt nauseous?

“Oh. Right, well I suppose…”

“And my dad? I know we're both adults and all that, but it's still weird.” David shook his head.

“Yes. It must be.”

“Still, forty-eight hours and they can have the place to themselves, run about playing kiss-chase as much as they like.”

“Sorry?” I was now slightly confused. “Who can play kiss-chase?”

David furrowed his brow. “Ana and Dad. Who else would I be talking about?”

“Ana and Arnold? Ana and
Arnold
!”

Leaning onto the doorframe in order to remain upright, I tried to catch my breath, but the clanging in my ears got in the way. As I fought to regain control of my vital functions, David stood and watched me, hands in back pockets, his face neutral. Standing up straight again, I decided that, in these exceptional circumstances, dishonesty was the best policy.

“Sorry. I haven't eaten yet today. I came over all dizzy for a moment.” I tried a quirky, duh-what-a-silly-mare-I-am smile. He didn't return it.

“Coffee then, and cake. I'll make it, you sit down.” He strode past me into the kitchen, providing a much needed minute to pull myself together.
Ana Luisa and Arnold! It was Arnold! Arnold loved Ana Luisa! David was nauseous!

We sipped our coffee at the table, accompanied by white chocolate and hazelnut brownies.

“So, where are you off to this time?” I couldn't stop smiling. It was all I could do not to burst into song.

“South Africa. For eight weeks. Then possibly a stop-off in Egypt. I'll be back by Easter.”

“Plenty of time for the honeymoon period to have cooled down in the Big House.”
Arnold!

He nodded. “You've lost weight again.”

“Excuse me?”

“What's up?”

I pondered the flower pattern on the tablecloth for a moment. Figured out whether to feign offence, outrage or denial. If anybody else had asked, I might have given it a go. But David knew me. He knew the classic symptoms of me being stressed out. And besides, I was basking in the soft glow of him having noticed.

“Apart from the joy of living with my parents and having front row seats to the floundering of their marriage, my – shall we say
challenging –
daughter and tenuous financial circumstances?”

“You had all those problems a month ago. Since then, you've got a new job and Maggie is doing much better. What's really up?”

I picked at the last few crumbs on my plate. “Carl Barker.”

David went very still. I saw the muscles tense in his forearm as he gripped the mug.

“He's still bothering you?”

“I don't know.” I told him, briefly, about the present on the doorstep, the kerb-crawling and the phone calls. David swore under his breath.

“I have no proof the calls are from him. And really, buying me a gift and making sure I get home safe are hardly crimes.”

“He's stalking you, Ruth. Why are you making excuses for him?”

“Uh – because I'm terrified?” My jaw began trembling uncontrollably, my eyes filling with tears.

“Okay, it's all right.” David reached over and took hold of my hand. “You're taking this seriously. That's good. Have you told your parents?”

I shook my head.

“You need to do that. In case they see him lurking around. Keep a record of any hang-up phone calls, or other contact. And for goodness' sake, Ruth, try not to go walking about by yourself after dark, will you?”

He pushed the chair back and reached over, wrapping me up inside his big, broad chest as I cried. I clutched on to the folds of his T-shirt and inhaled great lungfuls of his earthy, woody, almond smell. He stroked my hair, resting his chin on the top of my head, and I was seventeen again. Full of secret yearnings and whizzing hormones. Was it wrong to pretend to cry a bit longer and prolong the hug?

A door slammed above us, and Maggie's Dr Marten boots thudded down the stairs. She crashed into the kitchen just as I pulled myself up out of David's arms. She stopped for a moment, then laughed with relief.

“For a hideous second there I thought you were with a bloke! Hi, David.”

“Duly noted: Maggie does not consider me a bloke.”

“Oh – you know what I mean. You don't count. You're not after my mum.” She grabbed a bag of crisps and an apple, and stuffed them into her rucksack. “I'm off to Hannah's. We're going to sort through the rest of the jewellery in her box, see if anything's worth donating to a museum. Bye. Bye, David. Bring me something mysterious back from Africa.”

She left, and David swigged back the rest of his coffee. Maggie's entrance had been a sharp slap back to reality. I was not seventeen; I was a mother with a damaged child. Two months without David suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Maybe he would come home married to a stunning South African naturalist. Maybe by then a miracle would have occurred and I would be living on the other side of town. Maybe. I hoped so. I tried to hope so, anyway.

We said goodbye on the doorstep. David looked carefully at me. “So you thought Ana Luisa and me, then?”

“What?” A big, juicy blush flooded my face.

“You thought Ana Luisa and I had got together. And when you realized the truth you nearly fell over.”

“No. That's not what happened! I was surprised. Arnold must be twice her age, at least.”

He leaned in close to me. I felt the warmth of his gentle breath on my burning cheek. “Because I care about both you and your daughter, I am not after you, Ruth Henderson, right at this very moment. I have been waiting for you most of my life, and I can wait a little longer. However, know this: I will think about you every hour of every day for the next two months, and picturing your face when you realized I was not in love with Ana Luisa will bring me back here as fast as is humanly possible. I'm going to be here the second you are ready. I'm not messing it up this time.”

With that, he turned and walked back down the path. I sat on my doorstep, too stunned to do anything but laugh and tremble and marvel and pinch myself until I saw Mum's car skidding around the corner of the cul-de-sac.

 

Things were beginning to turn a very gradual corner between Maggie and Hannah. The hat box had proved to be a treasure trove of a life that Maggie found fascinating and hideous at the same time. Boarding school, polo matches, winter balls. The hat-box world had revolved around catching the right husband. Hannah had never worked, even after the count left her, instead spending all her time managing the household, organizing social events and trying to keep herself as attractive as possible.

Maggie, horrified that someone actually still thought a woman belonged in the home, resolved to prove that she could hold her own with any male. I could not have dreamt up a better way to get her head in her books, homework done, if I tried.

That Wednesday, she came home and stomped into the living room, plonking herself on the sofa next to me.

“I can't stand it!”