I Hope You Dance (34 page)

The music was turned back on, and various couples, some from the classes, some not, began drifting onto the floor. There was still no sign of Hannah. Or Seth. I found Lois arranging cupcakes onto stands in the kitchen.

Standing next to her, I sliced up a lemon drizzle cake. “Seth isn't here yet. Is he all right?”

Lois glanced over at me out of the corner of her eye. “He's great, thanks.”

“Oh.” I loaded the cake onto a china plate. “Is he coming later?”

“I imagine so.”

“Lois, he's not going to –”

Lois interrupted me. “Ruth, did you actually see Seth with Maggie in hospital? Or the cards he's sent every day he's not been allowed to be with her since? Not texts, or emails, or online posts. He walks round every day in between school and homework and babysitting his sisters and weeding his great-granddad's lawn and practising for his drum exam, and posts a card through your front door because he respects your ridiculous decision but still wants Maggie to know how much he's thinking about her. He's a great kid with a massive heart who made one stupid mistake months ago, with no harm done. How long are you going to keep punishing those two for being in love?”

I was speechless. Lois, however, hadn't finished.

“You know what this is really about?”

“Um. Your very troubled foster kid taking my equally troubled fourteen-year-old daughter to spend the night in a crack brothel?”

“No! It's not about that! It's about you trying to pretend two teenagers can't have a love that is genuine and honest and good for them both, and as deep and real and true as any adult feelings. Because then you have to accept that you and David did not have some childish crush but were actually the love of each other's life. How about you stop trying to work out your messed-up emotions on my kid and get yourself booked in for some therapy!”

Before I could splutter something along the lines of how, in fact, I had already agreed to therapy, Maggie spoke from the kitchen door behind us.

“The competition's about to start.” The door banged shut as she left again.

I froze, cake knife in hand. “Did she hear that?”

“I don't know, Ruth. Why don't you ask her?” Lois grabbed a couple of cake plates and pushed through the door back towards the hall. Flummoxed and flustered, I followed.

Mum stood on the stage announcing the judges. Lydia already lounged elegantly behind the judges' table. A far cry from when she had been judged, by millions of viewers, every Saturday night. It
was good of her to come. Matt Harris took his seat beside her, to a hearty round of applause, followed by a local performing arts teacher. Then Mum announced our second celebrity judge: “Someone who may not be an expert in the art of ballroom, but certainly knows a lot about the rhythm of life. And, golly, does he have the X-factor! Southwell's second-best celebrity, BAFTA-winning explorer, wildlife presenter and the person every woman would choose to be stuck on a desert island with: David Carrington!”

David emerged, grabbed Mum for a smacker on the lips, grinned and waved at the audience, and flopped into the last judge's chair.

Every other person in the room faded into black and white. I allowed myself a lingering moment to drink him in before trying to wrestle my adrenaline under control and taking my place on the dance floor.

There were twelve couples, ten of them from the class. The eleventh was Ana Luisa and Arnold, who due to having almost twenty-five years between them just scraped in. The twelfth couple had put their names down as Fred and Ginger. I suspected some kids messing about, but Mum just winked at me when I mentioned it. Each couple had two minutes to themselves on the dance floor. Dad and I were fourth.

My whole body trembled so hard as I positioned myself in the centre spot, I felt certain the spectators must see it. Dad wrapped one arm around my waist, his hand taking mine. He murmured, “Look at me, Ruth. Chin up.” And I raised my eyes, expecting the familiar frown of impatience, the whisper to buck up, straighten my spine, firm up my arms. Instead, I got caught in a beam of utter joy radiating from every feature on his face. He mouthed, “I love you”, and my soul embraced those words like a glass of water in the desert, which is indeed what they were. If only he had known, twenty years ago, that this was what I needed, craved, longed for. What would have got me through the most challenging routines, the most frustrating choreography, every troublesome move or lift or turn.

I twirled within the strength of my father's arms, let him lead me where I had for so long refused to go. When I stumbled, he caught me. When I felt unsure of the next step, he guided me. And for one minute, dancing was not my prison or my adversary. It was my saviour and the promise of redemption. The music stopped; people clapped as if they actually meant it. We scored thirty out of forty. My all-time personal best. Maybe I would do it again sometime. A quickstep or a jive. Something lively and energetic.

We retook our seats. I sneaked another glance at Southwell's second-best celebrity. He was sneaking a glance at me. Our eyes locked and his face hardened, jaw tight. All the oxygen left the room, along with my delight at the past few minutes. Mum announced the next couple, and I dragged my gaze back to the floor.

Ana Luisa and Arnold danced a rhumba. Arnold surprised everyone with some pretty slick moves. Ana Luisa, smokin' in her figure-hugging, backless red dress with a slit up to the hip, was sexy-sational. The man sitting next to me loosened his tie and said, “Is it just me, or did it suddenly get really hot in here?”

They scored thirty-four. However, as the whistles and cheers died down, Ana Luisa grabbed the microphone off the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen! If I could please have your attention for one moment. I have a very important question to ask my partner.” She turned to Arnold, who still looked utterly dazed and bewildered from the rhumba. “Arnold. You are my hero. My best friend. My heart” – she pulled a face – “but also my boss and my landlord, and this makes things kind of awkward. I don't want you to pay me to love you any longer.”

Martine, two seats down, barked out, “This conversation could appear highly inappropriate for a church event. Especially considering that dress and that dance!”

There was a ripple of laughter. Ana Luisa rolled her eyes, mock-horrified. “I am his housekeeper! Don't you dare disparage this honourable man! Now, can I finish? Arnold, I want to… Oh – I have forgotten my speech!”

“Good!” Martine shouted. “Get on with it!”

“I read somewhere that it's better to marry than burn with passion. And Arnold – you make me burn! Will you marry me, Arnold Carrington, and make me happier than I ever believed possible?”

Arnold sighed. He frowned and shook his head. “Well, well.” He pulled a ring out of his jacket pocket. “If you'd waited five minutes longer I could have asked you myself.”

“I have waited long enough!” Ana Luisa yelled excitedly. “I could not wait a second longer!”

The ring went on, the guests clapped again and Mum reclaimed the microphone, tapping it a few times to recapture everyone's attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have one last couple to take to the floor. Would you please welcome Fred and Ginger!”

Out from the shadows, where nobody had seen them creep in due to the distraction of the spectacle that was Ana Luisa, came the last couple in the competition. Walker-free, head held high and heels on, Hannah Beaumont stepped carefully into the spotlight, led by her partner, looking Hollywood-handsome with slicked-back hair and a tuxedo, Seth Callahan.

The opening bars of “Moon River” filled the stunned silence, and hesitantly, creakily, stiffly, Hannah began to waltz. Seth kept his expression professional, his head high, as he gently led her round the floor.

They scored forty points. And a standing ovation. They politely refused an encore.

Maggie raised her smug eyebrows at me from the next table, daring me not to scrap the probation now. What could I do? Seth understood pain and fear and loss. He had learned how to use it to make life better for him and those around him. I believed he loved Maggie. And that was going to turn out to be a good thing.

Competition over, trophy presented, the judges retired behind the curtain, the guests helping themselves to more cake before the next part of the evening. My sisters intercepted me on the way to the bar.

“Well done, sis. A respectable third place for the Hendersons.”

I pulled a face. “Since when have any of you considered third place respectable?”

Lydia nudged Esther, who poked Miriam in the ribs.

“Okay. What do you want?”

Miriam spoke first. “We thought we'd do a routine. For old time's sake. Maggie said she'd like to see it.”

“Well, it's Maggie's night. If she doesn't mind, go for it.”

The circle tightened. “That's great, Ruth. But you see…”

Lydia interrupted. “If the Henderson girls are going to dance, we want you in it.”

“Hah! You're hilarious. Do you want anything from the bar?”

“No.” Miriam reached out and stroked my arm. “Really. We want you to dance with us. We're going to do the number from the Aladdin pantomime.”

“The what?”

Esther reminded me. “Lydia wore that pink frilly cape and the purple knicker things.”

“Oh. That one.” I had been about eight when I danced in that pantomime, and my sisters had not quite given up on me
at that point. “Thanks, but no thanks. I'll cheer you on from the sidelines.”

They pressed even closer, like a flock of hungry pigeons, cooing and flapping and murmuring enticements at me, until I shouted, “Stop!”

They stopped.

“I am not going to dance. I hate performing. I hate dancing with three clearly far superior talents, and I haven't been able to do the splits in twenty years. I appreciate the gesture, but I don't need to dance with you to feel like a Henderson girl.”

Esther thought about this for a moment before widening her eyes in comprehension. “You don't want to dance with us, but still want to be a Henderson girl? Like, just as much part of the family but without that part?”

Somehow I managed to restrain myself from replying with any of the dozen sarcastic remarks that jostled for space on my tongue.

“Yes. I love you. You are amazingly talented and I respect your determination and commitment to ballroom. But I don't share it, I don't want to share it and I'm happy with that.” Lydia screwed up her face as much as Botox would allow. “You don't mind if we're honest about you being not that great a dancer? You won't feel left out?”

“I want to be left out! You don't have to understand me, just accept it. I like maths and sketching wildlife and helping people with debt problems. I might even enjoy an unchoreographed boogie to a cheesy song at a party. Now, go and do what you like doing.”

They went. I stood in the queue at the bar and surveyed the evening. The dance floor was full, the sound of Tony Curtis barely discernible above the buzz of chatter. Ellie shuffled in one corner, performing the school-disco two-step. Emily swayed with her husband, tucked tightly into his chest. Vanessa, who had somehow been persuaded to give a five per cent discount to anyone buying their outfit for the evening from Couture, chatted stiffly to a couple from Oak Hill. I made a mental note to thank her later. She had
ordered in dresses for Maggie and me without us even asking, correctly assuming that with everything going on neither of us would have got around to buying one. And it goes without saying, they were perfect. Rupa's influence had done something miraculous to my old boss. And it is amazing how hearing just a snippet of someone's story can help you to see them in a softer light.

I couldn't see Maggie or Seth. I chose not to worry about that. My parents were leading a small group of older women through the moves to the foxtrot. They each had their own partner, but every couple of seconds their eyes met and teeth flashed in a smile. I had no doubt that all the problems of the past year still existed, but just maybe they would now be faced together, rather than swept under separate carpets.

Lydia rushed over, hurrying as she had only five minutes until the pink-cape-andpurple-knicker-thing number.

“You're right.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You should stick to your own talents.” She waved her phone at me. “This afternoon, at Esther's house, Arianna showed me the drawings you did for her and Timothy, so I put them up on Twitter.”

Of course she did – Lydia belonged to that breed of twenty-first-century celebrity who found it impossible to fully appreciate anything unless sharing it with the world.

“Ruth, they're trending. Hashtag ‘funkyanimalpictures'.”

This was somewhat lost on me, as I didn't quite know what that meant.

“I've had dozens of replies asking where they can get hold of one.”

“What?
Dozens?
”

She glanced back at her phone. “Eighty-one. No. Eighty-two.”

“I don't have eighty-two. Each one is original… I don't…”

Her fingers flew across the screen. “Okay… hang on. I've tweeted ‘in very high demand, huge waiting list'. What's your website address?”

“I don't have a website.” I started to feel a little faint.

“Okay. Hang on. I've said they were a preview, no orders being taken at moment, stay tuned for further details… No – wait!” She looked at me, eyes gleaming, and named a very famous British pop star, currently splashed all over the tabloids. “She's going to be godmother at Sycamore Green's christening and wants a picture of a sycamore tree full of animals for next Saturday. Oh, and can you write the lyrics to her latest number one in the branches?”

From the snatches I had caught on the radio, before changing stations, these lyrics did include the word “baby” several times, which may have been appropriate had they not been surrounded with other words. Like “booty”, “sweat” and “sexy”.

“No chance.”

“Hang on. No. She's happy to go with the other stuff.”

“Does she realize it's Bible verses?”

“That's cool. It's for a christening.”

“I can't do it. I've got two pictures already due before then. And it's the Oak Hill Centre AGM. I have a ton of paperwork to wade through.”

Lydia's fingers raced across the touchscreen. She named a ridiculous figure, with four numbers in it. I swallowed, hard.

“I suppose I can squeeze it in.”

As the night wore on, I wandered between tables, restless, my subconscious searching for the only person there I really wanted to see. David appeared to have left the party. I couldn't blame him for avoiding me. I remembered the steel in his eyes as he had glowered earlier, and tried to pretend it was all for the best. We simply could not be friends. Too much baggage. Nothing to do with my inability to look at him without imagining what it would be like to lean into his broad chest, bury my head in his shirt and –

“Mum!”

I snapped back to reality.

“Hi, Maggie. How are you doing? Not using that leg too much?”

“No.” None of the usual teenage scorn at a suggestion I might care about her wellbeing. I decided to push my luck and put my arm around her in public.

“Look! What an amazing night. You did this. I am so proud of you.”

“Hardly. Most of it was Nanny bossing other people into doing it.” She allowed herself to smile, despite her words. “It did work pretty well, though.”

“So – what about Seth Astaire? When I thought he might be skulking off with another woman I did not imagine Hannah.”

Maggie said nothing, just continued to watch the party, her crutch digging into my thigh. That tipped me over – no wheedling, pleading, sulking, threatening or shouting about the flawed image I had constructed of her boyfriend.

“Maybe you'd like to invite him round for dinner sometime? We can pick a night Nanny's out if that's less daunting.”

She didn't rise to the bait and ask me why she would want to waste one of her precious nights with Seth having dinner with me.

“And I'm going to book in a few sessions with Emily soon too. Seth could come round and keep you company. He can fetch you a drink, answer the door if anyone knocks.”

Slowly, Maggie hobbled round until she faced me. She coiled the octopus arms all fourteen-year-old girls possess around my neck and leaned into my shoulder. “I get the message.”

I patted her back. “You know I'm doing my best at this whole mum thing.”

“I know. We won't let you down.”

“You couldn't if you tried. Just be yourself, honey. Make mistakes, feel your way, keep your head, and do not ever let fear make your choices for you. Unless it's fear of getting pregnant or catching an STD.”

We started to sway together with the music, jigging clumsily between Maggie's crutches.

“Why did you never teach me to dance?”

“I wanted you to find your own steps. Your own passion. And look, you found dancing all by yourself.”

The song finished, and a slower one took over. Seth came up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mrs Henderson. If Maggie can manage a dance, I'd really like to cut in.”

I clenched her tighter, even as she tried to pull away. “On one condition. Don't you dare call me Mrs Henderson when you come for dinner this week. There's only one Mrs Henderson and I am not anywhere close to filling her shoes.”

As they began to move away, Maggie turned back. “Oh yes – I came to tell you something and then you kept talking and I forgot. I have a message for you.” She looked up at the ceiling, pretending to try and remember. “I think it was from David…”

I took a couple of deep breaths, blowing them out again.

“He asked me to ask you to meet him in your place. Or something cheesy like that.”

“When did he give you this message?” My voice was faint, as if it came from a cave deep inside me.

“After the competition.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

She shrugged. “I was thinking about it. He said only to pass it on if I was sure.”

“Sure of what?”
Don't faint, Ruth. Not here, not now. Not when David is waiting.

“That I was okay with you meeting him in
your place,
wherever that is, and then meeting him again, a lot, for a long time and maybe even forever.”

“And you
are
sure?” I was staggered, gobsmacked, dumbfounded. “This isn't just because I dropped the probation?”

“Hello? I'd already come to tell you, hadn't I? We had a talk. Straightened out a few things.”

“I don't know.” I began to feel a rising wave of panic. “It's so soon, Maggie. You're still recovering, and everything's still up in the
air with where we're going to live, and you're just starting to settle in at school. I don't know.”

“Mum.” Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “I can see the way he looks at you. Dad never looked at you like that. Like you're some beautiful, rare species of butterfly and he can't believe you've landed on his arm. He's going to stop everything and stay completely still in the hope that you stay for a few seconds longer. And even if you do fly away, it will still have been the most amazing thing that ever happened to him and totally worth it. Even if his dinner gets burnt in the oven, or he misses his train or has to give up the job opportunity of a lifetime, he would be grateful it happened. I will never love David like I love Dad. But David has loved you forever, and I'm not sure Dad ever did.”

“I think you need to stop reading Nanny's paperback romance collection. Thank you for passing on the message. Now go and dance.”

I turned away before Maggie saw the tears, and stepped outside. I cried that I had given my daughter such a pitiful example of a relationship between a man and a woman for so long. That my words to her to go after her dreams, that she deserved the best, to be loved and honoured and cherished, were drowned out by my actions, that said, “Settle, don't rock the boat, learn to live with it, be grateful he stayed with you. There is no Mr Right, no man who will still be blowing your socks off with his kindness and his sexiness and his strong love for you fifty years down the road. Men sneak, and ignore, and work late, and refuse to commit; they forget and get bored, and would rather watch golf on TV than bother to have a real conversation.”

I cried because she had seen what I could not dare to believe: that David not only loved me, but wanted, waited,
fought
for me.

I cried for fifteen years spent with a man who made me feel a little smaller every day.

I cried for the wedding dress I never got to wear; that my mother never got to sew the lace of my veil; that my father never got to give me away to a good man.

I cried because I was sad, because I was overjoyed, because out of all this God had given me a daughter who took my breath away.

I cried. And then I stopped. I wiped my face, told Mum I was going home, and started out on the longest walk of my life. It took me to the willow tree. And to the rest of forever.

 

The sun was setting as I walked round the corner of the cul-de-sac. A few wispy clouds floating along the western edge of the sky sent streaks of pink and gold, amber and violet across the deepening darkness. I made my way straight over to the tree made up of one half long, bushy branches trailing down to the earth beneath, the other still a lopsided, spiky bristle of new growth poking out from the fire-damaged trunk.

I slipped my shoes off, my aching feet sinking into the deliciously cool grass of the Big House garden. As I approached the willow, the sound of “I Don't Want to Wait” – the song from that fateful summer; the one David had meant to play for me on the night of the school leavers' dance – drifted through the leaves. My heart pounded. My bare skin flushed despite the chill in the air. As I reached the tree, a thousand white fairy lights flicked on, bathing the branches in a soft shimmer. Gingerly pushing past them, through the canopy, I stepped off the grass and onto a very small plywood dance floor. Later I saw the table with champagne and two glasses, the hamper of cheese sandwiches – not stale – and the folding chairs. But I didn't notice them then. All I could see was David. Sticking his hands in his back pockets, a tiny frown creased his forehead. He coughed, then looked away, before shrugging his shoulders.