The Ballroom Class (40 page)

Now she couldn’t bear its reproachful pile of pillows – firm for her, supersoft on Ross’s side.

Katie made herself think about the Hall instead as she hunted through her wardrobe.

Which shoes? Which jacket went best with this dress? She could hear Angelica’s energetic voice in her head, urging her to dress up, feel glamorous, get into the spirit. Earrings, how about earrings? Make an effort, that’s half the fun. She didn’t think about going there on her own; she made herself look for something to stick in her hair.

It was like putting on armour, thought Katie, clipping back her thick fringe with a diamanté clip. It disguises how rubbish you feel underneath. She looked in the mirror, and focused on her own reflection: the woman staring back at her seemed older than she remembered, but her back was straight and her clothes looked ready for a night out, even if the face didn’t.

Unexpectedly, the beehived, eye-linered dance team came into her head – how fierce and glamorous the girls looked, even with their spotty, awkward partners lined up behind.

‘Come on, Katie,’ she told herself. ‘You’re not the first woman who’s gone to that hall to forget things. And you won’t be the only one there without a partner either.’

She wasn’t sure whether that cheered her up or not, but when the phone still hadn’t rung by eight, she put her mobile in an impractical evening bag, and left for the Memorial Hall.

24

Katie put Angelica’s CD into the car stereo on the way, and such was the relentlessly cheerful nature of the songs Angelica had picked that by the time she parked outside the Memorial Hall, she was almost in the mood herself, albeit an artificially enhanced one.

Lights shone through the stained glass, and a big-band beat thumped away inside. Katie stood for a moment outside, hugging her coat to herself and looking properly at the simple but solid red brickwork for the first time. It seemed different, somehow. It was as if she was suddenly seeing the people who’d built it, not just the building itself.

The commemorative plaque was illuminated by the street light, and, knowing what she now knew, Katie pictured the Lady Mayor in her fur tippet and veiled hat, cutting the thick ribbon in front of a crowd of hats where men were scarce, shadowy figures. The people leaped out of her imagination: an architect from Dayton Graham Hollister, still there off the high street, had sketched the graceful arches of the generous windows; some local craftsmen had chiselled the bunches of ivy that curled around the door, and glazed the windows, and laid each strip of the wooden floor. And the ballroom dancers had come here on Friday evenings, during the thirties, the forties, the fifties, searching the crowds in case this was the night they’d meet the love of their lives, and to let the bursting, shiny music sweep away the working week, for a few hours.

Katie felt a sharp tug of protective emotion. No building had ever made her feel protective before. Deep down, in her super-rational mind, she knew it wasn’t the Memorial Hall. But she wanted
something
to stay the same, to feel that she was protecting something, instead of just breaking things up.

And I can do that, she thought, bravely. At least I can do that.

She pushed open the red door and a blast of warm air and loud music rushed into her face, along with fragments of chatter, and the smell of warm bodies, and cologne. It still amazed her that the little hall could suddenly seem so big, so alive, on these nights.

Through the glass in the main hall doors, Katie could make out the swirling movement of Friday-night dresses, and for a second, she felt as if the green-tiled vestibule was a doorway into the past, where there would always be foxtrots and quicksteps and gentlemen’s excuse mes, and it would always be Friday night, and the glitterball would always start turning at 9.30 p.m. whether the Hall was full or empty.

Then she saw a very modern granny, shiny-faced and happy in a gold lamé vest, pop out to the ladies, fanning herself so hard with her hands that her bingo wings wobbled, and the mysterious feeling vanished. But not in a bad way.

‘It’s so hot I thought I was back on the flushes!’ she gasped, with a how-we-girls-suffer! wink, and Katie managed a smile in reply, and got out her purse, ready to pay the four-pound entrance fee (squash included) just inside the main door.

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.’