The Ballroom Class (58 page)

He held her at arms’ length, so she could spin one way, then the other, in an ocho that only lasted two swivels, because she wanted to be in his arms again, and their eyes didn’t leave each other’s face.

I have no idea what he’s going to do next, she thought, giddily, and as if he could read her mind, Ross pulled her right up close to him, so their mouths nearly touched, sending electric tingles into her lips. He held her there for a moment, so she could feel the hardness of his body against hers, then, still holding her gaze, he dipped her right back.

Katie didn’t even resist, trusting him absolutely to hold her safe. The blood rushed to her head as her spine arched and the music rushed and crashed into a final scratchy pinnacle of guitars and drums.

I’ve never been so happy, she thought. I feel like a thirty-something woman, with so much behind me, and so much ahead of me, and this handsome, surprising man to do it all with.

And then she felt Ross’s arm pull her back up, and before she could even take a breath, his hands were in her hair, and his lips were on hers, searching and kissing.

Katie forgot everything else, as she wrapped herself around him, kissing him as hungrily as she used to when they first met, and every touch and murmur was fresh. How could she have got so close to this man that she’d forgotten to see who he was? The thought of losing him now was unbearable.

It wasn’t about him, she realised now. It was about her. It was about being happy to be herself, and right now, she didn’t want to be anyone else.

Ross pulled away so she could see his face. ‘I’ve been having lessons,’ he said. ‘On Thursday evenings. Angelica’s idea. You’re so much better than me, though.’

Tears filled her eyes and she smiled through them. ‘I’m not. I’m sorry,’ she whispered into the soft skin on his cheeks. ‘I’ve been so stupid. I’ve let everything get between us, and I’m sorry for hurting you.’

‘I’ve been just as bad,’ Ross murmured back, serious now. ‘But not any more. You’re what makes my life right, and I don’t want to lose you.’

‘You won’t.’ Katie covered his cheekbones, his eyelids, his lips with quick kisses. ‘You can’t.’

The rain poured down outside, hammering against the stained-glass windows. It didn’t sound like an English downpour to Katie; it sounded like a steamy Latin American monsoon.

34

When Bridget set her contact network in motion, in aid of getting more publicity for the Memorial Hall campaign, things really started moving in ways that surprised even her. Teaching virtually every Longhamptonian under the age of fifty – all of whom were happy to do what they could for lovely Mrs Armstrong – meant that within days, the Gala Ballroom Dance evening went from a discussion over coffee with Angelica and Katie to the local social event of the year.

‘A quick phone call’ to the deputy editor of the Longhampton weekly newspaper led to a whole-page spread about the Memorial Hall, with full details of tickets, and an interview with Angelica about her career as Longhampton’s most famous daughter. That was just the start. Such was the public response that they had to follow it up the next week with a fashion special starring Lauren modelling Angelica’s old dresses, while Trina’s niece at the salon was drafted in to advise on how to achieve the
Strictly Come Dancing
ballroom hair styles. And although Chloe couldn’t be persuaded to model for her a second time, she did a lovely job of making Peggy’s grey hair look like the Queen’s. If the Queen had gone in for diamanté butterflies and ‘pink flashes’, as well as roller sets.

Bridget explained in her interview that it wasn’t so much about raising money for the Hall, as raising awareness of its threatened state, but even at £25 a head (drinks and live music included, courtesy of another old pupil who ran the local wine merchants and a semi-retired band leader contact of Angelica’s, from her London days), the tickets were flying out. The interest was quite astonishing. Frank hadn’t been able to tend to his garden for days, what with having to answer the phone constantly, and Lauren couldn’t sell enough tickets at the surgery. Even Kathleen grudgingly admitted she wanted one: ‘Just to see you dance, Big Bird,’ she added, as if some additional explanation was required. Before long, Ross and Jo had set up a website to answer all the questions, and the on-line petition racked up daily, with interest from as far away as London.

‘You’ve done a lovely job on that,’ said Katie, looking over Ross’s shoulder one evening as he uploaded some more photographs he’d taken of the glitterball. The children were both bathed and in bed, and the house was peaceful. She dropped a kiss on his hair. ‘Beautiful photos.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ross.

He turned and smiled up at her. Giving praise and receiving praise without making a big deal of it was something they were working on – at Peter’s insistence. Two sessions on their own helped, and now they were going together again. It had felt a bit forced at first, but the more they did it, the easier it got. Now everything seemed a little warmer.

‘Stop being so hard on yourselves,’ he’d told them, when they went back. ‘If you don’t cut yourselves some slack, you’ll both be looking for criticism where there just isn’t any. That’s where the rows come from, not each other.’

Even though Peter looked very fairly at both of them as he spoke, Katie knew he was talking to her, more than Ross, but she didn’t bridle. She thought of what Jo had said, and Angelica, and simply agreed. Three genuine compliments a day, that was their new goal. It was easier than getting Hannah to eat her five bits of fruit and veg, anyway.

‘I was talking to Jo,’ Ross went on, ‘and one of her friends needs a new website. I said I’d meet up with him, have a chat about maybe designing something.’ He clicked on a spooky detail of the stained-glass windows and made it link to the details Frank had researched about the designer – quite famous, it turned out. Another tick on the heritage list.

‘Jo says?’ Katie began, before she could stop herself, but Ross didn’t rise to the bait.

‘Yeah, some estate agent going it alone. We’ve been talking about it for a while, actually, since Center Parcs? That’s what we’ve been meeting up about – making plans for a web design business we can run together. From home, so we can fit it round the kids.’ He turned back to check Katie’s reaction.

‘Oh!’ she said, rearranging her face into approving surprise. ‘Right. Was that what you were going round there for?’

‘Yeah. Jo’s been giving me some advice about costings, marketing, that sort of thing. Why? What did you think we were doing?’ he asked, amused. ‘Having an affair? Don’t be so ridiculous.’

He spun back and carried on clicking. ‘Why would I look elsewhere when I’ve got the best tango dancer in the world right here?’

Katie put her arms around Ross’s shoulders and buried her face into his neck: he smelled of Jack’s bath, and Persil. She didn’t say anything, but little throwaway compliments like that meant more to her for being so freely, honestly given, reassurances that they weren’t taking each other for granted. She didn’t envy Jo for the expensive empty bunches of roses Greg used to bring her, not now she knew they were excuses. Ross’s tea in bed was worth a thousand times more.

‘It’ll be nice to put some money into the kitty,’ Ross went on, casually, changing the portrait of Bridget in front of the door. ‘Means maybe you can think about going down to four days? Have a day at home with the kids while I get my nose to the grindstone in Jo’s shed. That’s where we’re planning on setting up our design HQ, by the way. Unless you can swing us some development office deal.’

‘I’ll talk to work,’ said Katie.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, she thought, watching as Ross’s mouse meandered over his web page, doing amazing, creative stuff she didn’t understand.

‘If you want me to sort out some  . . .’ she started, but then stopped herself. Let Ross run his own business. She had to knock the control-freak thing on the head.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just proud of you.’

Ross turned away from his computer and wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘Then we’re a very proud couple.’

The one person who wasn’t particularly impressed by Longhampton’s upsurge of interest in the Memorial Hall was Eddie Harding.

It put him in ‘a difficult position, on-message-wise’, as he explained through gritted teeth in a pre-meeting tête-à-tête in Katie’s office. It could hardly be a more difficult position than the one he was currently occupying, one buttock perched on the edge of her desk with what he obviously saw as relaxed casualness.

‘Where are we on the benefit see-saw, Kate?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Are we backing the people who need housing, or the conservation nuts? Who are, obviously, equally valid?’

Whichever end the voters were on, she thought, what with the council elections coming up. She said nothing, though. It spooked Eddie when people didn’t agree with him immediately.

‘It’s tricky for me,’ he added more menacingly, leaning forward so far she could smell the coffee on his breath. ‘When one of my key team is on the front of the paper in a fancy dress, talking about bloody sprung floors.’

‘With Amanda Page, MP,’ Katie pointed out, calmly. ‘Showing how the town planning department is in tune with the town’s history as well as its future.’

‘It shows partiality.’

‘Quite right. I’m very passionate about the Hall, and I’ve already made recommendations about negotiating with the developers to work the regeneration around it,’ she said, uncapping her pen to show how unintimidated she was. It would cost them extra, of course, which was why they were dragging their heels. All over Eddie, she was willing to bet.

She looked up at him, and smiled brightly. ‘But if you feel it compromises your integrity, that’s fair enough. I was hoping to have a chat with you after the meeting – I’ve applied to set up an Historic Environment Champion post.’

‘What?’ Eddie’s face darkened as various implications occurred to him. ‘What sort of nonsense is that?’

‘Don’t you think we’ve got a duty to safeguard our historic civic buildings?’ Katie looked reproachful. ‘Amanda Page thinks it’s terrible we haven’t appointed one yet.’

Eddie changed tack, and dropped his tone confidentially. ‘Doesn’t sound like a career-advancing post that, Kate. Not for an ambitious girl like you.’

Katie met his toady eye straight on. He didn’t need to know she’d already drafted the job description for a four-day week, and more or less been told she could start in the new year. He definitely didn’t need to know that part of her remit was protecting sites from exploitative new developments, and that certain people already had their eye on certain other people.

‘There’s all kinds of ambitious, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Now, how’s your foxtrot? Can I sell you a ticket to the gala dance night?’

Bridget had breezed through the preparations for the dance with her usual efficiency, setting everything up at the same time as planning the Christmas play and buying most of her Christmas presents.

This year, they were on a strict £15-a-head gift budget. But at least there were no credit-card bills left.

It had been Lauren who’d sprung into action, charming the local suppliers into refunding the various big deposits, and selling on every single wedding item she’d collected so carefully, including all five pairs of her shoes. It helped that she and Bridget knew most of the people they’d dealt with, through the school and the clinic, but even so, Bridget had had to admire the way Lauren had swallowed her mortification and got on with it.

‘You know I’ll be back,’ she’d promised them. ‘Next year maybe – we haven’t set a date, no, but I’ll let you know as soon as we do!’

That had brought back a couple of thousand pounds. And then Frank had surprised her too, by getting over his male pride, and having a chat with Irene about the house.

‘If you’re going to pay for the wedding, then let my Ron do this for them,’ Irene had said (blinking back tears, according to Frank, who’d not known where to look). ‘He left Christopher some money in trust until he was twenty-five, so he wouldn’t buy some silly car with it, I suppose. Between you and me, Frank, I’ve often thought about giving it to him, but I’ve worried he wasn’t really mature enough to spend it wisely. But these last few weeks  . . . Well, I think they’ve both made a very adult decision about their future, don’t you? It can’t have been easy, postponing the wedding when your Bridget was so obsessed with it. Will you let me give Christopher that money now, to make up the deposit for the house? Please? I can write you a cheque for your half right now  . . . ?’

Frank had already been nodding in agreement, when Irene had added, mistily, ‘Because I know how proud Ron would be to consider Lauren his daughter-in-law. She’s a very special young lady  . . .’

And then they’d both had to blink back tears, and after that, Frank had come to the generous conclusion that Irene ‘wasn’t as stuck-up as I reckoned’. He’d even insisted she come to the Christmas ball with them.

The final money had come from quite an unexpected but welcome source.

Frank and Bridget had gone out to see a film one evening, leaving Lauren at home packing up the parcels of wedding knick-knacks she’d sold on eBay. When the doorbell rang at about eight, Lauren was surprised to see Angelica on the doorstep, staggering under the weight of several enormous suit carriers.