The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  He politely filled the awkward silence. ‘What could possibly make someone so young and possessing of an unfair slice of the world’s beauty so melancholy as music plays and people dance?’

  Stella’s Nanny Popkin, dead for a decade now, had taught her granddaughter that false modesty was more conceited than none at all. People had been mentioning Stella’s fine looks for a decade since the plump of childhood fell away and her face had hollowed from roundish to a high-cheeked elfin structure. Plaits had disappeared and the darkest of hair that glinted warmly when the sun fell on it contrasted strongly with her now lightly blushed complexion that was traditionally pale. But it was Stella’s eyes that were apparently what caught people’s attention first with their glacier-blue brightness. ‘Accept their compliments with grace, for it is true,’ Nanny had said. ‘No need to be coy.’ So Stella had learned to be gracious, but in this instance she wasn’t ready for what sounded like an accusation accompanying the compliment.

  Once again her response was out before she could censor herself. ‘Are you hinting that I have no right to feel sorrows?’ She didn’t let him answer and the real pain rushed out. ‘My parents took their own lives and delivered up their suicide as a new year present, leaving me with a ten- and eight-year-old to care for, and lots of debt.’

  Amusement drained from his expression and his gaze narrowed as her mouth formed a circle of surprise.

  ‘My outburst is unforgivable,’ she admitted, instantly distraught at how raw she sounded. Yes, just over a month is too soon to be publicly socialising. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. I should leave.’ She dropped her hand from his but he reclaimed it immediately.

  He looked confounded but his voice was gentle. ‘Don’t go. I was being patronising. Of course you have a right to feel forlorn.’ She liked the way he seemed to choose his words with the same care she might use to select a single chocolate from a box having been told she could only have one. ‘Now I’m miserable for you, Stella. I won’t ask about your parents, I sense you’d rather not discuss it.’

  ‘It only earns pity and that’s the last sentiment I want to receive from others.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s a burden of monstrous proportion for shoulders even as gorgeously wide and angular as yours.’

  Those shoulders relaxed slightly and she let out a breath. ‘The dancing is a distraction, I’ll admit, but I’m angry with my parents that these extra pennies make such a difference now and I’m obliged to dance for that shilling or two. It was Madge’s idea.’

  ‘Basil tells me quite a few girls are supplementing their income in this way. I rather admire the industry of it.’

  ‘Most wouldn’t view it as much above selling myself.’

  ‘We’re all selling something, Stella. At least you’re earning an honest, harmless shilling that I for one would be happy to exchange for a dance with a beautiful woman.’

  There was no denying his charm. Madge had impressed that the key to more dances from the same fellow – especially if he was a good dancer and not ‘handsy’ as Madge described it – was to make pleasant conversation. ‘Um, Madge and I work together at Bourne & Hollingsworth, a department store. Do you know it?’

  ‘Who doesn’t, sprawling across an entire block of Oxford Street as it does? The architects did a fine job with the redesign; it’s a most handsome building and must be a pleasure to work in.’

  ‘I’ve been there since I left school. Nearly a decade.’ Her expression must have told him she had not recently counted the years and their sum was a surprise to her. ‘Anyway, Madge works in ladies’ millinery and perfume but I’m in the offices now. I’ve been working in various areas on the floor but now I’m training as a buyer. It’s not my dream, though.’

  ‘No?’

  She found a small smile for him and shook her head. He regarded her intently. ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘Are you good at keeping them?’

  ‘More than you can possibly imagine,’ he answered and his smile felt like a private one, just for her – as though two hundred others were not in this ballroom. ‘To the grave, I promise.’ His hand briefly left hers to cover his heart in an odd gesture of sincerity.

  Stella laughed, taken aback that she could be amused and felt a trill of pleasure when his large hand cupped hers again. ‘All right, you’re a stranger, so it can’t hurt. My dream is to have my own tea­-rooms.’

  ‘Truly?’ He looked disconcerted. ‘I’d never have thought it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You’re so . . . well, I’d have thought girls dream of different, more glamorous things to do with themselves.’

  She nodded, smiling. ‘Ah, but my teashop would be glamorous. I’d serve dainty cakes on exquisite china and the range of tea would be remarkable. Black, green, white, scented, herbal, floral, spicy . . . I would teach people about tea in all of its incarnations and they would sip from porcelain so translucent they could see daylight through their cups.’

  His eyes glimmered with a misty pleasure as though he was becoming happily entangled in the images she described.

  ‘Ladies especially would come from far and wide to meet and gossip in my tearooms,’ she continued. ‘Waitresses would be impeccably attired in neat black outfits.’

  ‘Where would you open these tearooms?’

  ‘Oh, in a spa town, it has to be. People visiting for therapeutic reasons and complete relaxation. Stella’s Tea Emporium would be the most popular place to be seen by day.’

  ‘Somewhere terribly fashionable for the wealthy, then,’ he said, joining in the dream. ‘Kent?’

  ‘I was thinking north. Buxton; perhaps Harrogate, or even Bath.’ They both grinned at the vision. ‘It shall have to remain a dream. Right now I have a sister and brother to raise, educate, provide for.’ She deliberately stopped herself sighing and packed away the dream. ‘How about you? What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I work in the city like most of the men here,’ he said briefly but while the practised smile smoothed the slightly offhand tone she heard him deftly avoid her question. Years in a vast, busy store in the liveliest shopping precinct of London and being part of a big team had exposed Stella to all sorts of people, backgrounds and attitudes. She’d developed a keen perception for traits. Instinctively Stella knew her companion was being evasive. If he had been important to her, she might have pursued his line of work, or the fact that while he had acted tipsy earlier she was now convinced that the smell of liquor was coming off his black dinner jacket, not his breath . . . but he was simply a paying dance partner and they were leagues apart in a social sense. Stella couldn’t imagine they’d see one another again even in passing.

  The music stopped and the restless twirl of dancers sighed to a halt. People clapped, some began drifting to the sides of the ballroom to cool off, to light up, others back to the glow of lamplit tables, or to find friends, and order more champagne that seemed to be flowing with frenzy this evening. Wasn’t the world supposed to be in economic crisis? Hadn’t her father taken his life and her mother’s with him over the financial crash? Apparently no one in this ballroom cared too much about the state of the world’s economy. All that mattered was that the Great War was behind them and even the sinister, invisible Spanish flu that had killed more than the war could, had also burned itself out.

  Around her women slanted conspicuous gazes at other women’s outfits but Stella suspected no one would use hers as a benchmark. Nor did she care – she was happy to move through them like a blackbird in the shadows of peacocks. Black was her shade still. Black was her mood despite the twinkling of fairy lights and the dazzle of chandeliers reflecting sparkles of colour.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she murmured, immediately parting and pretending to look for Madge, but knowing something gracious needed to be exchanged. ‘It’s a treat to dance with someone who doesn’t tread on my toes.’

  He straightened his white bow tie. ‘Speaking of tea, do you fancy a pot?’

  She had to meet his gaze
square on now – no more dodging it. In the lower light of the dance hall his eyes looked black and shone like the patent leather of his formal wingtip shoes. A whisper of the scent of coconut oil ghosted past her as he leaned forward to impress that there was no guile to his invitation. He waited for her answer as she searched her memory and recognised the smell of Murray’s Hair-Glo, a pomade from America that wealthy men preferred for its sleek effect. She had watched the paperwork for countless tins of the hair cream pass through the office. Englishmen of less extravagance – like her father – used the locally made Brylcreem.

  ‘Why?’ she finally said.

  ‘Why not? You obviously enjoy tea?’ he challenged with a soft shrug. He guided her away from the floor.

  ‘Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Monty,’ he assured.

  She frowned. Why did she not trust that name? ‘Well . . . Monty, it’s kind of you but I’m not that sort —’

  ‘Nor I that sort of man,’ he finished. ‘I’m thirsty, Stella, and you’ve just told me you don’t wish to be here and that you rather like tea. So,’ he said, straightening with an airy sigh, ‘share a pot of it with me in the hotel’s salon and I will put you in a taxi to your home – alone or with Madge, which I shall pay for. If you’d prefer not, that’s fine but you look like you need to talk, not dance.’

  ‘Why?’

  His grin widened. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘Why do you want to share my sorrows?’

  ‘Because I’m tired of examining my own; I’m a good listener and something about you intrigues me and I too am bored of all this,’ he said, giving a small sweep of a slightly bronzed hand as though he’d been out in the sun longer than most. ‘Now, I’m guessing you have your siblings to get home to.’ He reached for the gold fob watch, whose chain glinted as he lifted the dial towards him. ‘It’s not even nine yet and it gives you a perfect excuse to flee the dance floor early.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘I must admit I’m thirsty too.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and offered an elbow.

  2

  Madge had given Stella a look of such arch amusement when her friend had murmured that she’d meet her in the lobby in half an hour that Stella felt a flush of embarrassment flood her body. Nevertheless her cheeks had cooled by the time they were seated in a quiet nook near one of the large picture windows. Stella and her dance partner were hidden by alabaster pillars and the quiet level of their voices lifted to the high ceiling, far enough to be lost. Several other couples and groups were enjoying a similarly private break from the liveliness in the ballroom, which made her feel immediately less conspicuous.

  ‘I might have a coffee, actually,’ he said to the waiter before he glanced towards Stella who gave him a mocking glare. ‘But my guest may prefer a pot of tea . . . ?’ She nodded and let her companion order.

  He sat back and smiled briefly in reassurance so she caught only a glimpse of teeth gleaming ivory like the starched brightness of his waistcoat. ‘I’m really very sorry to hear about your family troubles, Stella. Why would parents do such a thing, or is that too inquisitive of me?’

  She took an audible breath and shook her head. ‘It’s the logical question. My father was an accountant and money advisor – a good one; he really cared for the people who trusted him with their money. The financial crisis, cost of the war . . . it took it all, everything we had that he’d invested for our future and on behalf of other families.’

  He looked down and gave a muttering groan. ‘You don’t need to say more. She looked up at him from her hands. ‘The time we live in says enough. Did he really think his brutal actions would solve anything?’

  ‘I suppose it solved a problem for him in not having to face the failure and its repercussions. He’d survived the war, kept us safe from Spanish flu and other troubles, but he couldn’t protect us from the outside forces of the Depression. And Mum was a gentle soul. She’s French . . . was French,’ she corrected herself. ‘She adored my father and obviously preferred not to face life without him.’

  ‘So gentle that she’d leave her three children?’ He tried to cover his dismay but Stella heard it nonetheless echoing between them as he cleared his throat and looked down. ‘Forgive me, that’s none of my business.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s also complicated to explain and I’d have to know you better to want to try. All I will say is my mother faced enough emotional challenge in her early life and as Dad was the rock she built her life upon, she chose the more permanent solution than feel that rock crumble away from her.’ He held her gaze for a fraction longer than she thought polite and his silence forced her into an uncharacteristic hurry to fill it. ‘Nevertheless, in their cowardice they left me with a raft of new problems that go beyond money.’

  ‘Such as your brother and sister?’

  ‘Rory and Carys . . .’ She shook her head. ‘They’re so young. I’m effectively their mother now and I don’t feel equipped.’

  ‘Then don’t try.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean don’t try to be their mother. Remain authentic and do the very best you can as their big sister. Children are surprisingly perceptive. They’ll know how hard you’re trying.’ She nodded at sage words cutting through the blur of anxiety. ‘Control what you can, Stella. The rest, work it out as you go along. They’ll never lack for love, I suspect, and perhaps right now it’s your affection that counts more than anything.’

  ‘Oh, they’re very easy to love. They’re even easy to raise. They don’t complain, they don’t give me cheek, they’re doing their damndest to help. Dear little Rory puts on our father’s boots and clomps out to the coalscuttle, telling me he’s the man of the house now and has to think like Dad would.’ She forbade the tears that were threatening. ‘It breaks my heart that he’s already worked it out and the saddest part of all is that I’m relying on him to take out the rubbish, to take Carys to school when I can’t, to remember to tick off lots of little chores that a lad of his age probably shouldn’t be concerned with.’

  ‘He’ll be a better man for it.’

  ‘But I don’t want him to grow up too fast. I want him to have the childhood he deserves. I don’t want Carys crying herself to sleep because she wants our mother to sing the French lullaby that she sang to each of us at Carys’s age. I don’t have the French accent!’

  The corner of his eyes wrinkled again with amusement but one that told her it was filled with sympathy. ‘You can’t turn back time, Stella, but if you’re strong, make sound decisions for your family, you can navigate the path.’

  She gave a low sigh. ‘My life had . . .’

  ‘What?’ he asked tenderly.

  ‘Trajectory,’ she shrugged. ‘I knew what I wanted, I knew how to get there. I’ve been knocked off course.’

  ‘Get back on course,’ he replied rather obviously.

  Her eyes welled and she reached quickly into her bag for a handkerchief but he was quicker, flicking out the perfectly ironed white square linen from his outside pocket.

  ‘Please,’ he urged when she hesitated, but unlike most he offered a thought beyond the obvious. ‘Self-pity delivers no answers.’

  She felt the sting of rebuke but knew he was right. He continued speaking as he glanced over a shoulder searching for the waiter before returning his attention swiftly. ‘Do something else for a while that gives you a chance to stand back from your problem and study it. You’ve heard the saying about ways to skin a cat, no doubt.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So, approach your dream from a different direction. It’s perspective, Stella. And who knows, you may discover something wonderful along the way; you may think entirely differently about matters; you may meet interesting folk you otherwise would never have met . . .’

  ‘Like whom?’

  ‘Like me,’ he grinned and she smiled sadly, feeling her eyes water helplessly at his kindness.

  The waiter arrived with a pot of coffee, another of tea and began layi
ng out the cups, jugs and sugar bowl. She dabbed her eyes surreptitiously and blew as if fighting a mild cold. As she did so she smelled the liquor again, this time from the handkerchief, and once again it didn’t add up, especially now as he spoke so lucidly.

  ‘We can pour,’ he said to the waiter and tipped him to go away. ‘Are you all right, Stella?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I didn’t think I had any more tears left. I’m sorry. You’ve been kind, thank you.’ She sniffed as they waited for the tea to draw. ‘Do you have family?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m married, yes.’ At her raised eyebrows, he smiled. ‘I’m simply keeping a friend company. I’m not in the habit of trawling dance halls and paying girls to waltz with me.’

  ‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ she snapped.

  ‘Damn, that came out wrong. I meant no offence, just wanted to assure that I have no intention of making any improper advance. I don’t even want to be here. Oh, bloody hell, I’m digging a deeper hole, aren’t I?’

  Stella laughed at how visibly mortified he looked. ‘No offence taken.’ She held up a hand to reassure. ‘Truly.’ She nodded to say that the conversation was complete. ‘So . . . family?’

  ‘My parents have passed on, and unlike you I have no siblings to care for.’ He trotted out the details without emotion.

  ‘Where is home?’

  ‘Good question.’ He sighed and began pouring her tea. It looked strong, as she liked it. ‘I’ll leave you to add your preferences.’ He smiled and she couldn’t fault his obvious attractiveness. She was aware of women turning in their direction, stealing surreptitious and admiring glances at the dashing stranger she was taking tea with.

  ‘So, Stella, I’m certain you know a sixpence or two isn’t the solution,’ he continued, cutting deeply to the core of her fear.

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I’ve recently buried both my parents and I need some time to think without panicking. I know I have to sell the house; we may even have to move away from where we’ve all been raised. My head spins with worry. But despite my tears, I am much stronger than I appear.’