by Liz Marvin
“Oh,” she said, beet red from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry!”
The man reached out to steady her, smiling. His teeth had to have been bleached, Betty thought. No one’s teeth were that white naturally.
“It’s no problem,” he said. “I’d love to get bumped into by more beautiful ladies.”
Betty fought to not roll her eyes. The idea that anyone would consider her beautiful in the midst of all the glitz and glam Barbie dolls in the room was utterly ridiculous.
“No, really,” the man insisted, seeming to catch on to her disbelief. “You are!”
Betty laughed nervously. “I’m glad you think so,” she said, starting to head back over to Bill.
The man moved to block her. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Betty,” she said shortly.
“I’m Harry. Pleased to meet you,” he said, sticking out his hand. Betty held up both hands, tied up with drinks.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I need to get back to my friend.”
The man started to walk with her. “Is she as pretty as you?” he asked. Betty fought the urge to throw up. Did this man really think she was that easy to impress? For a moment, she thought about stringing him along, convincing him that her friend was a knockout, and then introducing him to Bill. She stifled a giggle. She could pretend that she’d thought he was gay. That would be amusing. Then again, she thought, perhaps not. Bill might take it the wrong way.
“I think that he,” she said, emphasizing the “he,” “is quite handsome.”
“Ah,” Harry said. “I see. Someone’s already snatched you up.” He stopped for a moment and took one of her hands in his, ignoring the soda and raising her fingers to his lips. When he let go, Betty fought the urge to wipe her hand off on her dress. “I know when I’m beaten,” he said. And with that, he turned and wove his way back through the crowd. No doubt looking for another “beautiful lady,” Betty thought, laughing to herself. He may have been a bit over the top, but it had been fun to be flirted with for a moment.
“Are you okay Betty?” Bill asked when she reached him. “Was that man bothering you?”
Betty smiled at him. “I’m fine. He was just a big flirt. I let him know I was already here with someone,” she said, flashing him a quick smile. Bill’s eyes widened, and it suddenly occurred to Betty how forward she sounded. She backpedaled, trying not to stumble over her words. “Not that we’re…” she laughed nervously. “Thank you for being my excuse. Anyhow, are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, staring pointedly out at the dancers.
After an awkward moment, Bill replied, “Absolutely. I’ve been watching Clarise and Wes. I had no idea they were actually good.”
Betty felt her stomach sink a little. Don’t be silly, she told herself. So he didn’t correct you. That doesn’t mean anything. You’ve read too many romance novels, that’s all. Snap out of it!
To take her mind off of her foolishness and crush, Betty focused on trying to peer through the moving blurs to pick out her friends. Her eyes refused to cooperate. Betty closed them for a moment, hoping that when she opened her eyes her vision would’ve suddenly returned to normal. Then again, she thought as her wish failed, she might as well have wished for a pot of gold and glass slippers. Diabetes would do what it would. The only thing she could do was ride it out.
“See?” Bill said, gesturing somewhere out on the dance floor. “They’re having a blast!”
Betty nodded, pretending she could see what Bill was looking at.
“Who are your friends?” asked a woman in her forties, coming up from Betty’s right. She was dressed in a pants suit and leaned heavily on a cane. Bill pointed them out in the crowd, and the woman smiled. “They aren’t here to compete, are they?”
Betty shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “They’ve entered, but they’re more here for the fun of it.”
The woman’s smile widened. “That’s so good to hear!” she said. “Too many people are in it for the prize money, instead of because they love dancing.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Grace Nell.”
“Betty Crawford,” Betty said, shaking her hand. “And I know what you mean. I heard some things a little while ago… I was wondering if anyone else was here just for fun.”
Grace looked out at the dance floor. “Some ballroom dance competitions are more for fun, but they’re usually beginners. Once you reach the professional level, things tend to get a little out of hand.” She gestured to her bad leg. “This happened because I dared to go up against Emily Knolhart in all her glory.” In response to Betty’s surprised look, Grace continued hastily. “Oh, no one can prove it, and no one ever will. She’s too good at what she does to be caught at it. But she was the only one I could think of who stood to gain by cutting one of my high heels half off.” She smiled ruefully. “Mind you, I don’t think she intended to injure me permanently. Just get me out of that one competition.” She looked back out at the dancers. “But, in a way, she did me a favor. Now, instead of spending all my time worrying about the next competition, I can go back to enjoying dance. I teach now.” Grace smiled. “Some of my students are competing here today in the beginner section. They’re having so much fun. They don’t care about the fact they’ll probably never win the prize money. They’re just here to dance. Like your friends. It’s nice to see,” she repeated.
After what she’d heard, Betty could understand that. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like for someone who loved dance to become a professional dancer. Unless you had an iron-clad streak of competitiveness, it would be all too easy to lose the joy of dancing in the rounds of competitions. And, if Miss Knolhart really had won so many competitions, Betty was willing to bet that she’d been willing to step on a few toes along the way. Clarise’s ballroom hero was looking more and more like a vicious viper that Betty would step on given half a chance.
Bill must have been thinking along the same lines, because he asked in exasperation, “Is there anyone here who doesn’t hate Miss Knolhart?”
Grace laughed, and Betty could swear that her voice burbled like a brook. Until now, she’d only thought that laughs like that happened on stage. “The doyenne? Oh, I doubt it. After all, envy and hate are two parts of the same emotion, and those who don’t have personal issues with her have envy in spades.” She gestured to a small group of women on their right. Betty couldn’t make out their faces, but she doubted that men would be wearing floor-length dresses. “Those women there, for instance. Miss Knolhart has ruined each and every one of their careers, or at least they blame her for it. Some she’s stolen partners from, others she’s just beaten in competitions and they take it personally. And somewhere around here are a few men who used to be her dance partners and who she kicked to the curb like garbage once they stopped winning. And her ex-husband’s here. Her assistant hates her. In fact,” she said, laughing that ridiculous burbling laugh again, “you’ve just entered a veritable soap opera. Welcome to dance!”
Bill groaned. “Wonderful. I think I’ll ignore the drama and dance the weekend away in my own happy bubble.” He bowed to Betty. “Would you care to join me?”
Betty grinned, and suddenly felt the urge to tap into her theater roots. She’d read one too many books with expensive dances in them to not want to play to the moment even a little. She raised one eyebrow at his proffered arm and sniffed disdainfully. “You, Sir, had best apply a lint brush to that arm if you expect me to touch it. Have you any idea how long it took to do these nails?”
She watched his eyes flick to her hand in confusion for a split second before catching on. “Ah,” he said, straightening with a snap, a smile tugging his lips. “I’m sorry that you feel my grooming habits are beneath you.” He turned to Grace, who was watching their theatrics with a grin spread across her face. “Perhaps I should ask this charming lady instead. Grace, darling, may I—”
“Oh no you don’t,” Betty said, stepping in front of him and losing her affronted air. “You dance wit
h me Mister.”
Bill laughed. “Of course.” He winked at Grace. “I love making her jealous.”
“So I see,” commented Grace. She made shooing motions. “Well, go on! Dance!”
Betty let Bill pull her forward into the dance floor. “You realize I have no idea what I’m doing, don’t you?” she asked.
Bill shrugged. “Neither do I,” he said. “Myself, I favor a good old two-step with a few twirls thrown in. None of these fancy routines will fit my feet.”
Betty let go of tension she didn’t even know she’d had when she heard that. At least Bill wasn’t expecting her to waltz. “That sounds wonderful,” she said, and went to put her hand on his shoulder.
Before they could take their first step, a harsh screech sounded across the ballroom.
“You… you has-been gigolo jerk!” Betty jerked her head around towards the sound, and found her jaw dropping at the sight of Miss Knolhart yelling at the top of her lungs mere feet away. Her target was a tall, balding man with a beautiful, tall brunette on his arm. Looking more closely, Betty realized that it was the same man who had been flirting with her earlier. Apparently, he’d found a girl who would fall for his lines. “You brought a date here?” she turned to address the woman, completely ignoring the crowd that had sputtered to a stop around them. The quartet played on.
“I’ll have you know,” Miss Knolhart said, “that the day I got rid of this trash was the best day of my life. He took half my money with him when he left, and it was worth every penny to not have to come home and see his ugly mug every night!” Oh come on, thought Betty. He’s not that bad looking, even with the bald spot! She could hardly believe that the same, self composed woman who she’d met only half an hour before was making such a scene. I wonder if she’s bipolar? Betty thought. “You’re just his latest hussy,” hissed Miss Knolhart. “And that’s all you’ll ever be.”
The woman looked down her nose at the older woman. “Maybe,” she said. Her voice carried clearly across the room. “But I’m not the one making a complete fool of myself.”
That seemed to snap Miss Knolhart out of her rage. She looked around the room before straightening her dress. “Yes,” she said, her voice much decreased in volume, though still harsh. “Well, somehow I think it’s hardly making a fool out of yourself if you’re only pointing out the obvious truth.” She turned and stalked away from the couple.
Murmurs followed in her wake, and a voice came over the microphone.
“The quartet will be taking a fifteen minute break. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy the refreshments.”
Somehow, Betty didn’t think the crowd would lack for a conversation topic.
It didn’t take long for Wes and Clarise to appear out of the melee. They were both sweating slightly from the dancing, and Clarise looked as though someone had hit her in the face with a board. Or, more accurately, she looked as though one of her childhood heroes had just been outed as a major jerk. Betty almost went to hug her, before she realized that Wes was already filling the role of comforter. And quite well too, she thought with no small amount of glee, watching Clarise lean back into his arms.
“I can’t believe it,” Clarise said. “I mean, she was so nice on her television series! I can’t believe she’s such a psycho in real life!”
At least there’s good news,” Betty said, her expression deadpan.
Clarise looked at her questioningly from within the half-circle of Wes’s arm. “What?”
“She doesn’t have rabies?” Betty tried, startling a laugh out of Clarise. “She wasn’t frothing at the mouth. At least we know her psychosis isn’t contagious.”
“Well,” Clarise said, “whether or not she’s a terrible person, Miss Knolhart is an amazing dancer. She’s still inspiring, and I’m not going to let the fact that she’s a creep ruin my weekend. She was nice enough to us, right?”
“That’s my girl,” Wes said fondly. “Now, I’m starving. Anyone else?”
They headed towards the refreshment table, completely unaware of the person on the sidelines who was watching them, eyes narrowed in contempt.
CHAPTER 8
At the refreshment table, Betty and her friends met the celebrity chef, who was not only responsible for cooking everything for the competition, but judging the dancing as well.
“I don’t know a waltz from a tango,” the chef laughed loudly, causing several dancers nearby to turn and stare at him, “but I guess they don’t care about that.” He nudged Bill with his shoulder. “They just want my name on the leaflets, eh?”
Bill smiled back at him. To Betty, it seemed like he was unsure how to deal with such a boisterous, six-foot man leaning so close to him. He looked the very image of a chef, complete with the slightly bulging belly and a white chef’s hat. His apron was streaked with the residue of pastries and meat platters. The dancers, so many of them dressed in their best finery, tended to give him a wide berth as he stood up against the wall, watching everyone enjoy the food he had made. That meant that the area around him was one of the only spots in the ballroom with space to breathe, so that was where Betty and Bill had elected to stand while they ate.
They should’ve known.
Bill looked at Betty, his eyes begging her to find a way out of this conversation. The chef was loud. He spewed crumbs from his mouth with every word, and for all that he was jolly he was just too much to stand being near for long.
The quartet resumed playing and, as there were no trash barrels within easy sight, Betty placed her empty plate on the nearest table. She took Bill’s empty plate from his hand and set it down next to her own. “Come on,” she said, pulling him towards the dance floor. “It was nice to meet you,” she called back over her shoulder to the chef. “But we’re here to dance!”
The chef waved them off, a huge grin on his face, and they moved to the middle of the dance floor where other dancers were starting to congregate.
Without warning, Bill twirled Betty in place. She stumbled through the twirl, laughing as she came to rest with one of Bill’s hands on her waist, his other lacing fingers through her own. “I owe you,” Bill said softly. “Huge. If I’d had to stay there any longer…”
Betty beamed up at him. “What are girls for if not to save men?”
Bill laughed, and Betty couldn’t help but feel a little proud that she had caused that reaction, again. She seemed to be making him laugh a lot this evening. She glanced around at the other dancers and caught one girl staring at her with what looked like envy. Betty frowned a little. What could she possibly be envious of her for?
Then she realized that Bill had been leading her gracefully across the floor. She hadn’t even realized they were no longer in one place. She stumbled and glared up at him, feeling blood rush to her cheeks. “You said you couldn’t dance!” she exclaimed.
Bill smiled down at her, eyes sparkling. “I lied,” he said lightly, starting to dance again after he made sure she’d recovered. Betty concentrated on following him, and felt her steps falter out of rhythm. “I took classes in high school,” he said by way of explaining. “And I’ve noticed,” he said, dropping his voice, “that you’re far more likely to relax and enjoy yourself when you aren’t thinking. You aren’t so bad a dancer yourself. You haven’t stepped on my feet yet. And besides,” he said, “in ballroom dancing it’s the guy’s job to make the girl look good. So,” he said, lightly chiding her, “relax, follow my lead, and let me do my job!”
Betty glared at him, hoping that he’d mistake her blush for annoyance. “I don’t know how! I look like an idiot.”
She felt Bill shift his grip on her waist. “Not true,” he said, “you do know to dance. You were doing just fine until you stopped to think about it. So,” he repeated, “just relax, pretend there’s no one else in the room, and enjoy yourself.”
Betty took a deep breath. “Fine,” she muttered. “Just keep me distracted enough that I forget to pay attention.”
And he did. They talked softly, mindful o
f the ears in the ever growing crowd around them. They talked about Wes and Clarise, about the drive up to the hotel, about Lofton, and soon Betty found herself forgetting that she was in a busy room with some of the most judgmental people she’d ever met. She looked around and saw an elderly couple slow-dancing the two-step to their right. The woman’s grey hair was straight, flowing down her back in a silver waterfall, and she was smiling at her partner. Soon they passed another happy couple, and another.
Other people did come here just to dance, Betty realized happily. And, now that she was in the dance floor, she could see that there were more couples fumbling through steps than gliding gracefully. It seemed as though she’d been right after all. Though there were a few dancers who were obviously dancing to show off, most of the judgmental prats were on the sidelines. Where she and Bill were in the middle of the dance floor, they were protected from prying eyes by other couples. She relaxed even further, not realizing that she had a gigantic grin on her face, or that her eyes were sparkling.
Who knew that Bill could dance? Betty thought. She suspected Clarise might have known, and made a mental note to kick her friend the next time she saw her. She’d thank her after. This was one instance when Betty didn’t mind being set up.
The string quartet switched songs, choosing a melody with a slower pace, and Betty found herself moving closer to Bill and noticing the way his right eye crinkled in the corner when he smiled.
And then the ballroom was plunged into darkness. The quartet fell silent, and Betty could hear the rustle of clothes and confused murmurs of dancers wondering what had happened. A person bumped into her, almost knocking her over. Betty tightened her grip on Bill’s hand, determined not to lose him in the confusion.
