by Lucy Dillon
‘Sorry,’ said Bridget, as they turned into Chestnut Grove. ‘Sorry for being such an old bag. I don’t like it when we fall out.’
‘That’s OK, Mum,’ said Lauren. ‘I just feel a bit torn. I don’t want to upset Irene, but I don’t want to upset you, either. And I’m sorry about the dresses. I wasn’t leaving you out. We can go this weekend if you want? I’ve got plenty I need to see.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Bridget. ‘There’s no need. Irene knows more about things like that than me. I just . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
Lauren parked outside their house. Her dad’s Rover was in the drive, and lights were on in the kitchen. She could see him pottering about, making a pot of tea, his red jumper making a splash of colour in the little square of light. She’d bought him that jumper a few Christmases back. Lauren was willing to bet he’d never had it on till she came home, and was only wearing it now to please her. ‘You just what?’
Bridget sighed and looked wryly across the car. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I just . . . I just want to be there when you pull back the changing-room curtain, and there you are – my little girl in a bridal gown. I need to get used to seeing you standing there, all grown up and beautiful, or else I’ll cry buckets on the big day and set you off, and set your father off, and then where will you be? You’ll have to get Irene to find some mother-of-the-bride-proof mascara.’
Lauren heard a wobble in Bridget’s voice and tears sprang into her own eyes. ‘I know,’ she said, taking her hand off the wheel to squeeze her mother’s. Bridget immediately clasped it in her own, so Lauren felt the diamond and gold band squeeze against her solitaire. If she had a marriage as solid as her parents’, she and Chris would be OK. Forty years, next April, despite her mother’s terrible driving, her dad’s gardening obsession, and the foot height difference. ‘I’ve got a list of shops I need to go to – will you come with me, on Saturday?’
‘I’d love to, Laurie.’
Bridget blinked back the tears threatening to spill. She wasn’t a crier, normally, but this wedding was worse than the menopause for hormonal mood swings. Lauren was grown up, with her wedding file and her mortgage leaflets, but not so grown up that she didn’t sometimes remind her of the cheery little girl she used to be, so eager to make her mum happy. She seemed very young to be getting married.
A year older than you were, she reminded herself. But things were very different for her and Frank. Very different.
Maybe it was just the shock of realising how much time had passed without her really noticing, until Lauren was now the age she still felt she was herself, inside, anyway. Maybe that was why it was so hard to say no, as the costs stacked up, and the mad wishlists got ever madder.
‘Mum?’ said Lauren, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. I’m fine,’ she said, smiling away the mingled emotions rising up her throat. ‘Just hoping your dad hasn’t started to make the tea on his own.’
Lauren smiled. ‘It’ll be the first time in years if he has.’
‘Right.’ Bridget ran a quick hand through her dark cropped hair, putting the wedding out of her head, and trying to remember if she had everything in to make her emergency tuna bake thing. ‘Better go and stop him before something gets burned, eh?’
As Lauren watched her mother bustle up the path, calling out to her dad as she unlocked the door, she resigned herself to trying on every wedding dress in a twenty-mile radius – for the second time.
3
At twenty to eight on Wednesday night, Katie drew up next to an unprepossessing block of concrete 1960s flats and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Are you sure it’s here?’ she said, for the third time.
‘Yes,’ said Ross.
‘Did you phone ahead, though, to make sure? It wasn’t clear on the poster.’ She looked up at the tall, featureless council blocks. ‘It can’t be here . . .’
I should have done it myself, she thought. Then I’d know everything was sorted.
‘Katie! I know exactly where it is!’ He glared at her resentfully, and for a moment she wondered what on earth an hour of stupid dancing was going to do to bridge the cold, echoing space between them. It was so obvious in the car that there might as well have been plate glass between them, even though she’d tried to fill it by telling him all about her problems with the new contractors. ‘There’s a softplay group in the same place once a week – I sometimes take Jack.’
‘OK, OK.’ She undid her seat belt, feeling caught offside as she always did when he told her something she didn’t know about her own kids.
‘It’s a Memorial Hall, behind the flats,’ Ross went on, getting out. ‘The houses round it must have been bombed or demolished or something, but it survived – it’s rather nice.’
‘I didn’t think there was anything like that round here.’
‘Really?’ Ross replied in his annoying passive-aggressive voice, the one he knew wound her up.
‘What do you mean by that? If you’ve got something to say, then say it! If it’s some kind of dig about not taking the kids to bloody softplay, then just say so!’
Katie realised she was standing still, nearly yelling in the street-lit silence of the estate.
Ross stopped too, and looked at her. He didn’t raise his voice and his self-control only annoyed her more. ‘It’s not always about you. I don’t mean anything. All I meant is that you work in a planning department. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it. Is all I meant. Will you stop trying to pick fights and just calm down?’
‘I am calm,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just had a stressy day, all right? Remember that regeneration meeting over-running, like I told you?’
Ross said nothing, which was the most irritating response in his armoury of irritating responses. It meant he was thinking something too enraging to speak aloud.
‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Come on.’
‘We’ve both had stressy days,’ he said. ‘Did you even ask how mine went? No.’
Immediately she felt bad. ‘OK. How was your day, then?’
He gave her a look, then said, ‘Doesn’t matter. Forget it.’
Great, thought Katie, it’s going to be one of those evenings. One of those evenings where everything we do winds the other up, no matter how hard we try not to let it.
A moment or two passed while they glared at each other in the unflattering yellow light.
We’re getting old, she thought. I used to look forward to us getting old together. And if I have to start again with a new man, he won’t even have seen the young me to make up for these crow’s-feet and flab I’ve got now.
As usual, Ross cracked first. ‘Sorry. Come on,’ he said, cajolingly. ‘Don’t want to be late, do we?’
Katie shook her head, harder than she needed to, in order to shake the thoughts from her mind, and followed him towards the Hall.
The Memorial Hall, as Ross had said, sat like a red-brick doll’s house between two grey towerblocks, its arched door and Dutch tiled roof making an unexpected splash of colour in the monotone estate. In Memory of Those Who Fought 1914–1918 was carved into a stone plaque on one side, with First Stone Laid by Mrs Holloway, Lady Mayoress, 20 April 1922 on the other.
‘Pretty!’ said Katie, despite herself.
‘Isn’t it?’ Ross pushed open the door for her.
Katie hesitated on the step. Though she cruised confidently into meetings with all kinds of people at work, she always had to give herself a sort of internal nudge; deep down, she was quite tense about meeting new people, afraid that they’d see through her hustle and bustle, or not like her.
But Ross was hovering behind her like a little boy, waiting for her to go first. He always did that. To begin with it had seemed like gallantry; now she knew it was because he wanted her to take charge, so he wouldn’t have to. But this wasn’t the night to start on that. She took a deep breath and went in.
The Hall smelled like the old church hall her old Brownie meetings had been held in. Like all old halls smelled,
she supposed – of Rich Tea biscuits and floor polish, overlaid with an all-pervasive aroma of dust. Blue plastic chairs were stacked against one wall, and crinkled finger-painted pictures marked out the corners where the playgroups congregated, alongside First Aid instructions and recruitment notices for the Samaritans.
But what Katie hadn’t been able to see from the simple exterior was that the sides of the Hall were punctuated with arched stained-glass windows, and the ceiling was painted with entwining branches and leaves, flaking in places but still bright. The faded wooden floor slanted in a herringbone pattern, and though the electric light was modern, it came from three hanging clusters of dusty lamps, suspended like bunches of grapes from the beams.
Despite her bad mood, Katie felt pleased by the neatness of it all: it reminded her of an enamelled musical box, faded but ornate in an old-fashioned way. Then she realised there were already quite a few people there, and they were all looking at her and Ross.
‘Hi!’ she said, going onto autopilot and fixing her smile in place. ‘Hope we’re not late!’
There was a young couple in their twenties, another couple about her parents’ age, maybe a bit older, two women in their thirties, and a much older couple. Standing a little apart was the woman who Katie assumed, from her perfect posture and neatly positioned feet, was the teacher.
‘Of course not. Hello! I’m Angelica,’ she said, stepping towards them so gracefully that Katie barely saw her red shoes move.
So that’s what an Angelica looks like, she thought as she shook hands, because the woman fitted her name perfectly: dark hair combed back from her high forehead and pulled into a plait, coiled like a snake at the nape of her neck, sharp blue eyes lined with a quick sweep of black liner and a hint of a temper in her long nose with its flared nostrils. She had slender dancer’s legs and slim, ringless hands, and a black satin skirt that rippled sinuously around her knees as she moved. She could have been any age between forty and fifty-five.
Next to her, Katie suddenly felt frumpy.
‘Now then,’ she said, gesturing for everyone to make a semicircle around her. ‘Shall we start? Lovely! My name is Angelica Andrews, and I’m going to teach you to dance. Now, I know, from many years of teaching, that not all of you are here because you want to be, especially the chaps . . .’ She shot a knowing look towards Ross, and the other younger man. ‘. . . but I like a challenge!’
Ross let out a nervous giggle, which grated on Katie’s nerves.
‘Now, I do have one or two things to mention before we begin – don’t worry! Nothing too serious – but it does make a difference. So, to start with, I like my students to dress up for classes. Bring out that party dress you’ve been keeping for best, put on a brighter shirt. Whatever makes you feel special!’
Katie felt the sharp blue eyes settle on her for a second, as if Angelica was reading her mind, then they moved on, leaving her feeling oddly defensive.
So I’m wearing a trouser suit, she thought belligerently. So what? It’s a very stylish trouser suit. And some of us have come straight from work.
Being the only female planner in a particularly male office meant Katie had had to develop a strategy for being taken seriously by her project development team, and her sharp-cut trouser suits started the mental shift each morning. She was never late, she never shirked the dirtiest assessment jobs, and she was called Kate at work, not Katie. Sometimes even KP. The trouble was, switching out of that tough frame of mind at the end of the day wasn’t always as simple as taking off her jacket.
‘I’m not saying you have to find white tie and tails and full-length frocks,’ Angelica went on, ‘but since dancing is all about creating a mood, I always think it gets us more in the spirit of things if you feel dressed up. It makes you stand up properly and feel more elegant, more . . .’ She swept out an arm. ‘More dramatic. Ladies, be as colourful as you want, but do have a practice at home if you think your skirt might swirl up a bit too high! And no garlic bread before classes.’ She looked archly at them. ‘That’s the first rule of ballroom dancing.’
The older couple murmured agreement to that.
Angelica paused. ‘Second rule is to smile. Enjoy yourselves. No one wants to dance with a misery-guts, and the third rule is to listen to what I’m telling you, keep your eyes on me, and pay attention.’
Her tone suddenly turned fierce, and Katie’s attention stopped wandering around to see if she really was the only woman there in trousers, and snapped back to Angelica.
‘You might think I’m a bit of a hard task mistress to begin with, but believe me, it’s much better to get things right now than to try to correct sloppy technique later,’ she went on, firmly. ‘It’s a courtesy to your partner to make the dancing as easy for them as you can. You don’t want to be hauling someone else round the floor, or trying to catch up steps they’ve missed, or dodging their flat feet. But I’m sure you’re all going to be model students!’
The fierceness was replaced by a brilliant smile, which everyone responded to with dancing smiles of their own, automatically.
‘So, shall we begin with some names?’ Angelica looked round the semicircle, and Katie felt the searching eyes settle on her again, raising her defensiveness like a cat being stroked the wrong way.
‘I’m Katie, and this is my husband Ross,’ she said, before she could be asked.
‘Hey,’ said Ross, raising his hand.
Why doesn’t he just say hello? thought Katie irritably. He’s not in some design studio now.
‘I’m Lauren,’ said the younger girl, and stroked the arm of the tall blond man next to her. ‘And my fiancé Chris.’
They looked at each other and grinned, and Katie guessed that they probably hadn’t been engaged very long. It was the half-proud, half-freaked reaction that flickered into their faces when she said the word fiancé. Plus, Lauren kept fiddling with her diamond ring. Katie thought she looked the type to have been practising her married signature for some time.
‘We’re learning to dance for our wedding,’ Lauren explained, as everyone else cooed. ‘We haven’t decided which style yet, because we’re still planning the theme.’
‘Oh, you must plan the wedding around the dance you’re best at!’ said Angelica. She put a finger on her chin, and Katie noted the glossy scarlet varnish with some envy. ‘I see you as quite a tango man, Chris.’
His shoulders went back nervously. ‘Is that one of those dances where you have to wear satin kecks?’
But Lauren was intrigued. ‘Chris, tango?’ she asked. ‘Seriously? Wow. Can you tell that about people, like what star signs they are?’
Angelica raised an eyebrow. ‘Absolutely. But it would spoil the fun if I told you all now, wouldn’t it?’ She turned to the older couples. ‘Now, you must be the bride’s parents,’ she said to the small dark-haired woman and the tall fair man, standing with his hand on her back. ‘I can see the likeness!’
‘Yes, I’m Bridget Armstrong, my husband Frank,’ she said, in a clear, confident voice.
‘It’s Mrs Armstrong,’ whispered Ross. ‘From the primary school. She has the Year Ones. You know, the class Hannah will be in next year.’
‘I know what class Hannah’s in!’ Katie hissed back, as Mrs Armstrong spotted them across the room and gave them a little wave of recognition. Or rather, she spotted Ross. Katie hadn’t had much time to go up to school since Hannah’s first day, although she’d moved three meetings to be there for the big drop-off at the school gates. Hannah had clung to Ross’s legs. It had been left to Katie to pry her fingers away. That had made her feel great.
But Angelica was moving on to the next couple: the short man and his amply bosomed wife. ‘Now you look like two people who know their way around a dance floor!’ she said.
The woman preened modestly. In her sensible court shoes, she was a good three inches taller than her husband, but whereas she was a plain duck in her caramel twinset, he was clearly the mallard of the marriage. His dark hair shone like his black
-polished shoes, and a gold watch gleamed under the sleeve of his blazer, matching its bright buttons.
‘I think you could say we’ve had our fair share of practice,’ he said, shooting his cuffs. ‘I’m Baxter, and this is my good lady wife Peggy. I should say upfront that we’re not beginners, but we enjoy a refresher course now and again. Don’t we, Peggy? There’s always something new to learn. We’ve been dancing here for years. Since the Ted Preston band days.’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s plenty you can teach us,’ said Angelica.
Katie saw Peggy cast a shy look up at Angelica. ‘Of course, we know all about you, Angelica,’ she said, in a soft, uncertain voice, as if she wasn’t used to speaking. ‘We’ve followed your career for years, haven’t we, Baxter?’
Angelica looked surprised, and pleased. ‘Really?’
Katie was surprised too. She had no idea Angelica had had a career to follow.
‘Oh, yes,’ Peggy started to say, ‘you’ve done the town proud with—’
But whatever else she had to say was lost as Baxter interrupted to grill Angelica about dancing shoes, and what music they’d be having, and whether she’d be ‘putting them through those awful modern numbers or sticking to the proper steps’.
Katie watched as Peggy slipped into the background again, looking back and forth between her husband and the teacher. That was one thing she could say for Ross – he never talked over her.
Katie’s attention was distracted by the two single women giggling about who should go first. Though they were nudging each other, their eyes kept flicking towards the door, with increasing frequency and desperation.
Office mates, she guessed, coming along to meet some new men. Not that there was any here to meet – as it was, they’d be dancing with each other.
