My face burns and I try to ignore the hot sweat that prickles at my upper lip.
‘It’s fine,’ Jack shrugs, ‘I get it, you’re mad. I annoyed you yesterday and I’m sorry.’ He looks at me, finally the smug smile gone. ‘I shouldn’t have acted that way around you. I was just pleased to see you. But you’re right,’ he sighs, ‘business setting and all that. I’ll be professional from now on. This is strictly business. Tell me about the last sales quarter at Lemons.’
I smile slightly. He was pleased to see me? I was certainly not pleased to see him.
I look up as the waiter reappears with two identical steaks. My stomach swells in excitement. I haven’t had a steak in weeks, let alone in the middle of the day. I pick up my knife and begin to carve, my nostrils quivering as the rich smell of the food wafts up from the plate.
‘Anyway,’ Jack says, ‘what are you doing this weekend?’
I look up as I swallow my first mouthful.
‘I think I’m going to a Salsa class on Saturday,’ I say as casually as I can.
That sounds so ridiculous coming out of my mouth. There is nothing casual about me announcing a weekend Salsa class.
Jack nods. ‘Oh, cool,’ he says, ‘whereabouts?’
I put my knife down. ‘I found a great class over in Covent Garden,’ I say. ‘They have one in the daytime, which I guess means it will be quite casual. Nobody who’s that into Salsa would go at midday.’
Jack swallows another mouthful. ‘That sounds fun,’ he says. ‘I might join you.’
‘You can’t,’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.
He can’t come with me to a Salsa class!
Jack looks up, a slight look of surprise etched on his face. ‘Why?’
I blink back at him.
Why? Is this guy a moron? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because Salsa is the sexiest dance form ever, and spending my Saturday grinding my pelvis up against my boss’s brother seems like one step away from being fired for sexual harassment.
I put my knife and fork down, my appetite slowly vanishing. ‘I think,’ I say, as if I am talking to a small child, ‘under the circumstances it would be best to keep our relationship professional. I know we had that weird date thing,’ I laugh awkwardly as Jack stares at me, poker-faced, ‘but that was a mistake. Colleagues don’t go Salsa dancing together. Sorry,’ I add, ‘I hope that makes sense.’
Jack puts his knife down and rubs his hands together, then smiles lightly. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I understand completely.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Potential outfits for Salsa class:
Red floaty dress from first year uni (no idea where this is)
Jeans and a red top (cool and aloof. Although what if need to do high kicks? Minimal leg leverage in jeans)
Year 11 prom dress? (Would certainly be overdressed but perhaps would make important statement)
Cool dance clothes (Would have to buy cool dance clothes)
Outfit like girl from Step Up? (Own nothing like this. Also look nothing like her)
Cool charity shop dress?! (Would need to lose two stone before tomorrow to fit into it)
Zumba outfit (gross and unflattering)
Eva Longoria’s outfit in Grazia?! (Would need to find outfit in shops + £1 million to pay for it)
I lean back into my seat as the car chugs along the winding country road. I glance at Amy and feel a snake of anxiety worm its way through my body. We are on our way to Amy’s hospital appointment. I can tell she is annoyed that we are all squashed into Dad’s Ford Focus; she wanted to go on her own and went on a huge rant this morning about how she is an adult and doesn’t need her entire family coming along to a hospital appointment. Obviously nobody was going to stay at home. Also, Dad is quite pleased because it means he can visit the garden centre on the way back.
Amy glares out of the window, her eyes fixed on the smudges of green and brown that whizz past the car as we curve round another bend. Tamal is slotted in between us on the back seat, his hand wrapped around Amy’s, and his eyes locked on the road ahead.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Mum parps up from the front, gripping on to the corners of her seat. ‘Will you slow down, Ian!’
Mum clasps her hands dramatically and flings herself against the door. Dad’s eyes flit towards her and then back at the road.
‘I am doing the speed limit,’ he says tightly. ‘I am driving at—’
‘You are not!’ Mum interrupts. ‘You are driving at fifty miles per hour. You are a speed demon. You are not a boy racer, Ian Miller, you are almost sixty years old. Stop showing off to Tamal.’
At this, Tamal jerks slightly and Dad scowls.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dad says, as he changes gear.
Mum pulls out her notepad and begins fanning herself, rolling her eyes at Dad. I shift my gaze back to the view out of the window as the sun pours in and spills on to my lap. It is just a routine appointment; Tamal has said that there is nothing to worry about. Even though Tamal’s a nurse, I’m not sure if Amy believes him. I don’t know if I believe him either. We thought there was nothing to worry about when she kept falling over. I glance at Tamal and notice his eyes are etched with concern, and I feel a pang of guilt.
‘How’s work, Tamal?’ I ask, moving my body to face him in the tightly packed car.
Tamal smiles. ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘thank you. Busy as always. How’s your job going?’
I cock my head as I consider my answer. ‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Have you shown your boss your designs yet?’
I look up and can’t help but smile. This is another example of why Amy and Tamal are a power couple. They agree on everything, and are obsessed with me showing Bianca my designs.
With her eyes still fixed on the window, Amy speaks for the first time. ‘No,’ she says, ‘she hasn’t.’
I shrug apologetically at Tamal. ‘It’s difficult,’ I say.
‘No it isn’t,’ Amy says, ‘you’re just being lazy.’
I pull my eyes away from Tamal, stung by Amy’s comments. I know this is a hard day for her, but she isn’t usually mean.
I tuck my hands under the backs of my legs and look out of the window again as we finally exit the country lane.
‘I’m going to a Salsa class today,’ I say quietly.
Tamal grins. ‘Great!’ he says. ‘See, Amy,’ he adds, nudging her in the ribs, ‘she isn’t being lazy. It takes guts to go to a Salsa class on your own.’
I smile weakly as the memory of Jack’s proposal to join me wafts through my mind. It is much better to go on my own, obviously. Maybe I’ll get paired up with a sexy Spaniard. Maybe he will be the love of my life and we’ll have a Salsa-themed wedding and enter Britain’s Got Talent as an epic duo.
Mum puffs in outrage in the front seat as her window slides up. She jerks her body round to face my dad’s.
‘What are you doing?’ she snaps.
Dad enters a roundabout. ‘We have the air con on,’ he says calmly, ‘we cannot have the windows open at the same time. Think of the ozone layer.’
Mum glares at Dad and rams her finger back on the window switch, which politely shimmies back down, revealing a gust of air that whips me in the face.
Here we go.
‘The air con isn’t working,’ Mum says crossly. ‘I am too hot.’
Dad clicks the switch and the window glides back up again. ‘If you give it a minute then it will work.’
‘Ian!’ Mum barks. ‘I am a fully grown woman. If I want the window open then I shall have the window open!’
Mum’s window clicks back down again and Dad mutters something under his breath as he turns into the hospital and slots the car into a neat parking space. We all fold ourselves out of the car. I catch a glimpse of myself, reflected in the chrome of the car, and wince.
What is it about car reflections that make you look so obscene? I thought I looked quite nice this morning, but according to the car door I look like the splatted version of Humpty Dumpty.
I turn and walk over to Amy, who is nestled into Tamal’s chest.
‘It’s just an injection,’ Tamal says to Amy. ‘We’ll be in and out in no time. Then we can go get some lunch or something.’
‘You could come to the Salsa class with me!’ I say.
Amy glares at me.
‘That’s okay, Georgia,’ Tamal says kindly. ‘I think we’re going to spend the afternoon together. It’s rare I get a whole day off with Ames, and I want her all to myself.’ He squeezes Amy’s shoulders and I notice her eyes are wet.
My stomach twinges. Amy never cries.
I nod as my heart pricks with anxiety and we make our way towards the hospital. Dad appears next to me and hooks his arm over my shoulders.
‘Don’t look so glum, George,’ he says, steering me towards the entrance. ‘It’s just a routine appointment.’
‘I know.’
‘You haven’t sent me any drawings recently.’ He turns to face me, his eyes smiling. ‘Is work keeping you busy?’
I look up at Dad. I used to send him cartoons every day whilst at work. It is only as he mentions it that I realise I did it right up until Amy got ill. I hadn’t even noticed I’d stopped.
I shrug. ‘Something like that.’
*
I wrap my arms across my chest and peek around the corner apprehensively.
Oh my God, what am I doing? What am I doing?
I wince as a leggy woman sashays past in a ruffled fluorescent dress and loud, bright bangles. I glance down at my faded black leggings and my grey baggy top. I thought this is what you were supposed to wear. This is what I used to wear to Zumba whenever Amy would force me to go. Why didn’t anyone tell me I had to dress like an extravagant toilet-roll holder?
Not that I would have done, if they had. Obviously. Imagine being perched on the Jubilee Line with a glittery flower pinned to my head! I mean, it’s the middle of the day!
I booked on to the class last night and paid ten pounds for a one-hour class. Which, now I’m here, seems a bit ambitious. Can I Salsa dance for an entire hour? Can anyone? I can barely manage running for more than eight minutes! (My most recent personal best.) Amy said it takes her an hour to run 10k. Which means it will take me about four days, providing I’ve eaten a good breakfast.
I glance up in horror as the largest man I have ever seen strides towards me. He has dark hair, slicked down his neck and is wearing a crimson shirt that splits open in the middle to reveal a forest of curled hair. Slowly, my fearful eyes creep up his towering body.
I cannot get paired up with him. I refuse. He looks like an actual bull. If we stood facing each other my nose would slot right into his navel.
As carefully as I can, I scoot away from him and back into another corner. I notice a frilly woman who is stretching in the corner, skimming her eyes over him in delight, and I feel myself relax slightly. Oh good, she can go with him.
God, this is so awkward. Who am I going to be partnered with? I am going to have to do the sexiest dance in the world with a complete stranger, sober, in the middle of the day. At least when me and Natalie lock our crotches with strangers in O’Neill’s we’re always one glass of wine short of being an actual grape. Maybe I should have said Jack could come, at least then I would have a guaranteed partner.
Suddenly the pool of lacquered men and ruffled women spill through the open door. I manoeuvre my way to the back, and scuttle through into a tiny dance studio.
Oh my God.
To my horror, each wall is layered with giant mirrors. I gape at my awkward reflection as the women of the class greet their reflections as if they are being photographed for the cover of Vogue.
Oh my God! Mirrors? Who thought that was a good idea? It is bad enough that I am going to have to conjure up every ounce of sex appeal I have (which is obviously a limited supply) to get through this class, but I also have to watch myself doing this? I quickly slot myself in the back row, blocking my reflection behind a large skirt.
‘Okay!’ A piercing voice shoots through my ears, as a woman in heeled shoes clacks her way to the centre of the room. ‘Hola, señors and señoritas! I am Gabriella, let’s dance!’ She claps her hands together, and to my alarm, loud Latino music pumps through the room and everyone begins to thrust their hips in time with the music.
I’m sorry, what? What are they doing? Should I be doing that? How do they all know what to do?
The teacher faces the front and starts sashaying her hips either side in time with the music. Dubiously, I copy.
Why on earth did Amy ever want to do this? What is fun about this? What am I supposed to be getting out of this? This is absolutely humilia—
Oh shit, she’s changing direction.
I manoeuvre my legs to copy the teacher, feeling as sexy as an uncoordinated octopus. After what feels like one hundred years, she stops. She claps her arms in the air and turns to face us.
Is that the end? Please let it be the end.
‘To Salsa,’ she cries, launching her arms into the air, ‘you must feel the music in your bones!’
I glance at the couple next to me, who are nodding intently as if she is preaching from the Bible.
‘It is all about passion!’ she continues, pointing at an unsuspecting couple. ‘It is about emotion, and above all,’ she turns back to the front, ‘it is about sex!’
My body jars forward.
Arghhhhhhhhhhh! She can’t just say ‘sex’ in the middle of a dance class! In the middle of the day! Who is this crazed woman? Oh my God, what have I signed up to? Am I about to be tricked into having an orgy?
‘Partner up!’ she cries, clapping her hands again. ‘Let’s start with a simple step.’
My eyes flit around in alarm as the men and women shimmy across the room to greet each other like sexually charged flamingos. I hover. Nobody is coming towards me, thank God.
That’s okay. I can just dance by myself, I don’t want a partner anyway. This actually works out quite—
‘You!’
I jump in fright as the teacher jabs her arm towards me. Everyone twirls round to look at me, and my face burns.
‘Where is your partner?’ she yells.
I blink in horror. ‘I . . .’ I stutter, ‘I don’t have—’
‘To the front!’ she cries, spinning on the spot to face the mirrors. ‘You shall demonstrate with me!’
I freeze.
What? Demonstrate? I can’t go with the teacher! I’m a beginner!
Can I leave? If I ran out of the door would anyone notice? I could pretend I suddenly really need a wee and then just not come back. Or I could—
‘Now!’ she demands.
I jump forward and scuttle towards the front.
Oh my God. As if this isn’t mortifying enough, now I am going to have to try and be sexy, dancing with a woman who terrifies me. What will happen if I accidentally tread on her foot? I glance down at my clumpy trainers and wince. Everything about this is awful.
‘Now!’ She clicks the music on and steps towards me, her narrowed eyes locked on to mine.
My God, she’s intense. I feel like she’s trying to possess me. I blink back at her, desperate to look away but worried that if I do I’ll get told off.
This is ridiculous, I am a 26-year-old woman! Why am I so scared of the teacher?
‘Hands!’ she shouts, raising her hands up.
Everybody faces their partners and links their fingers together. Anxiously, I fold my hands into hers.
Urgh, God. I don’t even know her and now we are holding hands. I don’t even like holding hands with Mum.
‘Feet!’ she commands. ‘With the music. I shall lead.’
Wait, what? What did she say? What am I supposed to do with my feet? Can’t she see I’m a beginner? I’m wearing trainers!
She pushes me backwards and starts clicking her feet in a rocking motion. As carefully as I can, I copy, and to my annoyance accidentally catch sight of myself in the mirror. I shudder.
Oh great. I look like a
penguin in desperate need of a wee. ‘And that,’ Gabriella shouts, finally releasing my clammy hands, ‘is how we Salsa!’
She claps her hands in the air and everyone applauds each other, batting their eyes provocatively at their dance partners and peeling their hips away.
Thank god that hour is over.
I stagger backwards and quickly march to the back of the class, desperate to sink back into the crowd and stop being the centre of attention.
God, that was horrible. Nothing about that was enjoyable. What was Amy thinking?
I grab my water bottle and slot in behind the class, my top lip damp and quivering. At least now I can go back to the flat, put a wash on and watch Gilmore Girls.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and feel my damp fringe stick out at odd angles. I glance at the woman next to me, whose hair is still sculpted to her face like she painted it on this morning.
How do they still all look so perfect? None of them look out of breath at all. Although I suppose none of them have spent the best part of an hour fighting off a panic attack as a result of being the class demonstrator. Slowly, we feed out of the classroom and back down the stairs.
‘Please!’ Gabriella calls as we file in a line out of the classroom. ‘Sign up here for my next class.’
I reach the front of the queue and smile at Gabriella awkwardly as she wafts the clipboard under my nose. My eyes flit down.
She wants me to sign up again? Is she kidding? There is no way I am ever going to anything like this again ever. Not even if—
I stop in my tracks as my eyes land on a name on the clipboard. Without quite meaning to, I take it out of Gabriella’s hands.
Jack Lemon.
‘Would you like a pen?’ Gabriella asks, peering over my shoulder.
I jump. ‘Err . . . no,’ I say, giving the clipboard back to her, ‘thank you.’
That’s Jack. That’s Jack’s name.
Why is Jack’s name on her list? Has he signed up to a Salsa class? Why? Because of me? It must be!
I funnel out of the class and feel a fresh wave of heat ripple through my body.
What is he doing?
The List That Changed My Life Page 10
