Page 117 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
‘Maybe he hasn’t figured out you set up the dummy profile?’
I scroll through his account. ‘He has shut the Butch profile down. Perhaps he thinks he was hacked and doesn’t realise I did it?’
‘What an idiot not to change his access password.’
‘Ruby, look. He has cleared all the dating history on his other profiles. Not a single date record…’
‘Trying to cover his tracks, the shit. I bet he panicked after yesterday. And I guess he still may not have twigged it was you.’
‘And look, he’s emptied his message box… Wait. There’s an unopened message in the inbox from Venus. It’s only just come in.’ I click on the envelope icon.
Ruby peers eagerly over my shoulder and reads aloud.
‘Well Clint, or should I call you Butch? I was goingto report you for multi-dating without permission – a category one offence – but as it happens, I ended up having a blast with the guys from the Friends of Dorothy Show and I’m glad I left you to it with those three women and that horrid little dog. I hope your bite heals but it is no more than you deserve, you greedy cowboy. Next time you want a one-to-one I may consider it – you’re kinda cute – but if you’re looking for the same kind of showdown, don’t howdy me. Laters.’
Ruby laughs. ‘That pooch had the right idea. What, Monica – why the frown?’
‘I was sure he’d find out. I mean, I was banking on it. I want him to know it was me. I want it crystal clear that I know everything, and this is the end of our marriage.’
‘You need to send him a message. I can’t think how you can do this from his profile… Hey, what if I log on as Scarlet and you send your message from there?’
‘Do it.’
Within a few minutes, I have devised my message.
Vince. This is not Scarlet. This is me, Monica, and I know everything. I will make myself very clear. It is over. You will pack up and leave. We will talk arrangements away from the children as soon as possible.
I press send.
‘There, done. Are you all right Ruby.’ I watch her jump to her feet.
‘Frigging hell, look at the time? We’re dancing soon.’
‘Damn. Come on, we can warm-up by sprinting to theOpéra Bastille.’
We race along the dual carriageway leading to the theatre. As we approach the circular steps, we see large crowds gathering outside and spilling down the road.
‘Are all these people coming to watch the show?’ I shout to Ruby as we slow from our run.
The place is heaving with large groups making their way up to the entrance where a long queue has formed.
‘What’re they doing here?’ Ruby starts to push her way through as she points to a number of camera crews outside the foyer.
‘Excusez-moi. Pardon…’
A technician diverts us to sidestep a reporter who is giving a live bulletin about the Expression show. Ruby and I raise our eyebrows at each other.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Ruby mutters as we finally push past the film crews to get inside the theatre.
I glance at the clock, ‘Ruby, we’re so late. When are we dancing?’
‘No idea. Quick, grab one of those programmes and let’s leg it to the dressing room.’
I squeeze through a few groups queuing for tickets, the foyer abuzz with chatter and laughter, and manage to grab a programme from a small stand. When I flick itopen, my stomach drops.
‘Oh no. Ruby, “Dancin’ Fool” is the first number. We’re opening the show.’
‘Shit. We only have twenty minutes.’
