Page 76 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
‘This is nice,’ I murmur.
‘When are you on again?’
‘In just over an hour. We’re doing a Bollywood number. Different again.’
‘Now that I must see. Want to slip down to the theatre café for a drink?’
‘Yes, let’s. But I must keep an eye on the clock and make sure I get back to the dressing room in time to change into my sari. It’s dead complicated to put on.’
‘I need to see if I’m right as to which lady is which. I barely remember Saint Monica from our brief meetingon the train. And I can’t wait to meet Batty Bonnie, Celtic Cath, Gnasher-Asha, Frosty Fay, and Happy-To-Be-Here-Ingrida.’
‘I bet you’ll have them all correct.’
We start to make a move when I see Sheila’s group strutting onto the stage in their skimpy outfits.
‘Wait. Let’s just watch this. These are our big rivals from the North West.’
‘Wow. Those costumes don’t leave much to the imagination.’
I smack his arm lightly. ‘No lusting after other dancers, you. Besides, this group’s vile. We have to share a dressing room with them and to say relations are strained is a gross understatement.’
The lights dim and Bold as Brass start their “Roxanne” number.
What the… I move from Max and sit up, back erect, staring at the stage.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Frigging hell. It’s Clarissa’s dance.’ I scan the tiers for Clarissa and Hazel but can’t see them anywhere.
Max sits forward too and gives me a quizzical look.
I whisper sideways to him as I stare at the stage. ‘They didn’t generate the choreography to this – it’s Clarissa’s number. We won the Expression Cheshire competition with the exact routine a few years ago. It’s… well, it’scheating.’
I watch with a growing rage as the group repeats the steps still held in my muscle memory. How dare they?
‘Am I allowed to say they’re good?’
‘No. Even if it’s true. Although, to be fair, they’re dancing really well,’ I mutter grudgingly. In fact, they’re outstanding. Perfectly in time, full of sass, and looking way sexier than we had in our cover-all leotards. Damn them.
The sharp tango moves hold our eyes to the end when the spectacular costume disaster unfolds. The entire audience gasp and I can’t tear my eyes away from the calamity on stage.
‘Grief. That’s a surprise ending.’ Max pretends to hide his eyes behind his hands.
When Sheila’s skirt splits open, revealing her shiny white ass, I find myself stifling a laugh and rushing Max from our bench to the exit.
‘Are we running away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Should I ask why?’
‘No.’
We laugh all the way to the main foyer area.
I don’t feel an ounce of guilt. I only cut a few stitches on a couple of the tops. I didn’t touch Sheila’s skirt.
I spot Clarissa and Hazel in the café. Hazel’s in her wheelchair and they are at a quiet table each sipping a glass of red wine. I cross to introduce Max and tell them about Sheila, but I then realise Clarissa is crying, dabbing her wet eyes with a handkerchief.
