Page 36 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
The dance school was on the upper floor above a row of shops. Kate was a little hesitant as they climbed the stairs, not sure what to expect. It was so long since she’d been dancing.
There was a small lobby where patrons could leave their coats, and a hatch into a kitchenette where teas and coffees could be prepared.
The ballroom was a good size, with a gleaming hardwood floor and wooden chairs round the walls, and soft lighting from amber LED bulbs set in the ceiling.
There were about two dozen people there, the women outnumbering the men by almost two to one. Kate could see whya man on his own, especially a good dancer like Mike, would be very much in demand.
And not only for his dancing. In his mid-fifties, he was still a good-looking man. His hair and his beard were both neatly trimmed, though touched with grey. His eyes were grey and gentle, with a faint tracery of smile lines around them.
He was tall — close to six feet — and lean without being skinny. And very smart in a navy-blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and maroon tie. Her presence was going to cause a lot of disappointment.
She slanted a quick glance up at him, and he smiled reassuringly. “Come over and say hello to Theresa, our teacher.”
The teacher was an elegant woman with neat auburn hair, wearing a pale-blue skirt with a white blouse, her make-up immaculate. She extended a perfectly manicured hand when Mike introduced her to Kate.
“Ah, yes. Welcome. Have you danced before?”
“Well, a long time ago.”
“We’ve danced at a couple of weddings recently,” Mike put in. “She’s really good.”
“Oh . . . well, I wouldn’t say that,” Kate protested.
Theresa smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine with Mike. Let’s just see how you get along.” She turned towards the hall and clapped her hands. “Okay, people. Are we ready to begin?”
Kate felt a flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach as the music started and Mike put his hand on her back, turning her towards the dance floor.
It was one thing dancing with him at Debbie’s and Vicky’s weddings, but here, with all these experienced dancers watching her, probably wondering who she was and what she was doing with Mike, she was desperately aware of being an absolute beginner.
For the first time she understood what they meant by that expression ‘two left feet’. She felt as if hers were three times their normal size, and they were refusing to do what her brain was telling them.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered as her knee knocked against his, forcing him to stop and restart.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled down at her. “Just relax and listen to the music — it’ll tell you what to do.”
She nodded and closed her eyes, letting the simple melody with its underlying three-beat rhythm seep into her brain. And somehow the old memories came back to her, as if her body knew what to do without her having to think about it. It seemed to lift her inches above the polished floor as Mike led her into a swirling turn around the room.
For a fleeting moment she was dancing with her Terry, but then, with one of his cocky grins, he faded away and she was dancing with Mike. And it felt . . . right.
* * *
They danced a waltz and a slow foxtrot, but the Viennese Waltz was Mike’s favourite. He loved the swoop and flow of it, the simplicity of the steps, the music. Whether they were dancing to Strauss or Shostakovich, or something modern, it had a grace and elegance unmatched, in his opinion, by any other dance.
And Kate was a delight to dance with — light on her feet and following his lead as if they had been dancing together for years. Why hadn’t he thought of asking her before?
Because . . . it had felt a little awkward. She’d been his wife’s best friend. He had so many memories of them together: coming home from a shopping trip laden with bags, laughing in the kitchen as they cooked up a lasagne or a Thai curry.
Kate sitting with Sarah as she had slowly slipped away from them.
He had valued the comfort of her friendship since then as someone who had known and loved Sarah as he had. They had often spoken of her: ‘Sarah would have laughed at that’. And he knew the flowers that often appeared on Sarah’s grave were from Kate.
Then he had danced with her at Vicky and Tom’s wedding . . . and something seemed to have slipped a little sideways. He wasn’t just thinking of her as Sarah’s friend any more. He was thinking of her as a woman. An attractive woman.
Oh lord, she’d be so embarrassed if she ever guessed.
Chapter Twelve
Paul bowed in mocking amusement as he held open the passenger door of the dark-green Aston Martin. “Your carriage awaits, Madame.”
