Page 81 of Snowed In
“Christian—”
“Calm down,” I say, amused. “You’re making me anxious just looking at you.” I lead her into the living room, where she plops onto the couch and starts to unwind her very long, very green scarf.
“It’s a big night,” she says. “It’s the most important night of the year for Mam. She spends a lot of time on it, and she raises a lot of money and all her friends are there, and I’ve known them all my life, and a lot of them are lovely, but a lot…”
“Aren’t,” I finish, and she sighs.
“The politicians are fine. The businessmen are fine. It’s everyone else who’s the problem. The people who just want to get their pictures taken and stock up on a year’s worth of gossip. They’re retired, rich, and bored, and they want some entertainment.”
“And you think I won’t be able to handle it.”
“I just want you to be prepared. I want you to know what you’re getting into, and I should have told you more about it before you agreed to it.” She takes a breath, looking like she’s steeling herself for something horrible. “If you don’t want to go, we can make an excuse and—”
“I’m going,” I cut her off. “I once dated a girl whose dad owned half the antique stores in London. I can schmooze.”
“But—”
“Megan. Look at me. I’m not backing out. I’m not doing that to you.”
Her eyes flit across my face, looking for any sign that I’m lying. “Okay,” she says, relaxing. “Thank you.” She pats my knee before folding the scarf on her lap. “And you’re okay with the singing thing, right? It will only be one song, I swear.”
I pause at that, an automatic yes on the tip of my tongue when her words suddenly register. “I…”
“Gotcha,” she whispers, and Mam chooses at that moment to make her entrance, appearing with a tray of assorted mugs.
“I saw you outside,” she says, sounding delighted. “Thought you might want tea. Is this your mother’s fundraiser you’re talking about?”
Megan just nods. “Are you going, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”
“Me? No. Too close to Christmas this year, I’m afraid. Liam’s eldest has a starring role in the school play the same night, and I’ll be the worst grandmother in the world if I miss it. But his father and I used to love them. Milk or sugar?”
“Just milk,” Megan says, as she hands her the cup, and I wait for Mam to leave. She doesn’t, of course. Too busy reminiscing.
“I can’t remember the last time I danced to a live band,” she says. “I used to love dancing. Proper dancing now, not whatever grinding you two do.”
“That’s us,” I say. “Noted grinders.”
“Your father and I used to dance all the time,” she continues, ignoring me. “It’s not that hard once you find your feet. I think he still has his old suit lying around,” she adds, glancing about the room as if it will suddenly appear, and I’m about to ask her to go find it so we can have some privacy when a thought occurs.
“Can you teach me?”
Megan glances at me in surprise as a delighted look crosses Mam’s face.
“I suppose I could,” she says, sounding a little girlish.
“We don’t have to dance,” Megan tells me. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“Who said I don’t want to?”
“No one but…”
No one ever wants to. Meaning Isaac didn’t want to. Meaning, now I have to.
I get to my feet. “Let’s do it then.”
“Now?”
“Good a time as ever!” I say the words so cheerfully that both women look baffled, but I ignore them as I start pushing the furniture back so we have space. Mam doesn’t take much more convincing, and deftly connects her phone to our cheap speaker system, crooning out some old big-band music as for the next twenty minutes, she leads me around the room. It’s hard to do with all the wrapping paper and decorations scattered about, but we pretend they’re other couples and keep going as she corrects my posture and steps and more or less everything I’m doing because, apparently, it’s all wrong before finally the timer for something in the kitchen goes, and she leaves me to collapse on the couch next to Megan.
