Page 66 of Merrily Ever After
“It changes every few weeks,” I admit. “Right now, she wants to move to London and become an actress.”
“How original.” Mrs Fallon reaches for her cigarette case and lights up another. “She’s too smart, that one. She’ll need to be careful. I was smart. Went all the way to university. Rare enough back then, but my parents had money. Not that I cared that much about an education. University is about friends. Life! I met my husband there, you know.”
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. “Is he the one you’re dancing with? In the photos?”
“That’s Teddy,” she says, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “I was better than he was, but he wasn’t bad. We did well together.”
I take a sip of my tea. It tastes like she put five lumps of sugar in it. “Did you take lessons?”
“To dance?” She scoffs. “Of course not. We just did it. My father taught me when I was a child and then I learned from watching friends when I was old enough. It was all anyone did back then besides drink.” She pauses. “Which I was also good at it, before you can ask.”
I put the cup back down, wiping my suddenly clammy hands on my thighs. “Would you teach me?”
“To drink?”
“To dance.”
Another silence. This one is more confused than deliberate.
“I’d like to learn,” I continue when she just stares at me.
She looks incredulous at first. But then understanding slowly dawns across her face, and she’s back to looking grumpy again. “Which one is it?”
“What?”
“Is it the Crowley girl? Because she’d eat you alive.”
“I—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “It doesn’t matter. Trust me, boy, you don’t want to dance. Not like that.”
“Why not?” I protest.
“Because you could humiliate yourself! Pick her some flowers instead. Write her a poem if you like, but those days are gone.”
“No.” The word is blunt. Firm. Even for me. “If you can’t teach me, then—”
“Did I say that?” Her tone sharpens. “That Ican’t? I’m an excellent teacher. I’m just trying to save you fromembarrassment in front of the whole village. But it’s not my fault that no one ever listens to me. As if I don’t have a lifetime of wisdom to—”
“Colleen.”
“What?” she snaps.
“Her name’s Colleen.”
There’s a long pause. And then: “The Byrnes’ youngest?”
When I nod, she sits back, turning more appraising than mocking as she takes me in.
“Hmm.”
It’s the only sound she makes for a full thirty seconds.
“And how would you intend to pay me for my time as your intrepid teacher?” she asks finally.
“I’d do anything,” I say quickly. “I can clean the gutters. Clear the ivy.”
“What’s wrong with my ivy?”
