Page 42 of Power Moves
CHAPTER 19
The dancefloor is the perfect mix of old and young—and in this context, I classify myself as young. I’m surrounded by grey moustaches and Miranda Priestly haircuts on bodies that are dancing like Looney Tunes characters. Tyler’s dad gives me an aggressive thumbs-up, which quickly morphs into the robot. Remi’s mum is doing a forceful double fist-pump, which she unfortunately doesn’t realise is the universal sign for humping. An old guy with a bow tie dips his wife so deep they both lose balance and fall in a sweaty heap on the floor. Everyone around them cheers.
It’s the perfect place toforget. I bounce from friend to friend, from parent to parent. I haven’t seen these people in forever, so everyone wants to hug me mid-dance. Nicola, who in my mind will always be the hilarious vet student who once sheep-drenched us with apple vodka before a particularly unruly toga party, loops her arm around my shoulders. Linked up with Remi and all the other girls, we form atangled, wobbling circle. Nicola’s parents smother me in a sweaty sausage-arm embrace. The boys hoist me onto their shoulders when ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes on and I distract them by pointing out theactualCaroline (my first-year table-dancing soul sister) who’s eating pickles at the grazing table.
I dance and I hug everyone. I twirl and stamp my feet and punch the air, andJeez Louise, this is therapy! I refuse to feel bad. The DJ is soothing my soul. At one point I see Chappo on the dancefloor, so I swivel and pretend he’s not there. I see Archie and do the same. It’s fine because my dance moves involve multiple step-change manoeuvres anyway. If I dance hard enough and scream the songs loud enough, I can forget everything and pretend I’m nineteen and that I have nothing to do tomorrow but spend twelve hours in a queen-sized bed with my best friends, flicking Maltesers at the ceiling. My phones are in my clutch and I can’t even remember where it is. Possibly under the chair? Possibly on the balcony? Who even cares? Maybe I’ll quit. Maybe I’ll stop working until midnight every night. Maybe I’ll reclaim the weekends and go dancing with Remi and Nicola and Caroline and all the other girls, and the guys can come too. We can pre-drink and get the train to the city and order Smirnoff Double Blacks and dance until 3 a.m. because that’s the completely rational choice to make when taxi changeover is at 2 a.m., and you’re young and free and unencumbered.
Suddenly, another masterstroke from the DJ: ‘Uptown Funk’. It’s pumping through the speakers; the bass is rattling our eardrums. I’m wishing I knew how to moonwalk whenRemi appears in front of me like a sparkling angel. ‘You ready?’ she cries.
‘I was born ready!’
Remi squats, I squat, and in perfect synchronisation, we thrust our shoulders and raise our arms above our heads, commencing what has forever been known as The Mating Dance. We spirit-finger, we shuffle, we pop-lock-and-drop, we spin, we rebalance … and then comes the crescendo: the part where we have to stare each other down without laughing while doing our most energetic moves. Remi looks deep into my soul and starts humping the air.
‘Stop!’ I gasp, falling into her chest. It hasn’t even been two seconds and torrents of laughter are rocketing through me already. ‘Remi, that’s cheating! Did you and your mum plan that?!’
Remi’s arms collapse around me and she laughs into my hair. ‘Dude! It just came naturally. Humping is in our genes, obviously. But far out, I haven’t pop-locked-and-dropped in about a decade. I thought my knees were going to fail.’
I pull back and wipe a tear from my eye. ‘You should have seen your face!’
I try to steady my features so I can imitate her stone-cold stare-down, but my cheeks won’t relax and this just makes me laugh harder. ‘Oh, Remulus,’ I finally sigh, pulling her off the dancefloor with me. ‘You need to quit dermatology and become a professional dancer. Your skills are so wasted in the treatment room.’
‘Yeah, but I can get us free Botox.’
‘Oh man, are we at that stage?’
‘We’re growing up, baby!’ yells Remi over the cheers that have erupted for John Farnham. This DJ is on fire. ‘Drink?’
‘Drink!’ I agree.
All night white-shirted waiters have been circling the room, refilling champagne glasses, so the bar is only for the truly committed (aka those who can’t wait for a serendipitous refill).
‘Two champagnes, please,’ says Remi.
‘Remulus, I don’t want this night to end.’
‘Neither.’ Remi lays her head on my shoulder. ‘It’s been ages since we’ve properly hung out.’
‘I know. I suck. I’m the worst friend.’
‘No, you’re the best friend. You just have a shit job.’
‘But I love my job.’
‘You’re a messed-up woman.’
I groan. ‘You don’t know the least of it.’
‘So what’s the go with you and Archie?’ asks Remi, reaching across the bar to grab the two flutes of champagne.
‘Nothing,’ I reply.
Remi passes me a glass. ‘Yeah, okay,’ she says with a conspicuously elevated eye-roll.
‘What?!’
Remi bites her lip and her eyes gleam mischievously. ‘When you walked in together there was a definite vibe.’
‘Oh my god, there wasnot.’
