After a bit, and without a word, he shambles back to the bar, disappears into the group of men.
While some people dance, at other tables groups of women exchange stories and laughter. If any of them do look her way, she doesn’t see them. That Scottish chap likes to dance, though. He’s the life and soul, by the looks of things. Under the table, she taps her foot to the beat, sings the odd line under her breath, wonders if this will be a night to remember.
After a while, Ted brings her another cola and takes two of her ciggies. One she lights for him, the other goes behind his ear. Common. Common as muck. There’s a buffet, which she doesn’t eat much of, and Ted doesn’t eat at all. At the speeches, Tommy scans the room, seems to look at every one of them.
‘I might have found my Pauline late in life,’ he says. ‘But I tell you all something. She was worth every bloody day of the wait.’
Pauline catches Carol’s eye and winks, making her well up. Pauline has been a bloody rock all these years. Not that Carol has said a word to her. She’s never had to. When she lifts her glass for the toast – The bride and groom! – her throat thickens. If she can’t be happy, then perhaps Pauline can. She deserves it.
The disco starts up again. The upended traffic lights flash; sixties hits replace seventies disco: the Beatles, the Kinks, the Rolling Stones. Ted, who she didn’t see coming over, stumbles into the table and just about gets his bum onto the seat next to her.
‘You’re not dancing,’ he says, without looking at her. It strikes her as a strange thing to say; she hasn’t danced for the last ten years.
‘I’m not. I’m sitting down.’
‘Are you being funny?’
Her chest flares with heat. ‘No. I’m just saying, that’s all.’
His eyes are half closed. Two fingers swear at her for a cigarette. She lights one and passes it to him. He sups his pint, mumbles something she doesn’t catch. His ciggie drops onto the table. She picks it up and puts it out before it sets light to the paper cloth. He appears not to notice any of this. After a moment, he opens his mouth as if to say something but falls against her, his forehead hot and clammy on her neck. Hands to her chest, he pushes back, eyes straining to focus, then keels backwards into his chair. His head lolls. Another beat and he slides to the floor.
Christ, she thinks, eyes darting all about her to see if anyone’s looking. If they were, they’ve turned away now. She crouches beneath the table and tries to pull him up by his arms. He’s half propped against the chair leg, his chin crushed into his neck, his legs spread wide apart. It’s no good; she’s not strong enough to move him. Tommy would usually help, always helps on a Friday. But Pauline and Tommy are staying at the Holiday Inn before they drive up to the Lake District for their honeymoon. They can’t come back with her tonight. She’s not thought it through. Maybe Johnny will help, if he doesn’t get lucky. If not, she’ll have to somehow get Ted into the car and go and wake Graham.
She leaves him sprawled asleep on the abrasive blue carpet.
‘… nine, ten,’ she whispers, sitting back in her chair. ‘Out for the count.’
Something close to relief allows her shoulders to lower an inch. He won’t wake up now, not till tomorrow. He is at least reliable in this one thing.
She remembers her lipstick. She finds it in her bag, together with her compact. She flips the mirror open and carefully paints her lips red. She smiles, checks her teeth, rubs her lips together. There in the reflection is a girl she remembers, though they lost touch many years ago now. Lighting another fag, she wonders whether she could get half a lager and lime now that Ted’s passed out; maybe a Bacardi for her Coke. Only she’d have to get Ted’s wallet from his trouser pocket.
So no.
Pretending, even to herself, that she needs something else from her bag, she bends down to the floor to check again on Ted. His mouth is open, his lips wet and slack. She clenches her teeth against rising disgust and swallows hard. At least the crotch of his trousers is dry, for now. Beyond Ted’s body, she sees a movement. On the other side of the table, planted on the floor, are two enormous black shoes, a cross between brogues and ballet pumps. Out of them rise two ankles in cream woollen socks.
The Scotsman.
She sits up, too quickly, cracks the back of her head on the edge of the table. ‘Ow!’
‘Ah, Christ.’ The Scotsman claps his hand over his mouth, but she can see he’s trying not to laugh. He’s a few years older than her, she thinks, now that she can see him better. Maybe late thirties. His eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘Are you OK?’ His accent is so Scottish it sounds like he’s putting it on.
‘You’re all right, love, I’m fine.’ She rubs her head. I’ve taken much worse cracks than that.
‘I’m Jim MacKay,’ he says after a moment. ‘Tommy’s cousin? Listen, are you sure you’re OK? Can I get you some ice?’
She scrutinises his face to see if he’s serious. Not about the ice; about the name. ‘Jim MacKay?’ she says. ‘Jimmy Mac? Are you having me on?’
‘Not at all.’ He grins and bows, places one hand to his chest. ‘Not so ridiculous, is it?’
‘No, it’s just … I don’t know … I just didn’t realise anyone was actually called that.’
He grins. ‘Jim’s all the rage where I come from. Plenty of Jims, plenty of MacKays.’
‘And do you all wear kilts all the time?’
‘Aye. And we have haggis for breakfast. So’s we have the strength for the pipes, you know?’ He winks at her. ‘Actually, the kilt’s only for weddings and such. Parties, like, you know? Anyway, I was just coming over to ask you to dance – you cannae be sitting here on your own all night.’ His hands are on his hips now, his spiky hair the colour of wet sand. He’s just asked her to dance. Of course, he’s not local.
From under the table, Ted’s arm sticks out. She lifts it with her toe and pushes it out of sight, takes another drag on her cigarette and stares back through the smoke at Jim MacKay.
He glances towards the dance floor, back at her. ‘So, do you want to dance then? Carol, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve got a gammy leg.’
‘Aye, of course you have. We’ve all got gammy legs. Come on, you can dance with your good one.’
He tips his head to one side and holds out a hand. She presses the tip of her shoe into Ted’s ribs. He’s as still as a slug. Once he’s out like this, he never wakes. But still …
She’ll never get away with a dance. The lipstick alone is a risk; a drink would be reckless, a dance suicide. It’s barely a year since she spoke in passing to a chap in the chippy. He’d only asked her for the time, but she paid for it with two cracked ribs when she got home. No. It’s not worth it. She’d show this Jim chap her husband under the table, to explain, but for the shame of it.
‘I can’t.’ She gives a little shrug, hoping he’ll understand that when she says she can’t, she really can’t.
But he doesn’t understand.
‘Just one.’ He holds up a finger. ‘A wee one. A tiny one.’
Ted is very still. As if dead. If only is the thought she catches and puts out. One record. To dance, in public, after so long … If she makes sure she stays over the far side, she could say she’s been to the toilet or something if Ted does, for any reason, wake up.