He hadn’t been interested in what she was interested in; she’d asked him to go dancing with her but he’d always refused. To be fair, he’d asked her to go to the rugby with him and she’d let herself be dragged along to one match before she’d started to make excuses he’d been more than happy to accept. They’d gone out to dinner once a week, if that, and had the occasional evening in but it had all felt rather damp squibby rather than being with the love of her life.
Would Roger be different? Did she want to take the risk to find out? Liking people was easy. Lindy was always more than happy and eager to do that. But loving people…actually letting them in to her life and her heart…that was harder. A lot harder.
But of course one date was hardly doing that. And the fact that she was still on the fence about dating at all surely made falling in love an even less likely possibility.
“Hello…?”
“Maureen!” Lindy whirled away from the mirror she’d been staring into unseeingly for the last five minutes to greet her first student. “Lovely to see you. How are you today?”
“My back’s playing up,” Maureen said as she hobbled into the room. “My knee, too.”
“I’m sorry…”
“What can you do?” She shrugged pragmatically. “I know you’d find it hard to believe I was the Newcastle tango champion three years running—”
“I don’t,” Lindy assured her. Despite her obvious stiffness now, Maureen had an inherent grace that was still evident in her twisted and pain-racked body.
“In 1962, 1963, and 1965,” Maureen stated proudly. “Tony slipped up in 1964, unfortunately.” She shook her head sadly. “He was a good dancer, and an even better husband.”
Lindy felt a pang of poignant sorrow at this simple statement as she gave the older woman a sympathetic smile. “That’s the right way round, surely.”
“I’m not sure I thought that in 1964.” Maureen let out a cackle of rather wicked laughter. “But never mind. We stayed together to the end—eleven years ago now. Funny to think it’s been that long.”
“You must miss him.”
“The way you’d miss your right hand, if it was cut off,” Maureen said simply. “But you learn to make do. What about you, my girl? A nice, buxom woman like you.” She eyed Lindy’s cleavage with a nod of approval that made Lindy want to laugh—or blush. “You must have a man waiting in the wings, if not two or three.”
Lindy did laugh then. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well, you should. You’ve got the figure, certainly, but you’re not getting any younger, are you?” She nodded shrewdly. “Best to get your skates on, dearie.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lindy murmured. Maureen’s advice was both brutal and well meant, but also timely. She would ask Roger out tonight, she decided. Why not? It was only a date, after all. It didn’t have to mean anything.
“That’s the ticket,” Maureen approved.
The others were coming in now—Simon and Olivia looking shy and loved-up as usual, and then Roger and Ellen. Lindy’s heart skipped an uneven beat at the sight of him. He wasn’t wearing his usual stodgy suit, but rather a crisp blue button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and a pair of well-pressed khakis. The most boring clothes imaginable, and yet…he looked good in them. Really rather wonderful.
Lindy took a moment to admire his strong forearms, the brown column of throat where his shirt was unbuttoned—a sedate one button undone rather than a Casanova-ish two, the hair curling about his ears in the same way she’d noted on Saturday. She liked it all.
Then Roger noticed her, and his eyes widened almost comically at the sight of her in her get-up. She’d gone the whole kit and kaboodle tonight, with not just the dress but her hair piled on top of her head in an elegant updo, an extravagant use of eyeliner and a pair of gold heels that put her at a hairsbreadth under six foot three. Did she look ridiculous? Judging by Roger’s rather shell-shocked expression, Lindy thought she probably did.
She’d always dressed up to go dancing, even as a little girl, waltzing along to the radio in the kitchen with her dad. Out came the organza and tulle, the shiny patent leather shoes and the satin hair bows. And later, when she’d gone to ballroom dancing evenings on her own, it had been a point of pride to get as gussied up as possible. Many ballroom dancing aficionados were the same. If you couldn’t wear a ballgown while doing the samba, when could you?
There was, of course, the matter of her height. Next to her six-foot-five father and five-eleven mother, Lindy had never felt particularly tall, but after they’d died she’d become more conscious of the fact that she was a good half foot taller than most women, and topped most men by a few inches, as well. She had never wanted to let her height dictate her fashion choices—she loved high heels—but next to Maureen, who barely reached five feet, and Olivia not much taller, she felt truly Amazonian as Roger finally stopped goggling and looked away. Never mind. She straightened, throwing back her shoulders, giving Roger and Ellen and everyone else as dazzling a smile as she could.
“Great that you’re here! I think we’re ready to begin.”
She spent the next twenty minutes teaching them all the basic steps of the foxtrot, which was, in her estimation, the easiest dance step to learn after the waltz with its basic quickstep, although it required a good deal more body contact, with both partners moving in close time to the other.
Although a far cry from the tango or rumba, it could still be quite a sexy, sensual dance, something she hadn’t fully considered when she’d chosen to introduce it in just her third class for beginners.
As she set everyone to practising, partnering Maureen as usual, she couldn’t keep from giving Ellen and Roger a glance—Ellen had her usual cheerful game face on, but Roger looked as if he were in agonies and trying unsuccessfully to suppress it. Lindy felt a stab of sympathy for him. The foxtrot, unlike the waltz, required a certain loose-limbed fluidity that seemed inherently contrary to Roger’s nature.
With the brass notes of a big-band piece vibrating through the room, Lindy took Maureen through the basic steps. Arthritic though she was, the older woman caught on easily and seemed to enjoy it, despite the occasional creak or groan. Simon and Olivia, Lindy saw, were falling about laughing as they massacred the steps, and Roger…Roger looked as if he were in a straitjacket. Or perhaps he just wanted to be.
“You need to relax a little, darling,” Ellen said patiently, and her son responded through gritted teeth, “I am trying.”
Lindy didn’t know whether she was taking pity on him or just wanting to be near him but as the first song came to an end, she clapped her hands and called out, “Let’s switch partners now. Simon, with Ellen, please. Olivia with Maureen.” She turned to Roger, who was staring at her with a neutral expression that still somehow reminded Lindy of Munch’s painting The Scream. “Roger, I’ll dance with you.”
*
Roger watched Lindy come towards him with an expectant smile and felt his whole body freeze. He’d just about got the hang of the sedate waltz, but this foxtrot was something else entirely. And dancing it with Lindy, while she was looking so…so…sexy was a prospect that filled him with equal parts dread, terror, and deep, fizzing excitement.