“I think it’s brilliant you’re doing this,” Monica said. “Following your dream, no matter what. I love it.”
Lindy smiled her thanks. She knew more than one eyebrow had sceptically risen when she’d arrived in the village, planning to start a school for ballroom dancing. She wasn’t exactly the expected model for the teacher of such a school—standing at just over six feet without shoes, and with a figure that was more statuesque than supermodel, Lindy was surprisingly light on her feet, but also a perfectly satisfied size fourteen. Still, she knew people had been expecting someone a bit, well, tinier.
“Have you had many people enrolling yet?” Monica asked.
“A few. I need to do more publicity.” Lindy was trying not to worry about the lack of enrolment. After she’d done her sample lessons at the charity gala back in June she’d had a whole host of sign-ups that she’d had to postpone when the village hall made their unfortunate U-turn.
Now that she had a new location, only a handful of those previously booked had bothered to re-enrol, despite her determination to contact each and every person. Lindy wasn’t worried about money, but she knew the importance of having a critical mass to get the momentum of enthusiasm she’d need for the school to be a success. She hated the thought of having it limp along for a few months before she had to close up shop.
But she was getting ahead of—or really, behind—herself in thinking that way. Her first class, an evening class for beginners, was still a fortnight away.
“Well, I for one hope it will be a success,” Monica said firmly. “And I tell everyone who comes into the shop about it, as well.”
“You’ve been wonderful, Monica, thank you.”
Lindy finished her tea before taking both her and Monica’s mugs and washing them in the kitchen in the back of the shop.
“I should get going,” she told the older woman brightly. “I’ve still got quite a lot of paperwork to sort through.”
“That’s not a very exciting plan for a Friday evening,” Monica said with a wry grimace, and Lindy shrugged.
“Needs must, I’m afraid.” She still had a great deal of work to get through before she officially opened—insurance forms, health and safety checks, and putting the finishing touches on her website. “See you next week,” she told Monica, and then she headed out into the still-bright light of an August evening.
Everything looked golden, not quite twilight, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon, spreading out like melted butter. Lindy headed down the high street, enjoying the pretty sight of the terraced shops of golden Cotswold stone, the village green a verdant square at the bottom of the street.
Wychwood-on-Lea was impossibly quaint compared to the Manchester suburb where she’d lived for the last ten years. It reminded her a little bit of her childhood, when she’d lived in a topsy-turvy cottage that had been four hundred years old, on the edge of the rugged Peak District, the only place she’d ever really called home.
She let herself feel a single, nostalgic pang for that lovely house and all the happy memories it contained before she made herself move on. In actuality, despite being rural, this village was very different from the one she grew up in. There were no peaks, for a start, and the prettiness of the village was decidedly of the gleaming Land Rover and pristine Farrow and Ball variety, every house like something out of Country Living, the wealth of the area on quietly ostentatious display.
Not that she minded…it took all sorts, and Lindy tried not to begrudge anyone anything. And, she hoped, the well-heeled residents of Wychwood-on-Lea would be willing to turn up those heels at a dancing school.
As she left the village behind for the Willoughby Manor estate where she rented number two in the Close, she wondered how she could drum up some more business. Right now she only had three people for her evening class, and three little girls and a boy for her junior one on a Saturday morning. She’d been hoping to run four or five classes a week, but that seemed like a distant dream at the moment.
Still, she was determined to be optimistic. It was just like her dad used to say, why be pessimistic when you can always hope? Lindy was most definitely in the glass-is-half-full camp. As far as she was concerned, the glass was overflowing no matter what was or wasn’t in it. It was all a matter of perspective.
Humming a little under her breath, she turned into Willoughby Close as the shadows started to lengthen. She could see Olivia and Simon in the lighted windows of number four, eating dinner and no doubt talking about their wedding plans. Emily’s cottage was dark, and Lindy suspected her neighbour was at her boyfriend Owen’s house on the other side of the village, where she spent a lot of her evenings. Number three hadn’t been rented yet, but Lindy was looking forward to another neighbour, when they came. Perhaps it would be someone single, like her.
Her mobile phone started to ring just as she unlocked the door to number two and stepped into her own cottage—laid out exactly like the other three, with an open kitchen and a living area with a wood burner and French windows leading out to a tiny terrace and garden.
“Hello,” Lindy sang out as she nudged the front door closed with her hip, her mobile cradled between her ear and her shoulder.
“Am I speaking to the proprietor of the Take a Twirl School of Ballroom Dancing?” a rather stern voice asked.
“Indeed you are,” Lindy answered after a second’s surprised pause at the slightly aggressive tone of her caller. “May I help you?”
“I am ringing to enquire about availability in Monday’s evening class for adult beginners,” the man answered in that same stern, slightly supercilious tone that both intrigued and irritated Lindy in equal measure. Who was this guy?
“Yes, there is availability,” she answered. “Are you interested in learning how to dance?” Although, judging by his voice, the man seemed like the least likely candidate for a ballroom dancing aficionado that she could imagine.
“I am not,” the man replied rather severely, startling Lindy with his vehemence. “That is to say, I am not at all interested in learning how to dance.”
Oh-kay. She took a second to gather her scattered thoughts. “You’re not interested?” she repeated. “Then why…are you calling?”
“As I said, I am ringing to enquire about availability,” he told her, now beginning to sound a bit annoyed. “Did I not make that clear?”
Lindy stayed silent for a moment, unsure how to respond to the question he’d asked as if he thought the answer were glaringly obvious. This had to be the most bizarre conversation she’d ever had. “You did make that clear,” she said finally, speaking carefully, as if to an animal that might startle or attack, “but then you told me you weren’t interested in learning how to dance. So I must confess, I am a bit confused.” She gave a little laugh, to take any possible sting from her words. This man, whoever he was, seemed like the sort of person to be easily offended.
A second’s arctic pause followed, and Lindy feared, despite her best efforts, she’d offended the man, after all. “I am not interested in learning how to dance,” he emphasised, “but I am still enquiring about availability. Do you or do you not have any space in your Monday evening class for adult beginners in ballroom dancing?”