As he stepped into the room, a wall of mirrors greeted him and he immediately balked. He did not want to look at himself for the next two hours, but it was difficult not to when there he was, looming up, all gangly six feet four of him. Next to him his mother looked tiny and wizened; the chemo had reduced her body weight by nearly a third.
“You must be the Wentworths, Ellen and Roger.”
He turned at the sound of a voice he recognised, husky and rich—the voice of the woman on the phone, the proprietor of the school. She came towards them with a wide smile, and Roger blinked at the sight of her.
She was at least six feet tall, if not a little more, and nearly his height in the pink platform shoes she was wearing. She’d matched the shoes with an even more outrageous outfit—a poodle skirt in hot pink satin, cinched tight at the waist, with a white silk blouse tucked into it and unbuttoned enough to reveal a generous portion of her even more generous cleavage. Roger, somewhat inexplicably, felt himself blush.
Her hair tumbled halfway to her waist, a rich golden brown, and there was something so impossibly sensual and earthy about her that she seemed to take up all the air in the room. Certainly he seemed to be having trouble remembering how to breathe.
“Rog?” Ellen asked a bit anxiously. “Are you all right?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he said tightly. He nodded at the woman standing in front of him, still taking up too much air.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Belinda Jamison, but everyone calls me Lindy.”
“I’m Roger Wentworth,” he responded somewhat mechanically. “As you must know, since you just said it.” Her eyes, a bright blue green, seemed to be laughing at him. No doubt she was remembering how idiotic he’d sounded on the phone, blustering on about how he wasn’t interested in learning to dance. Whenever he was nervous, he became pedantic. Even aware of this weakness, he seemed utterly unable to amend it.
“Well, now that we’re all here, why don’t we get started?” Lindy said as she moved to stand in front of the mirror, her bright skirt swishing about her long, athletic-looking legs. “If you need to fill out any forms, you can do so at the tea break, or at the end of the class. I think it’s important to get moving as soon as we can.”
Roger glanced around the room, appalled to realise how small the class was. Besides him and his mother, there were just three other people present—a couple who were clearly together, and an old woman who was so hunched over, Roger wondered how she could walk, never mind dance. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the worst one in the class.
No, he would. No matter what, he would.
“Right.” Lindy clapped her hands lightly, looking around at her five pupils with a wide, beaming smile. “Now I know you are all coming to this class with different experiences and expectations, and there are some of you who can’t wait to tango—” amazingly, she directed this comment to the hunched-over woman “—and some of you who would prefer to stick to the basic box step.” Her gaze skimmed over Roger, and he felt himself flush. Again. Good heavens, but this was actually going to be hell.
“But I think it’s always important to start with the basics, to build a good foundation of skills and get your confidence going. So we’re going to start with the waltz, which might seem a bit old-fashioned, but it never steers you wrong. Don’t worry, Maureen,” she said to the older woman, “we’ll be doing the salsa in no time.”
The salsa? Wasn’t that a food? Judging by the way Lindy waggled her eyebrows, Roger thought it was not a dance he would be interested in learning. The last thing he wanted to do was attempt to shimmy and shake, especially with his mother. This really was going to be torture. Unmitigated, absolute torture.
*
If Lindy had had to pick Roger Wentworth out of a line-up, she thought she’d be able to do it easily. He was exactly what she’d expected—stern-looking, buttoned up, and undoubtedly boring. Priggish, too, judging by the scandalised look he’d given when she’d mentioned the salsa. Oh, dear. He wasn’t going to have much fun in her class, not unless she was able to pry open that fussy shell he’d crammed himself into. She was certainly going to try.
She glanced at him again as she demonstrated the basic box step of the waltz; he was frowning slightly as he watched her, looking as if he was following a complicated chemistry experiment. He was, she acknowledged as her gaze slid away from him, good-looking in an entirely normal sort of way—tall, muscular, brown hair, brown eyes. Forgettable, but still handsome. Sort of. She looked at him again, and his whisky-brown gaze caught hers, and for some reason she felt jolted, like missing the last step in a staircase, and she actually stumbled in her box step, something she never did.
“Oops, sorry!” She let out a breathless sort of laugh. “But you get the idea. I’ll put some music on, and everyone can have a go. Maureen, shall I partner you? With my height, I’m used to being the man.”
She went to her phone, which was connected to a speaker, and put on the classic waltz number, Strauss’s ‘The Blue Danube.’ The famous first strains, and then the wonderful swelling of music, caused her a sweet pang of memory of dancing around the kitchen with her dad, standing on his feet while he showed her the steps.
“All right, everyone, let’s take it slowly. One, two, three, one, two, three!” With a smile for Maureen, who was bent over nearly double and yet still determined to dance, Lindy took the older woman’s claw-like hand in her own, and rested the other on her waist. When Maureen had approached Lindy at the summer gala up at Willoughby Manor and said she’d once been the tango champion of Newcastle, Lindy had been slightly incredulous, but also delightfully charmed.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve tried to tango,” Maureen declared, “but you should have seen me back in the day. The men couldn’t keep their eyes off me, along with other things.”
“I’m sure they couldn’t,” Lindy had agreed. “So you’re looking for a…refresher course?”
“I know I can’t move much, because of this blasted arthritis,” Maureen explained, “but I want to give it a go.”
Now, Lindy moved her partner around in a careful box step, afraid of dancing too fast and injuring Maureen, who was shuffling more than waltzing.
“Is this all right?” she asked, and Maureen threw her an irritated look.
“Don’t mollycoddle me, dearie. I may be twisted up like an old pretzel, but I know how to move.”
“I’m sure you do,” Lindy answered, and picked up the pace slightly. She glanced at the other two couples—Simon and Olivia, who seemed to have two left feet each and were stumbling around rather adorably, clearly happy simply to be in each other’s arms, and then Roger and Ellen, whom Lindy assumed was his mother or maybe an aunt; she was smiling easily, seemingly impervious to his expression of utter torment. Roger was moving so stiffly around the floor that his posture suggested there was a poker involved, placed in an uncomfortable position.
He caught her eye—again—and Lindy tried for an encouraging smile. Roger’s expression of torment did not alter in the least. Lindy don’t know whether to laugh or groan. He was clearly going to be hard work, but at least he was here—which begged the question why. Why on earth had he signed up for this class? Was it for Ellen’s sake? Either he was the most dutiful relative ever or something weird was going on, perhaps blackmail.