Olivia handed him the scones and Roger paid without speaking. He left the shop without a word or a glance for the women. He knew, of course, that they’d been talking about him—it seemed Lindy had said he was unsuitable. For what? Dancing? Dating?
Roger couldn’t bear to think about it. He burned with humiliation just at the thought of them gossiping about him, as well as his own lamentable behaviour. I don’t like dancing. What was wrong with him?
It was a question he’d asked himself many times over the years. Why did he have to be so awkward in social groups? Why couldn’t he joke and laugh and chat as easily as everyone else seemed to do? Why did he have to sound so pompous when he wanted to be light and wry?
When he’d been a child, maybe eight or nine, he recalled having a set of medical assessments that had turned up nothing, no diagnosis for what, at that point, had just been an average, run-of-the-mill awkwardness. Back then autism hadn’t really been known or talked about, and it had certainly never crossed his or his parents’ minds.
Then, after university, when everyone was talking about ‘being on the spectrum,’ he’d considered seriously whether he was. He’d even booked an appointment with his GP, which had been awkward in the extreme, as he’d explained his symptoms and asked his doctor if he thought he was worthy of a diagnosis.
“Honestly, Roger,” his GP had said in a rather jovial tone, “everyone is on the spectrum somewhere. It’s just a matter of where. I don’t think you have anything to be too concerned about, really.”
Which hadn’t been an answer at all. He shouldn’t be too concerned? Did that mean he should be somewhat concerned?
His mother had always done her best to allay his unvoiced concerns.
“Roger, you’re just like your father. Still waters run deep. Don’t worry so much, darling. You’re an amazing person.”
Such reassurance might have worked when he was twelve; not so much when he was pushing forty. He wasn’t just quiet; he was awkward. He knew he was. Sometimes he managed to make a joke of it, which made everyone look humiliatingly relieved. It was somewhat acceptable to be awkward as long as you realised you were, apparently. Unfortunately he didn’t always realise, and worse, he couldn’t stop it even when he did. At the end of it all, Roger had done his best to make peace with who he was—and who he wasn’t. He knew well enough he couldn’t change, not that much anyway.
Various people—mainly hopeful women—had tried over the years. Girlfriends who longed to possess some sort of key to unlock him, only to become frustrated, disappointed, or bitter when he proved to be too intractable. Not that there had been that many girlfriends. Two, to be precise, which considering his age was a bit on the pathetic side, but Roger wasn’t looking for a relationship right now.
He’d put all that behind him after the last disaster a few years ago, when his last girlfriend, Laurel, had thrown a glass of wine in his face and told him tearfully that he was a cold-hearted bastard. He hadn’t even realised he’d done anything wrong.
He still wasn’t sure what had offended Laurel so much—his forgetting their three-month anniversary? His insistence that it was not a particularly significant date? Or his refusal to buy the most expensive bottle of champagne in the restaurant to celebrate what he felt was a non-occasion? Perhaps all three, and more.
“Darling?” Ellen’s voice floated from the sitting room as Roger came into his mother’s cottage. He spent most of his Saturdays with Ellen; although she protested he needed to ‘get out,’ there weren’t many places Roger actually went. Besides, he hated the thought of his mum suffering alone—tired, ill, afraid.
This afternoon, despite the warmth of the September sun, she was lying on the settee in the sitting room, wrapped up in a crocheted afghan, looking wan and pale even as she smiled at him.
Roger poked his head in the doorway as he held up the paper bag. “Scones.”
“You’re an angel, Roger.”
“Would you like one now? With a cup of tea?”
His mother made a rueful face. “I’m not very hungry just now. Maybe later.”
Which meant the scones would most likely go uneaten. His mother, Roger knew, was wasting away, slowly but surely, no matter how many nourishing soups and stews he made, or cups of tea he brewed, or scones he bought. He also knew it was pointless to argue with her over the matter.
“Did you see anyone in town?” Ellen asked hopefully as Roger took the scones into the kitchen. “Anyone interesting?”
His mother always seemed to be hoping he’d run into the love of his life while buying milk or putting petrol in his car. Roger placed the scones in the breadbox as the memory of those four laughing women—and Lindy—flashed through his mind.
“No,” he called back rather flatly. “No one at all.”
Chapter Four
“Is this the dance class?”
A harried-looking woman with sunglasses pushed on top of her highlighted blonde hair poked her head into the dance studio as Lindy offered her best and brightest smile—a somewhat difficult feat, as she’d been inexplicably feeling a little low this last week.
Well, not so inexplicably, unfortunately. She knew exactly why she was feeling low. She just didn’t like the reason.
“Yes, it is.” Lindy focused her attention on the girl of about six or so who was peeping from behind her mother’s legs, offering her a shy smile like a gift. She had blonde ringlets and blue eyes and was wearing a gauzy pink tutu. “You must be Emma…or Zoe…or Carys?” There were three girls and one boy in her juniors’ class so far, although she was hoping more might join in time.
“Zoe.” The woman was looking around the room a bit dubiously, frowning at the garishly bright Strictly Ballroom poster Lindy had put up on one wall. “This is a ballet class, isn’t it?”
Ballet? “No, it’s a ballroom dancing class,” Lindy corrected with another attempt at a bright and breezy smile. “Waltz…tango…foxtrot…that sort of thing.”
“What?” The woman looked alarmed and even appalled as she gazed at Lindy with something like suspicion. “Ballroom dancing for children? But I thought it was ballet!”
“No, sorry.” Where, Lindy wondered, had the woman got that idea? All her advertising, every single brochure and poster, not to mention her website, spelled out ballroom dancing in great, glaring letters. She’d even decorated it with some clip art of a waltzing couple.
“I was sure it was ballet.” Now the woman sounded accusing, as if Lindy had conspired to trick her. Great. This was not an auspicious start to her first children’s class.
She held on to her smile with some effort. “Ballroom dancing is fun,” she said in the jolly tone of a PE teacher. “And it helps with coordination and gets kids up and moving.”
The woman didn’t look convinced, but before she could respond, someone else had come in, and Lindy soon discovered she’d thought it was a ballet class, as well. Within a few minutes it became all too apparent that all four parents had thought they were signing up for a ballet, rather than ballroom dancing, class, and were all in various degrees of displeasure to realise that wasn’t the case.