Flirty Dancing Read online

  Nan’s waiting in the car as instructed.

  ‘Looking forward to the lesson, love?’ she asks as I put on my seat belt.

  And that is all it takes. Just one person being nice to me. ‘Quick, Nan, drive,’ I whisper between sobs as I pretend to look for a Polo in the glove compartment.

  ‘Shush up!’ yells Emma from the back seat. ‘Noisy girl!’ And she throws her Shrek doll at me. He repeats, ‘Better out than in!’ and only stops when I slam him again and again on the dashboard.

  Now Emma’s screaming too.

  When we’re a couple of roads away from school, I sit up and, still hiccupping and wiping snot and tears from my face, explain that, ‘There’s no point going to the lesson because Ollie’s not going to be there. He’s going to be snogging a horrible girl with no eyebrows and massive boobs, and clearly this is what he’d rather be doing than jiving with me, so I won’t go to the dance studio because it will be the humiliating cherry on the cake of a very humiliating cake day!’ I get a bit confused at the end.

  ‘But you’ve got very impressive bosoms, Bea,’ says Nan.

  ‘Not impressive enough!’

  ‘Come on, dear. Give him the benefit of the doubt. What if those girls made it all up and he arrives only to find out that you’re not there? Look, we’re here now so we might as well go in.’

  And so, too tired and fed up to argue, I get lured into The Memphis Belle Jive Studio for the second day in a row.

  In the toilets, I wash my face and splash water on my eyes. Next, I set to work with baby wipes, Marc Jacobs’ Daisy Sunshine (stolen from Mum’s dressing table) and Dove Maximum Protection. I’m taking no chances. I sniff myself all over – even my hands – and then I realise I’ve made myself smell like a weird combination of Mum and Emma, so I rub off the perfume with more baby wipes until I just smell like Emma.

  I check my appearance in the mirror. Well, I look short as usual, but at least you can’t tell I’ve been crying. I’m wearing my one and only nice pair of jeans, my favourite faded T-shirt that Dad got me from America and my daisy clip. I pull on my old school shoes, which have a slight heel because Lulu says I can’t wear flat shoes or trainers as they’ll stop me from spinning. Not bad, I think, for a small, wrong-shaped person with cloud-hair. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.

  No Ollie.

  Of course no Ollie. What was I expecting?

  Lulu notices me hovering by the door and beckons me in. ‘C’mon. He’s just late. We’ll start without him.’

  Nan catches my eye and smiles. ‘Now, we’re going to start with the close hold. Ray, you show Bea where her hands need to be.’ It looks like I’m going to be dancing with Rockin’ Ray, after all. Mind you, now I’ve met him it’s not so bad.

  ‘Sorry about this, Bea,’ says Ray, ‘but we’ve got to get very close for this dance to work.’ And with that he clutches me to his entire right-hand side so we are touching from shoulder to hip. Squeezed against his chest, I can smell his roll-up cigarettes and feel the warmth of his body. Kat would die to see me right now. ‘I sort of control the dance with my hand that I place on the small of your back. Do you see?’

  He shows me how he will steer me from left to right with the pressure of his hand. Lulu puts on ‘In the Mood’ and, after a couple more instructions, we’re off, properly dancing.

  My worries slip from my mind as Ray leads me. It’s easy to respond to the signals of his hands, and instinct­ively I know when to turn and when to spin away. He’s an incredible dancer and soon I feel like a film star in a black-and-white movie. My back straightens and my chin rises and I feel Shy Bea disappearing. Then the dance is ending, and Ray swings me round twice, very quickly.

  ‘You’re a natural, Bea,’ he says. ‘Now try it with Ollie.’

  And that’s when I realise he’s sitting up on the stage watching me.

  We stand opposite each other and assume the close hold. I don’t feel like a film star any more. I feel more like a great big doofus who smells like a baby. But, just like yesterday, Ollie is serious and businesslike, following Lulu’s instructions with care, and after a few practice dances we seem to be mastering the close hold. I try not to enjoy it too much and keep reminding myself that Ollie was late because he was enjoying an even closer hold with Pearl.

  We’re in the middle of a dance when Lulu turns the music off. We freeze in position. ‘It’s not right,’ she says. ‘You just aren’t getting close enough. Ollie, imagine you are glued to Bea and you have to dance like one person.’

  Ollie frowns and looks at how we are standing.

  Yes, we’re close, embarrassingly ultra-close, but there’s still about ten centimetres between us. We shuffle closer. Now there’s five centimetres between us. ‘Oh, c’mon,’ says Lulu, putting her hands on our hips and pushing us together so that our sides touch. Now my face is brushing against Ollie’s T-shirt. I look up at him. This is ridiculous. My cheeks begin to burn.

  ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Hey, nice T-shirt. “Hill Valley High School”. That’s from Back to the Future!’

  ‘You like it?’ He is literally the only other person my age who has ever heard of this film.

  ‘Like it? I’m almost wearing it.’

  I laugh. ‘I meant the film . . .’

  ‘I know. Hey, sorry I was late –’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I cut in. I don’t want to hear him say her name.

  Suddenly, the music starts and this time we stick close together. Ollie leads, altering the pace so that one minute we’re flying and the next we’re slowing down. The feel of his shoulder under my hand is the best thing, strong and warm, better even than when I put my hand on Emma’s back when she’s asleep.

  And all of a sudden, the ‘L’ word comes into my head. I love putting my hand on Emma’s back. I love resting my hand on Ollie’s shoulder . . . I love Ollie Matthews’ shoulder!

  My heart pounds. No one can ever know.

  It would ruin everything!

  The music stops and we spring apart. I turn to Lulu for our next instructions, knowing that if Ollie looks at me he’ll see my shoulder-love written all over my face.

  ‘Brilliant, you two. Great!’ Lulu’s thrilled. Slowly, my heart returns to its normal speed. ‘Right, I’ve got an idea to get you ready for the audition. Every Saturday, Ray and I host a jive night in Brighton. We’ve got a live band this weekend and, if you come along, you’ll get to see some amazing dancing. What do you think? Are you busy?’ She looks at me.

  Honestly? I am kind of busy. I’m the youngest member (by sixty years) of the Silver Stitchers, Nan’s quilting club, and on Saturday evenings we watch X Factor and get stitching. Really, I just mix the drinks – they like them strong – and thread needles . . . but I think the Stitchers can do without me for one night.

  ‘If I rearrange something, I can make it,’ I say.

  ‘Cool,’ says Ollie. ‘I’m not busy.’

  Interesting.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at six, and, Ollie –’ Lulu gives him a look – ‘don’t be late!’

  After Ollie has left, I walk to the car.

  I notice that the sky is in that magic in-between time when there’s still a glimmer of sunlight left. Dad told me it’s called ‘the gloaming’, which is a sad word for something so beautiful. The houses around the hall are silhouetted, and somewhere above me a blackbird sings. For once, Nan and Emma aren’t chattering.

  Pushing aside all the questions that are swirling around my head, I enjoy the twilight. Who cares what happens at school tomorrow? Right now, I have a starring role in my life . . . and I love it!

  4

  On Wednesday, I find chips in my maths book, Thursday sees me tripped up in the canteen and Friday begins with a panty liner stuck to my locker. At first I think this is some obscure message from The Panty Liners, but on closer examination I see someone has written ‘Bea Hogg smells’ on it. Probably not Betty, then. I peel it off and stuff it in the nearest bin. Right now, dazzling spins and hot shoulders s
eem like a distant dream. I cling on to the thought of Saturday, when I will spend the whole evening dancing with Ollie.

  For the rest of the day, I try to stick close to Betty, but at lunchtime I manage to get pasta twirls flicked at me from an upstairs window. For this, I get a rare text from Kat: Bea big hugs saw pasta in hair : ( if i talk to u P says no pink ladies xxx I go to the toilets to wash out the tomato and basil sauce.

  While I’m there, I go into a cubicle and I’m just about to hover over the chipped, wonky seat when a fist slams hard into the door, followed by a kick. Next, the cu­bicle’s being smacked on all sides. I yank up my tights and the thumping and banging stops.

  Silence.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see if they’ve gone. Laughter bursts out above my head and I look up to see a hand holding a phone over the top of the cubicle and then a click. I feel sick and I actually begin to tremble . . .

  ‘Leave my boyfriend alone, rat,’ says a familiar voice. Then the door slams once more and they’re gone.

  I’m still shaking when I find Betty in our tutor room.

  ‘Seriously, Bea, you’ve got to do something,’ she says after I explain how close I came to being humiliated on Facebook. ‘Pearl won’t stop until you make her stop.’

  ‘She’ll leave me alone the second I stop dancing with Ollie.’ I scribble a twisty flower on the back of my hand.

  ‘Will you do that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, remember what Miss Cherry taught us at Ladybirds?’ I shake my head. ‘One: put your hand up and say, “Stop it. I don’t like it.” Have you tried that?’

  ‘No. She’d bite my hand.’

  ‘That’s possible. Two: tell a teacher.’

  ‘No. She thrives on a challenge. That will just make her think of more evil things to do, but stuff that no one can pin on her.’

  Betty has started to add some leaves to my flower. ‘Looks like it’s number three then . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Karate chop her, or call her something really offensive.’

  ‘I don’t remember Miss Cherry saying that one.’

  ‘It’s the most fun. I can’t see you karate chopping Pearl so you need to say something rude, anything, just so she knows you’re not scared.’

  ‘But I am scared!’

  ‘I know, but it’s like acting. You start by pretending, then it sort of takes over and becomes true. Let’s practise. I’m Pearl, you’re Bea.’ Betty piles her hair on top of her head, sucks in her cheeks and scowls. But we just laugh. ‘OK, I’m doing it for real this time. Ready?’ I nod. ‘Look, you weirdo freak, just leave Ollie Matthews alone. He’s my man muffin and you know it!’

  ‘I do, I do. I’m so sorry!’ I hide behind my book.

  ‘No! Try again . . .’

  ‘Right.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Don’t you ever tell me what to do, Mr . . . Poo Head!’

  Betty collapses, ‘Yes, she is a Mr Poo Head, but you aren’t fighting a toddler. If you ever say that to her, please make sure I’m around to watch. It’ll be epic.’

  But, of course, I don’t say or do anything. Instead, I keep my head down, try to avoid Mr Poo Head, and dream of Saturday night . . . a whole night spent dancing in the arms of Ollie Matthews. The idea is bliss, even if a nagging voice at the back of my head keeps saying, But why would he ever want to spend Saturday night with you?

  5

  ‘They’ll be here soon!’ says Nan, peering round the curtains.

  She’s just got back from a shopping trip and found me perched on the edge of the sofa, watching Dirty Dancing and checking the time every few minutes. The second Emma’s released from her pushchair, she crouches down, frowns and begins to jiggle in time to ‘She’s Like the Wind’. This is how she always dances and she can keep it up for ages. Hopefully, she’ll develop a few more moves before she hits her teens.

  ‘We got you a surprise!’ Nan hands me a rectangular box.

  I peel away several layers of pink tissue paper and see a pair of shoes. They’re made of the softest leather ever, and the front is pleated to form a flower over the toes. They are gorgeous, but they are red. And I mean bright, shouting RED.

  ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘I love them . . . but they’re very . . . red.’ I hold them in my hands.

  ‘Try them on.’

  So I do and, of course, they fit perfectly.

  ‘I’ve never worn red shoes before,’ I say. ‘They sort of stand out, don’t they?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Red shoes are the best shoes. Every girl should have a pair. Now, I know you love to cover yourself from head to foot in black or grey, but if you like them, wear them. Remember: though she be but little . . .’

  ‘. . . she is fierce,’ I say, but without much enthusiasm. Nan once played Helena in her school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and this is the one line she remembers. When I was little, she’d repeat it to me to give me courage, like if I wanted to stroke a big dog or go down a slide on my own.

  ‘Shakespeare knows what he’s talking about, Beatrice.’

  Just then, the doorbell rings and I’m kissing Emma goodnight (after she demands a ‘Big wet one, please!’), running down the path and slipping into the back of Lulu’s car.

  ‘Cool shoes,’ says Ollie as we pull away from the kerb.

  Thank you, Shakespeare! I settle back into my seat and run my hands over the cream leather.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ says Lulu. ‘You are sitting in a baby blue Chevrolet Belair and one of only four in the country.’ I notice a couple of boys have stopped their bikes in the middle of the road to stare at Lulu. With her blonde waves and red bow lips, she looks like Marilyn Monroe.

  ‘This is the best thing I’ve ever sat on,’ I say, wriggling in my seat. ‘Except maybe Darth Vader’s lap. That was good, but scary . . . he was doing the voice.’

  ‘The Darth Vader?’ asks Ollie.

  ‘I was eight,’ I say, as if this explains it all, and then I shut up because I suddenly realise that heading off into the night with Ollie Matthews is far scarier than sitting on Darth Vader’s lap.

  We drive through our deserted High Street, across the downs and arrive in Brighton as the sun is setting. Lulu’s car continues to draw stares as we head along the seafront and the glittering prom.

  Pulling up outside a shabby cream building, I realise we’ve arrived. I follow Lulu and Ollie through the dark lobby and into a vast dance hall. Slowly, I turn round, trying to take in the high ceiling and the elegant white pillars that line the gleaming dance floor.

  ‘Come on, Bea,’ says Lulu, heading towards the stage. ‘You’ve got work to do’.

  We put out three hundred chairs and arrange tea lights on the tables. Ollie drifts off to help DJ Crazy Ray (aka Ray) with the sound equipment. Finally, after Lulu and I have lit the candles, the hall is ready. Before they go off to get changed, Ray puts on some music and Lulu turns off the main lights.

  Then Ollie and I are alone.

  I sit at the side of the room, struggling to arrange my face and body into a relaxed pose to hide the fact that Shy Bea has totally taken over. Meanwhile, Ollie is on the stage fiddling with the lighting. This is stupid. I stand up. Though she be but little, she is fierce, I think. No! hisses Shy Bea. Fierce is stupid. Hide in the toilets! After a moment’s hesitation, I force myself to join Ollie on the stage.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I ask, oh so casually.

  ‘I can’t get those red lights to work.’ Ollie absent-mindedly points to the ceiling. ‘Those ones up there.’

  ‘That’s because this,’ I say, pulling out a yellow cable, ‘needs to be in here,’ and I push the lead into the top power strip. The red lights come on and circle the room.

  Ollie looks at me properly for the first time that evening. ‘That is the single most impressive thing I have ever seen a girl do.’

  ‘My dad taught me. He’s in a band. Sometimes I help them set up.’

  ‘G
ood skills.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I don’t mention that it’s a blues band called ‘Dave and the Bearded Weasels’. We stand in silence watching the lights swing across the empty dance floor.

  The track that’s playing changes.

  ‘I love this song,’ says Ollie, turning up the volume. ‘Growing up with a sister who’s stuck in the Fifties has given me unusual music taste.’ He turns to me. ‘Do you want to dance? I mean, y’know, to practise?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  Ollie jumps off the stage and I go to follow, but he puts his hands up to me and I jump straight into his arms. When I land, he swings me into the dance. As the hall is empty, we use the whole dance floor. It starts off as a lazy dance and, as the lights swoop across our faces, I start to relax.

  It’s kind of nice to be dancing on our own.

  Suddenly, the music speeds up and so do we, and even though we make a lot of mistakes, it feels like real dancing. Soon we’re dancing faster than ever and it becomes impossible to keep up with each other. The more we get wrong the funnier it gets. Spinning round Ollie’s back, I miss his hand and go flying across the hall. As I make my way back towards him, he starts to breakdance (badly) and by the time Lulu and Ray come back, we’re spinning round like Jack and Rose in Titanic and all my shyness has been danced out of me.

  An hour later, the hall is full, and a sea of dancers takes up the entire floor. Some of the men are dressed in tailored trousers, braces and shirts, others in rolled-up jeans and T-shirts. The women wear exquisite tea dresses, pedal pushers and full skirts in a rainbow of colours. Ollie and I stand at the top of a set of stairs, like swimmers too scared to take the plunge, watching the colour and movement that surrounds us. Finally, he grabs my hand and pulls me down the steps.

  And I love it. We dance all night, stopping occasionally for water, and by the end of the evening we’re exhausted, dripping with sweat and limping. Luckily, Nan made me bring plasters and I’ve used four by the time Ray puts on the final track. It’s a slow, slow song and the mood changes completely as all around us couples press together, heads resting on shoulders, hands slipping down backs.