Keep Dancing (2 page)

“Think you can get away from me?” Jack cocked an eyebrow. He made a feint, but I went in the other direction—only to get snagged on a guitar strap. I tripped and scrabbled forward on my hands and knees.
God, which way did he go?

An iron grip fastened on my ankle. “Let me loose!” I yelped as he dragged me backwards. I tried to hold onto the couch leg, but he jerked me away. “You’re giving me rug burn!” I cried, flipping around to my back and looking up at him. Jack pulled me toward him again, making my skirt ride up under me.

“Now you’ll pay for interrupting my nice warm shower,” he said in a menacing tone. Still holding my ankle with one hand, he reached down and yanked my underwear to my knees.

“You barbarian!” I tried to kick free, but his grip was too strong.

“That’s right, I’m a Saxon. And now I’m gonna ransack
you
.” He knelt and put his mouth on my neck, which he knew rendered me helpless. I ran my hands over the curve of his lower back and felt his muscles tighten.

“Mmm…don’t try any more tricks.” Deftly he unbuttoned my blouse one-handed and undid my bra clasp. His lips on me were heaven; involuntarily I arched my back.

“So why did you dump cold water on me?” he asked as he kissed his way to my waist. “Shriveled me balls down to raisins.”

I laughed. “I told you. I was getting back at you for last night.”

“Last time I go down on you then.” His tongue slithered up my inner thigh. “Well, maybe once more before I cut you off completely.” He tried to push my skirt up further but it stopped, wedged under me.

“I told you I had to finish reading that manuscript. There was an auction this morning.”

“Did you get the book?” His tongue moved in lazy circles.
Oh god…

“Another house…bid more,” I gasped.

“Too bad.”

London Calling

Three days later, I was buckling myself into a seat in first class. I had been shocked on Christmas Eve when Jack surprised me with tickets to England, hidden inside an innocuous-seeming pair of red mittens. Now that we were actually on our way to visit his mother, who lived an hour outside of London, my jittery fingers could hardly work the seatbelt’s clasp. At twenty-four, having never left the States, I was excited about seeing a new country. And despite Jack’s reassurances, I was also white-knuckled with anxiety over whether his Mum would like me.

“I’m gonna hit the loo before we take off,” Jack said, standing up. He was still wearing his sunglasses, not because the jet’s interior was bright, but to avoid being buttonholed by passengers seeking autographs. Ducking his head, he moved quickly down the aisle. I saw several people staring after him and knew he’d been nailed. Even with the shades on, his below-the-shoulder hair, tight jeans encasing his thighs, and indigo velvet jacket with trailing lacy cuffs signaled “rock star failing to be incognito”. He also never wore underwear, which I guessed was a rock’n’roll fashion statement—but sometimes I wished he did.

I looked out the window as the plane roared down the runway and lifted into the air, making my stomach flip. I’d hardly had time to think after the flurry of gift-opening and the lovemaking that followed—featuring the assortment of lingerie he’d given me. Now that I had a quiet moment to myself, I pondered what it meant that Jack was taking me to meet his mother. After all, we’d only gotten back together six weeks ago, after our catastrophic breakup earlier in the fall.

Every single day that went by, I was counting my lucky stars that we had made it through so many rough patches. We had first met in June, when he noticed me dancing at the Palladium with my best friend, Vicky. Dancing was my release from sitting in my office for hours on end, typing Harvey’s letters and answering his phone. I loved going with girlfriends to the many downtown clubs we frequented—the Roxy, Danceteria, the Mudd Club, Hurrah—and sweating out all my frustrations on the floor.

The night I met Jack, he had noticed me from the VIP room’s upstairs window and sent his band mate Sammy down to summon us. Sammy and Vicky had hit it off right from the start, and Jack had tried to pick me up. While dazzled by his attention, I declined to bring him home with me that night—much to his astonishment. As he later admitted, it intrigued him that I didn’t come running at the snap of his fingers.

For that whole first month, we’d listened to music at his loft or partied with his famous pals, but nothing happened physically. I had been badly burned in a previous relationship, and wasn’t in the mood to be used and then discarded by some arrogant rock star. So Jack and I got to know each other gradually and bonded over our love of the blues. By the time we jumped into his big, messy bed, the electric current between us had reached the voltage of a lightning strike.

In spite of our intense attraction, we’d had a rough ride at first. Jack was allergic to being tied down, and I was determined to keep my guard up. But after traveling with him to L.A. in August to see The Floor in concert, it seemed our feelings were mutual. Then a former girlfriend showed her fangs and caused a huge misunderstanding. We had gotten back together in mid-November; a reunion that, oddly enough, my mother had helped to bring about. Afterwards, to my amazement, Jack asked me to move in with him. I packed my duffel bag and vacated my tiny walk-up on Broome Street without a backward glance.

And so far, so good. Jack made it home every night, even if it was in the wee hours of the morning after hitting the bars with his band mates. When we were out in public together, he made it clear that he was with me. Which wasn’t all that often, to be honest, because everywhere he went turned into a hassle; people wanting autographs, photographers harassing him. He seemed to brush it off, but I hadn’t gotten used to it in the least. If we went to a restaurant, his manager Mary Jo set it up ahead of time so we could get in and out quickly. If we went to a club, we were rushed up to the VIP room where his friends would be waiting. I wasn’t complaining—admittedly the star treatment was a thrill—but it was just…different. A very different kind of life from what I’d been used to, coming from my small town in Pennsylvania and scraping by in Manhattan on my puny publishing salary.

Hearing Jack’s Cockney accent, I glanced up the aisle. Sure enough, he’d been spotted on his way back to our seats. His shades slipped halfway down his nose, he was signing autographs for a thrilled bunch of passengers as the flight attendant tried to get them all to sit down. I smiled to myself and tucked my cozy suede coat around me more snugly.

Jack had given me a bunch of new clothes for Christmas, including a fancy pair of boots and this gorgeous winter coat. Going forward, I wouldn’t have to rely on the second-hand thrift-store gear that had been the staple of my wardrobe up until now. For my part, I’d given Jack several books, a supply of guitar strings and picks, and—knowing he’d been fascinated by insects since he was a boy—a praying mantis farm. I’d hoped my less-than-extravagant presents would seem imaginative rather than paltry, so I was pleased when Jack proclaimed the mantises the best Christmas gift he’d ever received.

And out of everything he’d given me, what I valued most of all wasn’t the fancy outfits, the silky lingerie, or the delicate sapphire necklace and earrings—in fact, I’d been embarrassed by the lavish shower of presents. The most meaningful and thoughtful gift had been a signed first edition of Virginia Woolf’s
To the Lighthouse
, one of my all-time favorites. Jack let it slip that he’d had a bookseller combing the antique shops for weeks in order to locate it. That vintage book, and the tickets to London, were the things I cherished most.

The other huge surprise was that after five days in England, we were flying to a private Caribbean island. As a Christmas gift to my mother, Jack was flying Dot there to meet us. I just hoped his own Mum’s reaction to me wouldn’t be as frigid as the famously cold British weather.

As Jack finally signed the last slip of paper and made his way back, I noted the gazes of the women, from the curvaceous flight attendants to middle-aged mommies and ponytailed teenagers. Sure, he was a celebrity, but he was also strikingly attractive, his long dark eyelashes lending an almost feminine beauty to his masculine features. Even if he hadn’t been the lead guitarist of the world-renowned band, Four to the Floor, I knew their eyes would be glued to his handsome face and lithe body.

When we had gotten back together, I had told Jack that I loved him, and he’d said that he loved me, too. Yet whenever I saw him enveloped in a palpitating wall of adoration, I felt unsure about our chances of lasting for very long.

As Jack slid past me into his window seat, I had time for one last private thought.
Yes, the past month and a half has been fantastic,
I reflected as he settled in beside me. I knew I was living a fantasy that his hordes of female admirers only dreamed of—but that idea was disconcerting rather than pleasing. In the back of my mind, a chorus kept repeating like a song that gets stuck in your head:
What are you going to do when it’s over?

“You’re home!” Margaret Kipling threw open the front doors of the palatial manse set back in a tree-lined property. I recognized her from a picture Jack had shown me; she had dark hair with a few streaks of white, and his emphatic eyebrows. Slim and tall, she wore a rather formal print dress and pearls. Jack went up the granite steps and gave her a hug. I hung back near the limo for a moment; now that I was here, I was even more anxious than I’d been on the plane. It didn’t help that Jack had once described his mother as a “ball-buster”. And I definitely wished I had on something other than the jeans that had seemed right for the long flight.

“Maggie, meet Julia,” Jack said, gesturing between us. I approached, not sure whether she was the hugging type. Her outstretched hand gave me the answer. I shook it, noting her firm grip.

“I can’t believe it’s been eight months since you’ve been home. Nice that you could come too, Julia,” she added in a not-overly-excited voice. Up close, I could see where he’d gotten his deep brown eyes; hers were just as soulful, if they lacked Jack’s warmth. She had fine wrinkles at the corners, but none of the smile lines that were etched into the sides of Jack’s mouth.

“Thank you for having me.” I met her scrutinizing gaze.

“Let’s go in. I’m freezing me arse off,” Jack said, hustling me inside. The foyer had a huge antique mirror opposite a mounted elk’s head with branching antlers. “I see you’ve taken up hunting.” Jack nodded at the elk.

“Dilly’s had another go at decorating,” Maggie replied. “She says the old is new again.”

“The old is looking rather flea-bitten.” Jack fingered a branch of the elk, which up close did seem a little shopworn. A young woman in an apron rushed over to take our coats. “And who is this?” he asked, smiling at the terrified girl.

“This is Tracy from the village,” Maggie said. “She comes to us Tuesdays and Fridays. Let’s go in the parlor; we’re just having tea.”

“How are you, Tracy From the Village?” Jack asked.

“Just fine, sir,” she squeaked before scurrying down the hall.

Jack made an after-you motion and I walked behind his mother, attempting to ignore his hand tickling my butt. I tried to slap it away surreptitiously, but got caught in the act as Maggie turned to us.

“I take it you drink tea? Tracy can make some instant coffee if you’d like,” she said to me.

“Oh no, tea would be nice.” I didn’t want to stand out as the crass java-loving American.

“D’you have that nice squidgy cake you had last time?” Jack asked.

“Of course,” Maggie said. “And smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, lemon curd, and your favorite cream puffs.”

“Good. The food on the plane was total crap.”

The house was grand in size; not quite a mansion, but definitely imposing. Before I could take much of it in, we were led into a parlor done up in a dizzying degree of chintz. A miniature Yorkie wearing a red and green sweater was quivering on the sofa next to a sleeping cat. A petite young woman with a stylish blonde shag rose from one of the chairs, a little girl clutching her skirt: Jack’s half-sister Sharon and her four-year-old daughter Emma.

“Uncle Jack!” Two brown-and-white missiles shot from a corner of the room. Jack caught the brunt of the six-year-old boy as a bulldog wheezed and snuffled beside him.

“Oliver,” Jack said after they hugged. He took his nephew by the shoulders and examined him. “I haven’t seen you in yonks. You’ve grown several inches.” Jack had once told me the newspapers thought Ollie was his “love child”, and I could see why. He was the spitting image of Jack: dark hair standing up in back of his head, sparkling brown eyes, and mischievously arched eyebrows. The bulldog waggled its rump and mouthed Jack’s pants leg. “Hello Randy, howsa boy?” He patted its neck, and a long strand of saliva spooled from its mouth.

“Jack, you’re making Randall drool,” Maggie said. She lifted the tiny Yorkie onto her lap.

“You’re glad to see me, aren’t you, boy?” Jack said, rubbing the bulldog’s blocky head. “This is Julia,” he announced to the others. The dog looked up at me, and another string of drool escaped its lips.

“She has the same effect on me.” Jack put his arm around Sharon, who went up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. Emma hid behind her mom’s skirt, and I understood the impulse. I was a little overwhelmed by the familial chaos; my own family consisted of only my mother and me.

“Nice new ’do,” Jack said as he fluffed Sharon’s hair. “But who’s this big girl? What have you done with Emma?” he teased.

The child stepped forward. “
I’m
Emma!” she announced.

“Oh no, you’re far too big to be Emma,” Jack said as Oliver tugged on his sleeve.

“Uncle Jack! Are you going to take me driving this time?”

“Oliver. Let Jack relax a bit before you start whinging. Hello Julia, I’m Sharon. We’re so glad you could come.” His sister shook my hand and gave me a subtle once-over. I felt rumpled and smeary after the flight; I’d only had time for a quick lip gloss fix in the airport bathroom. Which Jack had mauled off in the limo during the hour’s drive to Hounslow.