Sweet Temptation (27 page)

A trickle of fear ran down my spine as Francesca adjusted a few dials on the stereo.

‘We can always do a runner if we change our minds,’ Lauren hissed into my ear. She was looking as apprehensive as me, I noticed. ‘Let’s give it half an hour. If it’s awful, we’ll sneak off to the pub. Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed at once. It was going to be a long half-hour, I just knew it.

‘Okay, everyone, let’s get going,’ Francesca said. ‘We’ll work the upper body first. Keep your feet still and together, arms out to the side, and just slide your ribcage from side to side, like this.’

I copied her, feeling like a belly-dancer. My own belly was jiggling like a jelly and I was glad it was covered up by my T-shirt.

‘Let’s add in the knee bends,’ Francesca said. ‘Left, right, left, right. As you bend your knee, allow your hip to drop. Try not to tilt your upper body as you move it. Lovely!’

I swayed my hips to the beat, feeling myself relax a little.

‘And now we’ll put in our steps,’ Francesca said from the front of the room. ‘If you’ve never danced the merengue before, it has a marching beat – one, two, one, two – only you step to the side, rather than to the front. So . . . Left, right, left, right . . . You should be feeling your hips going up and down as you move. Step, close, step, close . . .’

Oh my goodness! I was doing it! My feet were stepping just where they were supposed to, in time with everyone else’s. For all my fears, it was actually easy.

‘Swing those hips!’ Francesca called out, turning in a slow, sexy circle and shaking her tush. ‘Give me some rhythm, guys!’

Do you know what, I was really enjoying myself now. I was swinging and swaying to the lively music, left, right, left, right. I’d forgotten how much I loved dancing, how joyful it made me feel. I’d gone clubbing every weekend with the girls when we all used to live together, and they used to tease me by singing that old Sister Sledge song at me: ‘I wonder why . . . she’s the greatest dancer!’ I’d always been the last one on the dance floor – they’d had to drag me away at the end of the night. Back then I hadn’t been at all self-conscious. How come I’d forgotten that?

Lately I’d felt too porky to go dancing. And the only time I’d been to a club with Charlie, he’d threatened to punch a bloke he thought was looking at me. (I don’t think he was, though.)

Still. I was here now, I was dancing, and it was great. Really great. I was too busy swinging my belly around to stress about it being fat. And I just loved the music! It made me feel like smiling. Why hadn’t I thought to do this before?

‘Nice job, guys,’ Francesca said from where she was dancing at the front. ‘Are we all warmed up and ready to salsa? Excellent. Let’s move on to the basic back-step, the real biggie in salsa dancing. We’ll practise first as singles, then with partners. So, ladies, you’re going back, transfer, forward, pause. Forward, transfer, back, pause. Let’s see you practise. One, two, three, pause, five, six, seven, pause. One, two, three . . . five, six, seven . . . And for the gents, this is your move . . .’

By the end of the class, I was absolutely knackered, dripping with sweat and aching all over. I couldn’t believe a bit of dancing could be so strenuous, but I was seriously puffed out, face like a tomato, half my hair shaken loose of the ponytail. And boy, was I glad of those ceiling fans now.

‘Well, what did you think? Did you enjoy yourselves?’ Francesca asked, coming over to Lauren and me. Somehow she still looked amazing, with a sheen of sweat glistening on her bare arms and legs, but her make-up perfectly intact.

‘That was fan-bloody-tastic,’ Lauren said, pushing her damp hair off her face. ‘What a workout – and such fun, too.’ She rubbed her bottom with a grin. ‘I’m going to be in agony tomorrow, I know it already.’

Francesca nodded. ‘You probably will be,’ she said. ‘Salsa is quite punishing if you haven’t tried it before. But you were both great – you did really well. Do you think you’ll be back next week?’

I hesitated, not sure how I’d be able to swing things with Charlie, but Lauren was nodding like the Churchill dog. ‘Deffo,’ she said. ‘Won’t we, Jess?’

‘Um . . . yeah,’ I said, impulse taking over suddenly. Well, why not? I’d enjoyed the class too, once I’d got over my nerves about dancing with a partner. I’d been worried I’d tread on their toes or disgust them with my sweaty hands, but none of that mattered, as it turned out. I’d danced with about six different partners in all, and had a laugh with each of them. I felt proud of myself for daring to do something a bit different.

‘Attagirl!’ Francesca cheered, clapping me on the back. ‘That’s fab news. See you next week, then, ladies!’

‘What a laugh,’ Lauren said as we walked down the road together. ‘I’m so glad you suggested this, Jess. It’s the sort of thing I would never have done on my own.’

‘Me too,’ I said. It had made it much easier being able to sidle into the class with Lauren. ‘And everyone was so friendly there, weren’t they?’

‘A bit too friendly, some of them,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘That guy I was dancing with at the end, Raoul, was really going for it on the groin thrusting. He had a massive stiffy, too. I bet my thigh’s going to be dead bruised tomorrow, all the jabbing I got.’

I giggled at her face – all pursed lips and disapproval. Lauren had been something of a revelation to me. In the past, I’d always felt rather intimidated by how fierce and bolshy she seemed, but she’d really let her hair down tonight and we’d ended up having fun together. I’d totally changed my opinion of her now.

‘I hope you slipped him one of your business cards,’ I said.

‘I certainly did,’ she replied. ‘In fact, I’m half thinking of asking Francesca to do a private booking for some of my clients. That would get them going, and no mistake. Steamy windows, or what.’ She nudged me. ‘Hey, and have you thought any more about us doing a link-up with your salon at some point?’

‘Absolutely – it’s a no-brainer,’ I told her, fired up with positive feelings. ‘I’ll speak to Louisa about it tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll love the idea, and so will your clients. It’s a win-win situation all round!’

Back at the house, I was relieved to see that Charlie was out, so I could sneak straight into a hot bath without blowing my story about working late. I fell into bed and slept like a log.

As predicted, I was in absolute agony the next day. My bum felt as if it had been whacked by a stick, and my legs weren’t much better. Every muscle throbbed and complained whenever I moved. Even walking to the kitchen for breakfast made me wince.

No pain, no gain, though – wasn’t that what the fitness boffins said? And if it meant getting a figure even half as trim as Francesca’s, I’d put up with some suffering, I decided, whistling cheerfully as I poured myself some low-fat cereal and sploshed on the red-top milk. If Charlie wanted a slim bride, I’d give him a slim bride. After all, if he was planning a surprise honeymoon, I might need a bikini tummy for it, right?

Just as I was thinking about that, the post dropped through the letterbox and I hurried to get it (more wincing). I’d sent off for quite a lot of wedding brochures recently, and they’d been arriving thick and fast. Ahhh – a fat, creamy A4 envelope; that looked promising. I tore it open and tipped a glossy booklet onto the table.

I actually let out a gasp as I turned it the right way up and saw the beautiful old country house on the cover. It looked perfect with its honey-coloured stone, big windows and pointed gables, surrounded by trees with a glittering lake nearby. Not too grand for the likes of us – but elegant enough to make the wedding a truly special occasion. Oooh! I felt shivery as I leafed through the pages, sighing over the pictures of the function room with its huge marble fireplaces and carved oak panels on the walls. The grounds outside looked stunning too – masses of space, big trees and the tranquil lake itself, of course. And it might even be snowy on our wedding day, I realized, with a gasp of excitement. It would be like something from a fairy tale, then, the big house covered in a blanket of crisp white snow, thick church candles burning in the windows . . .
This is it
, a voice whispered in my head.
This is where I want to get
married!

I finished my breakfast and stuffed the brochure into my bag. What a brilliant start to the day! And the rest of it was going to be just as wonderful, I knew it. One of my favourite clients, Matt, was booked in for a massage after lunch, I was definitely going to get into Louisa’s good books by presenting her with Lauren’s idea, and I had my lovely Cotswold house brochure to dream over during my tea break. Forgetting my aches, I salsa-danced into the bathroom and sang as I showered.

My nine o’clock appointment that morning was with someone called Daisy Farthing who’d requested a deluxe manicure. I liked having a manicure to start me off – it was always an opportunity to sit and have a nice chat with the client, plus it was easy on the biceps, unlike some of our massages.

However, the very first person I saw when I went into the waiting area was Shelley, sitting there, giving me her puppy-dog eyes. I did a double-take with shock – what the hell was
she
doing there? – then quickly blanked her. I hadn’t seen her since the awful tarot night and had refused to take her calls. What a cheek she had, turning up here – what was she playing at?

There were two other people waiting in our black wicker armchairs, so I smiled expectantly at them, even though my heart was boom-booming inside me. ‘Daisy Farthing?’ I asked.

Both women shook their heads, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Shelley rise to her feet. ‘That’s me,’ she said half apologetically.

I stiffened. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said coldly.

‘Yeah,’ she said, stubborn Taurean that she was. ‘I’ve booked a manicure with you.’

‘Well, there must be a mistake,’ I told her, folding my arms across my chest. The other women were staring at us now. ‘I’ve got Daisy Farthing on my list.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ she said. ‘I’m Daisy Farthing, and I’m here for my manicure.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ I spat, fury rising in me at her cheek. ‘Don’t play games. We both know you are
not
Daisy F—’

‘Is there a problem here?’ came a familiar voice. A familiar, icy voice.

Oh shit. Louisa had appeared behind me. How long had she been there? I was clenching my fists so tightly, my nails were digging into my palms. ‘No problem,’ I muttered, teeth gritted, scowling at Shelley.

‘Glad to hear it, Jessica,’ Louisa said with a sharp look my way.

I knew if I stayed for a moment longer, I was going to lose my temper, so I stormed out of the room without another word. ‘Miss Farthing, was it?’ I heard Louisa say in that sickly-sweet voice she saved for the clients. ‘I do apologize. If you come with me I’ll show you to the manicure area, then I’ll find another beautician to do your treatment.’

‘But I want Jess to do it,’ Shelley said, loud enough for me to hear as she followed Louisa into the corridor where I’d already gone. ‘Jess, that’s why I booked you – because I wanted to talk to you.’

I’d known Shelley for ever, or so it seemed. We’d grown up in the same street, next-door-but-one neighbours, and what with me being an only child and her having three big brothers, we’d hung out together all the time as kids, playing endless complicated games with our Sindys at first, then going off on our bikes to the park when we were a bit older. Once we’d grown out of that, we’d teetered down the road on our pin-heels to the local youth club on many an evening to drink Top Deck, sneak the odd cheeky Silk Cut and giggle about all the boys we fancied.

We were inseparable back then. Shelley had her own set of crimpers, I had some BaByliss curling tongs, and we both had enough cans of hairspray to destroy the ozone layer, so between us we had as full a hairstyling kit as any teenager in the Nineties could wish for. We must have spent hours in each other’s bedrooms over the years, dolling ourselves up, then practising dance routines to Spice Girls and All Saints songs, singing into hairbrushes and posing in front of the mirror.

But now, at this moment, our shared history meant nothing. The three of us – Shelley, Louisa and I – were in the corridor now, and we had all stopped walking. I turned round at Shelley’s words, feeling sick. I’ve always hated confrontation – my instinct is to run as far away from it as I can and keep on running, but there was no getting out of this one.

‘Well, I don’t want to talk to
you
,’ I said softly. Somehow or other I managed to keep my head up while I got the words out; somehow or other I hung onto my dignity, didn’t start shouting or getting emotional.

‘I just wanted to say sorry for the other night,’ Shelley tried again. ‘It wasn’t a set-up, I swear. We didn’t know she was going to come out with all that stuff to you.’ Her eyes were huge and sad. ‘Jess – please! I never wanted to upset you. You know it was all a load of rubbish anyway, it doesn’t mean anything.’

I felt hard towards her, not wanting to bend. I’d been so angry with Shelley and the others since that night, so hurt. I’d felt as if they’d all ganged up on me, as if I wasn’t in their club any more, as if I was an outsider to be laughed at and teased. I remained mutinous.

Louisa was looking
really
pissed off with me now.

‘Miss Farthing, do let me show you to the manicure area,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Jessica’s going to be working with us any more,’ she added, ostensibly to Shelley, but sneering contemptuously down her nose at me as she spoke. ‘I think we’ve all had quite enough of her unprofessional attitude.’

Something inside me snapped. Unprofessional? I had worked long and hard for this salon and was more professional than she’d ever be, the snidey bitch. Hot with rage, I ripped the name badge off my horrible unflattering uniform and threw it at Louisa. ‘Suits me fine,’ I said.

Then I turned on my heel and walked out. Stuff the lot of them, I thought. They could all go to hell.

‘You did what? You walked out? You’ve left your
job
?’

Charlie’s face was incredulous, like he thought I was making it up for a laugh. If only.