The Ballroom Class (26 page)

Ross looked at Katie, without taking his hand off her shoulder. His face was asking the question, but he obviously didn’t have the courage to come out and say it.

‘Of course we can’t stay,’ said Katie, already reaching for her bag.

15

‘In terms of dessert, I’ve had a brainwave – how about a cake of cheese?’ suggested Irene brightly. She moved the plate of Duchy Original Shortbread towards Chris. ‘Have a biscuit, Christopher. You look peckish.’

‘A cheesecake?’ repeated Bridget, taking one herself. She knew they were Duchy Originals, because Irene had made sure she’d seen the packet before she arranged them on the plate. ‘Are they fashionable again then?’

‘No,’ explained Lauren, ‘a cake of cheese. You know, a whole Cheddar with a whole Stilton, with a whole Roquefort then a whole  . . .’ She racked her brains for the right size cheese.

‘Chevre,’ Irene supplied, helpfully. ‘It’s very continental.’

Chris helped himself to a couple of biscuits, and said, ‘Sounds better than profiteroles.’

It was the first comment he’d made in the hour they’d spent around Irene’s dining table, which was now cluttered with papers and files. Bridget thought he looked about as interested in proceedings as Lauren’s celebrated sugarcraft Prince cake topper, taking pride of place in the middle of the table. Possibly less so. Maybe Lauren could find a couple of wedding mice to go on top of the cake of cheese. There was probably someone in Texas who specialised in making them, for fifty pounds a go, not including P&P.

Amazing how amounts just lost all relative monetary value once a cake cost four hundred quid.

She shook herself.

‘Your dad would like that, Laurie,’ she agreed, trying to think of a nice way to say no. ‘You know how he is with his Stilton at Christmas. But how about a proper pudding, for those that don’t  . . . like cheese?’

‘Well, of course,’ said Irene. ‘We were planning on a selection of four, weren’t we, Lauren?
Plus
the cheese cake. That’d be on a separate buffet table.’

Lauren looked uncertainly between the two women, torn between wanting four puddings and sensing her mother’s unspoken tension. ‘Um, yeah. Mum, did I give you the new catering quote? Here  . . .’ She passed her a set of papers, stapled together at the corner.

‘No, you didn’t.’ Bridget braced herself as she flipped through to the end, but even so, she couldn’t stop herself flinching as she read the figure.

I have to say something, she thought. This is now officially out of control. It’s all very well Irene suggesting these things, but she isn’t the one who’s just about to put fifteen hundred pounds down to secure ‘peak time’ caterers.

‘Does this include the plate hire and so on?’ she asked hopefully.

Lauren shook her head. ‘Well, no, because we wanted those special gold plates Irene saw at the bridal show, remember? For the banquet theme?’

‘It’s a bit more than the budget, love,’ Bridget pointed out. ‘I mean, what would you rather have, gold plates or that special punch fountain?’

‘Oh, Bridget! We can’t expect Lauren to
choose
!’ exclaimed Irene. ‘It’s a very special day! There’s absolutely no point cutting corners – I’ve been to too many weddings where it’s all been spoiled for the sake of a few pennies here and there. That’s not going to happen to Christopher. And Lauren.’

‘No, no,
of course
we want it to be lovely,’ protested Bridget, stung by the idea that she was about to spoil Lauren’s wedding out of meanness. ‘I just think we need to make some decisions  . . .’

She could see Lauren’s forehead wrinkle between her eyebrows, and her round blue eyes tilt down at the edges: she had such a sunny face that the first signs of distress had always been easy to spot. Bridget knew Lauren hated conflict more than anything, apart from not getting her own way. Her dad was the same.

Irene spotted it too, and immediately patted Lauren’s hand: a tiny gesture that annoyed Bridget.

It wasn’t Lauren’s fault, Bridget told herself. She’d just had so little of either in her life – conflict
or
the word no. She and Frank were equally to blame for that. Blame. That wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t like there was anything
wrong
.

Irene looked over at her. ‘Hear me out, Bridget, before you say no. Now, I’ve said it before, but if you’d like me to pay for the reception, you know I’d be more than happy to do so,’ she said, grandly. ‘It’s what Ron would have wanted to do, were he still with us, bless him. He’d have wanted Christopher to have the very best wedding  . . .’

‘No,’ said Bridget. There was something about Irene’s attitude that made her stubborn where she’d normally be happy to give in graciously. ‘No, we agreed. You’re going to pay for the cars and the flowers, and we’ll stand the rest. It’s what
Frank
wants,’ she added. ‘You know what proud fathers are like. Especially old-fashioned Northern ones like Frank.’

Lauren shot a quick smile at her mother and Bridget felt a mixture of pride and panic.

‘Mum, can I put some washing on?’ said Chris, unexpectedly.

‘You brought washing home?’ demanded Lauren. ‘To your mum’s?’

‘Yeah? Kian’s machine doesn’t work. And he doesn’t have an iron.’

‘You’ve been there months!’ exclaimed Lauren. ‘Have you only just noticed?’

‘Of course,’ said Irene, already getting up from the table. ‘Where is it? No, don’t get up, I’ll put it in for you. Make sure it’s on the right setting  . . .’

‘In the hall.’ Chris leaned back in his chair, until Lauren dug him in the ribs.

‘You pig!’ she hissed. ‘You knew she’d do it for you! What are you like?’

‘Oh, come on, she enjoys looking after me,’ he hissed back, trying not to look at Bridget. ‘Makes her feel she’s still my mum.’

‘Well, I hope you don’t expect
me
to do all the washing when we’re married.’ Lauren glared at him. ‘I haven’t been brought up to run around after my husband. Have I, Mum?’

‘There!’ said Irene, returning with an overflowing sports bag of dirty laundry. ‘I’ll just pop this on – anyone want more coffee while I’m up?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Chris. ‘And more biscuits.’

‘Now, Lauren,’ said Irene gaily, pointing her finger. ‘Are you sure you’re feeding him enough?’

‘He feeds himself,’ Lauren replied, tartly. ‘If he and Kian aren’t eating anything apart from pizzas that’s his look-out.’

‘You can
never
feed lads enough,’ said Bridget pouring oil on troubled water as Irene’s heels clicked away across her kitchen tiles. ‘And I should know. Your brothers used to have that fridge emptied before I’d even unpacked the shopping. Anyway,’ she went on, racking her brains for something that would break up the simmering mood. ‘I thought you were looking very smooth on the dancefloor the other night, Chris! Don’t you feel you’re starting to get the hang of it?’

The stormclouds left Lauren’s face. At least she was easy to cheer up, thought Bridget.

‘Sort of,’ Chris grunted.

‘You just need a bit more practice,’ said Bridget, encouragingly. ‘It’ll fall into place soon enough. Your dad said you were really coming along when he took you for that spin round the floor.’

‘Did he?’ Lauren looked pleased. ‘It felt much easier dancing with Dad. Even though he sang all the words right into my ear. Didn’t you ever tell him not to do that, Mum?’

‘Frequently,’ said Bridget. ‘You learn to tune it out.’

Lauren cut a sidelong look at Chris, and asked, with an air of disinterest that didn’t fool Bridget for a second, ‘Is Kian around tonight, Chris?’

Chris was too distracted by the arrival of Irene and a plate of biscuits to think two steps ahead of what Lauren was saying. ‘No, he’s out with some bird he met last weekend.’

‘Good. Forget the pub. We can go back and have a practice.’ Lauren helped herself to another biscuit. ‘Before we forget what we learned.’

‘Ah, Loz!’

‘Practise what?’ Irene’s sharp eyes turned immediately to Bridget. ‘Their waltz?’

‘Yes,’ said Bridget. ‘Turns out Lauren’s quite the Ginger Rogers. Her granny was a keen ballroom dancer, and of course that’s where Frank and I met – it must run in the family!’

Lauren beamed shyly.

‘Really?’ Irene didn’t need to put into words what her doubtful expression said so much better.

‘Really,’ said Lauren. ‘It’s like  . . . when I know what I’ve got to do, my feet just do it. I don’t need to worry about knocking stuff over or treading on things.’ Her smile increased. ‘Dad said I didn’t tread on his toes
once
on Friday.’

‘I’ve given Christopher some DVDs,’ Irene told Bridget. ‘Instructional ones – very helpful.’

‘I know,’ said Lauren. ‘We’ve watched them.’

Chris grunted.

‘Well, I’ve watched them,’ she added, unable to lie confidently with Bridget there. ‘Chris has been really  . . . busy. But we’ve watched my
Dirty Dancing
DVD again, haven’t we, Chris? And
Strictly Come Dancing
? It’s not exactly what we’re doing yet, but  . . .’

‘Maybe I
should
come with you to the class,’ mused Irene. ‘I don’t know how experienced this teacher is. I might be able to give her some pointers.’

‘No!’ said Bridget and Lauren at the same time.

Bridget’s eyes met Lauren’s, and she widened them in pretend shock as Lauren suppressed a giggle. The idea of Angelica taking pointers from Irene was unthinkable. Almost.

Chris glanced at Lauren and rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t think Angelica needs any help, Mum,’ he said, firmly.

Irene pursed her lips. ‘We’ll see about that.’

‘We’re never going to get any better if we don’t practise,’ said Lauren, as Chris accelerated out of Irene’s smart cul-de-sac. There was a bag of M&S ready-meals in the boot, while the sports bag of laundry was still in Irene’s tumble dryer, and would, Lauren knew, be ironed before it was returned. Even his jersey boxers.

Chris turned to her, letting his hand slide further along her thigh. ‘I can think of a few things we’re not getting much practice at right now.’

‘I mean, dancing.’ Lauren tried to ignore Chris’s fingers wriggling up her leg. He always drove too fast, probably even faster when his mates were in the car. She replaced his hand on the steering wheel. ‘Your mum’s right – you don’t just pick it up overnight, and I don’t want everyone watching when we fall over each other’s feet, do I?’

‘Who says we’re going to fall over each other’s feet? Anyway, it’s a long time off  . . .’

Lauren bit back a snotty reply about him needing every minute between now and then. It wasn’t like her to get annoyed with Chris, but there was something weirdly annoying about the fact that he couldn’t pick up even the basic steps. Normally it was she who had trouble getting it together, but he didn’t even seem to care that they were way behind everyone else, and even the dim giggly one from the tax office didn’t mess up the waltz box now.

‘Seriously, Chris – it’s going to be a big— Get off, will you?’ She glared at the hand that had returned to her upper thigh. ‘Will you concentrate on the road?’

‘Woah!’ He raised his hands. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Both hands on the wheel!’ she yelled.

They’d come to a halt at the traffic lights at the top of Kian’s road.

Lauren collected herself. For some reason, the more she thought about Chris’s inept shuffling the more it bugged her. What was that about?

‘Sorry. Sorry, it’s just been a busy week at the surgery, you know, with me setting up the new computer, and there’s still so much to decide about the reception. I mean, I should have told my mum about the horses only after she said about the catering quote  . . .’

‘The horses?’

Lauren remembered too late that she hadn’t told Chris about the horses yet either.

‘Do you not think it would be nice to stop thinking about the wedding for one evening, and think about me instead?’ he grumbled. ‘While Kian’s out?’

She tilted her head towards him. ‘You’re sure Kian’s out?’

Since Chris had moved in with Kian, he’d been out precisely twice. Actually, he’d been out far more than twice, but on those occasions, Chris had been out with him.

‘Definitely. He told me he wasn’t planning on being back tonight at all,’ he added. ‘And if we push the sofa back, there might even be enough room to practise that box junction thing?’

Lauren put her hand on his knee, and stroked the long muscle of his thigh. He was still in his suit, having gone round to Irene’s straight after work. ‘Thanks, Chris.’

‘And once we’ve got that sorted, then we’ll move on to more horizontal dancing,’ he finished, with a cheeky grin. ‘Deal?’

Chris was seriously hot in a suit, thought Lauren. Maybe I should pop round to the dealership in my lunchbreak. Investigate the romantic possibilities of a test drive, like we used to.

‘Fair enough,’ she said.

Kian’s flat was the exact opposite of what Lauren wanted their first home to be: messy and under-furnished, the doormat littered with junk mail addressed to previous tenants, and smelling of curry and mildewy washing that had gone dry in the machine. She was clinging to the hope that living in such blokeish squalor after the six months of relative grown-up living they’d enjoyed together would make Chris realise just how nice it was to sink into a freshly made bed, and know that the bathroom wasn’t harbouring more suspicious bacteria than the surgery fridge.