Dancing in the Dark Read Free Page B

girls before me. How many had he fallen in love with? On reflection, I didn’t know him all that well. True, -we talked a lot, but never about anything serious; the conversation rarely strayed from films, plays, mutual acquaintances and clothes. Oh, and football. I sensed he was shallow and also rather weak, always anxious still to do his father’s bidding, even though he, too, was twenty-nine. I felt irritated again that he’d spoiled things: I didn’t want to give him up. Nor did I want to hurt him, but I couldn’t be expected to fall in love with him just because he had decided he was in love with me.
    “Perhaps we can talk about it some other time?” I ventured. In a year, two years, ten.
    He closed his eyes briefly and gave a sigh of relief. “I was worried you might dump me.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it!” I jumped to my feet and ran inside. James followed. Outside the bathroom, I removed my dressing-gown and posed tauntingly before opening the door and going in. I stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It felt freezing . . . but it had warmed up nicely by the time James drew the curtain back and joined me.
    “Hello, luv. You look pale.”
    “Hi, Mum.” I made a kissing noise two inches from my mother’s plump, sagging cheek. Whenever I turned up in Kirkby, she claimed I looked pale or tired or on the verge of coming down with something.
    “Say hello to your dad. He’s in the garden with his tomaters.”
    My father -I couldn’t even think of him as Dad -had always been a keen if unimaginative gardener. Dutifully, I opened the kitchen door and called, “Hello.”
    The greenhouse was just beyond the neat lawn, the door open. “Hello there, luv.” My father was inside, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. His dark, sombre expression brightened at the sound of my voice. He threw away the cigarette, wiped his hands on the hips of his trousers and came inside. “How’s the estate-agency business?”
    “Okay.” I managed to keep the loathing out of my voice. He told everyone I was a property negotiator.
    Nowadays he claimed to be proud of his girls. “Where’s Declan?”
    “Gone to the pub.” Mum couldn’t have looked more harassed if she had been preparing a meal for royalty. She took a casserole out of the oven, then put it back. “What have I done with the spuds? Oh, I know, they’re in the top oven. Declan’s promised to be back by one.”
    “Will the grub be ready on time, luv?”
    “Yes, Norman. Oh, yes.” Mum jumped at her husband’s apparently mild question, though it was years since he’d beaten her. “It’ll be ready the minute our Trudy and Declan come.”
    “Good. I’ll have another ciggie while I’m waiting.” He disappeared into the lounge.
    “Why don’t you have a talk with your dad and I’ll get on with this?” Mum said, as she stirred something in a pan.
    As if I would! She’d always tried to pretend we were a perfectly normal family. “I’d sooner stay and talk to you.”
    She flushed with pleasure. “What have you been up to lately?”
    I shrugged. “Nothing much. Went to a club last night, the theatre on Wednesday. I’m going out to dinner tonight.”
    “With that James chap?”
    “Yes,” I said shortly. I regretted telling them about James. It was when Declan had jokingly remarked he was thinking of trading in his bike for a Ferrari that I’d told him about Atherton Cars where several could be had. The following Sunday, my father had driven over to Southport to take a look and I was terrified that one day he’d introduce himself to James.
    Mum was poised anxiously over the ancient cooker, which had been there when we moved into the council house in 1969. I was three and Trudy just a baby; Declan and Alison had yet to arrive. These days, Mum wasn’t just stout but shapelessly stout. Her shabby skirt, with no waist to fix on, was down at the front and up at the rear, revealing the backs of her surprisingly well-shaped but heavily