Love & Freedom (22 page)

Ace turned slowly from the TV screen. ‘Was I a bit over the top?’

Martyn snatched up the empty glass.

Ace flinched. ‘I’ve had a shitty day.’

Carrying the glass to the kitchen, Martyn refilled the coffee machine. In silence, he emptied Honor’s cup and stuck it in the dishwasher.

When he returned, Ace was still staring blankly at the television. It got Martyn’s attention. Something was wrong. Because Ace wasn’t usually
 
… well, he wasn’t an asshole. He let his voice soften. ‘What’s up?’

With a long sigh, Ace dropped his head on to his hand. ‘Seems like Shelli’s dumped me. Got home last night and she’d cleared out her stuff and left me a note – the classic one-hundred-reasons-you-don’t-make-me-happy note. She didn’t answer her phone. Then, this morning, I got an email from the agency’s new talent, that young black guy I’ve been working with for a few months, telling me that
in the circumstances
he’s sure I won’t want to represent him any more. He’s sorry that things have worked out like this but he and Shelli
 
…’

Martyn dropped down on the sofa, aggravation draining away. ‘Shit. I’m sorry.’

Ace picked up the coffee. ‘Me, too. Sorry I got out of hand with Honor. I did realise that you like her but I’m in a crazy place. I hope things work out for you.’

He did like her. He liked her a lot. The memory of that kiss was like a demon breathing down his jeans. But Martyn sighed, forcing himself to remember why he shouldn’t have begun that kiss. ‘No. You know – husband.’

‘Ah. Is he over here, too?’

‘I don’t know where he is, to be honest. She just told me she’s sort of married. She wanted to tell me more but I kind of
 
… didn’t listen. After Rosie.’

Bitterly, Ace laughed. ‘At least you let the husband cross your mind. That’s more than Shelli and her lover boy have done.’

Chapter Eighteen

It was a busy week at the Teapot, the last of July and the English school summer holidays in full swing.

Sophie decided to like her pink hair, humming David Bowie songs as she clattered around the steamy atmosphere.

Ru, almost silent, a baseball hat on back-to-front as his nod to hair hygiene, stood at the steamy, soapy sink washing the eclectic white crockery and stacking it in the wall racks to drain. Kirsty made a short appearance each day, scarily skeletal and snapping at everybody, then clutching her forehead and apologising.

Honor got right into her waitress’s stride of rapid and economical movement, taking orders, serving, clearing tables, sanitising, watching the tables fill and empty, fill and empty. She was astonished when Sophie, having organised a Finnish student, Aletta, to help serve, opened a door that Honor hadn’t really noticed at the rear of the inside seating area to reveal a whole other room. The twenty tables in there began to fill and empty, too.

Very beautiful, with apple-round cheeks and soft full lips, Aletta’s English only failed her if a customer showed any hint of irritation, when she would smile gently and drift away, leaving one of the native English-speakers to get yelled at instead of her.

Through the bustle, Robina serenely made cakes, whipping up sugary frostings or boiling glistening jams to sandwich together layers of moist sponge or crispy meringue. Her drunkenly risen scones were treated by many customers as a meal in themselves and so many were baked that Honor was sure that she went home at night smelling like a steaming trayful.

On Tuesday, Clarissa dropped in for lunch. ‘Hello, Honor. Baked potato with cheddar cheese and crispy bacon, please. This place can’t be good for me. What jam has Robina made? Plum? I’ll have a jar, then.’

Honor reached for a stubby jar with its white cotton cap. ‘I’m sure you can work it off. You Mayfairs are never still.’

‘True.’ Clarissa glanced at her watch. ‘Martyn says you run, so you’re pretty active, yourself?’

Honor wrote the jam on Clarissa’s bill and dropped it back on to the table. ‘I used to dance and stuff, too. But I haven’t got into that here, yet.’ The instant the words had left her mouth she wanted them back. Clarissa’s face lit up.

‘But I take dance classes – tap, ballroom
 
…’

‘I’m more hiphop, these days–’

‘And Zumba,’ Clarissa finished, triumphantly. ‘Zumba sounds right up your street. It’s tonight, at the community centre.’

‘I have taken Zumba classes back home.’ Honor made as if to move on to the next table but the hope in Clarissa’s eyes made her pause. The economy was bad and Clarissa was probably finding her numbers falling. And then the classes would end and Clarissa wouldn’t have a job and that would be awful
 
… ‘I’ll try to come,’ she promised.

By the time she’d finished at the Teapot her feet burned and Zumba class didn’t sound like a good cure. She’d just jump in the shower and veg out with a meal from the freezer and a magazine. She liked English magazines. They made room for Z-list celebs who’d never done anything more noteworthy than appearing on a reality show and having their picture taken – bizarre but somehow fascinating.

Even though she could hear Karen saying, ‘A promise is a promise,’ she wrapped herself in her robe and flopped on the sofa with
Heat
magazine. Russell Brand – nobody’s Z-lister – was on the cover, his smile assuring her that he didn’t give a rat’s ass for what anyone thought of him. An attitude she recognised. From Stef.

She tried not to think about Stef.

But it must be about time for a message to come through cyberspace.

Her laptop was sitting on the table, its baleful blue eye winking at her. She sighed and flipped it open. Tapped a key and the screen sprang to life, already logged into her Yahoo account.

Inbox (3).

One email from her father, asking her to touch base and reassure him that she was OK.
I’m good thanks,
she typed rapidly,
enjoying having only myself to worry over. Hope you are doing fine, too.

She sighed again. Both the other emails were from Stef, through Billie.

I’m getting real tired of you blanking me. I may have fucked up but I don’t think I deserve to be forgotten or ignored. Come on, babe. Lighten up on me and let me know how you’re doing.

She opened the second.

Well, guess what! Jessamine, who obviously has a whole lot more heart than you have, came to see me today. And it seems you don’t mind replying to her emails or your dad’s, or Zach’s. So you’re really not speaking to me? Thanks a lot. You always find out who cares when you’re in a bad place and I’m not only in a bad place, I’m having to worry about my wife. What the fuck are you doing leaving your life behind?

She tried to stem the sour swell of indignation, to delay any response until she’d reflected and cooled down. But
 
… she clicked
reply
.
OK,
she typed.
Here I am. Fine – on my own. You don’t have to worry. I’m so mad at you, Stef. Your stunt wrecked my life so that there wasn’t a whole lot of it for me to leave behind. The bad place? You got yourself in it. There’s no law that says that I have to go there, too.

You’ve left it a little late to worry about your wife.

Quickly, she pressed
send
, snapped the laptop shut and rolled restlessly to her feet. Damn him. The sofa and
Heat
had lost all power to relax her. No longer hungry or lazy, what she needed was to get out and get busy and her watch told her that there were only thirty minutes before the start of the Zumba class.

Quickly, she dressed in blackberry-coloured capri dance pants, an exercise bra with a camisole and fleece over, grabbed a bottle of water and set off power walking towards the community hall.

Clarissa beamed over her little cash tin when Honor marched into the wooden hall and paid her fee – and the reason for the warm welcome was pretty clear. Apart from herself, there were three people in the class – plus a whole lot of Mayfairs: Clarissa, Zoë, Beverley and Nicola. And, she saw with a hop of surprise, Martyn, at the back, performing hamstring stretches. She waved at the Sisters of Mayfair but skipped over to where Martyn was folded over to hold his feet, stretching alternate legs.

‘You’re kidding me! You dance, too?’

He gave an upside-down grunt. ‘If guilted into it by Clarissa. It’s exercise.’

He was the only man in the class. Most of the women had dressed bright, tight and dancy in sizzling colours of lycra. One looked as if she’d come directly from a hiphop dance-off with slouch pants riding low on her hips, displaying an expanse of bare flesh between the waistband and her tiny brilliant turquoise top. Martyn’s Zumba gear was pretty much like his running gear – plain, dark and roomy – but, at least he could wear a T rather than a sweatshirt, indoors.

‘I resisted for a while.’ Honor unzipped her fleece and tossed it on a chair. ‘But then I wanted company. And I like to dance.’ She hesitated about whether to hang out with Martyn at the back. But he appeared to be in one of his remote moods again, eyes distant, as if his thoughts were too intense to be shared. And then she was beckoned forward by Clarissa to discuss her fitness, health and dance experience. By the time that was over, the only space left was in the front row between Beverley in green and peacock-blue, and Zoë, who had abandoned her dark doctorly suit for scarlet chevron stripes.

The community centre had an OK wooden floor and high ceiling but was lacking the mirror array of the dance studio back in Hamilton. Still, the Latin rhythms of the music were the same and Honor fixed her eyes on Clarissa as she warmed them up then talked up the class energy level through the opening bars:
Zumba ah ah ay oh!
Then, on
Zumba ah ah ay ah
, shouted, ‘O
kay
-six-seven-eight,’ and danced right into the routine. The class went with her, side-step right, right, dot the toes, side-step left, left, dot. In swung the arms, arcing up together, wrists crossing above heads as the feet side-stepped again,
Ay oh, ay oh oh
, wrists down to cross behind,
ay oh, ay oh oh
 
…
head turn right, look up as wrists curve up, left and down at the floor.
Zumba ay oh! Zumba ah, dadda dadda dadda dadda Zumba ah, dadda dadda dadda dadda Zumba oh.

With a surge of pleasure and a release of tension, Honor felt the music take charge of her feet, easily following Clarissa through a weight and direction change to allow the class to flow back across the room.
Zumba ay oh!

Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she was in a pretty basic amenity in England with no mirror wall, dodgy lighting and windows that needed cleaning, or that the instructor had to pressgang her family into attending the class in order to keep it going.
Zumba ah ah ay oh.
It was just good to be dancing, to be moving in time with everyone else, rhythm quickening, hips rolling, body stretching.

At the end of the first routine her heart rate and adrenaline levels were on the way up, making her whip off her camisole and flip it to the side of the room. If the woman with the slouch pants could show the world a bare midriff, so could Honor.

She was going to dance so hard that there would be no energy left for sour feelings like anger and regret.

On the odd occasions that he allowed Clarissa to drag him to venture into the otherwise, all-women Zumba class, Martyn generally made space for himself by virtue of the length of his stride and the reach of his rotating arms.

Zumba didn’t thrill him, although he could keep in time OK – unsurprising as he shared genes with the instructor radiating rhythm and presence from the front of the room. But if he’d known that Honor would show up, he would definitely have stayed at home. He’d almost forgotten – no, disregarded – Honor’s husband when he’d kissed her on her doorstep on Friday night. Until Ace had made him see, with painful clarity, what it felt like to be the husband whose wife was getting it on with someone else.

Bad.

He’d decided he’d better keep away from Honor in case he suddenly found himself undressing her.

And now, here she was, a couple of rows ahead of him and wearing so little that he was getting the idea of how undressed would look. Oh mannnn
 
… why did she have to throw off her top and dance in her sports bra? She was a great mover and those two vertical lines that ran up her abdomen, the sure sign of a taut body, were mesmerising. He’d follow those lines in either direction and like where they took him.

Wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm, he tried to look away.

But she was right in his line of sight. And her wiggle and swing was a class apart. Her fingers flexed and pointed, her back stretched and arched and her tidy little behind was poetry. Real salsa hips. By the third routine she was beaming and laughing, glowing with the fun of dancing, and he’d worked out that she was able to follow the routines so easily because Clarissa was indicating changes of direction with a pointing finger, or the leading foot by placing her hand on the appropriate thigh. That Honor could interpret placed her on a higher level than the rest of the class.