Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (2 page)

We sat for a while in silence. This was Sophie’s day to be hurt, distressed, it wasn’t a time for me to be self-indulgent and all wounded and tearful. I was already feeling her own pain as keenly as if it were mine, first-hand, I was living through her devastation, but to now have more piled on top was almost more than I could bear. Who did Sophie think I was? Did my daughter think she was unique in wanting a bigger life? Had it never occurred to her that I might just have wanted more too, but that it isn’t always a matter of choice? This was the child to whom I’d devoted my life and given up so much for – I didn’t want gratefulness, even acknowledgement, but I would have liked her respect, her understanding even. Then I thought about my life and realised she had nothing to respect me for. All she saw was a mother who worked on the checkout at Bilton’s and nothing else, no future, no goals, nothing to look forward to – the only fun in my life was a Saturday evening dance show. I was nothing for her to be proud of. And as I watched the final waxy petals fall slowly to the ground I realised I wasn’t very proud of me either.

‘
W
hat’s
the weather like out there?’ I asked, I had arrived in the dark and would leave in the dark. The world could have ended and I wouldn’t have a clue, I’d just keep pushing groceries through that checkout and making small talk about the weather as we raged into the apocalypse.

‘It’s beautiful. The sun’s blazing, it’s too warm really,’ the woman smiled, almost apologetically. I clutched at the box of frozen faggots sighing at the delicious prospect of sun on my face while my machine beeped on and on and on.

‘Do you have a loyalty card?’ I asked, for the millionth time that day. She shook her head as she filled plastic bags with shopping. Her life was clearly too full to be bothered with little bits of plastic that may one day reward her with a voucher for a dodgy pizza restaurant somewhere in Redditch. She thanked me politely and wandered off into the shimmering heat of the dusty car park. How I envied her.

‘Would you like me to help you pack?’ I asked the next customer, feigning enthusiasm for the task. He shook his head, too engrossed in the phone conversation he was having with someone on the outside world. He stabbed his finger at the chewing gum near my till, I reached to where he was pointing, but it clearly wasn’t the one he wanted. His brow was now furrowed and he was wagging his finger more urgently, presumably expecting me to be fluent in finger-wagging-chewing-gum-selection.

I just sat there miming as the queue grew bigger. At no point did he even consider interrupting his phone conversation to communicate verbally with me. Eventually he shook his head like I was too stupid to understand and with a dismissive wave of the hand he indicated with his finger that he wanted me to ring up the total. How I longed to indicate with my own finger what I wanted him to do – but I just smiled – and did as his hand had requested. After all, the customer is always right.

‘Do you have a loyalty card?’ I asked the next shopper who was equally brusque and non-communicative. She shook her head vigorously and I had an almost uncontrollable urge to speak with an Italian accent. I found it sometimes helped to do this if I was stressed or bored, to pretend I was someone else, in another country. The compulsion to say inappropriate things in strange accents had become much stronger of late. My friend Big Carole said I was having a midlife and it didn’t help being stuck behind a checkout all day at ‘Bilton’s – where budgets matter’.

I used to laugh about the customers – but they weren’t funny anymore. I kept thinking about what Sophie had said about me having a little life and now I saw the pity in their eyes, sometimes even the contempt for someone stuck in a life like mine.

‘You’re in a middle-aged menopausal rut. You need to get out, do something different – get a boyfriend now Sophie’s off your hands,’ Carole had said, echoing my daughter’s comments about me having no life.

‘Oh well, why didn’t you say? I’ll get out from behind this checkout and spend time at my south of France apartment with one of my many rampant lovers instead,’ I’d said. ‘That way I won’t know if it’s a hot flush or the heat of the Mediterranean sun on my face.’

‘Oh what’s got into you Miss Sarcastic knickers,’ she’d snapped. ‘I was only giving advice – I’m six months older than you and I’ve been on that menopausal flight already.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t need your advice on how to fasten my safety belt, thank you. I might be forty four, but I’m not quite menopausal, just bored. Why is it that we blame our periods for our bad moods and down days? Even when they stop, they get the blame for why we’re fed up with our mind-shrinking-job-hating-groundhog-day lives.’

‘Oh, listen to you coming over all Mariella Frostrup with your long words and your high drama; “Oh darling... I’m going to die if I don’t get out of here and read some Tolstoy.”’

I’d laughed at that. Carole could always make me laugh, even when I was worried sick about my daughter or depressed about my life. Sophie was so precious, my biggest fear was losing her, and now she’d gone to the other side of the world to get over her heartbreak. Carole thought the answer was for me to get a man and take my mind off Sophie – but it was easier said than done.

‘It’s your time now, Laura,’ she’d said.

But I’d never had much luck with men. I was scared of losing anyone I loved, so it wasn’t easy for me to give my heart away. The other issue with Carole’s ‘get a boyfriend’ plan was that I wasn’t exactly drowning in suitors. Funnily enough my chunky body, bespectacled face and total lack of confidence had rarely enticed men into my bed or my life. But it wasn’t just about looks, I’d had Sophie very young and was changing nappies and running from work to collect at nursery and school while my friends met the loves of their lives in pubs, on trains, at work... They had the time and the money as younger women to make the most of themselves but I’d never had time to worry about my appearance. The few boyfriends I had (including Sophie’s dad) left me just after conception, without whisper of a wedding and I decided I was destined to live alone.

So I happily celebrated my friends’ engagements, played Maid of Honour, organised the hen nights and went back to my little life when it was all over. I’d once dreamed of being a bride, living happily ever after, but having arranged as many divorce parties as I had hen nights by the time I was thirty five - I wasn’t convinced a man was the answer. I’d been alone too long to let a man into my life, but I needed something in my life other than work and worrying about Sophie. She was in her twenties with a degree and a big career ahead, but she was still my little girl.

Apart from the fact it broke my heart for her to go, I had to admire my daughter who, after being left at the altar, had taken life by ‘the testicles’ (her words, the legacy of being engaged to a doctor who insisted on the correct anatomical terms for everything). I knew it would be good for Sophie to lick her wounds and see the world and I also knew I had let her go and live her life. This wasn’t easy for me and I confess there was an undignified scene at the airport involving me climbing up a security man’s legs demanding he let me on the plane for a last goodbye that I’d rather forget.

I always wanted our lives to be cosy and safe, but seeing ‘cosy and safe’ through my daughter’s eyes now translated to ‘small and risk-averse’. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d had that day when Sophie had pointed out how small my life was as we sat on the steps of the church - and I felt so pointless. I’d never stepped out of my comfort zone because for years I’d been tied down by lack of money and being a single parent, but I’d been happy enough. But after what Sophie said I was now asking myself, ‘Is happy enough good enough?’

I don’t blame Sophie for wanting more it’s what I wanted for her too. What child hasn’t looked at their parents at some point and thought ‘I won’t be doing that when I’m their age.’ I just wish she hadn’t told me.

We had spent six months mourning the death of her relationship and the terrible wedding day that didn’t take place. In that time she’d taken a sabbatical from the law firm where she worked and channelled her anger and hurt into a new adventure.

When Alex’s parents had insisted on covering the costs of the cancelled wedding, I said no. But Sophie had called and informed them it was the least they could do and when they put £20,000 into her bank account she handed it straight to me. I was horrified; but she insisted I have it. ‘Do something for yourself with it, Mum. Besides,’ she said, ‘I can’t bear to have their guilt money in my account.’

I’d put some of the money towards my mum’s care home bill, but when Sophie told me of her plans to go travelling I put what was left into her account. I remember the day I paid it in thinking ‘what would I do with this?’ Having a lump of money like that in the bank that wasn’t earmarked for bills or essentials would be quite a luxury. It wasn’t life-changing, but it would be possible, and very tempting, to take a very long holiday from work and do the stuff I never had the time or money for. I decided I would spend time reading, travelling, learning to speak a foreign language. I wouldn’t fritter it, I’d spend it on something I’d look back on when I was old and say, ‘Yeah, I did that.’ It made me think about Mum and her life of regrets, the hard times my parents went through and how a little money like this could have transformed their lives.

Despite my parents having no money when I was growing up, it never stopped them chasing their dream. I had such wonderful memories of the three of us on family road trips to ballroom competitions chugging around the country on a shoestring in our clapped-out van. Dad would play the music loud on the radio and they’d sing as he drove along, both so happy to be back on the road. Despite the money worries, they loved each other very much. I remember feeling safe from my sanctuary on the back seat, mum and dad in the front. In the summer the car window would be wound down, a breeze wafting music from the car radio onto my face, anticipation and contentment filling me up. On winter travels I’d lie under a coat just listening to their voices, thinking, ‘That’s what love is.’ Growing up in the middle of this relationship, I’d always assumed I would one day enjoy the same kind of love, that it was my destiny to have what they’d had. As a teenager I’d waited for it – the real love that made people laugh and cry and dance and hold each other in the darkness. . But it had never come for me – I was still waiting.

O
n Saturday night
I settled down to watch the first in the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. Despite what Sophie had said about it being the only thing I did other than work I still longed for it to start and I was as excited and nervous as the contestants. It might sound silly for a grown woman to be excited about a TV dance competition, but it was so much more for me – it was a link with my past, my parents and the way we’d lived our lives. The music started and I was back there, a child watching Mum and Dad swish across the dance floor.

I couldn’t wait for that first glance of the glitterball, the first chords of music, followed by the sparkle of sequins, the swoosh of satin swinging around taut, tanned legs. I settled in my chair as the presenters appeared and we met the judges, like old friends, I smiled at the screen. Even Sophie’s comments disappeared into a puff of dry ice and glitter while the dancing was on. I could see her point and, from her perspective, I must have seemed like such a weirdo sitting there on my own smiling at Len and giggling at Bruno like a crazed stalker. But in my head I wasn’t on my sofa watching, I was there under the glitterball. I was moving across that shiny floor heading for the unparalleled joy that only a ten from Len could bring.

I gasped as the celebrities came on screen one by one, each with a new dress, a new story, a new take on an old dance. I decided that this series my fantasy partner would be Pasha Kovalev. He’d been voted out on the last series when his American Smooth failed to wow the judges... but he’d wowed me. I liked his strength, calmness and patience – and the fact his speciality was International Latin. The Latin section was my favourite, always so hot and fiery, with sexual tension bubbling just underneath the surface. I crunched on a Malteser imposter from my bag of Revels and thought how the sheer thrill of Latin dancing couldn’t be further from my own life.

Within seconds my mood was dramatically lifted, the music swept me up and took me over and I forgot for a little while about me. I started tapping my toes, moving my upper body on the sofa (Sophie had witnessed this when she’d been home and joked about how ‘disturbing’ she found it). But sometimes sofa dancing just wasn’t enough, the music and the rhythm was so bloody good I had to get up and dance. Occasionally they played something Mum and Dad had danced to, perhaps a waltz to a slow Frank Sinatra song, or more vigorous Spanish tango music. Those first few strains would drift into the air and I was five years old sitting in a ballroom somewhere in England watching Mum and Dad dance. I didn’t understand the feeling that welled up in my chest as my parents waltzed by, but now I know it was sheer pride and I’d catch my breath as they, deliberately stopped near me to hold a pose. My father would twirl my mum round so she was facing me and she’d give me her secret smile. Then they’d twirl again so I was face to face with dad who would wink at me... and my five-year-old tummy would fill with glitter.

Watching the opening dance on TV, I was reminded of a pale blue dress Mum wore for the waltz. Dad said she looked like Grace Kelly, with her blonde hair in a French pleat and a string of pearls around her neck. She was such a cool, elegant dancer – her Viennese waltz was sweeping and graceful. Yes I’m biased but they were both so talented and apparently, when she was younger mum was spotted by a West End impresario. He’d promised her a glittering future in musical dance, but her mother, my gran wouldn’t let her move to ‘that London,’ which was, according to her ‘a fleshpot.’ Mum was devastated, but then she met my dad, who put the sequins and salsa back into her world. She and my father had always been so ambitious for their dancing and their lives – but I wonder now if they expected too much from life?