Page 14 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Ruby

The meal has been ready for twenty minutes and is beginning to dry out.

It’s an hour after Will should’ve been home, but I resist texting.

He’s got out of the habit of letting me know where he is, but the last thing he needs is an overbearing mother checking up on his every move.

Besides, I know he’s been at a rugger practice and it’s no doubt overrun.

I decide to dish mine up – shoving his in the microwave – and sit in the kitchen with my laptop as I eat.

Sighing, I think of Max. It’s too bad he’s so far away. I could’ve done with him here to completely take my mind off things.

He was really supportive about Monica-gate. We’ve spoken by phone most days; morning-time for me – night-time for him.

‘Look, if you were true friends, Monica would surely laugh it off?’

‘That’s what I thought. That she’d come round once she’d calmed down. But she’s jumped right up on her high horse, and I can’t reach her.’

Of course, Max hadn’t heard the exact message as I deleted it the minute I realised what I’d done. I regret not copying it before trashing it.

‘Give me the gist of what you said again.’

‘In all honesty, I can’t remember my exact words. But I know the practically-perfect-never-had-an-orgasm bit will have grated…’

‘Ouch.’

‘I know, I know… but Monica’s reaction is ridiculously extreme. To cut me off without a word. I mean, seriously? She knows what I’m like.’

‘Well, you’ve tried to explain. If she really doesn’t want to listen, you can do no more. After all, you’ve left her messages and made it clear you’re sorry.’

I didn’t tell Max about the last message.

I realise it’d been a mistake to phone after I’d had a drink or two.

It was last Thursday when Max was supposed to have come home, but his return was pushed back by over a week, and now I won’t see him before I go to Paris.

My voice message to Monica may’ve been a bit belligerent…

OK, if I’m honest it was downright abusive, but who can blame me when she’s turned colder than a frigging iceberg?

In truth, I miss her. I have loads of girlfriends, but I can confide in Monica like no other.

We shop for clothes together – she has amazing dress sense.

We chat about our kids over coffee and talk all the way to dance and back.

She knows my hopes and desires and she was beginning to open up about what she really wants in life.

Heck, we even like the same books and on top of that, we have Glastonbury; it was epic.

If I have a problem, it’s more often than not Monica I’ll call, and vice versa. Would have called – past tense now.

I went swimming the other night to get it out of my system. Did fifty lengths of the pool and then realised I’d missed the final dance rehearsal. Normally, Monica would’ve reminded me – she is uber-organised compared to me – but it just fell out of my brain.

Clarissa was unimpressed. I called her the next day.

‘Ruby, I cannot emphasise enough the necessity of rehearsal.’

‘Yes, I know, sorry, Clarissa. Something came up…’

‘Ingrida had to step in for you… and before I forget, I need to advise you I have made a change to the final sequence of the Adele number. The syncopated turn is now a turning développé kick.’

‘Oh fuc—er, fine. Right.’

Frigging hell, why does she always make last-minute changes when we have consigned the moves to our muscle memory?

‘Yes, one knee lifts into the other leg, toe pointed, and the leg gently unfolds as it extends away…’

As Clarissa explained, I rolled my eyes to heaven. I couldn’t for the life of me picture what she meant. The new step is no doubt some sort of balletic move my former exotic and pole dance classes definitely wouldn’t have included.

‘…and so we dip down on the leg lift and rise with the extension. It is quite simple. Monica will show you.’

Jeez, Lady C must be the only one not to have noticed our fall out.

‘Right. Thanks. See you at the airport then, Clarissa.’

I’ll have to get Ingrida to show me the step. We can practise in the departures lounge or even on the flight. I smile at the thought of rehearsing ballet moves in the aisle amid a planeload of passengers.

Will saunters into the house as I finish my meal.

‘Hi. All good?’ I fix a bright smile on my face.

Will’s been funny with me on and off for months now, being generally moody and uncommunicative. So, it’s a surprise when he pulls out the chair next to mine and drops down onto it sideways, leaning forward until we are face-to-face.

‘Are you OK? Your dinner’s in the microwave. It’s your favourite, jerk chicken…’

‘What have you done to piss off James’s mum?’

‘O-K…’ I should’ve known he’d be hangry after rugby.

‘Well, you have, haven’t you?’

‘Will, I—’

‘Wasn’t she having a hard enough time without you making matters worse?’

‘What do you mean? About her having a hard time?’ Have James and Joanne found out about their father’s extra-marital affairs?

Will mumbles something incomprehensible before adding, ‘All I know is you must have really upset Monica if it’s so bad she won’t even speak to you.’

There’s no point responding to him when he’s like this, so I say nothing.

He rises, heats up his meal for a minute or so, and grabs his fork to take the plate up to his room.

‘And, by the way…’ he adds from the doorway, pointing his fork at me. ‘Don’t you dare say anything to James when he comes here. Whatever’s happened, it’s your problem, so don’t make it mine.’ The door slams on his way out.

I shake my head. Frigging teenagers.

I can imagine the discussion I’d normally have had with Monica.

We’d have started by normalising Will’s behaviour, saying Joanne and James were exactly the same and that these teenage strops were a rite of passage and then we’d have sympathised with each other before finally ending up laughing as we always did…

Annoyed I’m thinking of Monica again, I throw the dirty pans and plates into the dishwasher and pick up the filthy rugby kit Will has dumped in the hall.

Well, at least Will didn’t bring up the subject of his biological father again.

I sigh. My once little lad now towers over me and, disconcertingly, he’s grown to look just like his dad. I sometimes catch my breath when I see him; he has Dev’s startlingly good looks.

Fobbing off my son is becoming increasingly difficult, but I stick to the same story. ‘I decided to be a single mum, went to a sperm bank and asked for a donor from the same ethnic group. End of.’

Yesterday he started a whole new tack.

‘There’s no such thing as remaining anonymous if you donate sperm. I looked it up. They have to give you a name and I have a right to know.’

I’m in a dilemma. I mean, the truth isn’t so bad, but it’s bound to change how Will thinks of me. Where would I begin?

Will, you were a complete miracle; a one-in-a-million chance. It’s true. I was told I was infertile.

What I won’t say is how I laughed it off in front of others – why would I want children?

– while shrinking inside. It completely sucked.

As my mates got pregnant, one by one, I decided to stick with my single friends and then I discovered the dating apps and the freedom of never having to take precautions.

I soon convinced myself that having kids didn’t matter one jot.

So, I went to a wedding. Penelope’s wedding. It was the same day as my thirtieth birthday – a double celebration. And…

And there was Dev. Dressed in his usher garb looking completely edible; what a hunk.

…I met someone. I’m sure you don’t want the detail.

He came into the posh ladies’ powder room claiming he’d made a mistake, but I knew he’d followed me in.

We ended up in one of the cubicles, stifling our giggles every time someone came in to use the loos.

I honestly hadn’t known he was married with children.

I mean, he didn’t wear a ring and there was no sign of any wife at the reception.

Several weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t so much filled with dismay as utter disbelief. It only took the space of a few hours to know with absolute certainty I wanted to have this child.

And you were the result. A wonderful result. Your father is called Dev, but I found out he was already in a relationship, and I decided to go it alone.

I got Dev’s number from Penelope – told her I had a work-related question. He was horrified to hear from me.

‘Calm down, Dev. You need to know this pregnancy was a complete fluke.’

‘Right.’

‘I was told I’d never have children. I have a severe type of Polycystic ovary syndrome. Found out in my early twenties. Look, Dev, I know it was just a fling. I know that. But this is my one and only chance to be a mother, so I’m going through with it.’

‘Right.’

‘I just thought you should know.’

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Ruby. I’m married. Our second baby is due next month. I can’t… I can’t…’

‘Dev, it’s fine. I neither want nor need your permission, and given that you’re a bit of a shit, I certainly don’t want your involvement. I’ve told you. Now we’re done.’

We didn’t discuss anything else. It was the first and last conversation I had with him, and it suited me down to the ground. My decision, my baby, my call.

I can’t tell you much about him other than he has his own family, so I never got in contact with him.

Do I tell Will Dev was one of a long line of one-night stands? That’d go down well – not. Or that Dev knew full well he was going to be a father but opted out? I don’t want Will to view himself as some sort of reject when nothing could be further from the truth.

Oh, it’s so frigging difficult to know what to do for the best. Fourteen is a delicate age. His emotions are on a knife-edge as it is. One of my ex-workmates told me – in his thick Bristolian accent – ‘ Neither man nor boy, but hobbledehoy .’ So frigging true.