Page 15 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

I go to the hall and shout up the stairs, ‘Will, don’t forget I’m off to Paris tomorrow. Your grandpa is coming to stay, remember? Will?’

A distant grunt is all the reply I get and on hearing the ping of an email I return to my computer.

Here it is. Gobby Giles’s response to my three-hundred-and-sixty-degree appraisal report awaits me. The subject line is, Hugely Disappointing . I open it, prickling with each word.

Ruby’s heart no longer seems to be in her job.

Her presentation was ill-prepared, and she did not appear to take the task seriously.

Comparing herself to a new variety of laxative, ready to increase productivity from the basement out appeared, at best, ill thought out and at worst, fatuous.

It was as if the idea just popped into her head without planning or forethought.

I am of the opinion Ruby needs to re-think her role with First Bite.

Unfortunately, her peers – on the basis of this exercise – would appear to agree.

Bloody cheek. I swear out loud and bang my fist on the table. I’ve worked my socks off for this recruitment firm for over eight years. I was their best agent for most of those. Hell, I even thought up the company’s new name.

Fingers stabbing the keyboard, I start to write an angry response, then notice Gobby had included an attachment with his negative missive. I double-click the paperclip and scan the spreadsheet.

My heart sinks. My figures for placing people in the last few months have plummeted. I press my hands into my forehead and force myself to think objectively.

It’s true, I no longer feel the same way about my job and recently I’ve begun to hate it.

I think the rot started when we were forced to work away from the office during the pandemic.

I’d always loved the office banter. Then the job market dried up for months, and they got rid of several employees.

Most of those they ‘let go’ had been good friends of mine, and it’s just not the same without them.

And then Max walked into my life. Hearing him talk of his engineering job with such passion, I began to realise I’d never felt the same about my employment.

I know I can do better; my IT skills are up there.

Hours spent hunting for new opportunities haven’t yet thrown up anything, but I’m resolved to keep looking until I find something.

Sadly, I can’t afford to take an employment break.

Will’s school fees may be paid through his scholarship, but a mortgage on one wage is no joke, even in our small, terraced house.

No, for the time being I must ingratiate myself to the board of First Bite and hold on to this job so I can leave of my own volition before I am… well, to put it bluntly, evacuated.

I delete my email and start again. This time it’s closer to contrite, reminding them I have been a great asset to the firm. I hit send imagining the pleasure of mailing a resignation at a future date.

At least the Paris trip will give me time to fathom out where to go from here.

Paris.

The dancing’s been a lifesaver; a wonderful way of releasing tension with exercise thrown in.

Apart from the spat with Monica, I’m as excited as a small child at the prospect of dancing on stage in a professional Paris theatre.

If I never speak to Monica again, I’ll be forever grateful for her introducing me to Lady C’s class.

I grin when I think of Clarissa’s exclamation after my first session.

‘Ruby, you have real potential, but you are a little too flamboyant in your moves. And my dear, I will need to take the bounce out of you if you are to be a true jazz dancer.’

It took practice, but once I appreciated exactly what she meant, I put all my energies into curtailing my so-called effusive moves to meet her high standards. I was determined to make the competition team.

My neck muscles ache and I lift and roll back my shoulders.

Time to relax. I flick my phone to play the “Dancin’ Fool” music through the Bluetooth speaker and grab my red bowler hat to start the routine.

My hands click, Fosse style, and I freeze – all angular with one knee bent into a jazz position.

When the routine launches, I skid around the small kitchen in my socks.

In seconds I’m transported to the studio and ignore knocking a tumbler to the floor when I sweep my hat behind my back to change hands.

I sing the lyrics aloud and dart from one side of the kitchen to the other.

My legs keep low, dancing into the ground – as Lady C insists – my isolations are slick and concise. When the dance speeds up, I race to and from the cooker and when I throw my hat into the air at the end, I shout ‘Yeah!’ and gasp for breath.

Applause. Will is at the kitchen door, smiling as he claps. ‘Bravo.’

I bow.

‘You’re not half bad.’

‘So, not half good?’

He laughs and points to the tumbler. ‘Hey, when I heard that clatter, I thought we were being burgled.’

‘What? By the all-singing-all-dancing jazz thief?’

‘…In a bowler hat. That’s the one.’

Will punches me playfully in the arm as I catch my breath. I knew he’d come round once he’d eaten.

‘So, how are you getting to the airport tomorrow?’

‘Uber. Seems everyone else has a lift.’ I tried them all, well, except Monica and Frosty. Lady C and Hazel were making their own way in a disability taxi, and there was no answer from Little Janine Young.

‘Are you sharing a room with Monica?’

‘No idea. We’re supposed to.’

‘Hey, if you’re forced together you can sort out this shit. It’s only a daft row isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Daft. In the whole scheme of things, it’s ridiculously petty and insignificant.’

‘Well then, you’ll make it up and come back friends.’ He slapped me on the back and grabbed a huge wedge of cake from the fridge.

‘Oi. That was supposed to be for sharing.’

‘I’m a growing lad,’ he said, winking and taking a massive bite from the block of cake.

I watch him disappear upstairs again and sigh.

Monica and me, friends again? If only I shared Will’s optimism.