Page 23 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Ruby

He was outraged about Janine and wonderfully supportive about Monica. He told me I’d tried my best and could do no more. He agreed that if she was so determined not to make up there was nothing I could do about it.

I can’t wait to see Max again, and not just to release my pent-up sexual frustration. No, I realise I want to share a lot more with him and while this is an unprecedented situation for me, it’s not an unpleasant one.

Max wanted to know all about the competition and our hotel and when I told him about the sleeping arrangements and our impromptu dance rehearsal, he messaged:

I can just picture the scene. Sounds like an adult version of the musical, Annie.

Just like it , I replied, but without the cute factor.

Ouch – my head. I must buy some paracetamol before our rehearsal.

Talking of Annie , I have seen a new side to Frosty Fay.

She had a few too many brandies last night and became quite relaxed.

She was more talkative than I have ever seen her.

She said the room full of beds reminded her of growing up in St Eulalia’s and the dormitories there.

I’m not sure the others realised St Eulalia’s was the local orphanage back then.

I only knew because my dad used to talk about what he called the forgotten kids there when he helped to re-wire the place.

I couldn’t help noticing there was something wrong with Fay’s feet. Looked as if she was missing at least one toe on each foot, but I was careful to look away as she hurriedly put on bed socks. That must make dancing quite a challenge.

Still, she’s back to her usual irritating frosty self this morning. First, she ticked me off. ‘Please, Ruby, ladies perspire – they do not sweat.’ And then she corrected Batty Bonnie two or three times in the space of half an hour as we ate breakfast in a small café near our grotty hotel.

‘That is not how you pronounce croissant… The Eiffel Tower is either an eyesore or sticks out like a sore thumb, but it is not, I repeat, not a thumb sore.’

And when Ingrida asked what would we do if Sheila’s group tried to intimidate us again and Bonnie responded, ‘We’ll cross that ridge when we come to it.’ Fay nearly exploded with irritation.

I told Fay to cut Bonnie some sack , but I also winked at her so she knew I was only teasing. Fay did a double take but didn’t give me her usual glare and as far as I know she hasn’t said another critical word to Bonnie.

Time was moving on, so I suggested we grab our cases with our costumes, props and make-up and head for the dance venue.

‘Just look at us dressed identically in our DICK/DECK outfits.’ I wink at Ingrida. ‘With Fay at the front, I feel as if I’m back on a school trip.’

‘I think we look very smart in our matched tops,’ Ingrida replies as we hurry after Fay.

I do a double take before realising Ingrida is being serious. Well, I, for one, don’t want anyone looking at the awful insignia stuck on my chest, so despite the warm morning, I throw my jacket over one shoulder to hide the damn thing.

Now we are on the packed Metro in the French rush hour.

We are still on the outskirts of Paris and the line is overground, but with little to see as we travel through suburbs and industrial areas.

As passengers stand to leave, Bonnie, Cath, Ingrida, and I manage to grab a seat.

Monica continues to keep a good distance from me.

Well, stuff her. If she wants to hold a grudge, that’s her lookout.

As the Tube nears the centre of Paris and goes underground, we lean into each other to talk about the forthcoming competition and the venue.

‘I’ve never heard of the opera theatre at the Bastille,’ Bonnie comments.

I look it up online and show her the images.

‘Hey, it’s huge.’

‘And very contemporary. Get this, the amphitheatre seats five hundred and the main theatre, a couple of thousand.’

Cath whistles. ‘That’s bigger than any of our previous audiences. I hope my nerves don’t get the better of me.’

‘I always dance better in front of an audience.’

‘Bit of an exhibitionist, eh, Ruby?’ Bonnie nudges me in the ribs.

‘Yes, if you like. But Clarissa’s right, we all perform better when watched.’

The seat next to me becomes free and Monica makes to sit down but then thinks better of it and tightens her hand on the rail next to her, studiously looking away. Pathetic.

I survey the other dancers dotted around the carriage. Perhaps I can cultivate a new close friend?

Asha is a positive, friendly type, if a little over-interested in the latest gossip.

Plus, when you talk to her she looks at your mouth not your eyes which is a bit off-putting.

My hands always go to my teeth in case there’s a piece of food stuck in them or a smear of lipstick. So, maybe not Gnasher-Asha.

Celtic Cath and Batty Bonnie are completely wrapped up in each other.

I’m really warming to Happy-To-Be-Here-Ingrida; she’s a good laugh.

I remember her coming to my Ann Summers party and telling us about her unusual sex education in a Latvian dance company.

Come to think of it, she was one of the few dance ladies who didn’t bat an eyelid at the erotic goods for sale.

Mind, she’s dead busy now she’s taken on all those stepkids…

Frosty Fay’s a definite no, although it turns out she’s pretty amazing at navigating the Metro and getting us on the right lines to ensure we get to our destination. She’s a much nicer person when she’s in charge. She even smiles more, which is a pleasant change to her usual icy frown.

I glance at Monica at the other end of the compartment, studiously ignoring me and I feel a pang deep in my gut. Oh, why’s she being so frigging unreasonable?

As the Metro nears our station, the conversation turns to Janine.

‘She seemed the least likely member of the group to cause upset,’ Bonnie comments.

‘Thanks for that, Bonnie.’ Cath pokes her in the arm.

‘Oh, you know what I mean. Actually, I know her neighbour, Maureen.’ Bonnie reflects. ‘I could text her to see if she knows anything about Janine’s situation?’

‘Yes, do that, Bonnie,’ I say. ‘See if she can find out what’s happened.’

‘I feel guilty we didn’t ask the wee girl more about herself and offer her some help,’ Cath adds. ‘She must have been having financial problems if she needed to take our Paris money. Maybe one of us should have befriended her?’

‘She wasn’t exactly friendly,’ I remind Cath. ‘She wouldn’t share lifts with anyone or join in conversations.’

‘That’s true,’ Cath agrees. ‘I asked her to come to our Strictly evenings, but she wasn’t a bit interested. She kept her distance with all of us…’

‘Well, I hope Janine’s found something good to spend our money on.’

‘Ruby.’ Bonnie looks shocked.

‘I mean, if you’re going to be robbed it might as well be for a good reason,’ I say.

‘Like what?’ Cath is smiling.

‘An exotic holiday, champagne by the crateful, luxury underwear…’

‘Oh, Ruby, you are awful.’ Bonnie laughs.

Cath starts to sing about spending money on whisky and beer, but she trails off when Fay carefully edges her way over to us as the Metro wobbles along.

I quickly appreciate Fay’s hearing is much better than I realised.

She leans into our group and says in a low authoritative voice, ‘We will be getting our money back whether Janine has squandered it on any such items. I have already reported the matter to the police.’

‘What? Without knowing anything about her circumstances?’ I stare at Fay.

‘It is a criminal offence. She has stolen thousands of pounds.’

‘Thousands?’ Bonnie looks aghast.

‘Yes, thousands. Our Paris payments add up to four thousand and thirty-five pounds, and my guess is she has not been using our money for the lottery. The entire class paid two pounds a week for the last two years. That amounts to another five thousand two hundred pounds. So, you can see she has embezzled over nine thousand pounds from us.’

We are all stunned and say nothing until Cath gives a loud whistle.

‘Bless my soul. What in heaven’s name did she spend it on?’

‘Hang on,’ I say, unsure why I feel a sudden need to protect Janine.

‘We’ve no proof she misappropriated the lottery money or for that matter deliberately stole the Paris money.

She may have borrowed it if she was in debt, or perhaps she was being blackmailed…

OK, maybe far-fetched, but what I’m trying to say is we just don’t know. ’

‘ Ja , it does not seem possible Janine steal from dance ladies—’

‘Well, it is a police issue now. They will get to the bottom of it.’ Fay has never looked so frosty as she consults her map and indicates we need to get off as the Metro lurches towards a stop. She pushes through the other passengers, and we all follow.

She calls back in a loud voice, ‘As far as I am concerned, Janine has betrayed us all and deserves everything she gets.’

Feeling somewhat subdued, we all silently follow Fay up the escalators and group together on the busy French street.

Ingrida taps me on the shoulder, her face pale and anxious. ‘Janine will be in trouble with police, ja? I am so sorry for her. Maybe this is all big mistake?’

Before I can answer, Fay orders us all to jump onto the nearest bus for the last leg of the journey.

There are no spare seats, so we cram into the vehicle and hold onto the straps that hang down from the ceiling.

I end up squashed between Monica and Ingrida.

Monica turns away, so I am looking at her back.

I am tempted to hiss an insult at her, but Ingrida tugs my jacket, so I turn to her.

‘Will she go to prison? Janine?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply truthfully.

‘Prison is a terrible place.’ Ingrida bites her lip and says no more.

‘Clarissa’s ladies.’ Fay’s voice booms from the front of the bus. ‘Our stop is the next one. The Bastille.’ She adds in a quieter voice her apology – ‘ Excusez-moi ’ – to the driver who has one finger in his ear having exclaimed, ‘ Sacré bleu .’

Fay motions for us all to make our way down the bus to get off.

The driver mutters something in French.

I whisper to Ingrida. ‘The Bastille. It looks like we’re the ones getting to prison first.’

Ingrida is smiling. ‘With la grande gueule ,’ she repeats the driver’s insult.

‘ Grande gueule? ’

‘It mean loud mouth,’ Ingrida replies, a small grin on her face.

We edge our way off the bus, and I have to stifle a laugh to see Fay’s grande gueule is set in a glacial clamp as she glares at the bus driver before he drives off.

Traffic is moving in every direction around the busy multi-lane junction where we have alighted, and pigeons fly in the air. We turn full circle to look at our surroundings.

‘Now I feel I am in Paris.’ Ingrida points to the tall column at the centre of the Place de la Bastille . A golden-winged figure is poised on a gold sphere right at the top.

‘It is the Colonne de Juillet . The July Column. And the statue, it is Le Génie de la Liberté ; to remember French Revolution.’

‘You should be a tour guide, Ingrida.’

‘I spend few months in Paris, long time ago now—’

‘Ah, look. The Opéra Bastille .’ I point at the large circular glass-clad front of the theatre skirted by a cascade of concrete steps.

Above the doors, two large banners with the word Expression flutter in the mild breeze.

Groups of people are heading up the steps towards the main entrance, bags and brightly coloured costumes in every hand.

We all stand for a few minutes to take it all in.

‘This is it.’ I squeeze Ingrida’s arm, forgetting for a split second she’s not Monica. ‘Happy to be here, Ingrida?’

Ingrida, who had glazed over, gives a jump. ‘Oh, ja . Of course.’

I look at Ingrida’s face. She does not seem that happy or excited. I give her a quizzical ‘what’s up?’ look. She shakes her head and lightly squeezes my arm as we cross to the entrance together. Monica, face like a poker, sweeps past us without turning her head.