Page 29 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Asha flounders, her mouth open and frozen.

‘So, no, Asha. I cannot forgive Ruby. She’s the worst kind of person. I cannot put anything behind me because she’s already stabbed me right there – in the back. And she can just… just go to hell.’

Pushing past them both, I head down the passages leading to the exit at the front of the theatre.

*

Out in the open air, a barrage of traffic noise from the busy French road hits me. I set off in any direction just to be clear of the building. Breathing deeply, I walk to slow my heart rate and replay snatches of my past friendship with Ruby.

How could she have carried on as if nothing had happened? How could she be so blatant? I really didn’t know her at all…

When I think about it, her entire life has been based on deceit.

She even lied to her son about who his father was, pretending she used a sperm bank.

When she told me this a few years ago, I told her she should tell Will the truth, but I’m not sure Ruby would recognise the truth if it came up and punched her in the face. Will is such a decent kid too.

*

After ten minutes of walking, my mind is easing.

I leave the main roads and find myself in a beautiful part of Paris.

I check the name: Place des Vosges . A wide, tree-filled park spreads out before me.

It’s bordered by elegant tall townhouses.

I take a deep breath of fresh air and wander around the boxed hedges and fountains before finding my way to the arcaded cafés that line the perimeter.

Hanging baskets overflow with flowers as I pass boutique cafés and tiny bars where people are seated outside under the arches, drinking coffee or wine, and eating an assortment of French fare.

The smell of fresh bread fills the air and I pass a boulangerie displaying a wonderful assortment of savoury delicacies. My stomach rumbles and I realise I’m hungry, having barely touched the awful breakfast at the café near our hotel.

The shop front of a patisserie stops me in my tracks.

Beautiful multicoloured cakes, mille-feuilles, éclairs and macaroons fill the window.

The shop is rammed with customers ordering cakes by the box full.

I catch fragments of their French, ‘ Puis-je commander une douzaine de macarons…’, ‘Très bon…’, ‘Deux éclairs s’il vous pla? t… ’, ‘Délicieux, merci .’

I pull out my phone and text Fay to ask her if she wants me to purchase a light lunch for the ladies. She instantly replies.

‘Yes, please, and make sure you keep the receipt.’

The scents of French cooking fill my nostrils.

A small sign fixed to the brickwork at the end of the arches catches my eye.

The word Enchanté is next to an arrow; there is a logo of a long-silhouetted dress next to it.

I recognise the brand at once and fumble in my bag to find Jean-Claude’s card to double-check the name.

Je ne le crois pas – his words when he found out we both had twins – one of his fashion shops is just around the corner.

It takes me mere seconds to come to a decision before setting off in the direction of the sign and I soon find myself outside a quirky dress shop displaying off-the-peg high fashion.

I check my hair in the reflection of the shop window and go in to browse. There are some fabulous outfits in here. I am examining the detail on an embroidered day dress displayed in the centre of the shop when a familiar voice calls my name.

‘Monica? C’est vrai. Vous êtes ici .’

‘Jean-Claude. I didn’t expect to see you here.’ I can feel myself starting to colour.

‘I am so glad you come to my boutique. How is ze dancing going?’

‘Oh, I have a short time between rehearsals and our main performance, so I just came for a walk to clear my head.’

Jean-Claude looks quizzical, so I elaborate. ‘I needed to get some fresh air. Have a break.’

‘Ah oui , I love to get fresh air. Please come and see our newest garments.’

I accept his invitation to go to a screened area at the back of the shop where there are racks of outfits still in plastic wraps.

He uncovers a couple to show me some of his Enchanté designs.

They’re beautifully cut and original. I admire a couple of the long dresses and his mouth spreads into a wide smile.

My stomach flutters and I tell myself to stop behaving like a schoolgirl.

The way his eyes twinkle is quite disconcerting.

Jean-Claude then reaches for a fabulous knee-length cocktail dress in crisp gold satin overlaid with soft black lace.

He studies it for a minute. His eyes ask, ‘do I mind?’ and I shake my head, giving him permission to hold it against me.

He gently turns me to look in the mirror as he takes the dress off the hanger, stands behind me, and drapes the garment from my shoulders. I catch my breath; he’s so close.

He leans into me and fixes his eyes on mine in the mirror. Disconcerted, I quickly look down to the dress.

With his sexy French accent, he says, ‘ Magnifique , Monique. It suits you. You should try it on.’

A blush rises as I dramatically look to my watch and hurriedly shake my head and pull away. ‘It’s a beautiful dress, but sadly, I have no time. I need to get back.’

‘Of course. Perhaps I can walk you back to ze Opéra House? I have a little confession to make. I came to zis store today as I was going to see if I could get a ticket for ze dance show tomorrow afternoon. I would love to watch you dance.’

‘Oh, that’s so sweet. But we may not be in the show. We have to get to the finals first and we have some stiff competition. If we don’t make it, we’ll be sitting in the audience tomorrow too.’

‘Maybe I could join you in the audience if so? But I ’ope not. I mean, I ’ope you do get into ze finals? I would be happy for you to send me a message on my phone to let me know ze outcome. Ze number is right there.’

He leans across to tap the business card still in my hand and brushes my arm. It sends a shiver up my spine. Steady, Monica.

Jean-Claude offers to help me with the shopping and walks with me to the boulangerie . He guides my choices and orders the pastries and baguettes in French for me. I end up with two large carriers filled with delicious food. The bill is ridiculously large, but Vince’s card is instantly accepted.

‘I will ’elp you carry these back to ze theatre, oui?’

‘Thank you, Jean-Claude. That’d be lovely.’

He takes my arm and one of the bags and we walk companionably back to the theatre.

At the foyer, Jean-Claude pecks me on each cheek before handing over the bag. I promise to send him a message later as we part. He heads for the ticket office, and I head for the dressing room, a warm glow spreading through my body.

I warn myself not to lose my head but meeting this dreamy Jean-Claude and knowing he will be watching the show tomorrow makes me further determine I will dance my best.