Page 30 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Ruby

Everything goes out of focus as Monica barges past. I steady myself against the wall with her words ringing in my head.

What the…? Slept with Vince? How can she think such a thing?

Why didn’t I just outright deny it? I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach.

My breaths come short and shallow. I’ve never even met Vince, and I never want to meet him, the complete bastard.

A small voice in my head prompts, unless …

Monica’s weeping voice replays in my mind. From in the car, the other week, when she told me about Vince. She found his tablet. The app.

Unless you met him without knowing.

Oh shit. Spontaneous Encounters.

My vision tunnels and with a growing nausea in my stomach, I slide my hands down the wall until I am sitting in a crouch position. I wrack my brains. Which one was he? How long ago? I’ve no idea. I ball my fists and press them into my eyes. What have I done?

I then realise Asha is staring down at me, horrified.

‘It… it is not true, right?’ Asha begins.

I shake my head and then shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You do not know? You do not know if you slept with Monica’s husband?’

‘Asha, leave me alone.’ I glare up at the faces of random dancers who stand transfixed. I rise to my feet and shout, ‘What’re you all staring at? The show’s over, so just piss off.’

When they have all melted away and I am completely by myself, I begin to pace the floor.

Monica must have looked at the SE App and gone through all Vince’s past dates.

She said he had many profiles. Which one did she say she had seen when she first told me?

Ben something? Ben Johnson. I’m sure I never had a date with anyone of that name.

But what were his other names? She must have trawled through his other profiles and found a photograph of me, and she already knew I used the name Scarlet.

I’m appalled at the very thought of being intimate with her husband, even if I didn’t know it was him at the time.

My mind’s veering all over the place. I have to know which one Vince was and when it was.

It then dawns on me that I can check, go back to the SE App and scour all those past dates to find out where and when.

I need to get out of the theatre.

I dash back to the dressing room where some of Clarissa’s ladies are in a huddle in the far corner away from Sheila’s loud, shrieking group.

Gnasher-Asha is talking to the others in hushed tones. She quickly goes quiet when she sees me. No doubt she was filling them in on all the gory details. All their eyes follow me as I grab my bag and head out of the theatre.

‘Don’t forget we are dancing in a few hours,’ Asha calls after me in a weak voice.

I don’t reply. I need fresh air.

Thankfully, there’s a roadside café a short walk from the Opéra House. I perch on a metal chair outside and order a coffee and a large slice of cake – Monica always says take sugar for shock … I quickly correct myself. That’s before she stopped speaking to you.

I finally get onto the app after downloading it afresh and retrieving a new password from my email.

I haven’t used Spontaneous Encounters for over a year.

I sip my coffee and nibble at my cake absent-mindedly.

I’d forgotten most of these dates. The numbers really add up.

Then I spot it; it must be him. The date was a few years back in Birmingham city centre when I was on a work course.

Birmingham. Monica had told me Vince had a flat in the Midlands, but I hadn’t known where.

And it hadn’t even occurred to me her husband would use the same app.

I mean, it wouldn’t occur to anyone. Would it?

I open the page for the details and stare at his photo as my heart sinks. The memory’s blurred, but his name isn’t. No. Ruddy Clint Westwood. Bloody hell.

Vince’s dark hair – a little too dark so probably dyed – and designer moustache made him a good prospect from just his photo.

At the time, I thought he looked like the old film star, Clark Gable.

He’s as handsome as Monica is beautiful.

With such a striking face, I would’ve remembered if I’d ever met Vince or seen a photo of him, but Monica doesn’t damn well do social media so there’s nothing online.

Thinking about it, there’re no pictures to be seen in her house, not even a wedding shot; her walls are covered in tasteful artwork.

The only photos I’ve ever seen are on the pin boards of her workshop and they’re of our dance shows and the twins…

I try to recall the date with Clint . From what little I remember from my alcohol-fuelled haze, it was an utter let-down.

My overriding impression was that he had a sneering condescension and pumped-up opinion of himself.

If I hadn’t been pissed, I would’ve walked away, but I was up for almost anything back then.

Bloody frigging hell…

I check the date again and my stomach lurches. Monica. Poor Monica probably looked after Will that very night, as it was a school night. I can hardly believe it. I slept with her husband as she looked after my son.

The bites of cake feel like rock in my belly as I stare at the details and the stark sordid truth hammers home.

Of all the people I could have met up with in a huge place like Birmingham, why did it have to be him?

The words of that famous line from Casablanca repeat in my head, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all … Shut up Ruby.

I briefly consider if Vince’s other profiles are variations on the likes of Jesse James and John Wayne. Sadly, whereas I would’ve once howled with laughter, now it’s not even remotely funny.

I then realise something worse. I’d actually regaled Monica with details of this particular encounter when she’d asked me about my past dates. I cringe at the memory of her laughing and saying, ‘Time to get out of the saddle…’

I had sex with Monica’s husband. The words keep going round in my head. No no no. I shut my eyes tight to expel the memory. Why the fuck did this have to happen? It then dawns on me. Monica believes I did it knowingly… what was it she said? Something about me gloating…

No, I’m not having this. A surge of indignation rises. How was I supposed to know it was him? As if I would do that to a friend. Frigging hell. How could she think that of me…

‘Are you going to eat the rest of that cake or just hold it mid-air?’

My eyes flick open. I look up and there he is. Max. Right in front of me. There in Paris. What the…

I drop the cake, quickly snap my phone cover shut and stand to greet him, spilling my coffee all over the table.

‘Woah. Hold on there.’ Max steadies the table. ‘You look like I’ve just discovered you indulging a guilty secret.’

‘What?’

‘Something you need to hide?’ He points to my phone, and I quickly recover myself, throw the phone into my bag as I shake my head.

‘Max. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Delighted to see you too,’ he leans in to kiss me lightly on the lips.

‘Hey, I’m pleased to see you, but it’s… well… a bit of a shock.’ I wrap my arms around him and breathe in his musky scent.

Max gives me a squeeze then gently disentangles himself to lower me into my seat. He takes the seat opposite and I try to compose myself.

‘Why are you in Paris? I mean, you might’ve warned me.’

‘It was going to be a surprise. I came to watch you dance. I was about to go and get tickets, but then I spotted you in this café and you looked so intent on your phone – and worried – I just had to come over. Is this about Monica-gate still?’

I nod.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ I say without hesitation. ‘Tell me when you got here. Where you’re staying.’

Max gives a comical account of how he organised new flights to divert to Paris and some tale about the hotel he found, but I’m barely listening as I absorb the full implications of what’s happened with Vince and the effect this must’ve had on Monica.

I had nurtured an outside hope we would eventually make it up but now I can see no future for our friendship. Even if I could convince her I had no idea that bloke was Vince, it would be too weird knowing your best friend had had carnal relations with your husband.

I look at Max’s animated face as he continues the tale. He’s turned up at just the right time.

Then it strikes me. If Max finds out the real reason Monica has ditched me, would it alter his opinion of me?

I mean, according to her, I am the world’s top superbitch.

I wish now I’d told him about my numerous blind dates.

Not that he has any right to judge. I refuse to apologise for my past, but I don’t want it to affect how we are together…

Max stops talking and leans across the table. ‘Hey, want to go for a walk?’

I nod and when I’ve paid up we set off towards the river.

Max puts his arm around me and we stroll down the boulevard Henri 1V towards the Pont du Sully .

It is a lovely April day, and the banks of the Seine are less than thirty minutes away.

The traffic noise is somehow different to that in Manchester.

There’s more sounding of horns and squeals of brakes for starters, and I know I’m in Paris by the skyline opening up in front of us as we get to the bridge.

There’s Notre Dame Cathedral – no longer clad in scaffolding to fix the damage from that awful fire some years back – looming large and dramatic across the river.

We stop on the bridge and take in the vista, leaning on the stone parapet.

I decide to test the waters with Max. ‘Can I ask you a question? Did you have many girlfriends before me?’

‘A few, why?’

‘Just wondered. I mean, don’t you wonder about my previous relationships?’

‘You’re asking me if I’m curious?’

‘Yes.’

Max turns and smiles at me. I can’t help but smile back and he squeezes my hand affectionately.

‘Well, let me see. I believe what’s in the past is dead and gone, but I suppose I have occasionally wondered about your previous boyfriends.’