Page 4 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

‘I was barely out of college when we married. But stop changing the subject Ruby Anderson, or should I call you Sassy Scarlet? Tell me more about all these dates.’

‘Oh, many are instantly forgettable, but a few stick in my mind. One chap looked at me in horror when I turned up for our rendezvous. I quickly checked my boobs hadn’t escaped my dress and asked him if he was OK.

You know what he said? “I hadn’t realised you were black”.

Yeah. Ridiculous. He mumbled something about not paying photographs much attention, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish.

I got up and walked out. He followed me to ask why I was going.

So, I told him, “I hadn’t realised you were an arsehole”.

That shut him up. Opened and closed his mouth like some beached fish.

Come to think of it, his skin was really pasty – looked like a blanched piece of cod.

It’s true. Who wants to have sex with a fillet of fish?

Mind, even the good-looking ones can be a pain.

There was one who spent his entire time looking at his reflection in huge mirrors on his bedroom ceiling. ’

‘Whoa. Kinky.’

‘He kept moving me to one side to admire his beautiful body. He called himself Apollo – I know, loads of bizarre names on the app. Clearly thought of himself as a right sex God. More like Narcissus. Totally in love with his fake-tanned six-pack. Then there was this guy who wanted to have sex in the bushes of the park…’

‘What?’

‘I said no at first, but it was a warm, dry night, and the park was empty.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘I did. And I have to say, it was exhilarating. Hilariously, his name was Rowan.’

‘Ha ha. You have definitely made that up.’

‘Or maybe it was his berries I remember…’

Monica snorted into the back of her hand.

‘Hey, if you really want something to laugh at, I can tell you about the ones who want to dress up. Close your mouth. I’m OK with it if it’s not too weird. It’s just a bit of innocent fun. I happen to have built up a small wardrobe of erotic gear.’

‘Seriously? I need details.’

I smile as I picture Monica’s face when I replied. Her bright blue eyes were alight with a combination of curiosity and scandalised delight.

‘I knew you would. Oh, you know, stuff like nurse and doctor, pilot and air hostess, wench and master… that sort of thing. One chap got us both Flintstones outfits.’

‘Yabba-dabba-doo.’

‘Best if I don’t mention his club.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Then there was a guy who was into cowboys. What did he call himself? Oh yes, Clint Westwood.’

By this time, Monica was laughing aloud.

‘His bedroom was done out like a tacky wild west stage set. Saloon doors, beer barrels – I think plastic shotguns were part of the decorations. I was hammered, so it’s all a bit of a blur, but it was a total turnoff when he started shouting “Yeeee-ha”.’

‘Time to get out of the saddle?’

‘You betcha. The showdown morphed into a total letdown. Clint was all boots without spurs and pistols without shots.’

Our laughter petered out and Monica suddenly turned serious.

‘Will you tell Max about all the other sex dates?’

‘It’s none of his business.’

‘So, no?’

‘OK, I guess I’ve already told a little white lie. I intimated that like him, I’d only had a couple of dates via the app. Hey, stop shaking your head. I barely know the guy.’

Monica smiled as she sent her lovely long auburn mane swinging around her head. ‘What are you like?’

A year on, I still haven’t told Max the full story, not that he needs to know.

In fact, I hadn’t confided this aspect of my life to anyone until I told Monica.

I guess I did enjoy raising her eyebrows.

She’s normally so serene and collected. Everything about her, from her perfectly made-up symmetrical face to her beautifully manicured nails, speaks calm and poise.

She could easily come across as a bit remote, but when she lets her hair down, the real Monica emerges, and she’s full of fun.

We had a ball when we went to Glastonbury together, just us with our kids. I asked her after mistakenly assuming she was a single parent like me.

Her face had lit up when I described it as a welly-wallowing-wet-wonderland.

‘So, let me get this straight. We’ll be staying in tents among crowds of people, with barely any facilities, in the mud and the rain?’

‘All that and worse. But there’s music, dancing, atmosphere… Oh, and Kylie…’

‘Kylie? Deal breaker. OK, yes.’

‘Really?’

‘We’d love to come. The twins’ll be so excited, and Vince is away on a work trip.’

That was the first I’d heard of the bloke.

I’d been chatting to Monica intermittently for maybe six months and she’d never mentioned him before.

Anyway, our kids – pre-teen – adored the freedom of the festival and we all got on famously.

The weather was phenomenal – dry and hot – and Monica and I laughed the entire weekend.

It was the start of our close friendship.

We would’ve gone every year since, but sadly the pandemic put paid to that and we couldn’t get tickets to the ones since.

Kylie’s “Spinning Around” plays in my head and I can picture Will, Joanne, James, Monica, and myself all copying the moves of Kylie’s stage dancers with thousands of others. We still jump to our feet every time we hear it to relive the moment.

A cool breeze prompts goosebumps, and I come back to the present, opening my eyes to see a threatening cloud starting to blot out the sun. I head indoors, downing my remaining coffee.

I can’t think of a better mate than Monica.

I can tell her anything. If it hadn’t been for our lads accidentally swapping mud-covered PE kits at school, I’m not sure we would’ve ever spoken.

At first, I was a little wary of her. I mean, it’s slightly intimidating to be with someone who looks so perfect, but once we got into conversation, she and I just gelled.

Monica introduced me to Clarissa’s dance class. Lady C might be somewhat regal, but her careful tuition and attention to detail has transformed my dancing. It’s going to be great to be performing on stage in Paris.

I wonder why Monica cancelled on me this morning. Her text was brief.

Do not come to my house.

She would only ward me off if Vince had arrived home early. He must know she’s discovered what he’s been up to. The bastard. She needs to kick him out.

Hopefully, she’ll phone soon, but I know better than to try calling when she’s having it out with him. Besides, if she doesn’t manage to send a message, we’ll be able to catch up before dance tomorrow when she picks me up.

Monica deserves someone way better than Vince.

Would I like to give him a piece of my mind…

? I furrow my brows. I can’t picture him.

He’s never at the school – Monica does all the parents’ evenings and events – and I never go over if he’s at home.

It struck me as odd at first, but we got in the habit of it just being us and I never thought any more about it.

Well, I hope for Monica’s sake, he goes quietly.

In her shoes, I’d ditch the crappy husband and, come to think of it, the crappy job; she’s paid an absolute pittance for her incredible wedding dress designs.

Talking of crappy jobs, I must go back to my laptop and work on this groan-worthy presentation. Time to put aside the true Ruby. My team will see the efficient business-like, down-to-earth Ms Anderson.

I glance at my phone to see if Monica’s texted. I can’t resist quickly scouring my chats. And then I see it…

No. I stare in disbelief. I’ve made a total balls-up.

It’s right there above the do not come to my house text. The recorded message I thought I’d sent to Max last night, telling him all about Vince, I sent it to Monica by mistake.

Oh my God. How on earth did I do that? I quickly replay it, slowly covering my mouth with my hand.

Hi, Max. Missing you like crazy and guessing with you being several hours ahead, you’re already tucked up in bed. I can picture you lying there, curly hair all ruffled. So, you’ll get this message when you wake… sexy man.

Just back from dance. You should come over here after one of my classes. Dance always puts me right in the mood. A nice rub down in the shower would be the perfect way to end the evening… My voice makes loud panting noises.

This whole being-apart-for-an-entire-fortnight is beginning to drag. You’ll have to tell your firm they can’t send you away like this. Never mind you being their senior engineer, it is tantamount to torture.

OMG, Max, there’s been a real crisis with my mate, Monica. Before you ask which mate, Saint Monica. You know, Practically-Perfect-In-Every-Way-But-Never-Had-An-Orgasm-Monica.

Anyway, she found out today her husband’s been cheating on her for years.

What a prick. While I’ve always wondered if she was happy with him, she doesn’t deserve to have been treated like that.

Seems he’s been with dozens of women. Even when their twins were born, he was playing away.

And they’re now the same age as Will. That’s fourteen frigging years.

Monica says she suspected but only got the proof today.

I can’t understand why she didn’t confront him before, the horrible toerag.

Why she ended up marrying such an arsehole, I’ll never know.

I hope you manage to get back before we leave for Paris. I miss you. Well, your body, obviously. And I guess your mind isn’t so bad either. So, hurry home. Your Racy Ruby is waiting.

No, no, no. I shake as I hurriedly delete the recording, but there’s no way Monica hasn’t heard it.

It was sent at midnight, that’s almost twelve hours ago.

No wonder she hasn’t called. She won’t see those comments as a joke, or even remotely funny.

The message I’d read as a warning to say Vince had returned early now looks like an angry and final dismissal.

Shit, what have I done?

I dial her number but all I get is number unobtainable . She’s blocked me.