Page 11 of Not Strictly Ballroom

Whilst it keeps me occupied, it does nothing to diminish my being on high alert, nerves stretched like piano wire. Every time the door opens, I’m hit with a duality of hope and dread.

Hope that Nick appears, as there’s nothing more I want than for him to come tell me everything is all right as he’s done for me time after time.

Dread that he will never come back and I’ve lost him. This thought opens a chasm of ache in my chest that widens every time the door goes and it isn’t Nick.

“Will you show me that again, please?” I pull my thoughts back to the guy standing in front of me. Justin. He and his partner, Mark, have been coming to classes for a few weeks now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologising, and admonishing myself for being unprofessional. I stand by his side and slowly show him the step again.

“Thank you.” He tries again, getting it this time, and I help the next couple.

The class finishes and I’m sure Nick isn’t going to appear, though feeble hope has my eyes darting to the door as the clients exit.

“Can we ask you something?” It’s Justin who’s trying to gain my attention again. He and Mark are holding hands, looking excited.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Would it be possible for us to have private lessons? We’re enjoying these, but we’re getting married soon, and we’d like to do something special for our first dance.”

“Congratulations, and of course we can help with that.” They look good together and I like the idea of teaching them a dance routine. Normally, I’d hand the special clients over to my mum, but something makes me want to keep Justin and Mark for myself. I open the appointment diary, noticing that it looks quite empty. Normally, it’s hard to fit extra clients in and we’ve been known to have a waitlist. As it is, I pencil in an appointment for a couple of days’ time.

I lock the door after them when they leave, and go upstairs. I still can’t stomach food, so I head to my room instead. The atmosphere feels oppressive, and for once, I wish I could get away from this place and leave it all behind for a while. A look out the window and all thoughts of going out for fresh air are ruined. The weather has turned from the promise of spring in the last few days, and now the clouds are dark and rain tracks its way down the windows. I stare out at the rain for a while; the weather matches my mood, but I can’t settle. I take out my phone and look at it, willing it to do something, angry at it when it doesn’t. I fling myself onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling for a while. My phone remains silent. I grab my earbuds and select “shuffle” on my playlist. It seems only fitting that the first song up is “The Weeping Song.”

I’m still confused about a lot of stuff, except for one thing: I need Nick. I’d like to see and talk to him, but I need to at least hear from him, even if it’s just to tell me to go away. I value our friendship above all else.

With that certainty strengthening me, I reach for my phone and tap out a message.

Darcy: Hey

When I eventually gain consciousness, I feel no better. In many ways, I feel much worse.

I grab my phone, and my first disappointment is that there are no messages. I don’t know why I thought there might be some, but maybe a tiny nugget of hope deep inside thinks this is salvageable and things can be normal again. The second cause for chagrin is that it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Which makes the first reason cut even deeper. I hate sleeping the day away; I’m an early riser and like to be occupied. A work ethic I’ve inherited from my dad no doubt. Sleeping past nine a.m. usually makes me feel groggy, with an overwhelming sense of being behind on something for the rest of the day. I contemplate giving up completely and staying where I am until tomorrow. But also, when I’m awake, that’s it. No going back to sleep for me. There’s also the problem that I’m stuck to the bedsheets. Urgh. I peel myself off them, strip the bed, and shower.

Peering into the mirror, I see I look like shit. Well, at least it’s an outward sign of how I’m feeling right now. I clean my teeth to try to eliminate the sour taste in my mouth, but it’s only partly successful.

I notice my nails, their neon brightness a gaudy reminder of a poor decision. I remove the colour before heading downstairs.

“Ah, there you are, love.” My mum looks up from where she’s checking the Sunday roast in the oven. The smell of the cooking meat and fat brings up a wave of bile that I swallow back down.

“Hi, Mum.”

“I didn’t hear you come in last night, so it must have been late. I looked in on you earlier, and you were dead to the world so I let you sleep. Did you have a good night?”

“Hmmm.” I grunt a non-committal answer, hoping she doesn’t require a real answer.

“Do you want anything to eat, love?” She smiles at me. It’s a comforting smile, and I would appreciate it if I could be comforted right now.

“Maybe later.” She’s used to me being out, usually at the dance school, so I know that it’s not a problem for me to have leftovers later.

“Okay. Will you fetch your dad then, please?”

“Is he at the club?” I didn’t fancy a walk down the hill and back.

“He’s next door. Gran had a leaking tap he said he’d fix for her.”

I nod and go to the back door. My body feels uncoordinated, so I force it to negotiate the steps, managing them successfully. The fact that I consider using some steps as a small win today shows how low I’ve sunk. But movement is helping and I step up to Gran’s back door, feeling at least more together.

My dad is just finishing up fixing the leak and I despatch him back home, following him to collect some dinner for my gran.

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