Page 42 of Not Strictly Ballroom

“There you go, love, just up the steps there.” She ushers me down the steps into their cheerful backyard, which is alive with plant pots cascading with colour.

With trepidation I walk up the steps to the house next door. Should I knock? The back door is open, so I just stand on the threshold of the back door and kitchen and call out. “Nick?”

Nick comes through from the front room, surprise written all over his face.

“Darcy! What are you doing here?” Surprise, not elation. I’m going to have to earn that back.

“You said a couple of days.” I check my watch. “It’s been forty-nine hours and thirteen minutes.”

I catch the slight hint of a curl at the corner of his mouth. “Not forty-eight hours?”

“Buses,” I sigh, with an exaggerated shrug, and he chuckles at me. It’s not going too bad. It feels familiar and I’m hoping our old habits will carry us through this.

“I came to see how you are, how your gran is, and to explain what happened.”

He accepts my reasons for being there with a non-committal, “Okay.” It could be worse. “I’m just making us some tea, do you want some?” he asks. I agree, and he sends me through to talk to his gran while he puts the kettle on. I don’t know if this is him stalling for time for me to explain, or what reason he has, but I accept it for now.

“Hello Mrs Parker,” I say, as I enter the room and see that a bed has been brought in for her. I haven’t seen her for a number of years and I’m surprised at how much she’s aged.

“Hello Darcy, dear,” she says. “How are your parents? Nick says they enjoyed a few days in London recently.”

“Yes, they did.” I’m a bit taken aback that anyone would think my parents are interesting enough to know anything about.

“That’s good dear,” she continues. “You’ll give them my regards, won’t you?” I assured her I would, but it was unlikely that my parents would remember her from when she used to bring Nick dancing.

“How are you doing, Mrs Parker? Nick said you had a fall.”

“Aye, and I got a pot on my leg and a two-night stay in hospital for my troubles,” she grumbles goodnaturedly. “I only came home this morning. Nick and Frank sorted this bed out for me, but it’s not the best solution. I think I should go into a home, but they won’t hear of it.”

“No, we won’t,” Nick adds to the conversation as he places a tray on a nearby table. “We can look after you.”

“Stubborn,” Nick’s gran says to me in a conspiratorial side whisper. “The lot of them. Though, I suppose I’m to blame, they get it from me.” She giggles, and I glance at Nick as he hands her a china cup and saucer. He gives me an eye roll and I understand that this is an old argument. I feel a small sense of hope that he feels able to make jokes with me.

We sit for a few more minutes drinking tea while Nick and his gran work through the argument that proves they are just as stubborn as each other.

When Nick has taken the tea tray back through to the kitchen, she beckons me a little closer, and a small sliver of dread slides down my spine as I catch the steel in her eye.

“Nick says you’re not dancing together at the Nationals.” Oh no, am I going to be told off by his gran? She looks almost as scary as my mum.

“I’ve come to explain it all to him. I need to save the dance school. I can’t do that if I don’t win. I need to help my family.”

She gives me an appraising stare. “You’re a good boy. You’ll do the right thing.” I don’t know what she means. I have to do it this way.

“Now, go through and talk to him. He misses you and I’m fed up with seeing him moping about. I want to see him smile again.” I rise and she points to the television. “Just turn that on for me, lad. I think there’s a Poirot on soon.”

I comply and then go through to the kitchen.

“Nick, I want to explain.”

“Okay,” he says with a tentative smile. “I’m baking some cookies. Do you want to help?”

“I’d love to,” I say, and he directs me to get the ingredients, telling me it’s his gran’s chocolate chip and oat cookie recipe, but he likes to add honey to make them extra soft and chewy.

As he has me weighing out the flour and oatmeal, I tell him what my mum had said about the school. That I could save it and we could turn the fortunes around if I could win the Nationals. While I rub in the butter, I tell him my fears for my future, that I only know how to teach dancing, and I don’t have any skills for anything else.

He adds an egg, vanilla extract, and honey, and mixes them together while I tell him how sorry I am. How much I wish I could dance with him instead.

We keep working on the cookies, but he doesn’t say anything, except to give me directions. I run out of words as he pours the chocolate chips in. I help him spoon the mixture out onto the baking trays. When they’re in the oven, I can’t stand it any longer.

---