Page 3 of Textbook Romance

I do like a wedding with entertainment, and nothing is more entertaining than watching people’s dancefloor antics. Namely, some handsome young man I met at the table plan on the dancefloor with a group of women all thrusting and jiggling around him. To Funkytown. Poor guy, standing there like a human maypole, holding someone’s handbag for them. Someone starts clapping and he’s forced to do some sort of running man move. I like how game he is and how he joins in. I hope his suit forgives him for that. The newly single Claudia pats him on the bum and I see him cock his head to one side, his eyes wide like he’s past the point of knowing what to do. Like he’s in disco prison.

‘Oh god,’ Beth laughs, already half a bottle of red in. ‘Should we go and save him?’

‘Feel free. I’m happy observing for now. I hope this makes the wedding video,’ I say, sipping at a glass of champagne. Beth is here today with her partner, Will, and I watch as they interlock arms, bopping their heads to the music in the background.

I haven’t been to a wedding for a while now. My own feels like a lifetime ago. I wore lace and a tiara, we had lamb shanks as a main and a dancefloor of drunken uncles, one of whom did some breakdance move to Kool & The Gang and split his trousers wide open. Weddings just don’t feel like they’re part of this stage of my life now. When you’re in your forties, all your friends have either done the deed, are having smaller, more discreet second outings or are living a resolutely single life. You get the odd evening invitation, or a forced invite from a younger cousin you’ve not seen for a decade. So it’s nice to be here and absorbing all this wonderful loved-up energy in the room. It’s a very well-thought-out affair from the sunshine colour scheme to the way we’ve been fed a steady stream of crisps at all stages of the day. I’ve always liked Mia. She teaches English with Beth, and I love how fearless and bold she is, how teaching in a comprehensive has never intimidated her. She looks out for Ed, always has done, and I’ve always thought they complement each other completely.

‘Are you staying here tonight?’ I ask Beth and Will as we pick on the last of the delicious wedding cake that Ed made for the occasion. I’d marry Ed for this cake alone. I wipe away the coconut crumbs on the side of my mouth so no one can tell I’m on my third slice.

‘Oh no, we’re going to get back after the last song. The plan was to have a banger of a night out without kids then tomorrow, nurse our hangovers while they watch Bluey.’

I have no idea who Bluey is, but it’s lovely to see them let loose, thinking back to a time when my kids were that young and I craved the same. Just one night of freedom, to feel like a different person.

‘Remind me how old yours are again?’ I ask.

‘Five and three,’ Will tells me.

I smile. That time feels like a very, very long time ago. A time when you would come out, but you wouldn’t necessarily relax. Your back would remain straight all night worrying about inane things like whether they’d climbed out of a window or given the babysitter a nervous breakdown.

‘Beth tells me your kids are older. They didn’t fancy being your plus one tonight?’ he asks.

‘Christ, Lottie and Dylan would have rather poked their eyes out with pins,’ I laugh. ‘The joy of teens. They’d rather hang out on TikTok… You wait. One minute it’s Bluey and the next you’re having to Snapchat them so you can ask them to come down for dinner.’

Will laughs. That wasn’t a joke. We mainly communicate via mutually relatable memes that we share and tag each other in. They talk at me about people with initial names like KSI and SZA. SZA might be the influencer with the fragrances or then again, she might be in music. And even if it’s music I say I quite like, that’s not allowed. That’s ‘cringe’. So maybe it’s a good thing they’re not here, especially as the tempo of the music changes and the DJ mixes in a familiar beat. An old lady beat. Gram’ma Funk? Really? I See You, Baby. Groove Armada. I haven’t heard this song in an age. Not since university at least.

‘YES!’ Beth squeals as the rest of our table looks up from their coffees.

‘Was this you?’ Will asks her, laughing. We were all asked to send in a song request with the RSVP.

‘Of course!’

‘It’s a wedding, Beth. It’s not a place for shaking ass,’ I mention, thinking of my very neutral floor-filling request of the Bee Gees.

‘I can’t think of a better place to shake one’s ass,’ she says, pulling Will up. ‘You too, Mrs Swift.’

I stand up reluctantly in my platform heels that I only wear three times a year and shuffle over to that dancefloor, an excellent stream of alcohol running through my veins. Mia is also on the dancefloor and waves when she sees me. She’s not wearing a bra with that dress, is she? Oh, the days of not having to wear a bra, back when I didn’t have to wear a firm support knicker to hold in all the lumps, bumps and unnatural valleys of my form. The last time I went bra-less was probably when I last heard this song. Warwick University in the year 2000. A club night in combats, a cropped top and a disposable camera I used to store in my leg pocket. Back when a good night out could cost you ten pounds and that included a questionable kebab and chips at the end. It feels nice for a moment to remember that time. It’s nice, too, to see Beth and Will clinging to each other, jumping up and down and mouthing the words. So I dance. I mean, I do something that could be classed as such. It’s a side-step with an arm pump that’s in time with the beat and the flashing lights. Jack sees me from across the way and points at me. I don’t know what that point means. It might be relief; he’s been in disco captivity for so long and he finally sees a face he vaguely recognises. Claudia is also shaking her ass in ways that make it abundantly clear she’s wearing a thong. Jack looks absolutely petrified.

‘Help,’ he mouths across the crowded dancefloor.

Oh behave, you’re not being held hostage. As I thought, Claudia looks like she could be fun, and her knees seem to be well supporting all that shimmying. Maybe give it a chance. He opens his eyes at me, and I can’t help but smirk and side-step over.

‘Having fun?’ I say as I approach them.

Claudia returns to a standing position and drapes her arms over Jack’s shoulders. ‘Of course, aren’t we, Jackers?’

Jack has a nickname. I try not to laugh but just move my arms around like I’m doing a light breaststroke. He joins me, disco swimming through all the awkwardness. Purple disco lights are bouncing off his dirty blond hair; his green tie is slightly undone. There is something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. He’s classically handsome, a smile that sits between cheeky and intriguing, well-built, intensely blue eyes but at the same time something just clicks, and that surprises something in the recesses of my soul, which thought that impossible these days. He looks at me and puts his fingers to his mouth asking if I’d like a smoke. But I don’t smoke. He’s asking the wrong person. He widens his eyes at me again. Or… Oh. I nod.

‘Claudia?’ he says.

‘Oh, I don’t smoke. Awful habit. You two crack on… But make sure you come back, Jackers!’

I secretly smile at the relief registered on Jack’s face as he turns away from her and takes my arm.

‘Is she still looking?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him, glancing back at her face. ‘But at your arse. Just keep walking, give her something to look at…’

He laughs, leading me away from the dancefloor and I grab my clutch as we pass my chair. We head out to a small courtyard outside the dining room of this city hotel, the early summer air cooling down slightly. It homes all the smokers, the vapers and a couple hidden in the ivy who appear to be snogging quite messily thinking no one can see them.

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