Chance

These unanswerable questions swum around Ava’s head as she sat by the river, sticking her feet out in the sun to dry off. What was making her feel so paralysed was the nothingness of the situation with Rob: he had committed no great crime, no unforgiveable acts of cruelty, but neither had he done anything to convince her that theirs was a romance worth sticking with. Were they going anywhere, or were they simply, irrevocably, in the doldrums? Time for action, she told herself. Something has to be done. She took another bite of her sandwich and watched a family of ducks eating some bread crusts thrown by a passing toddler and her exasperated-looking mother. As she wondered what to do, Ava’s phone buzzed in her handbag. She pulled it out and saw a text from Mel.

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Applied for Strictly tickets first thing – am beside myself with excitement. Cannot WAIT to hear! Am also convinced Emma is having an affair with Damiano, she’s like a different women. Polish your dance shoes, babe, we’re heading to Strictly. I know it! xxx

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Ava was thrilled when she saw the message. The idea of getting to see Strictly Live seemed impossibly glamorous compared to her current humdrum daily routine. Seeing the dances up close, and as for the dresses … it was impossibly exciting! She was halfway through a reply when her phone rang – it was Lauren from her car, clearly bored.

‘Hi, Sis!’ Ava could hear the crackle of the in-car speaker system. Lauren had a habit of calling when journeys were longer than 10 minutes, or if she found herself stuck in traffic. Ava found it endearing that it was conversation she turned to in those instances, not music.

‘Hello, you.’

‘I wanted to check that you were okay – you seemed a bit down yesterday. I couldn’t tell if you were just tired or what and I know we talked about the wedding for ages so I thought I’d check in and find out about you.’

‘Okay, I am a little down but nothing major. No specific thing has happened.’

‘But what’s up?’

Ava explained a little about Rob – the rut, the sense of nothingness. ‘I suppose we need to decide to move in one direction or the other,’ she concluded.

‘Why are you so “we” about everything?’ asked Lauren.

‘Ha! Hark at the woman getting married in a few months!’

‘It’s not that. It’s just … well, you don’t do enough for you. Do you know why Rory tries so hard to please me? Because I please me the most.’ Listening, Ava knew she was right. ‘You need to do something for yourself, stop making your happiness dependent on Rob.’

‘I know …’ began Ava.

‘I know you know! But sometimes you need someone to say it out loud. Don’t forget you’re a successful, creative, romantic woman. Rob’s lucky to be with you and maybe he needs to remember that, too. Has he stopped making an effort with you? I’ll kill him if he has!’

‘I suppose he has a bit, but now I find myself wondering if I …’

‘If you’ve stopped making the effort with you too? Stop making your life so much about him and pleasing him! Remember what you’re proud of in your life.’

‘Urgh, stop getting so motivational speaker on me! I just want my business to do well, to be kind to people, to get on with things without feeling as if I’m being a bit left behind by life – you know what I mean.’

‘Your business does do well, but the worst thing you can do is to start moping around in that shop. Who wants to buy romantic gifts from someone who looks as if she has a heavy heart? No one. No. One! You know what? At this point I think the kindest thing you can do, for you and for Rob, is to be good to yourself. Take a little of the pressure off. Do something you like doing – he clearly does, what with his squash matches and Formula 1.’

‘I suppose …’

‘Yeah, yeah, and if you want to win points for still being a good person you can do something nice for him too. Cook him a bloody pie or something! Jeez – relax, Sis!’

Sometimes standing in the full force of Lauren’s advice was a bit like standing under a power hose on a warm summer’s day – refreshing and exhausting in equal measure.

‘Okay, okay, you’re right. Thanks, doll. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that Mel and I have applied for tickets to see Strictly Live. Can you imagine, we might get tickets and go up to the studio – the works! Anyway, how are you? Aren’t you supposed to be the stressed one?’

‘I’m fine and I really must talk to you about the flowers for my wedding, but I’m sitting outside of a property now so I can’t chat any longer. I do want to hear all about this Strictly business, though. It sounds amazing! Let’s have coffee before we go to see the dressmaker, shall we?’

‘Sounds great! We can hatch a plan for maximum efficiency.’

‘Oh, relax! We’ll just have coffee.’

‘Okay, okay!’

She could hear Lauren laughing as she said goodbye and hung up. For every inch that was terrifying about her sister’s personality, there were two of good-heartedness. Ava wriggled her toes, noticed her plimsolls seemed to have survived their dunking and headed back for the shop.

As soon as Ava was back behind her desk with a smile on her face, Matt popped out to get himself something to eat. Typically, the moment he left there was a sudden flurry of customers and then Ava had the shop to herself once more to do a little tidying up. She was standing inelegantly on a chair, trying to reach into one of the highest pails, when she heard the tinkle of the doorbell and looked down to find out who it was. The sun beaming through the shop front meant that she could only see a figure in silhouette, but she knew who it was in an instant. That curious combination of leather and vetiver drifted over the scent of the flowers again: it was the man from last week, the Argentine Tango man. As she stepped down from the chair, she brushed the hair from her face and for the second time that day wished that she had made more of an effort with her outfit. She swiftly dismissed that thought, however, remembering Lauren’s wise words that she should do more for herself, not other people.

‘Hello there,’ she said with a smile, brisk and professional.

‘Hi. Me again, I’m afraid.’

This time Ava noticed that he was not as young as she had thought him last time. He looked crisp and fresh, though, and carried himself with none of the defeated slouch that Rob had lately acquired but he was unmistakably her age, or maybe even slightly older. This time he was carrying a classic Harris Tweed overnight bag. An umbrella was lying across the top of it, along the zip between the two soft leather handles.

‘How can I help?’

‘I’d like something gorgeous again.’

Ava blushed and quickly looked away.

Stop it, she told herself.

‘Last time, you did a perfect job.’

Why did everything he say sound so outrageous? She must stop thinking like this.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘You liked the cabbage roses, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, and those sweet peas are rather lovely too. Where are they from?’

‘They’re local, from a farm near Alvediston.’ Ava was proud to have been asked – and also relieved that for once the sweet peas had actually arrived when she’d been told they would.

‘It’s wonderful down there – I love that valley.’

He had taken a bunch of sweet peas from the pail and was now holding them up to glance at them against the light of the window. The petals looked translucent, almost glowing.

But Ava wasn’t looking at them.

He probably had a little more girth than he should beneath that bright blue shirt and while in profile she could see that his dark, slightly curly hair was greying a little at the sides, just the beginnings of salt and pepper. His hair was perhaps an inch longer than someone her dad’s age would have approved of and it certainly wasn’t a cut that Rob would have deemed businesslike, yet he carried it off. His clothes, especially his brown leather shoes, were pretty smart and his bag was clearly expensive. He had a lovely nose, and as he turned back to her she could see how dark his eyes were, almost black.

‘That’s where I grew up,’ said Ava – at exactly the same time as he asked, ‘Could you do me something with these, then?’

There was a confusion of apologies and gesticulation while each did their best to let the other be heard.

‘You …’

‘No, you …’

‘Go ahead …’ and eventually, ‘So, you grew up there? Me too – well, Bower Chalke.’

‘Really?’

Suddenly the shop felt extremely hot again. Why had she told him this? She took a fresh posy of sweet peas from the pail and started on the bouquet.

‘Yes, I used to go to ping-pong club in your village hall.’

‘So did I! Well, I did ballet – just after the ping-pongers.’

She looked away. Stop telling him this stuff …

‘Oh, those ballet girls! The 12-year-old me used to dream of catching a glimpse of them on our way out of ping-pong. Wow, I was a real dork! I’m sorry, you don’t need to know any of this.’ He laughed sheepishly. Was he embarrassed too? ‘It sounds like it!’ Ava laughed. ‘We ballet girls were not impressed by the ping-pong dorks! We thought we were the bee’s knees. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought I was Ola Jordan at the very least. By the way, we could see you looking in the window at the end of our lessons – none of you were very subtle.’

‘Busted!’ As if wounded, he put a hand to his chest. ‘So cruel, the ballet girls! And it turns out even today they remain heartbreakers. That’s my childhood you’re trampling all over.’

Ava giggled again. For a moment she was unsure what the noise was before realising with sadness that she had become unaccustomed to the sound of her own happiness.

‘Suck it up, Dork – the ballet girls rule!’

Her exuberance was bubbling over, she had to catch herself and remember he was there for flowers. Now she set about making the bouquet, carefully selecting the stems, greenery and the twine. She put it together deliberately, concentrating on each movement, proud of her art. The man watched as she did so, silent as last time. There was no sulky tension here, though – he seemed perfectly comfortable without speaking, happy to watch her work without needing to comment on it or to make polite chit-chat. It was a sort of collaborative concentration. Ava remembered the silences that she and Rob had shared over the weekend, how they seemed so leaden, as if their words had been locked in an airtight room. This silence was very different: the longer it lasted, the more nervous she became about saying the wrong thing. All weekend she had been afraid the wrong words would appear too heavy and crush the mood, now she was afraid words would be too ephemeral, too unknowable, fizzing with uncertain electricity.

Whatever else, she mustn’t ask who the bouquet was for.

When he came to pay Ava, the man patted down his trousers and realised his wallet wasn’t in one of his pockets before bending down to search for it in his overnight bag. Ava made a point of looking away, not wanting to see a flash of his boxer shorts, or an intimidating scrap of some other woman’s silk negligee. Then she looked back immediately, eager to see exactly that. Her desire for clues as to who this mysterious – yet local – charmer was now consumed her. But she saw nothing, and he paid for the bouquet in cash. Denied a glimpse of either his name on a bankcard or the contents of his bag, she was none the wiser. Should she ask?

She picked up the bouquet, ready to hand it to him and by now convinced there might be an actual crackle if they touched.

This is a man with an overnight bag, who regularly buys flowers for someone else. Don’t ask, she told herself. Just don’t!

‘Thank you,’ he said, with a gracious sincerity that unnerved her more than the lighthearted flirting ever had. He took the flowers but there was no crackle. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he told her. He looked up, smiled at her and then left, quietly.

Ava watched him go, noticing how broad his shoulders were, really lovely and broad. Not in an ironic super-hero way, just capable looking.

She sat at her desk, staring ahead and strummed her fingers a couple of times. Something good, for me, she thought to herself. It had been so long since she had considered this that she really didn’t know what she wanted. She glanced down at her nails, stared around the shop again, uncomfortable with this moment of deliberate self-examination then looked for something else to do.

Anything. She reached for the pile of junk mail that had been below the door when she had opened up and idly flicked through it. Just like last week, there was a flyer for the local arts centre. She plucked it from the pile and turned it over, knowing she had thrown away an identical one last week. They were advertising dance classes: one week Latin, another ballroom, 12-week courses.

Uptight, judgmental Emma, who had made Mel’s life such a misery at times, crossed her mind. She remembered Mel’s exasperated reports after discussing Strictly with Emma at the school gates – always she had some arch comment about how she could do better than the celebrities, they just weren’t training hard enough. ‘Why can’t she just enjoy it like the rest of us?’ shrieked Mel one evening.

Always keen to impress some imagined external adjudicator, Emma had apparently bitten the bullet and was now by all accounts a model of relaxed womanly confidence, whether or not she was up to no good with her dance instructor! Ava remembered the fun she’d had with Mel over the years, so much of it on a dance floor. She thought of the times she had tried to dance with Rob at various weddings or Christmas dinners but he wasn’t at all interested, thought it faintly ridiculous. Ava realised that for as long as she’d been with him she had barely danced. This was it, this was what had to change: her ladder out of the rut.

She glanced at the website address running across the top of the flyer, above an image of a tanned man swirling a blonde, smiling woman round on his waist. Eagerly leaning in towards the screen, she typed it into her laptop. The website was very bright. Couples dipped and twirled across the page, while boxes with times and prices opened and flashed. More information than it was possible to absorb but she quickly realised that she would have to start as a beginner; the embarrassment of trying to keep up with lithe young dancers might be too much. Ava chewed her lip in a moment of hesitation – did she really want to do this? Of course she did! She imagined herself floating across the dance floor, supported on shoulders as wide and capable as those belong to the sweet pea man. Or dancing a Samba, out of her dreary jeans and T-shirt, wearing something short and bright, her skin glistening with tan and sweat, thighs like Beyoncé. She thought of the jaunty Strictly theme tune and how it brought a smile to her face even when she was entirely alone in the house.

These images alone were enough to cheer her up. She brought up the music selection on her laptop and changed the track in the shop to a CD of something Brazilian sounding – as close to Samba music as her personal collection could provide. Then she whacked up the volume, grabbed her wallet from her bag and started to fill in the details for the course. Grinning and jiggling her legs in time to the music, she bent over her desk, tapping away at the laptop. The door to a world of possibilities had just been thrown open, it seemed. I will force a large spoke of dance into my Wheel of Tedium, she chuckled to herself. She flicked the music another notch louder, fingers almost tapping the keyboard in time to the beat now.

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