The Waltz

Step Two.

In her stuffy hotel room the next day, Lucy woke up with a raging hangover. She’d never developed a head for alcohol. As she lay there, willing the pain to subside and for her head to stop thudding, she thought back over the previous night. Once the first painful few words were over, Max had proved good company. He was shy, she’d heard he was, and self-contained, but he was good fun. He was an amazing listener and she’d found herself opening up to him in a way she hadn’t for years, certainly not to a man, certainly not in a public place. Perhaps it was true that every woman ought to have a gay best friend! Tentatively, she raised her head and tested whether she was able to sit up. Mmm, not too bad. She eased herself into a sitting position and gulped the tepid water from the glass on her bedside table. She was sure she’d made a new good friend, she just wished she hadn’t drunk so much.

She rested against the headboard and rubbed her temples, it always eased a headache. She really wasn’t very good with alcohol. She frowned and thought back, she hadn’t had that much surely? Only three pints; she wouldn’t have had two or four as she mistrusted even numbers and it had only been weak lager shandy after all. Oops! She’d had a glass of wine too. That was what had caused the damage, she decided, blearily. Four drinks. Four was never a good number. She’d heard hangovers got worse as you got older but she was only twenty-nine.

Lucy allowed herself a smile, who was she kidding? She was out of practice with more than the drinking side of being with people; she was woefully inadequate at talking to people. Her youth, the time when most people went clubbing, drinking, meeting others, had been spent in solitude, writing.

She’d produced five books in six years. It was only when she’d ‘come out’ that her existence had become interspersed with the odd book signing tour, interviews and, once the film rights had been sold and developed into a series of smash hit films, a few premieres. She’d been steered through the nightmare of publicity by her agent Whiz. As she’d explained to Max, Whiz lived up to her name and whirled round Lucy like a literary tornado organising her, batting away the unwanted, in whatever form it might take, and coaching her to say just the right thing at just the right time to just the right person. The result was that Lucy’s public persona was of a polished and professional person, beautifully dressed and smoothly coiffured. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

She groaned again and just about managed to ring room service. Once she’d drunk about a gallon of tea, she slid back under the covers to welcome oblivion.

Sometime later, her mobile trilled into action making Lucy wake with a start. Eyes half open, she located it vibrating under her pillow. How it had got there was lost in the fog of last night’s excess. She sat up cautiously. The tea and extra sleep seemed to have done the trick. The throbbing in her head had receded to a dull background ache. Pressing answer on her phone, she wondered if it was her new best friend, Max, ringing. She rather hoped it was.

“Hello Luce?”

Definitely not the slightly lazy voice, with its hint of a northern accent, from last night. This voice was throaty and female.

“Julia! Hello!” Lucy shook some sense into her head and settled back against the luxuriously padded headboard.

“Just thought I’d ring to say you were fab last night.”

“Oh thank you! I was so nervous though.”

“Well, it didn’t come across and you’ve got a real sweetie for a partner so don’t worry. Daniel Cunningham got me through last year’s competition. Couldn’t have done it without him. He’s a dream, isn’t he?”

“He lovely, so kind and encouraging. I love him already. Do you really think he’s gay?”

Julia laughed. “Oh Lucy, you’re not developing one of your famous crushes on him, are you? They’ll get you into trouble one of these days!”

“No! Just wondered, you know.”

Julia blew out a breath and Lucy could hear her thinking. “I never made up my mind about him. I never saw him with anyone, he never mentioned anyone. He just seems married to the dance world if you know what I mean. I don’t think it leaves him much time for anything else. He is lovely though.” She giggled suddenly. “And I tell you someone else who caught my eye: Max Parry! Where’s he been hiding all my life?”

This time it was Lucy’s turn to laugh. “In swimming pools as far as I can see. I think he’s part fish. He’s such a lovely man though. I’m definitely half in love with him.”

“Well, he’s definitely gay. I told you before, Joe, a friend of a friend of Harri’s went out with him.”

“It is a shame – for women, that is! It’s just what I was thinking. He was in the bar last night and we got chatting. He’s unbelievably easy to talk to. I found myself telling him all about the weird kid I was and how difficult it is for me to be with lots of people.”

“Did you come clean over the agoraphobia? You hardly tell anyone about that. Was that wise? He could run straight to the papers, Luce.”

“What, Max Parry? No, He’d never do anything like that, he’s simply too nice a man. Besides, he must have had his fair share of hassle with the press himself.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’d never seen anything about him before last night’s show.”

“Yes well, you’re well known for reading the sports pages, aren’t you?”

“I am now, Harri makes me.” Harri was Julia’s boyfriend. They’d met while competing in last year’s Who Dares Dances.

Lucy laughed again. “Ah! And how is the Welsh Stallion?”

“Oh,” said Julia lightly, “stallion like, you know.”

“You lucky cow!”

“I am, indeed, a very fortunate girl. He sends his love by the way.”

“Send back a big sloppy kiss please will you?”. Lucy clamped down on her envy. Julia and Harri were a perfect couple and she wanted just a little bit of that for herself.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’re coming to next Saturday’s show, did you know? Can you fix it for me to meet Mr Fish?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Lucy echoed. “Daniel and I are doing the samba so watch out!” She stifled her unease. It would be her second dance. Number two. With an effort, she tuned out of her obsession with numbers and back into the conversation. “We’re doing it to ‘Santa Baby’, you know, the old Eartha Kitt classic. I’m going to be done up as a Christmas tree, I think. Should be interesting,” she added, sarcastically.

Julia hooted. “You’ll be a picture! What will they think up next? Although, I have to claim a fondness for the Kylie version. Is Max doing one too?”

“Yup.”

“I can’t wait! Look, I must go, got that read through this afternoon.”

“Good luck with it.” Julia was just about to embark on filming the third Davy Jones adventure. It was how they’d met. “I hear the writer is rather good.”

“Oh God yes but they’re nothing but trouble, don’t want the writer around.” Julia teased her friend fondly. “But seriously, read throughs, they’re always traumatic. Best over and done with. Take care of those two gorgeous men then. See you!”

“Bye, Julia.”

Lucy clicked off her phone and tapped it thoughtfully against her lips. Had she really told Max all about her lonely childhood with her eccentric and elderly parents? Had she mentioned St Ursula’s, the Spartan girls’ school with its old-fashioned emphasis on Latin, Greek and etiquette and, luckily in the light of recent events, ballet? Had she told him about dropping out of Oxford, of being unable to cope with the impossible standards she set herself? Yes she had. Did she regret it, now she was sober? Not one bit, she realised, to her surprise and joy. She trusted Max. She may not know him well but she knew she trusted him completely. And if someone had asked her why, she simply wouldn’t be able to explain it.

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