Oh, the dancing of him. The whirling, spinning, dervishing, dizzying speed as our feet skim the floor. Breathless and giddy, we ebb back into our chairs and he, with old-fashioned courtesy, thanks me with a kiss on the hand. I look across the table at Georgia. She stretches her mouth into a taut smile but her eyes are icy. What have I done to upset her? Paul is wearing his tight-lipped, disapproving expression. Tom and I danced together, so what? Georgia “doesn't like to make a spectacle of herself” and Paul can't put one foot in front of the other without tripping up his partner. But Tom and I come alive when the rhythm pulsates with the blood through our veins.
So, the poker-faced pair are jealous. But then they'll never understand. It's not sexual, at least not in a personal way, although it's certainly orgasmic. We lose ourselves in the dancing, in the weaving and winding across the room. We're in a trance, another world and, oh, there's nothing like it. No, not even real sex. Well, you won't believe that I suppose. Neither will they. But it's true. With sex, you're always a bit wary, aren't you? Will he bring me to the ultimate moment? Am I doing what he wants, needs? Is it taking too long, going too quickly? But with the dancing our bodies just flow together and we can't tell where one ends and the other begins. I've got four legs and four arms. I arch backwards and bend this way and that. I'm limp and liquid. The slightest touch is enough to make me change position, direction, speed. If only it would never stop. But it always does.
In the car, going home, Paul is silent. I can't be bothered to coax him into conversation. I slump in the front seat and close my eyes, hear the music again and feel the sensation of floating past the other couples in Tom's arms. Then Paul's voice breaks in on my reverie.
“Bloody clever, these windscreen wipers.” Have I heard right? Who cares? I can't be bothered to reply. He drones on.
“They come on when the rain starts and adjust speed according to how hard it's raining. Magic.”
Is he trying to wind me up or this his way of saying the quarrel's over? Well, you can't get a less touchy topic than bloody windscreen wipers. Then it dawns on me with a rush of realisation that makes me flush with embarrassment. I'm married to a man who actually cares about windscreen wipers. This man is empty. He operates like an automaton — daily routine, unvarying timetable. Saturday night is fun night for clubbing. Sunday morning is reading the papers in bed with endless cups of coffee that we take it in turn to make. We make love on Fridays and Wednesdays (because on Thursday morning he works at home so doesn't have to get up so early). That's it. And what does he think about when he's on the train going to work? The magic of automatic windscreen wipers. How sad can you get?
“What is it that upsets you when Tom and I dance together?” Sod the windscreen wipers. Let him deal with the real stuff.
“What makes you think it upsets me?”
“Well, the sour look on your face for one thing and the fact that you haven't spoken a word since we left the club and now you're wittering on about bloody windscreen wipers.”
“I really don't think you should pick a quarrel, Fi, not while I'm driving. Let's just go home and go to bed.”
On Sunday morning Georgia phones. “Enjoy yourself, did you?”
“What, last night you mean? Yeah. It was great. When Tom dances with me, I'm in another world.”
“Yes. Well, so's he now. I've kicked him out. I'm sick and tried of you two making a fool of me, and of Paul.”
“You've kicked Tom out? Well, where's he gone?”
“To effing Siberia for all I care. You two must have thought I was deaf, blind and dumb. Don't you think I could see what was going on?”
“Hey, Georgia. Calm down. Nothing's going on between me and Tom. We just both love dancing.” She slams the phone down.
Then it occurs to me that maybe she's right. Perhaps we really could swap partners. She and Paul could live in an automated paradise and never move a muscle if they don't want to. And Tom and I could dance through our lives together, never needing to argue, because we communicate body to body without need of words.
I start to entertain the idea seriously. I don't want to admit it, but Georgia and Paul are right. Of course they're jealous. Because, even if Tom and I have never acknowledged it, we're made for each other. We operate on a different level from other people. Our bodies talk to each other through touch, movement, but mostly rhythm. I suddenly feel hot and damp with desire. If Tom and I made love, it would be like the final movement of Beethoven's ninth. So that's it, everyone else can see what's been going on, but we haven't dared to let ourselves think it because he's married to my sister.
I have to get out. Thank God supermarkets are now the Sunday morning equivalent of going to church. I tell Paul I've forgotten a few things and am popping down to Tesco's. In the car park, I try Tom's mobile number.
“Tom, where are you?”
“Fi, has Georgia told you she kicked me out?”
“Yes, where are you?'
“You won't believe this but I'm in Tesco's car park. I kipped in the car and now I'm trying to decide which of my mates to doss down with for a few days.”
“Well, forget that. I'm in the car park too; lane D to be precise. Meet me at the entrance. I don't want to got go back to Paul.”
When I reach the door, Tom is already there. He's doing an Irish jig, his legs flash Michael Flaherty style, and the people passing him to go into the shop are smiling broadly at the sheer joy of him. Tom grabs my hand and pulls me inside. We waltz down the aisles, past organic veg, freedom meat and dairy produce. Bleary-eyed Sunday shoppers look on, gob-smacked. Then he changes the tempo and we salsa through the pasta. We finally we jive among household items and come to rest by the checkout, hotly pursued by a bemused manager. Tom bends me back deeply in a sudden change to a tango and, as we become upright, he kisses me.
“Dance with me forever.”
I pull away from him, pluck a rose from the flower counter and place it between my teeth. I start to drum the flamenco with my feet. Tom leaps into action. We pas-a-doble through the door and back to Tom's car, the manager outraged behind us threatening to call the police.
“What a great idea,” he says. “Let's go to Spain.” And in a flash it all makes sense. We can leave this draughty, windy little island and head for the sun and boogie, bop, shimmy and cha-cha-cha together for the rest of our lives. What's to stop us? We twirl round a couple of times and, of course, we have only one thing left to say before we kiss again: “Viva Espana!”
So, the poker-faced pair are jealous. But then they'll never understand. It's not sexual, at least not in a personal way, although it's certainly orgasmic. We lose ourselves in the dancing, in the weaving and winding across the room. We're in a trance, another world and, oh, there's nothing like it. No, not even real sex. Well, you won't believe that I suppose. Neither will they. But it's true. With sex, you're always a bit wary, aren't you? Will he bring me to the ultimate moment? Am I doing what he wants, needs? Is it taking too long, going too quickly? But with the dancing our bodies just flow together and we can't tell where one ends and the other begins. I've got four legs and four arms. I arch backwards and bend this way and that. I'm limp and liquid. The slightest touch is enough to make me change position, direction, speed. If only it would never stop. But it always does.
In the car, going home, Paul is silent. I can't be bothered to coax him into conversation. I slump in the front seat and close my eyes, hear the music again and feel the sensation of floating past the other couples in Tom's arms. Then Paul's voice breaks in on my reverie.
“Bloody clever, these windscreen wipers.” Have I heard right? Who cares? I can't be bothered to reply. He drones on.
“They come on when the rain starts and adjust speed according to how hard it's raining. Magic.”
Is he trying to wind me up or this his way of saying the quarrel's over? Well, you can't get a less touchy topic than bloody windscreen wipers. Then it dawns on me with a rush of realisation that makes me flush with embarrassment. I'm married to a man who actually cares about windscreen wipers. This man is empty. He operates like an automaton — daily routine, unvarying timetable. Saturday night is fun night for clubbing. Sunday morning is reading the papers in bed with endless cups of coffee that we take it in turn to make. We make love on Fridays and Wednesdays (because on Thursday morning he works at home so doesn't have to get up so early). That's it. And what does he think about when he's on the train going to work? The magic of automatic windscreen wipers. How sad can you get?
“What is it that upsets you when Tom and I dance together?” Sod the windscreen wipers. Let him deal with the real stuff.
“What makes you think it upsets me?”
“Well, the sour look on your face for one thing and the fact that you haven't spoken a word since we left the club and now you're wittering on about bloody windscreen wipers.”
“I really don't think you should pick a quarrel, Fi, not while I'm driving. Let's just go home and go to bed.”
On Sunday morning Georgia phones. “Enjoy yourself, did you?”
“What, last night you mean? Yeah. It was great. When Tom dances with me, I'm in another world.”
“Yes. Well, so's he now. I've kicked him out. I'm sick and tried of you two making a fool of me, and of Paul.”
“You've kicked Tom out? Well, where's he gone?”
“To effing Siberia for all I care. You two must have thought I was deaf, blind and dumb. Don't you think I could see what was going on?”
“Hey, Georgia. Calm down. Nothing's going on between me and Tom. We just both love dancing.” She slams the phone down.
Then it occurs to me that maybe she's right. Perhaps we really could swap partners. She and Paul could live in an automated paradise and never move a muscle if they don't want to. And Tom and I could dance through our lives together, never needing to argue, because we communicate body to body without need of words.
I start to entertain the idea seriously. I don't want to admit it, but Georgia and Paul are right. Of course they're jealous. Because, even if Tom and I have never acknowledged it, we're made for each other. We operate on a different level from other people. Our bodies talk to each other through touch, movement, but mostly rhythm. I suddenly feel hot and damp with desire. If Tom and I made love, it would be like the final movement of Beethoven's ninth. So that's it, everyone else can see what's been going on, but we haven't dared to let ourselves think it because he's married to my sister.
I have to get out. Thank God supermarkets are now the Sunday morning equivalent of going to church. I tell Paul I've forgotten a few things and am popping down to Tesco's. In the car park, I try Tom's mobile number.
“Tom, where are you?”
“Fi, has Georgia told you she kicked me out?”
“Yes, where are you?'
“You won't believe this but I'm in Tesco's car park. I kipped in the car and now I'm trying to decide which of my mates to doss down with for a few days.”
“Well, forget that. I'm in the car park too; lane D to be precise. Meet me at the entrance. I don't want to got go back to Paul.”
When I reach the door, Tom is already there. He's doing an Irish jig, his legs flash Michael Flaherty style, and the people passing him to go into the shop are smiling broadly at the sheer joy of him. Tom grabs my hand and pulls me inside. We waltz down the aisles, past organic veg, freedom meat and dairy produce. Bleary-eyed Sunday shoppers look on, gob-smacked. Then he changes the tempo and we salsa through the pasta. We finally we jive among household items and come to rest by the checkout, hotly pursued by a bemused manager. Tom bends me back deeply in a sudden change to a tango and, as we become upright, he kisses me.
“Dance with me forever.”
I pull away from him, pluck a rose from the flower counter and place it between my teeth. I start to drum the flamenco with my feet. Tom leaps into action. We pas-a-doble through the door and back to Tom's car, the manager outraged behind us threatening to call the police.
“What a great idea,” he says. “Let's go to Spain.” And in a flash it all makes sense. We can leave this draughty, windy little island and head for the sun and boogie, bop, shimmy and cha-cha-cha together for the rest of our lives. What's to stop us? We twirl round a couple of times and, of course, we have only one thing left to say before we kiss again: “Viva Espana!”