‘Yes?’ he asks, his lips wrapped in some semblance of a smile.
‘Probably underneath the bleachers,’ I admit. ‘But not with the math teacher.’
‘Not everyone learns to dance these days.’
‘No, some of us just stumble our way through it and hope we get better at it each time.’
‘I was talking about actual dancing.’
I begin to giggle, so much so, my cheeks begin to sting. ‘I guess not everyone’s mother forced them into a summer of cotillion classes in the seventh grade. God, I hated every minute of it,’ I confess. ‘The dress. The shoes. The stuffy atmosphere. But, yes, I learned to dance. What about you?’
‘Also at school.’ He scratches his head with his forefinger, his eyebrows riding high. He seems bashful, almost. It’s a look I like on him.
‘Are you going to tell me she was very thorough?’
‘I wasn’t about to say a word.’
‘She should’ve stuck to teaching math. Maybe you should ask me to dance,’ I add. ‘On the floor, I mean. Here.’
‘You’re giving in far too easily for me.’ He narrows his gaze playfully.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘With you, it’s almost as though your opposition is a pleasure all of its own.’
‘Then Remy Durrand, I will never dance with you.’
‘Never?’
‘Waltz,’ I qualify, because I’m not giving up the other kind. ‘Unless you ask. Nicely.’
To my amusement, though mostly my delight, he pushes back his chair and doffs a courtly bow as he addresses me. ‘Miss Ryan, would you please honour me with this dance?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I reply, beaming as I place my hand in his.
‘And if you’d be so kind to permit me, I’d like to fill your dance card later. And by dance card, I mean—’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
As the orchestra strikes the first chords of It Had to Be You, Remy rests his hands in places I’m sure Miss Pierce, leader of the cotillion class, would never have stood for. And as he leads us smoothly into the moving throng, I’m certain his touch is the only thing that grounds me.
We dance and we dance, until my heart is light and I’m breathlessly giggling.
‘What’s so amusing,’ he asks as he leads me back to our table.
‘I was just thinking of that saying. Dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.’
‘That’s just what I need to hear when I’m about to ask my mother to dance.’
‘You’re a good son.’ I angle my head to look up at him. ‘Besides, the waltz is a perfectly proper dance. No one watching you move so elegantly would ever guess what a beast you are in the bedroom.’
‘Beast?’
‘Totally in a good way. You’re safe to dance with your mom.’
And it does my heart good to see her smile up at him as he offers her his hand. It also makes my pulse skitter as, on the way to the dancefloor, he glances back, sending me a smouldering look.
I thank the waiter as he fills my champagne flute and ask him for water for the table, before flicking open my purse and pulling out my tiny compact for a quick makeup check. As I sense someone behind me, I shift very slightly to the left, assuming it’s the waiter with a fresh carafe when something gold flickers in my mirror.
My spirits sink just a little and I slide my compact away. As my attention lifts, I come face to face with Amélie as she lowers herself into Josephine’s chair.
She’s a vision in gold, her dress covering every inch of her lithe body, clinging to her like a second skin from her neck to her wrists, where a diamond sparkles on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Deluded bitch.
Actually, I revise my first impressions. She looks like an Oscar statuette.
For the porn industry.
A brunette fills Remy’s seat, a blond sitting in the chair next to Amélie. I guess what we have here is the high school bully and her slightly drunken posse.
‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced formally,’ she purrs, her mouth more pout than smile.
‘No, I don’t believe we have,’ I reply placidly. ‘I also don’t believe we need to be.’
Her blonde friend at the other side of her rattles off something fast and French under her breath, but I get the general gist.
‘I don’t know whether you know,’ I say, addressing the blonde, but Américain stupide pretty much stands on its own in English.’
Now who’s the dumb bitch?
Go ahead, glare all you want. I don’t give a flying fuck . . .
‘What a gorgeous dress.’ Amélie’s comment is seems sincere, but she’s not finished yet. ‘And such an improvement on the one you were looking at in Deuxième Amour.’ I find myself frowning as she turns her head over her shoulder, addressing her friend. ‘That’s the place in Monaco-Ville I was telling you about, Colette. Second Love, it’s called in English. The store that sells used designer wear.’