And worst of all: ‘I suppose she has been in that job a terribly long time …’
As Roxanne wended her way through the crowds, she tried to emit an aura of quiet dignity. She gulped her champagne and glanced around, looking for someone to talk to who wouldn’t go on about Tina Court joining the team and her own career being truly up the spout. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she could gather everyone around to decide which bridge exactly she should hurl herself off? If only her old friend Amanda was here – but then, this wasn’t her sort of party at all. After her stint as a magazine publisher’s receptionist Amanda had retrained as a primary school teacher; i.e., got herself a proper job. The parties she threw were casual affairs with bunting, sausage rolls and cheap prosecco in her kitchen or unruly back garden.
What was the big deal about Tina Court anyway? Amanda taught children to read and write – she helped to shape their futures – and here Roxanne was, despairing just because someone new was being brought in to oversee the fashion pages and drag them downmarket. She stood for a moment, sipping her now-lukewarm champagne, aware of an unpleasant tightening sensation in her chest.
Fashion Guilt, that’s what it was. It had happened before when she was trying to pull together a cover shoot and a PR had sent the wrong fake fur jacket for the model to wear. Roxanne had been moaning to Kate in the office when a little voice in her head (the Fashion Guilt voice) hissed, ‘You watched Syria being bombed on the news last night. And you’re sitting there, nibbling your Pret a Manger sushi and drinking your coconut water and grumbling about a fluffy jacket?
Wondering what to do with herself now, Roxanne found herself back at the Indian street food stall. She wolfed another cone of bhel puri, then regretted it immediately: all that puffed rice seemed to be swelling up inside her. Uncomfortably bloated, she stood tall and tried to hold in her stomach. No sign of Serena or Kate, and Sean appeared to be busy, still surrounded by friends, filling the studio with his wonderful infectious laugh which she had loved from the moment she first heard it. She would go over to join him soon, but right now it felt better to give him his space. She caught his eye, and he smiled. How handsome he looked tonight in a crisp white open-necked shirt and smart dark grey trousers. She didn’t mind in the slightest that legions of younger women were perpetually clustered around him. That was what it was like, in this sort of world – just harmless flirting. Roxanne was overcome by a rush of pride in him, and almost wished she could fast-forward to the moment when they were home together, undressing and tumbling into his bed.
However, it was only 9 p.m., and there were hours to go yet. Aware of her tipsy state, Roxanne fixed her gaze on the area of floor in front of the DJ booth. She inhaled deeply, reassuring herself that she was perfectly capable of holding her own as she strode towards it and started to dance.
That felt good. She could sense any remaining tension floating out of her pores, dissipating into the fragrant air, as she started to move. Never mind yoga with its slow pace and emphasis on breathing; Roxanne had one of those restless minds, so was it any wonder she found it so hard to concentrate in eagle pose? This was far more her sort of thing. As the music filled her consciousness, she no longer cared about Marsha or whether Henry from the flat below would be banging on her door to tell her off again for the lingering burnt smell. Stuff all that, she thought, closing her eyes and swaying her body, barely aware that she was the only one on the floor.
Roxanne had always loved to dance, right from when she was a little girl; back then, no one had known as she’d done it in secret, in her bedroom, having put on one of her favourite records to mask yet another of her parents’ monumental fights downstairs. As she’d twirled on her faded floral carpet, she had ceased to hear them at all.
An escape, that’s what it had been back then in Rosemary Cottage – just as it was now. There was something magical about music, the way it could transport you to some other place. With her vast collection of crackly old jazz records, her neighbour Isabelle understood that too.
Roxanne caught the DJ’s eye and he grinned at her. He had a full, bushy beard, as was mandatory amongst a certain breed of twenty-something males right now. What would happen when the fashion was over? she mused. Would the companies that made all the necessary beard oils, balms and pomades – she wasn’t entirely sure how these products differed – go out of business?
The track ended, and she was seized by an urge to hear something from way back, something she had danced to as a little girl in her bedroom in the eaves.
Another track started but it wasn’t right: all this music was all too esoteric. What the DJ needed to play was … what was it called again? Heck, it was her absolute favourite, she’d danced to it a billion times and now she’d forgotten it. She wobbled slightly on her black patent heels and pushed a slick of damp hair away from her face. Across the room, Serena waved and gave her an everything-okay? sort of smile, but Roxanne didn’t really register it. She was too busy approaching the DJ, trying to explain over the pulsing music, ‘D’you have, er …’
‘Sorry, love? What was that?’
She frowned, trying to flick back through her mental Rolodex of songs that had meant so much to her as she was growing up. The DJ was peering at her in a bemused sort of way. ‘I can sing it for you,’ she yelled at him. ‘Can you listen for a minute?’
‘Aw, don’t worry, darling,’ he said with a patronising smile, as if she was an old lady who had just biffed him with her wheeled shopping trolley.
‘No, no, I’ll remember it if you let me sing the start. Could you turn your music down, please?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Sorry …’
‘I remember it now! Dancing Queen by Abba. D’you have it?’
The DJ sniggered again. ‘No, love, it’s not really my kind of—’
‘You must have!’ she begged. ‘It can’t be a party without Dancing Queen …’
‘Oh, you reckon?’ The young man grinned.
‘Could you at least have a look?’ She wobbled on her heels and clung to the front of his booth as if it were a swaying ship.
‘Off you go and dance,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a great dancer. Pretty impressive moves, you’ve got there …’
She peered at him squiffily, wondering if there had been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. No, she was just being paranoid, and no wonder – it had been a terrible day, so of course she’d drunk too much and was feeling sensitive. But what the hell? She was tottering off now and dancing, still on her own, feeling happy and light and not caring that Sean had just thrown her a concerned look, and was shaking his head and muttering into someone’s ear, or that she was one of the oldest women in the room.
Sean waggled his hand to beckon her over but Roxanne just laughed and turned away. How boring he was, never venturing onto the dance floor. Age didn’t matter one bit! Britt was beside her now; skinny, sexy Britt, who Sean reckoned to be around forty, although no one was sure and she refused to divulge her age.
Roxanne glanced back at Sean and cried, ‘C’mon, it’s your party! Come and dance!’ He just gave her an inscrutable look and disappeared back into the crowd.
Now more people had joined Roxanne and Britt on the dance floor: Johnny, Serena, Kate, Louie and a couple of new girls from Roxanne’s preferred model agency. They were all dancing and whooping, hair flying, and nothing mattered to Roxanne anymore. Not until she glimpsed a new
