us pair up. Cynthia clung to Rich and I got the feeling that if forced to move she’d draw up some kind of contract to show that her rights of dance partnership were clearly asserted. Emma, still sulking, had somehow been paired with a slightly geeky but cute man in glasses. And me, of course, I got Mr Groper. The only man in the room who was over fifty. He had awful breath and insisted on squeezing me tight. ‘It’s how you do it,’ he said in that man-splaining way of men doing any activity. ‘It’s a dance of submission. I lead. You follow where I say.’
‘We’re not doing that,’ I heard Emma say to her partner. ‘It’s 2014, for God’s sake. I’ve read The Female Eunuch.’
‘Um … me too,’ stuttered Sexy Geek Man—I upgraded him on the basis of the Germaine Greer reading.
Nikki had us learn a sliding step—we had to get up close to the other person and then sort of slide our feet round theirs. I kept hearing Emma say sorry as she stepped on Sexy Geek Man’s toes. ‘Look, it’s really better if you just let me lead.’
‘It is,’ called Cynthia, as she glided past in Rich’s arms. Although she was naturally tall and gangly, she’d trained herself out of it with dance lessons before her wedding. Rich had learned at public school, and I’d remembered watching with a sort of mounting fear while he hurled her about the floor during their first dance, in a series of pre-learned moves to the strains of ‘You’re Beautiful’.
Dan had refused to get lessons for our wedding, pronouncing it ‘totally naff’. So it was just us plopping about aimlessly to ‘Dancing in the Dark’, to totally different rhythms. Sort of a metaphor for our whole marriage, really.
‘Not like that. Here, let me show you.’ Mr Groper put his hand on my lower back. My very, very lower back.
I’d had enough. ‘THANK YOU. I get it.’
Thank God Nikki then told us to change partners. I was hoping for Sexy Geek Man, but he got snapped up by an aggressive-looking girl in spandex, and Emma was on to someone on the far side of the room. Cynthia had Mr Groper, God help her, and I saw Rich had ended up dancing with the teacher, who seemed to be laughing at something he was saying—maybe she found corporate tax really funny. I’d wound up with Adrian. He was very nervous—his palms felt wet against mine and he had sweat stains under the arms of his beige shirt. He was nice, but after a few minutes being manhandled by him, coated in sweat and constantly apologised to, I was a bit fed up. How was this supposed to help me get over my disastropiphany and find a more joyful and fulfilling life? It wasn’t fair. Eat Pray Love woman got to go to Italy and Bali, and I got to dance with sweaty men in East London.
Things that suck about divorce, number fifty-seven: other women thinking you’re suddenly after their short, ugly, balding menfolk. I could catch the suspicious looks when I took a man’s hands for the dance, as if I was just dying to seduce Derek, who worked in Accounts and had the remains of his lunch down his tie. I was starting to realise why people talked about their ‘other half’. There were some things you just needed another person for. Dancing was one. So was Scrabble.
Another was, well, sex. I remembered that this was on the list too. Did that mean I’d also have to sleep with short men who had sweat issues? I tried to think of things I could do on my own. I could dine in restaurants, smiling mysteriously when asked if it was just for one. I could play solitaire and cook gourmet meals, then eat them by myself with a single candle burning. Oh God. It sounded even worse than sex with a Derek.
‘Time for the circle dance, innit,’ called Nikki. ‘Change partners, yeah.’
I looked around, blinking, to see if my knight in shining armour would appear, dishevelled and gorgeous, having been tempted along to the dance class by his supportive wise-cracking friend, in order to get past the traumatic break-up/bereavement/death of his cat he’d just suffered. He’d see me there in my new shoes and the socks underneath that had pigs on them and think, yes, this is the girl for me …
‘Lady needs a partner!’ Nikki was yelling behind me. ‘Single lady here! Needs a partner! Here you go, handsome gent for you, darlin’.’
I turned hopefully, looked up … then looked down. ‘Hi,’ said a voice from somewhere near my ribcage. ‘I’m Keith.’
As I reluctantly smiled down—way down—I heard an agonised cry from the other side of the room. Emma seemed to have broken Adrian’s foot.
I headed home after another day in the post-divorce world—or the post-split, pre-divorce world—tired, a little tipsy, with blisters on my feet from the new shoes. I wondered if this would be my life now. When we were at uni, I used to have a theory I called shoeology—studying Art History leaves you with a lot of time on your hands. The theory was this: relationships are like shoes. There are pretty ones you can’t bear to leave in the shop, though you know they will hurt you and ruin your bank balance. You walk tall in those, feeling sexy and strong—until the blisters start. Then there are comfy ones, which let you run and walk easily, until they start to lose their shape. You don’t want to wear them out of the house any more. You slump in those shoes, instead of walking tall. And with repeated wear they will simply fall apart.
There are relationships that are like slippers—nice for indoors, but you don’t want anyone to see you wearing them. There are situation-specific relationships, like flip-flops or snorkelling flippers—fine for holidays, for example, but with no place in your real life. A key point of shoeology was that nearly every pair hurt at first—like my new dance shoes had chafed. Perhaps the first time I went on a date with someone it would be the same—leaving me with cuts and blisters until I broke them in. And who even was there? Sexy Geek Man had, it turned out, come with his fiancée, a dumpy blonde with a ponytail who commandeered him for the cha-cha.
As I turned my key in the door and went in through the living room, I saw Patrick was putting something into the cupboard on the end—the locked one. ‘It’s me!’ I called needlessly. As I rounded into the kitchen, I saw him click the lock back on and wondered again what was in there—was it possible he shut away his valuables, that he didn’t trust me? That was a little depressing, though I supposed we hardly knew each other.
‘Oh, hello. I was just going to open some wine.’ I wondered if he drank a bottle every night. Dan and I used to do that, when things were very bad and we couldn’t talk about it, but I’d cut back since Cynthia had given me a booklet called ‘Are you an early-stage addict?’ after the night when I had to go and make myself sick in the toilets at All Bar One. I decided I’d just have a few sips. He did pick the best wines, rich and bursting on the tongue. I suspected he did not buy the ones with orange stickers on from the Londis round the corner.
‘Good night?’
‘Mmm. I’m not sure.’ I told him about the Keiths and Adrians, the sweating and the difficulties of correctly crossing in the tango. ‘I used to think I was a fairly good dancer, but seriously, I couldn’t even do it right once.’
He stood up, holding his hands out to me after wiping them on his cords. ‘Come here a second.’
Startled, I did. He was very close suddenly, and the wool of his jumper tickled my face. He smelled of lemons and fabric softener. ‘Is it like this?’ And he’d twisted me into a perfect cross.
‘Yes! Why couldn’t I get it before?’
‘The man is supposed to lead. If it’s not working, then it’s his fault.’ He dropped my hands quickly, sat down again. ‘We had lessons. You know, for the wedding and that. Me and … my ex-wife. Wife. Whatever.’ He seemed unable to say her name. ‘She wanted
