Strictly Love. Julia Williams
…
Rob checked the steps again as they were laid out on the website he'd brought up on his laptop. Then he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the lounge, secure in the knowledge that Mark wouldn't be home for at least an hour. He flicked the button on the CD remote and the sound of South American music filled the room.
‘One,’ Rob counted under his breath, ‘remember those snake-hips, two …’
He took a small step forward. What was it Isabella had said last week? Step forward on the ball of your foot, take the weight onto the flat foot, and swing your hips to the left. Easier said than done, of course, but he'd just about got the hang of it by the end of the lesson. And he had his silly little diagrams to refer to.
‘… three, right foot remains in place, transfer weight onto it,’ Rob muttered. ‘… four – then one, left foot to side, swing hips to left. Fuck this is difficult.’
He stopped, switched off the music and then peered myopic ally at the computer screen again. He really ought to get glasses, but Rob knew he was way too vain for them. And too lazy to keep changing contacts.
‘Okay, so it's forward, rest, side, back, rest, side. Swing those hips. Right, I get it … I think,’ Rob said. He switched the music back on and started again. This time it seemed to work, and before long he actually felt he was getting the hang of those ‘ssssnake-hips’ that Carlo, the hilariously camp Latin American dance teacher he'd found in an online dancing video, had talked about.
‘I am the man!’ Rob declared proudly as he pirouetted round the room. He even felt he'd got the hold right, left hand held high, holding the lady's hand, right hand (the bit that Rob particularly liked) snaked round the lady's back.
He had to crack the rumba. Since he'd started learning to dance, the tally on his bedpost had been the highest since his student days. He felt sure the rumba would only add to his allure.
‘John Travolta eat your heart out,’ he said, before spinning rather madly out of control and crashing headlong into Mark's oak dresser. Getting up, he rubbed his hip ruefully. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’
‘I don't know how you do it,’ Mark Davies laughed at his flatmate later that evening, as Rob bustled into the kitchen to provide drinks for his latest conquest. ‘Here you are, thirty-five, plump, those famous curly locks receding faster than the tide, and still you pull them. I can't think what's sadder – the thought of you practising the waltz, or the stupidity of the women prepared to fall for your lines.’
Mark had been on his way to bed, but Rob couldn't resist showing off his prize, an over-made-up girl whom he had picked up at his ballroom dancing.
‘Well, you either have it or you don't, mate,’ Rob winked knowingly.
‘Mind you,’ continued Mark, loading the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher – living with Rob was like revisiting their student days, only more depressing; at least they had a dishwasher now – ‘it's always been a mystery how you do it. I've never known what women see in you.’
‘Treat 'em mean, keep them keen,’ said Rob with a wink.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Mark. ‘That explains why they never last more than a week.’
‘Well, have you got a hot babe waiting next door for you?’
‘No,’ said Mark.
‘And, of course, there's my natural charm,’ continued Rob.
‘Of course,’ snorted Mark. Rob's mop of unruly curly hair and cute grin seemed to be what got the girls hooked, but his love 'em and leave 'em reputation should have been enough for them to run a mile. But somehow it never was. Presumably, each and every one of his hapless victims thought they would be the one to change him. And of course they never were.
‘You should watch and learn from the master,’ continued Rob.
‘You know there's only one woman for me,’ said Mark miserably.
‘Yes, but she's nobbing a lawyer,’ Rob reminded him.
Mark pulled a face.
‘I'm going to bed,’ he said. ‘Don't do anything I wouldn't.’
‘Now that I can guarantee,’ smirked Rob.
As Mark climbed into bed minutes later, he could hear the telltale sounds of Rob getting his rocks off. Great, that was all he needed. Mark sighed and put Whitesnake on his iPod and turned it up loud. Heavy metal always made him think of Sam, the most unlikely headbanger in the world. Mark lay in the dark, trying to drown out thoughts of Sam. Pictures of Sam. Wishing things had turned out differently.
What had happened to his life? One minute he was happily married to the woman of his dreams, with two beautiful children, and now here he was: thirty-five, a single dad, living in a grotty three-bed semi with his best friend from uni. While undoubtedly there were advantages in rediscovering a bachelor lifestyle after so many years of domestic bliss (not having anyone nagging about leaving the toilet seat up was a real plus), they didn't outweigh the disadvantages, or the vast gaping chasm that Sam had left behind when she had dumped him unceremoniously for Kevin.
And, to add to the ignominy, he'd been left for a lawyer. Mark had never been keen on lawyers. He'd encountered a fair few smarmy law students when he was at dental school, but his hatred for them had been cemented when he'd watched Spike Sutcliffe, a close friend from dental school, being crucified by a patient who claimed Spike had been inappropriate with her. He hadn't, and eventually he was cleared, but not before he'd been dragged through a bruising court case in which the lawyers had dragged up all sorts of insalubrious details about Spike's rather colourful past, or before Spike had spent vast sums of money on his own defence. The costs that he was awarded just about covered the legal expenses, but they didn't make up for the stress of it all. Sam falling for Kevin had just given Mark another excuse to hate lawyers, only now his hatred was so passionate he knew it wasn't entirely rational.
‘What the bloody hell does Kevin have that I don't?’ Mark spoke aloud into the darkness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and it wouldn't be the last.
‘You never listen to a word I say,’ had been Sam's constant refrain during their marriage.
‘That's not true,’ Mark had protested on more than one occasion. He had listened. Or tried to. He'd always been putty in Sam's hands. Ever since the first night he'd seen her, at his first-year dental ball: a tiny blonde vision in a red strapless dress, strutting her funky stuff to Motorhead of all things. He had been smitten in an instant and knew not just that he wanted to take her home with him, but after she'd amazingly said yes to his offer of a dance that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
And at first everything had been fine. More than fine, it had been brilliant. True, it hadn't been part of the game plan to have children so soon, but he wouldn't be without Gemma and Beth now. Sometimes he wondered guiltily if he'd supported Sam enough when the kids were small. Mark had found it difficult to adjust to fatherhood, especially when Sam appeared to be such a great and totally in-control mum. He'd often felt like a spare part in those days – maybe that was what he'd done wrong. Although she'd never actually said that he wasn't a good dad. Or that he'd failed her as a husband.
Mark had been so content; it had been a shock to hear that Sam wasn't. A year ago (had it only been a year?) she had turned to him clear-eyed and brittle and announced she was leaving him.
‘But why?’ Mark had asked, in a state of profound disbelief.
‘Isn't it obvious?’ Her bitterness had stunned him.
‘Not to me,’ said Mark. ‘If it's something I've done, let me put it right.’
But she had shaken her head, and said, rather sadly, he felt afterwards, though at the time he had been too blinded by fury to see it, ‘It's too late, Mark. I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to know.’
And now, here he was, sixteen years after he first set eyes on Sam,