“Let’s do it,” he says, his eyes shining as he holds out his hand. “Let’s go inside and dance.”
I’m about to say I don’t really dance; which is true, as it happens — not to mention the fact that I don’t think either of us will pass as over 60s, somehow. But it strikes me now, as I stand next to him, that thereare a lot of things I don’t do these days; like laughing, for instance, or falling asleep without spending at least 20 minutes worrying about imaginary scenarios that are unlikely to ever come to pass. I don’t ever really let go, and allow myself to enjoy something, without worrying about losing it.
But maybe I should.
“Sure,” I say, returning his smile as I slip my hand into his. “Why not?”
Why not indeed?
Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we walk hand-in-hand into the hall, and join the crowd of old folks on the floor, none of whom seem particularly perturbed by our presence among them.
Almost as soon as Elliot and I set foot on the dance floor, though, the music changes from a fast-paced foxtrot — or, at least, I think that’s what it is — to a slow waltz; the kind that requires you to stand close to your partner and put your arms around them.
Okay, this is definitely not how I imagined my afternoon going.
Not that I’m complaining.
“I should warn you, I’m not much of a dancer,” Elliot says softly, reaching out and pulling me towards him. I nestle easily into his arms, surprised to find that it doesn’t feel awkward at all.
It feels quite perfect, actually.
“It’s okay,” I reply, tilting my head to look up at him. “I’m not either. I guess we’ll just have to make it up as we go along.”
And so that’s what we do.
I put my hand on his shoulder, he winds his arm round my waist, and we sway together to the music, slightly out of time, but not remotely caring.
The scene is not particularly romantic. The lights in the hall are far too bright — probably due to some kind of health and safety red tape to make sure no one sues the council if they trip and fall — and Elliot and I are both still bundled up in our winter coats; me with my bag slung awkwardly across my shoulders, and him still with that tomato-red scarf of his wrapped around his neck.
It might not be romantic, but itisabsolutely perfect; and when the song comes to an end, and he leans forward and kisses me, his lips soft and warm against my snow-chilled skin, I know beyond doubt that this is one of those moments that I won’t need to redraft in my mind when I think about it later; because it’s absolutely perfect the way it is.
The kiss goes on and on; my body molding to his, and his hands coming up to gently cup my face, until the dancers around us notice the young couple kissing in their midst, and burst into a spontaneous round of applause: which still doesn’t convince us that it’s time to stop kissing.
I don’t think it’lleverbe time to stop kissing.
Idothink I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my life.
What Idon’tknow — but am destined to find out — is that pretty much everyone I know, plus a few hundred thousand people Idon’tknow, is going to remember this moment too; but ever so slightly differently, when Elliot puts it into his book, turning the 40s-themed dance into the actual 1940s, and me into a local woman with a faintly ridiculous name.
On this cold December night on my 24th year on earth, though, I have absolutely no idea that none of this is real. All I know is that I’ve just met someone who makes me feel like this Christmas might not be so bad after all. And so I reach up to wind my arms around Elliot Sinclair’s neck, and I kiss him back as if this is the start of something that might last forever.
Because I really think that it might be.
7
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined this scenario a few times in the years since I last saw Elliot Sinclair.
Not thisexactscenario, obviously. No, any time I’ve allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to bump into him again, I’ve been poised and elegant, and really quite jaw-droppingly beautiful; not staggering around on the cobbles like a very drunk baby elephant, like I am now.
“Holly?” says Elliot, making it sound like a statement of disappointed fact, rather than a question.
This, of course, isn’t right either. The Elliot of my imaginings is always pathetically grateful to be in my presence once more; desperately begging my forgiveness as soon as he lays eyes on me. This Elliot, however, lets go of my arm as soon as I’m upright again, looking like he’s already planning his exit.
Which he probably is, knowing him.
He’s good at planning exits, after all.
Still, at least he didn’t say ‘It’s you’. That would’ve been too much, even for him.
