Page 8 of Playing for Keeps

Another offered, “Marianne Dashwood letting go of her fantasy about Willoughby. She grows up and chooses stability. Isn’t that feminist too?”

I grinned. “If you think growing up and taking control of your story is feminist, then yes. Austen’s portrayal of her heroines often reflects these progressive ideas.”

And that was the end of class. Pens went down. Bags were zipped. I leaned against the desk and my voice dropped as the energy began to scatter. “Essays are due next Thursday. Focus on making strong arguments, and remember to tie your points back to the themes we discussed today.”

Laughter followed them out, quick and warm.

When the last student had left, I packed up my notes and headed across campus to the teachers’ lounge.

The lounge was nearly empty. There were just two professors by the coffee machine and someone reading a newspaper. Simon was already there, sitting at a table with a coffee, glasses sliding down his nose.

“Ah!” he said, looking up as I walked in. “Our resident celebrity.”

I rolled my eyes, dropping my bag on the chair beside me. “Don’t. I’ve already had quite enough ‘celebrity’ treatment in the hallway. Henri thinks we’re overdue for a teatime summit.”

“Good luck with that,” Simon chuckled. “He’s nothing if not relentless. I caught five minutes of your lecture by the way. Sharp as ever. You made a boy in the back row blush when you called him out. It was beautiful.”

“He asked a good question,” I said, trying not to smile.

“You scare them in the best way,” he said, then added lightly, “wish I could manage that.” He sipped his coffee, then leaned in. “Speaking of scary, guess what I did last night?”

“Do I want to know?”

“Dirty Dancing at the movie theatre. Eighties classics series. Full cinema, people mouthing every line. ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner!’ The works.”

I laughed. “Sounds unbearable.”

“Unbearable and magnificent. I danced in my seat. That final lift? Still gets me.” He put a hand to his chest.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And,” he said, warming up, “it reminded me how much I miss salsa. Haven’t been in weeks. My hips are sulking.”

“Oh yes, Margaret mentioned something about that. So you dance salsa?”

“Religiously. Normally, nearly every Friday, but it’s been a while. At a club called Candela. Live music, couples who’ve clearly been rehearsing for decades, the atmosphere’s electric.”

“I actually took classes years ago in London and really enjoyed it.”

His eyes lit up. “Emma. You never said.”

“It doesn’t come up when you’re teaching Austen.”

“Well, it should,” he said. “Elizabeth Bennet doing a cross-body lead would be iconic.”

I laughed, shaking my head.

“Come with me,” Simon said. “Not this week, but soon. A real salsa night with a live band, a DJ, the works. You’ll love it.”

“I’m rusty.”

“Talent like that doesn’t rust.”

“Simon…”

“No excuses.” He wagged his spoon. “You’re coming.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Fine. Just let me know when.”