Page 72 of Just for the Season

She looks up at me and I can’t help lifting a finger to trace the line of her cheek.

She blinks and I whisper, ‘Method acting.’

All my senses are full of Frankie, and I only vaguely hear Rose say, ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ before the newlyweds retire to their velvet thrones, leaving the rest of us to begin the dancing in earnest.

And as I hold Frankie in my arms, I don’t know when or how we’re going to fizzle this out, but I do know that while we’re still in our fake relationship I need to make the most of it, because this is amazing.

23

FRANKIE

Marcus, my fake boyfriend, is holding me in his arms and whisking me round the dance floor and, honestly, I’ve never, ever in my life enjoyed a dance as much as this. Not a single real boyfriend I’ve ever had has made me feel so tingly and joyful and almost deliriously happy.

His hands are large and firm and warm on my waist and back, and everywhere they touch me I just want to wriggle into him, for more. He’s the perfect height. And the perfect width. He leads me perfectly when leading is required (I didn’t even really know I could waltz but apparently I can when I’m with Marcus; Gran and Roderick have chosen a playlist with a lot of classic songs and tunes on it, and are encouraging everyone to go for a bit of ballroom dancing), and he makes me almost choke with laughter when there’s a ‘modern music interlude’ as Gran refers to it.

I feel fizzy with happiness about the fact that Marcus only has eyes for me as we dance, and in turn I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

It’s wonderful, it’s amazing, it’s fantastic. I don’t want the night to end.

It does, though, eventually, at 2 a.m.

Gran and Roderick – who must have the constitution of oxen because this is a big night by anyone’s standards, including people a fifth of their age, like Jack – join us for the last dance, another ballad, also unrecognisable because it’s from decades past. Couples sway in each other’s arms; those not coupled up sway in groups.

Marcus holds me close against his chest, and I lean into him, wanting to cling and cling. My arms are round his neck and he has one hand against the small of my back and the other holding my upper back, and I really, really wish that we could kiss. Just once.

That isn’t appropriate, though, obviously. We are fake. I know that.

As the music ends, Marcus continues to hold me close, until voices around us pierce our bubble and we both draw back slightly.

Ned Rossiter, a Milbury inhabitant who is loudly teetotal, often when others are having a very nice time with a couple of drinks at the pub, comes into his own and tells Gran and Roderick that he’ll drive them home.

And Marcus tells me that he’ll walk me home.

I could, obviously, walk with Simon, given that we live in the same place. And I love Simon. But right now, I don’t want my night with Marcus to end.

‘Are you…?’ Simon has obviously had a similar thought; he’s popped up beside us.

‘I’m happy to walk Frankie home,’ Marcus says. Like I need to be walked home through crime-free Milbury.

I don’t quibble, though; instead, I murmur, ‘Thank you.’

‘Careful,’ says Simon in my ear, before leaving.

‘Where did you put your shoes?’ Marcus asks.

‘Oh yes.’ I’d forgotten about them. I took them off hours ago.

I retrieve them from the radiator shelf where I left them; they feel nice and toasty when I put them on. Marcus holds his arm out for me as has become his wont; I take it, and off we go.

Given that a lot of the people in the village have been at the party, the few streets of Milbury are remarkably busy for any time of day, let alone two thirty in the morning.

My heels are a lot less comfortable than they were at the beginning of the evening, so I can’t walk particularly quickly, and I also have no inclination to because I’d much rather hang back with Marcus than join everyone else. We dawdle along at the rear as people disperse into their homes and up different lanes.

We continue along the High Street from the church and then, when we reach the café, I say, as I always do when Marcus and I have been out, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’

And Marcus, as he always does, says, ‘I’d better, for appearances.’

This time, I’m having trouble remembering that this is just for appearances, because it doesn’t feel right for a night like this not to end in a kiss at the very least. So much so that I fumble the keys in the lock and can barely get inside the café.