Page 35 of Little Miss Fortune

She looks at the message and sighs. ‘Do you want to borrow my clothes?’

‘Yes, please.’

Another message comes through, this time from Sashka. Her date is tonight.

I don’t open it.

Despite doing ballet for most of my childhood, I remain an unskilled and ungraceful dancer. Which is why I freeze by the door and pull Leon back like a stubborn fat bulldog that doesn’t want to go on a walk when I see a neon Salsa sign above.

‘C’mon, you will love it.’ Leon laughs, knowing fully well that I will not love it.

‘I am awful at dancing, and I know nothing about salsa.’

‘You will learn. Didn’t you want to prove to Mr. Naked Man that you can live a little?’

Does that make me a bad feminist if I do things to spite a man? There are two schools of thought, and both of them say that yes, I am a bad feminist. Great.

‘Let’s get it over with.’ I cave.

If smoking indoors weren’t banned, I imagine patrons of this establishment would fog up the room. And the off-white, yellowing walls tell me that, back in the day, they were doing exactly that. The brown carpeted stairs lead to the polished wooden floors that are easy to glide across. Men of different complexions but all in flowy shirts grab women dressed in a variety of clothing, from ballroom to club to casual, and lead them to the dance floor. They teach women simple steps but then let their hands linger around their bodies.

‘Leon,’ I mewl with a quivering lip. ‘Will a man whisk me away?’

‘Yes, that’s the point of salsa.’

‘Can’t you do it?’

‘That would not be brave now, would it?’ He places his hand on me as if I were his child and he is about to call me buddy.

The women who dance in the centre are swaying their hips in a rhythmic motion, their feet gracefully stepping backwards and forwards and their arms anchored securely around men’s shoulders. They look beautiful.

Fine. I can make a fool of myself once. I go behind a woman in a sparkly noodle dress (there is a more technical term for it, but its frills are straight like freshly cut soba). The room’s dim and sensual lighting is at odds with loud Latin music that feels like a celebration in the streets of Puerto Rico or Cuba. A man finishes his dance with another woman, who also looks like a new dancer, kisses her hands, and sends her away. His back was turned to me, so when he reaches for my hand, I am slightly surprised to see the handsome man from CM Shot that I ogled at the last meeting.

‘Hey, I know you.’ He pulls me in, miraculously avoiding being stepped on by my confused feet.

‘Oh, ha ha, hey.’ I try hard not to bite my lip from embarrassment and shyness. ‘Malik, is it?’

‘Yes, good memory, Fuko.’

He remembers my name and knows how to say it correctly. Luckily, he spins me onto the dance floor, stopping any possibility of a girlish squeal coming from me. His head lowers to my ear. ‘Have you done this before?’

‘No, never. I am a terrible dancer.’

‘Just means you never had someone to lead you properly.’

Oh, Malik, you can lead me anywh— Oh, shit, these steps are a lot quicker than anticipated. The music has increased in both tempo and volume, letting the double bassline pulse through the air.

‘I am going to put my hand on your hip. This will help with directing the steps.’

He commands me not to look at the floor and just concentrate on the movements, counting aloud for me to follow instead of the music. He says it in such a matter-of-fact manner that the procedure is more clinical, like relocation of a shoulder rather than fiery, sexy dancing. It doesn’t feel like what I expected salsa to be. But also, I don’t feel as self-conscious—my steps are untrained but not stiff.

‘What got you into dancing?’ I ask, bravely looking up from the floor.

‘I was actually a dancer before going into filming. Was doing a talent reel, paid £400, didn’t like how it turned out, ended up filming a better reel myself. Met John years later.’

‘And here you are.’

‘And here I am, dancing with a pretty girl.’