Page 39 of The Way We Are Now

‘He’s all yours.’ I smiled. ‘But you have to do me a favour first.’

She looked up from the coffees she was making for her own office of men, frowning suspiciously. ‘What?’

‘Right, you’re a woman of the world. What would I wear to a hunt ball?’

‘What’s one of them?’

‘You know. Hunting to hounds…’ I trailed off, not quite sure what was involved myself.

‘Well, can you ride? Have you got the gear – you know, a crop thingy to hit it with if it won’t go and some of them tight white pants? I used to like watching stuff like that on the telly.’

‘Breeches,’ I said. ‘And I think that was dressage. No, it’s a ball.’

‘You mean a posh dance?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘No probs. Hang on.’ She left for her office, rummaging round in a desk drawer until she shouted, ‘Bingo,’ coming back with several issues of Cosmopolitan. ‘I knew I’d read something about it recently. I thought they had these things at Christmas or in winter?’

‘Maybe they do, but this is a May one. You know, a May ball like they have at Oxford? Or is it Cambridge? Both probably.’

‘Hey, don’t ask me, love – I left school with three CSEs. And one of them was sewing. Look, it’s an article about balls in general…’ She broke off as one of the men, catching her words, retraced his steps, sticking his head round the open door.

‘Anybody’s balls, girls, or someone we know?’ He gave a dirty laugh and continued on his way.

‘God’s sake…’ we both said in unison before sitting to peruse the article together. ‘Yes, definitely gives Oxford May Ball a mention,’ I went on. ‘Oh, and look, yes, here we are, Hunt Balls – are they still the done thing?’ I started quickly reading. ‘Well, apparently, they are.’

‘There you go.’ Linda paused. ‘So, who you going with then?’ She indicated her head towards John Dyson’s office. ‘With him?’ Her demeanour was hopeful as to my response.

‘No.’

‘Ah! Someone else then? You’ve dumped John for a horse rider?’

I laughed at that. ‘D’you have to actually be able to ride to go to one of these dos?’

‘Well, I’m sure it helps,’ she said sagely. ‘Now, you’re going to have to get yourself a long frock. And off the shoulder too,’ Linda went on in excitement. ‘You’ll need to go to that tanning place in the town centre.’ She stood up and grabbed my long dark hair, twisting it and piling it artfully on top of my head. ‘There you go.’

‘A long posh dress?’ I almost wailed, turning the page of the magazine on a bevy of beautiful women and just as gorgeous blokes. ‘Where am I going to get that from?’ I immediately thought of Fliss and her extensive wardrobe of clothes, and another pang of sadness went through me. She’d have known exactly what to wear and what to say and what to do at a hunt ball, forgetting, for a split second, that had she still been alive, she probably wouldn’t have even been speaking to me knowing I was off galivanting with the man she’d so set her heart on. ‘There’s Angelique’s Modes: Fashions for All Occasions, I suppose. You know, on Manchester Road…’

‘You’re joking! Load a rubbish in there.’ Linda pulled a disdainful face. ‘And Angelique is actually Angela Higginbottom. I was in the same class as her daughter, Susan. Angela Higginbottom still thinks it’s the seventies; she’s got woolly cardies in the window at the moment, even though it’s nearly summer. If you want to look a frumpy freak then yes, head over there.’ Linda sniffed. ‘Look, there’s a fabulous dress agency on the way to Sheffield. I’ll come with you if you like. They’ve got a whole section at the back for posh dos. Red-carpet dos,’ she added knowledgeably, ‘and, you know, cruises…’ Linda breathed the word with such reverence she didn’t need to add, but did anyway, ‘God, I’d love to go on a cruise. Wouldn’t you? You’d meet a millionaire there, I bet.’ She paused from turning the pages of Cosmo. ‘So, who are you off with then? To this ball?’

‘Oh, just a guy from uni,’ I said with some nonchalance, even though my pulse raced every time I imagined the coming event.

‘Hmm.’ She sniffed meaningfully once more. ‘You see, you get yourself a bit of education and blokes from Rothersley become guys from uni.’ She air-quoted both phrases. ‘Don’t blame you a bit, Anna, for forgetting your roots and moving up in the world when you’ve the chance.’

‘I’ve no intention of doing that,’ I said hotly.

‘They all say that.’ Linda grinned. ‘And, listen, our Kath’ll do your hair and make-up. She’s dead good now that she’s almost finished her beauty course at the tech. Ooh, I can see you now,’ she went on, pointing a finger at a beautiful brunette in a red dress. ‘That’s it. That’s the look you want.’

I spent the next week in a state of feverish excitement combined with dread that Theo had no intention of sending any invitation: he’d forgotten all about it, about me. And his original guest – no doubt the blonde squash player – had apologised: ‘Oh, Theo, sorry, darling, got my dates mixed up: not flying off to Paris with Mummy to the autumn collections after all. I’ll dig out a dress and Granny’s pearls and join you…’

‘What you expecting, Anna?’ Dad asked when, five days later, there was still nothing through the letter box and no phone call for me from Theo. ‘Is it John Dyson you wanting? He’s rung couple of times.’

‘Yes, I know, Mum said.’

‘You not seeing him no more?’

‘No.’