Page 79 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Because you think it’s funny,’ I accuse, making a big fuss of rubbing my toes all the more, even though, to be honest, they’re not that bruised.

‘Trust me, there’s nothing funny about having two left feet,’ he replies, reaching out his hand.

Ignoring it, I pull myself upright and wordlessly he slips his arm round my waist. We resume dancing. This time I make sure to keep my feet firmly away from his. Neither of us speaks. Deliberately refusing to catch his eye, I glance around the ballroom. All the other couples are laughing and chatting, emphasising the silence between us. Even so, I’m determined not to be the one to break it. Why should I? I don’t want to talk to him anyway.

‘Picture this. I’m eighteen. In a nightclub. And it’s two a.m. . . .’

Spike, however, appears to have no such problem breaking it. Seemingly oblivious to my stony expression, he starts telling his story. ‘You know what that means, don’t you? The last slow dance.’ With a woeful expression he shakes his head. ‘Nobody ever wanted to slow-dance with me.’

I try picturing him as his eighteen-year-old self, with teenage acne and a floppy blond fringe, and find it surprisingly easy.

‘I’m the worst dancer,’ he continues. ‘I have no rhythm, zero moves and was once compared to a pregnant duck.’

He smiles sheepishly, but I refuse to smile back. I keep getting the image of Ernie, sitting across from me at the table, his eyes brimming with tears as he talked about Iris. If Spike thinks he can charm me with a few funny comments, he’s got another thing coming.

‘I bet even your dad is a better dancer than I am.’

‘Now that I find hard to believe,’ I reply sarcastically, prompted to say something about the image that has popped into my head of my father jigging around at a cousin’s wedding. ‘My father thinks hip hop is a Dr Seuss children’s book.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he asks innocently.

I’m amused, but quickly hide it.

‘No, that’s Hop on Pop,’ I snap, instead.

Spike’s straight face crinkles into a mischievous grin and I realise this is his famous English sense of humour and he’s joking with me. Again. I feel a wave of irritation.

Followed by an idea.

‘In that case, how about I give you your first dance lesson?’ I suggest over-brightly.

Well, if he wants to joke around, it would be churlish of me not to play along, wouldn’t it?

Spike’s smile fades and he looks at me doubtfully. ‘What? Here? Now? Are you being serious?’

‘Totally.’ I nod. ‘I’m a good teacher. I studied dance until I was in freshman. Modern, classical, tap, ballet.’

‘Wow, I’m impressed,’ he says in admiration.

Me too, I tell myself. My entire dance knowledge comes from watching Fame as a kid and wearing leg warmers, but that’s not going to stop me having some fun. Spike has been having a laugh at my expense for too long. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine.

‘You see, first you need to loosen up your hips . . .’

‘Um . . .’ Uncertainly, he begins bending one knee and then the other.

‘No, you need to shake them more,’ I instruct.

God, I can be evil when I want to be.

‘Like this?’ Brow furrowed in concentration, Spike begins earnestly wiggling his hips.

‘Exactly.’ I nod solemnly. ‘But you need to take your hands out of your pockets.’

‘Oh . . . right . . .’ Obediently pulling out his hands, he holds them out to the sides as if they’re a pair of ornaments he doesn’t know where to put and continues jiggling his hips even faster.

Ha, ha, ha, he looks like such an idiot, I think, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

I stand back as if I’m a teacher observing their student. Like in Fame, I think to myself, wishing I was like Miss Grant and had a little cane so I could hit the floor and cry, ‘Fame costs, and here’s where you start paying for it.’ God, I loved that show.