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“I don’t—”
He reached for her arm. “We need to talk.”
“We really don’t.” Rachel could feel Mrs Coombs’s avid curiosity like a laser on her back as she shook off Ben’s hand and took a large, much-needed gulp of her gin and tonic. “There’s no need to make a scene,” she said to Ben in a low voice, and he raised his eyebrows.
“You’re the one making a scene, not me.”
“Thanks for gaslighting me there,” she snapped. “I don’t want to talk to you, Ben.” She stalked away from the bar, aware her whole body was trembling. She took another sip of gin, grateful for the way the alcohol burned down her throat and through her system. She was in dire need of some Dutch courage, especially as she could hear and even feel Ben’s long strides coming after her.
She knew she was just making things worse, acting so angry and emotional andhurt. She was making it look like she really cared about Ben, and she didn’t. Shedidn’t.
“Rachel.” His voice was low, rich, deep, with that faint Yorkshire burr. Rachel felt her shoulders start to work their way up to her ears. She’d reached the far wall of the hall, and there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide. She was going to have to talk to Ben, and she had no idea what she could say, how she could salvage her absolutely wrecked dignity.
She let out a long, low breath of resignation before she slowly turned around to face him. He was eyeing her with exasperation, his hands braced on his hips, feet apart, like Atlas surveying his world. He looked nice, too, in a button-down shirt of dark blue chambray and a pair of jeans, his usual dressy outfit, it seemed. She wondered if he only had one pair of nice jeans, and for some reason that thought made her smile.
Ben arched an eyebrow. “Are you able to talk sensibly now?”
“Don’t patronise me, please,” she replied, glad she sounded calm, at least. “I’ve been talking sensibly all along.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, a childish game of blink where neither of them wanted to admit defeat and look away. Rachel’s eyes started to water.
Ben finally dropped his gaze, running his hand through his hair. “Rachel,” he began, his gaze on the floor. “Look, I—”
“There you are!” Diana’s voice cut through the crowd and made Ben fall silent as his mother bore down on them like a ship in full sail. “We’re doing the Cumberland Square and we need you to make up an eight.”
“What? No—” Rachel began, only to have Diana slip one arm through hers, another through Ben’s, the gesture seeming cosy but with a grip like a vice.
“Finish your drink, dear,” she said, and Rachel had no choice but to toss back the rest of her drink, her throat burning, eyes watering, as Diana marched them towards a waiting group of dancers.
Rachel stood there rather miserably as everyone got into position, Ben standing silently next to her. They would be partners for the whole dance, and, Rachel recalled with a sinking sensation of dread, this was the number where two pairs of dancers went into the middle, and the men lifted the women up and swung them around before dancing back to their places. She was dreading the experience with every fibre of her being.
The music started up and the caller began to shout out instructions in a jovial voice. “Right, grab your partner and swing her round! Time to waltz, back to back!”
Ben put one hand on her waist, taking her rather limp hand in his other. A tiny smile quirked his mouth as he glanced at her. “You don’t have to look quite so much like you’re being tortured.”
“But I am being tortured,” Rachel returned, trying for a quip but it came out like a quarrel. She put her free hand on Ben’s shoulder, and they started to whirl and gallivant about, reminding her just how much she did actually hate these country dances, with their forced, manic jollity.
Thankfully, it wasn’t really possible to talk, between the music and the dancing, and Rachel didn’t have the breath anyway. Plus, she was doing her best not to make eye contact with Ben, because his face was far too close. She was also trying not to inhale too much, so she didn’t smell his aftershave, which was difficult because the dance required a fair amount of exertion.
She steeled herself for the rush into the middle, when the men locked their hands behind her and the other woman’s backs, and they rested their arms on top of the men’s while they were spun around, their feet lifting off the floor. If you had a modicum of grace, the move looked both easy and cool, like a human spinning top; if you didn’t, it looked like two blokes straining to heave up two heifers.
Fortunately, Ben and the other man, whom Rachel didn’t recognise, were up for the challenge, and while Rachel knew she was far from graceful, at least she was spun around without looking she was going to give a guy a heart attack. Still, she thought she’d rather do just about anything else, except maybe talk to Ben.
And she knew, she absolutely knew, that he would corner her as soon as this dance was over and demand explanations, or worse, give a painful one of his own.I’m sorry, Rachel, but I just don’t feel that way about you anymore. I thought you knew that.
Just the thought of it made Rachel cringe inwardly, an internal squirm that made her wince visibly.
“Did I hurt you?” Ben asked in concern as he set her back down on her feet, and Rachel could only shake her head.
Did you hurt me? Yes, but not in the way you mean, and I am definitely not going to go there.
Another endless few minutes and the dance was finally over, and as the other couples drifted away, Rachel realised just how much of a reprieve it had been. Ben definitely wasn’t letting her go; he was still holding her hand, his grip much like his mother’s.
“We need to talk,” he stated firmly.
“Fine,” Rachel replied, because she knew they’d have to, sometime. Fortunately, the dance had given her enough time to come up with an angle, and the alcohol fuelled her courage to put it in action. “Why don’t we go outside? I can’t hear myself think in here.”
She marched ahead without waiting for him to respond, determined to gain the upper hand. The back door of the hall had been propped open for air, and Rachel slipped through it and out into the alley that ran along the side of the hall, dark and damp and not particularly pleasant. There was a smell of drains and rubbish, and the brick wall that hemmed them in trickled with slimy-looking water.
