“Well what?” Jane replied.
“Are we going to dance or not?” he said.
“I thought you did not want to,” Jane replied.
He smiled and crossed his arms. “I don’t, but I’m afraid you’ll beat me up if I refuse now. Besides, if we don’t dance together, society will crumble,” he said dryly.
She did not approve—only she was allowed to speak dryly. He smirked at her.
“Are you smirking at me?” she said, incensed.
“Smirking? I don’t know how to smirk,” he replied.
“You do indeed. You’re doing it now. You appear quite good at it, like you do it often. You’d best stop before you get yourself into trouble.”
Jane found two emotions competing for supremacy inside her: one, utter confusion, and two, utter annoyance at the person standing next to her, who seemed bent on infuriating her at every juncture.
“Music!” barked Cheryl. The music began once more, a slow march with a delicate tune. The two lines of dancers snapped to attention and arranged themselves in order. Fred turned to Jane and shrugged. He held out his hands.
Jane looked up at him. She felt too enraged by the situation to decline, so she placed her own hands in his. His hands felt large and warm. “That’s the cue,” Fred said. The music swelled. He grabbed Jane and towed her down the line. Jane skipped and stumbled and almost tripped over. She missed every step and stood on his toes once or twice. Fred laughed. “You’re terrible!” he said. “After all that.”
Cheryl rushed over to them with an angry look on her face. “One, two, forward, back, round, and behind your partner,” she commanded to Jane in a staccato voice, like she beat a drum. “For a professed expert on the Grimstock, you leave much to be desired. This is your final warning!” She stormed off.
Jane turned to Fred with an anguished look. “I am lost, sir. I do not know my purpose here.” She felt tears well in her eyes.
“Well, it’s not dancing, that’s for sure,” he said with a laugh. “You’re even worse than me.”
Jane ceased her tears and grew irrationally mad. “How dare you laugh at me in my moment of distress!” she said. “I do not know the steps!” she added.
“I can tell,” he said.
She stared at him in utter shock. She had never come across a more odious dance partner in her life. True, she had danced with some shocking people, men who stepped on her toes, who had breath stinking of rum or gravy, or who conducted terrible conversation, but this man reigned as the champion over them all. Her toes remained un-stepped-on and his breath was fresh—perhaps the freshest she’d ever smelled, curiously—but this man committed a more-annoying crime than any of the others: he was arrogant. He wore a dry, self-satisfied grin at all times, like the whole world was a joke to him. “I assure you I know how to dance,” she said. “Stop laughing. What will happen if I do not manage these steps? I do not understand this.”
“You will get the sack for sure,” he said. “Cheryl’s a terrifying woman. She made a stuntman cry.”
Jane scowled at him. She barely understood what he was saying, but she could tell from his tone that he was teasing her. She felt furious. The woman in the trousers barking orders had mentioned Fred’s handsomeness but Jane noticed little accuracy in the appraisal. He was not handsome at all, certainly not. His age exceeded thirty. A short brown beard covered his face, golden whiskers lined his lips, his hair was unkempt, and he was obnoxious.
“Your hair is pointing every which way,” she said, motioning to his head. “I wonder if it has ever seen a comb.”
“First you hate my britches, now my hair. Anything else about me you have a problem with, while we’re here?”
Jane stared at him. “I cannot think of anything right now, but rest assured, I will let you know. Now, teach me the steps.”
“I’m not sure that will help,” he said, laughing.
“Congratulations, sir,” Jane said. “You are the most disagreeable person I’ve ever met. And that includes my mother.”
“Your mother is disagreeable?” he replied. “Then I see the resemblance.”
Jane glowered at him. “If you give me even the slightest hint of instruction, if that is at all possible within your small brain, I guarantee I will catch on,” she said. “You do know the steps to this dance?”
“I suppose so,” he said with a shrug.
“Then please show me,” Jane said. She waited.
He rolled his eyes, but then he did a surprising thing. He took her arms and moved them into place. “I think it goes like this. One, two, forward, back . . . ,” he said in a soft voice. He placed his hand on her hip. The placing of it rendered Jane silent. She let him move her forward and back, down the line of dancers, across the room. She felt infuriated about him guiding her but said nothing. Instead she trained her concentration on him, following his every direction, trying not to feel distracted by his hand on her hip.
He spoke the steps to her in a whisper as they went. “One, two, good, good,” he said. For all his obnoxious posturing, he actually made for a patient instructor. He guided her gently, sensing as she progressed, approving when she got things right, helping when she faltered. They reached the end of the line and Jane exhaled.
“Well, then?” Jane asked him.
“Not bad, I suppose,” he said. “Better than the first time, at least, though that’s not difficult,” he added, jettisoning his patient tone and resuming the earlier, obnoxious one.
They turned to dance again. Fred curled his fingers at Jane’s side. She stiffened and hoped he did not notice. The way he held her disarmed her. A familiarity seemed to grace the embrace, though lasciviousness did not define it. He merely held her closer than she was accustomed to.
“Sorry. You’re a small person,” Fred said. “I hope I don’t snap you in two.”
“As do I,” Jane said.
Fred
