How We Met. Katy Regan

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СКАЧАТЬ to airport, close eyes and pick a destination at random, then GO! Even if it’s to Stuttgart or Birmingham.

      Of course, Fraser hasn’t told Karen about the List, which he does feel guilty about, since if there were no List – if there were no Liv, essentially – there’d be no way he would voluntarily sign up for a salsa class. Today, against his better judgement and only to liven up the most boring day at work this year (eight hours spent holding a microphone to someone’s head as they made a party political broadcast about obesity outside McDonald’s), he’d told the boys at work – John and Declan – and they’d ribbed him mercilessly, said they didn’t know anyone less likely to be going to a ‘gay’ salsa class …

      But Karen doesn’t know this and what she doesn’t know, he’s reasoned, can’t hurt her. Besides, she was ecstatic when he asked her.

      ‘Really? You’re not jesting me?’ (‘Jesting’ is one of Karen’s favourite ’90s expressions, along with ‘mint’ and ‘yes way’.) ‘You actually want to go to dance lessons – with me?’ She looked dumbfounded, as though he’d just asked her to marry him, and squealed before hugging him so tight she almost suffocated him with her enormous, no, really enormous, amazing and wondrous breasts. It doesn’t matter how many times she says ‘innit’, Fraser doubts he will ever get irritated by those.

      So, he felt absolved of his guilt, but now, what with Karen’s obsession with Strictly Come Dancing and calling him Fred Astaire, he is starting to worry she might think he can actually dance. After all, who suggests starting a hobby they don’t already have some aptitude for?

      Fraser clings to the hope that salsa might just be his big, untapped talent, but realistically, chances are slim. Small children have been known to laugh at him at wedding receptions.

      ‘Been shopping again?’ says Fraser, cheerfully.

      They’re walking side by side up Oxford Street now, towards the class, which is somewhere tucked behind Little Portland Street.

      ‘Ohmigod, have I been shopping.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Really.’

      ‘You’ve really been and done the shopping thing this time?’

      She squeezes his arm. ‘Just you wait and see.’

      They are prone to little exchanges of inane conversation like this, where Fraser feels as if he’s in that programme, Whose Line Is It Anyway?, but just can’t think of any good lines.

      He lights a cigarette for want of something better to do.

      ‘So … do you wanna see then?’ says Karen, after Fraser clearly hasn’t taken the hint.

      ‘Yeah, why not, go on then.’

      She moves to the side of the street and opens up one of the plastic bags, which is pink and has the word FREED written on it. Fraser’s hands go clammy, his throat goes suddenly dry. It’s a shoebox and inside the box is a pair of leather dance shoes with a strap across and a square heel. The leather looks soft – he can smell it – and, even with his untrained eye, he can tell they cost a fortune.

      Karen holds them up proudly, like a cat making an offering: ‘I just thought, do you know what? Bugger it. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly. I’m telling you, this dance thing is like a whole new world of retail opportunity!’

       Thank you, Lord, they’re not for me.

      ‘Do you like them? The lady in the shop said they were the same as professionals wear.’

      Fraser isn’t really au fait with dance shoes or what there is to like about them, so says the first thing that comes into his head: ‘They’ve got a very nice heel.’

      Her face lights up.

      ‘Really? Do you think so?’

      ‘God, yeah, totally, a really, really good heel. Really good heel.’ Jesus. I hope you can see me, Olivia Jenkins, he thinks, and I hope you’re happy.

      Fraser has seen adverts on Sky TV for salsa classes – in fact, he’s done a broadcast for one before; something about multicultural London – and they are always held in a dimly lit, buzzy bar, throbbing with Latino beats and unfeasibly attractive people: taut-bottomed men wearing cumberbunds and raven-haired beauties, that sort of thing. Not this one. This one is held in a mirrored studio, four flights of stairs above a shop selling bridal wear, and is complete with sprung floor and ballet barres around the edges – so bright, it makes you squint when you come in from the outside. Fraser may as well be naked, he feels so exposed, and wishes he’d done a bit more research than googling Salsa Classes in London and booking the first that came up.

      To make matters worse, they’re early, so have to hang around whilst everyone arrives.

      ‘Gosh, this is very proper, isn’t it?’ whispers Karen excitedly as she takes off her trainers and gets changed into her new, professional shoes. ‘Takes me right back to dancing classes when I was little.’

      Fraser feels a bit sick.

      ‘You didn’t tell me you’d done dance classes.’

      ‘Didn’t I? Oh, yeah. Distinction in Advanced Modern, me. Intermediate Ballet, gold medal three years running at the Hull Festival, I’ll have you know. I was going to audition for ballet school at one point before these buggers grew …’ She turns around and pushes her boobs together and Fraser has a flash of hope, once more, that maybe he is already a little bit in love with Karen after all.

      It seems to take forever for everyone to arrive. Karen goes straight to the front where she starts chatting to a tall man in small, round glasses, whilst Fraser loiters at the back, feeling like a twelve-year-old at an adults’ party. He dares to look at himself in the mirror and regrets it. He looks ridiculous, like a youth offender brought in for ‘dance therapy’. He had no clue what to wear, so went for general fitness attire and is wearing shiny tracksuit bottoms, his running trainers and a FILA T-shirt bought in about 1991 which is too big for him and smells of his bedroom floor.

      Everyone else is wearing normal, fashionable clothing, or professional dancewear. In particular, there’s a woman next to him who looks as if she’s pirouetted straight in from the set of Fame.

      He smooths down his hair in a vague attempt to make himself look more presentable and sees Karen smile warmly then wink at him through the mirror. She seems to be getting on famously with the tall man in glasses. This is something Fraser greatly admires in Karen: her ability to be sociable and chirpy at all times – it’s why she makes such a good barmaid. Fraser has always found that hard, even more so these days. They are quite high up here and for some reason, as he looks out of the window, over the treetops thick with blossom, the evening spring sunshine glinting through the branches, he has a brief rush of something he remembers as happiness. Or hope. Is it hope? He closes his eyes, feels the warmth of the sun on his eyelids. He can do this. He can. He will do it for Liv.

      ‘OK, if you’re ready, shout, “SALSAAA!”’

      Fraser nearly jumps out of his skin. Suddenly there is really loud music and a man at the front wearing a headset and wiggling his hips in a way that looks unnatural, not to mention painful.

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