Two to Tango

I thought I had finally managed to convince Ruth that nothing she could say or do would ever persuade me to even give ballroom dancing a go. That I have nothing at all against those who love it, and that I’m sure they’re all kind and decent people – it’s certainly true of her. Well, at least most of the time. But I actually believed I had penetrated her figurative tin ear and that she had realised she was wasting her time. Yet today, oh so casually, over a coffee, she brought it up again. The ballroom dancing, not the coffee. So she doesn’t get it after all. She doesn’t get it that I don’t get it. “But I wondered if – well, after all, that tennis player you like was on Strictly …..”

And has gone down considerably in my estimation because of it. Which I know is entirely unfair and irrational and all that and I expect I’ll still be rooting for him at the next Slam, but I maintain we’re not made to be fair and rational all the time and I came close – I came VERY close to saying something pretty rude to Ruth, the kind of thing that certainly puts a dent in friendships even if it doesn’t finish them off.

I told myself it wouldn’t be worth it. But I had to make an excuse to leave the café early.

“Look, I know each to their own and all that,” she had said, only half a minute before my departure, “And I don’t expect you to suddenly become a fan! But I don’t see why you are SO set against it. Anyone would think I was asking you to clean a pile of toilets!” Normally, the mental image of “a pile of toilets” would have tickled me, but I wasn’t in the mood to see the funny side of things. I just stopped myself saying, “Well, at least there’d be something useful to show for it!”

I’m not wild about any kind of dancing, and that’s an understatement. And it’s not just because I have the two proverbial left feet myself – I’m a lousy cook but admire those who are good at it and not only when I’m eating the fruit (so to speak!) of their labours. But ballet – well, I wouldn’t necessarily choose it for an evening out, but I can see the skill, and the music is often lovely. Even when ballet dancers are only rehearsing wearing leotards and leg warmers and the music comes from a rusty old piano (okay I don’t know if pianos technically get rusty, but some sound as if they have) then it’s still possible even for a non-fan like me to appreciate their art and to appreciate the music. But what would ballroom dancing be without the women in their frothy skirts in colours that hurt your eyes and the men looking like waiters (with no disrespect to waiters!), and as for the music – well, if they DO have anything halfway decent they proceed to ruin it by making it either sound like something soporific in a lift or something ear-hurting in a night club, or somehow both at the same time.

And that proves that contrary to what Ruth proclaims I have given it a go, at least as a spectator. At least on the telly. And I was underwhelmingly unimpressed.

On occasion (fair enough not very often) Ruth has pointed out, more in sorrow than in anger, “But Nicky, I take an interest in your writing!” Well, I could be peevish and say I don’t much like that turn of phrase and that “taking an interest” is something you do with a four year old who isn’t as precocious as her Mum thinks she is. But that would be unjust. She does take a genuine interest in my writing and has been one of my most staunch supporters even when rejection followed rejection (they still do, but at least there are usually some acceptances in between.” I come so close to saying “It’s not the same”. And that would be a mean thing to do and make me look more petulant than the hypothetical four year old. But it isn’t the same. Ruth loves to read and is no mean writer herself, though she generally restricts it to the town newsletter. Oh, and some ballroom dancing blog, but what was it Truman Capote said, “That’s not writing, that’s typing!” Her “Taking an Interest” in my writing does not involve her doing something she doesn’t like though I don’t delude myself she doesn’t have authors she vastly prefers to me.

Okay, so it’s a special gala evening. Okay so it wouldn’t do me any harm. But it would set a precedent, and there’s something dangerous and insidious about setting precedents.

Well, that didn’t go terribly well. My powers of persuasion aren’t quite what I thought they were. Okay what I hoped they were. I even deluded myself it might be quite easy. After all, Nicky is a reasonable sort of person. Isn’t she? Perhaps I played it wrong. Maybe I should have tried the “Devil’s Advocate” tactics – that’s the title of her latest short story, it got accepted and no wonder, it’s very good. And it wouldn’t entirely have been playing Devil’s Advocate.

Oh, it would be impossible for me to imagine life without ballroom dancing, though I suppose one day I might have to resign myself to being just a spectator, even though Eva is still dancing away in her seventies, and a very good dancer she is too. But I’m not blind to its – well let’s say eccentricities. In some cases the costumes aren’t as, let’s say flamboyant, as Nicky makes out, and they’re making the little ones dress more simply now (which in principle I think is a good thing though I’m not saying I’d have liked it myself at that age!). But yes there is still an abundant of frothy skirts (sometimes necessary, not always!) and bouffant hair dos and blue eyeshadow as if we’re in a timewarp. But isn’t that part of the charm? And though I think Nicky was being a bit of a snob when she said, “You wouldn’t do ballet in 3 inch heels,” she had a point. But they’re two different kinds of dancing. I’m not keen on the heels taken to extremes myself and feel sorry for the blokes when they have to wear stack heels (the kind of thing that everyone knows about but we don’t often talk about) to be taller than their partner, or not appreciably shorter.

But we’re still, well most of us, just ordinary down to earth people. We can even be quite consciously camp and that’s part of the fun. And we do raise a lot of money for charity, though I’m being a bit of a hypocrite using that argument as I’ve been inclined to regard it as a “Kray Twins’ Alibi” kind of thing.

Not that I’m comparing Ballroom Dancing to the misdeeds of the Kray twins!

I’ve not given up on this yet. But I’ll have to shelve it for the time being as those documents won’t laminate themselves.

Perhaps I should just try the truth? Well, at least it’s a point to ponder.

Okay, so I haven’t been entirely honest with Ruth. But come to that I haven’t been entirely honest with myself either, and that’s putting it mildly.

I’m not going to call it a suppressed memory because that’s a heavy duty phrase that should be saved for people who have really suffered and whose lives are still under a terrible shadow. That doesn’t apply. But all the same, you don’t suppress a memory because it’s a good one.

It’s no wonder I don’t remember that clearly, for purely practical reasons. I was only about five or six at the time and despite what some claim, memories good, bad, or indifferent from that early on in life tend to become vague and variable.

But I do know we were on a family holiday in Blackpool and had gone to the Tower Ballroom. Now this was after Come Dancing and before Strictly so it didn’t have the iconic status it did before or after, but it was still splendid as a building. And though I would like to dismiss it as grotesquely tasteless, while its ornate style isn’t necessarily my own taste, it wasn’t remotely tacky. We were just watching some local dancing contest. No, this isn’t where I say that I absolutely loved it before things went wrong. I thought the frocks were quite pretty though when the dancers got close up (we had front row seats) I could tell even at that age that some of the eyeshadow was what Mum called “Caked”. It struck me as a pleasant enough way to spend half an hour or so but I would have preferred to be out on the beach or at the Circus.

To some extent I had been bribed with more ice cream than I was generally allowed, even on holiday, and generally I had a pretty cast iron stomach. But I think I probably had some kind of a bug anyway (Mum was ill the next day) and I threw up. Just as a couple were twirling by, and the flouncy emerald green frock studded with rhinestones got the full benefit. I have to say that woman was positively heroic, and I don’t think that’s a false memory. She kept her false smile. And kept on dancing!

So evidently ballroom dancing made me sick. And it still has that effect on me. And I don’t just mean figuratively. Nicky doesn’t know about this of course. Why would I tell even a good friend when I can generally manage to filter it out of my own memories?

“Well, frankly I think she’s being unreasonable and you should give it up as a bad job, and make your apologies to Guy Hartnell,” my dancing partner Louis said. He and I are a relatively new pairing. I still miss Frank, who was my partner for almost five years and one of the nicest men I’ve ever known. But he and Paul are so happy in their new home in Scotland, and I’m not going to begrudge it them. It’s not that Louis isn’t nice. But he has a limited tolerance threshold for people being what he calls “pettish”. “I’ve never met her but she strikes me as a bit of a know it all.”

“No, you haven’t met her, so you don’t know anything!” I snapped. But later on I apologised. It was one of those awful ambivalent apologies. I was genuinely sorry for having snapped at Louis but still think he was in the wrong for calling Nicky a know it all. But you have to get on with your partner. Well, okay, you don’t have to be lovey-dovey, but you have to at least save your rows for until the dance is over.

I’m beginning to think he may be right about giving it up as a bad job and making my apologies though.

I’m wondering if the only alternative might be to forget the element of surprise. And that has possibilities. Sometimes I think surprises, even pleasant and happy ones can backfire and I’m not sure if we’re right to spring them in the first place. Okay, this isn’t on a par with proposing to your beloved in public out of the blue, which I think CAN be a great romantic gesture but can also put them in an awful position. And Grandma has already threatened to disinherit us all if we so much as think of giving her a surprise party for her next “big” birthday. We think she’s joking but are not going to risk it! Anyway, even leaving inheritance out of it (and I’ve been promised that peacock brooch since I was 10!) it can be a pretty thoughtless thing to do.

No, this isn’t the same. But I’ll have to think it over. My heart wasn’t in the dancing at rehearsal today. Oh, I didn’t tread on Louis’ toes or anything like that, but the only sparkle came from my sequins. And some of them need sewing on more tightly.

It’s not Ruth’s fault I ate too much ice cream (and/or got a bug) and puked up on a ballroom dancer’s dress. But it’s not MY fault that I can’t bring myself to even meet ballroom dancing half way. Or is it? I’ve done other things I don’t like. That’s what reasonable adults do. Isn’t it?

I’m going to phone Nicky up and tell her the whole story. That one of our dancers is the niece of Guy Hartnell, the editor in chief of Bluebird Books, and I’ve shown him some of her short stories, and he’s interested and would love to have a chat with her.

I’m going to phone Ruth up and say that if it means that much to her I’ll come and watch the gala.

Her phone’s gone to voicemail.

Her phone’s gone to voicemail.

To: Nicky-Norris@scribemail.com

From: Guy-the-editor@Bluebirdsbooks.co.uk

Subject: Publication

Hi, Nicky

It was great to meet you at the dancing gala even though I suspect you, like me, am not the greatest fan. But further to our discussion, I will be glad to publish your witty and insightful short stories in our forthcoming autumn anthology. I notice, though, that one of them is untitled. Do you have any suggestions? Best wishes, Guy Hartnell.

To: Guy-the-editor@Bluebirdbooks.co.uk

From: Nicky-Norris@scribemail.com

Subject: Missing Title

Hi, Guy

That’s great, thank you! Sorry about the title – I know it’s not very original, but how about It Takes Two to Tango? Best wishes, Nicky Norris.