The biscuit crumbled inside its wrapper as Tilly pinched it a fraction too hard. “Right.”
She could say no. She could refuse to, well, prostitute herself, in a way. It didn’t seem very ethical. Or, actually, very safe. But then images of overdue bills, her landlord banging on the door for his rent, those tickets for that concert, all floated into her head in a tempting trio, luring her to an unethical, unsafe doom.
“Right. Got it. So when and where does he teach this class?”
And now, here she was, on a wet Wednesday night at the community centre, trying to throw back her neck and make her body sing in sync with twenty other ill-assorted women and a h
andful of men.
“Okay, time to change partners again,” Norman said.
He really doesn’t look like a Norman. Tilly had pictured Anthony Perkins in Psycho, but this man couldn’t be more different. She hobbled over to her next partner, who happened to be a woman, taking, as was necessary in this female-heavy class, the male role for the night.
“Don’t forget, gentlemen.” Norman smiled devilishly. “Smoulder!”
“Wow.” Tilly watched Norman demonstrate with his helpless, captivated partner. “That’s one thing he knows how to do.”
“Oh yes.” Her ‘man’ chuckled gently as she manoeuvred Tilly into the correct stance. “Fit as a butcher’s dog, that man. The class has quadrupled in size since he started. Word gets around.”
“So do you think some of the girls would like to sleep with him?”
The partner blinked and Tilly held her breath, worrying that she had gone too far.
“Many have tried. He lets them down gently though.”
Oh! That sounds like personal experience talking!
Tilly had the grace to blush and apologise for her digging, throwing herself instead into mastering the fiendishly complicated set of steps. So he wasn’t sleeping around with the tango girls. But…hang on! Perhaps he was gay! Perhaps it was the men he wanted.
She cast her eye around the room. Suave elderly gent. Sweaty football guy. Three other men, obviously here, under sufferance, with their wives. No, couldn’t be that.
She let her eyes wander from the woman’s uncomfortably intense stare over to her quarry. His hips slid sinuously, dictating the motion of his feet in their highly polished shoes and long, strong legs, moving across the floor with arrogant, innate grace. His silk shirt seemed to flow about his body like liquid, highlighting its broadness and flatness, open at the neck to reveal a long, stubbled throat and an inverse triangle of tanned skin beneath, skin that would feel like heated satin…oh!
“Fuck!” exclaimed Tilly before she could self-censor, landing in an inelegant heap of sequins and stiffly-sprayed hair at her partner’s feet. “Ow! Sorry!”
Norman stopped the music and offered her a rueful, indulgent smile. “Not easy, is it? It’s especially difficult if you don’t watch your own partner.”
Tilly clutched her burning cheeks, mortified to have been caught ogling the handsome beast.
He chuckled, sounding forgiving. “It’s okay. Everyone’s been there. Why don’t you stand back up and try again…” He paused, obviously waiting for her to supply her name.
“Tilly,” she muttered.
“Thank you, Tilly. Help her up, Jean. Make sure nothing’s broken.”
Nothing was damaged except Tilly’s dignity, and the dance class sizzled on to its ultimate conclusion at nine o’clock.
The dancing throng dispersed in its various directions, mostly back home, some to the pub. Tilly hung back, waiting for the last clients to exchange thanks and goodbyes with Norman before sidling up to him, coat in hand.
She coughed. He turned from removing the CD from its player and smiled politely down from his deliciously high height.
“Look, I know I’m new, so it’s probably no surprise that I’m not very good yet, but I’d really like to get better as quickly as I can because, because, um, my sister wants us to dance the tango at her wedding and, well, it’s only in a couple of weeks and I’m a bit concerned that I won’t be able to learn in time and I don’t want to make a fool of myself and ruin her big day into the bargain so…” She stopped to draw breath.
Norman, eyebrows raised, simply waited for her next sentence. Oh God, he must know what I mean. Why can’t he finish this for me? Why can’t he make me an offer? I’m on the wrong track here. Melinda’s suspicions are totally unfounded.
“So?” he prompted eventually.
“I’d be willing to pay for private lessons.”