He wasn’t just shocked at the amount, she knew, but at how she’d let him down. Bridget screwed up all her courage into one tight little fist and confessed everything.
‘I feel such a fool,’ she said. ‘I ignored it for too long, but I’ve done what I can, I’ve sold some things, but . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘That money you gave to Lauren for the deposit – that wasn’t the bond you took out when you started work, that was money I’d been saving for a rainy day. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you thinking I’d been hiding our money away. I thought you might think I’d been cheating you of it.’
‘You? Cheating me? Don’t be daft!’ Frank started, but Bridget had to carry on.
‘That was the money I was going to use to make up for the extras Lauren wanted. And I know we’ve both been a bit spendthrift lately – that camcorder you got, for instance, and my lovely ring – and without your salary coming in . . . It’s added up.’
There, she thought. I’ve said it. It’s out.
They sat without speaking in the dim streetlight. Bridget noted there weren’t any lights on inside the house, so Lauren must still be round with Chris.
Poor love, she thought, wishing it could be her taking the hurt for her.
‘No, it’s me that’s the fool,’ said Frank eventually. ‘I feel a right idiot. It’s my fault for just handing over that cash without checking it through with you first. I’d no business doing that. I should have known you’d not let a sum of money like that just sit there. Well, she’ll just have to give it back.’
‘Frank! She can’t!’
He turned to her. ‘She’ll have to, love. What else can we do?’
Bridget rubbed her forehead. ‘No, don’t. I think she and Chris might decide to put off the wedding. That’s where she is now, talking to him. He’s . . .’ She hesitated, not sure how much Lauren would want her to say. ‘She’s not sure if she wants to go through with it. It’d be too mean to take this off her as well. Maybe we can do some kind of buy-to-let arrangement, I don’t know.’
‘Really?’ Frank looked stricken, and the money worries vanished, as the awful vision of a heartbroken Lauren filled his mind. He thought of some of the things he’d said to her, not realising what she must have been hiding. ‘Is that what tonight was all about? Oh, I could cut out my stupid tongue.’
Bridget took his hand. ‘You wouldn’t hurt her for the world. She knows that.’
‘I still feel . . . Oh, God.’ Frank shook his head, as if that might break through the fog of emotion and let him find words. It didn’t. All he could see was his little girl, weeping on his shoulder over something he couldn’t make better for her. ‘I’m a stupid, insensitive man,’ he said, thickly.
‘Come here,’ said Bridget, seeing tears shine in his eyes. She pulled his body into hers over the handbrake, something she hadn’t done since they were courting. ‘I’m the one who should be crying. Keeping secrets from you, like that.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Bridge?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t have bellowed at you. I wouldn’t have thrown you out!’
‘I didn’t want you to worry. And I was too proud to have you think less of me. After forty years!’ Bridget gulped. ‘You’d think you’d grow out of silliness like that!’
Frank held her at arms’ length so she could see how serious his face was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Frank cry. He didn’t cry when the children were born, or when his dad died. He didn’t even cry when England won the Ashes. But now there were silvery tear tracks down his cheeks, shining in the orange streetlight, picking out the craggy, weathered lines of a face she knew as well as her own. Better, in fact.
His skin might be more wrinkled, she thought, but those are the same gentle eyes that smiled at me in our English O-level class. Did he still see the teenager in her face? Behind the glasses and the crow’s-feet?
Frank gazed at her in the dim streetlight, and finally said, ‘There’s nothing you could do that’d stop me loving you, Bridget. We’re a team, you and me. We’ll sort out this debt, and we’ll help Lauren, and we’ll have no more secrets, eh? No more.’
Then he pulled her into his chest, and they kissed each other like teenagers, albeit teenagers with dodgy hips and bifocals, glad of the other’s warmth and familiar, comforting smell.
The daft bugger, she thought. It couldn’t be put right that easily, Bridget knew, but for the moment, all she wanted was to hear Frank say it would be, and to feel his arms round her, forgiving her, reassuring her that they’d face it together.
32
The next morning, Ross was changed into his smarter clothes again for his ‘day off’: a dark pair of jeans and the cashmere jumper Katie had given him for Christmas, over a T-shirt. He was making an effort, clearly, but not for her. Even more heartbreakingly, he had a buoyancy about him that had everything to do with getting out of the house on his own.
‘I’ll take Hannah to school, then drop Jack at nursery,’ he informed Katie, slicing up Hannah’s toast into soldiers. ‘Jo’s going to pick everyone up from nursery and school so they can go off to an early bonfire party, so if you want to collect the kids from hers on your way home, she’s happy to give them some tea.’
‘We’re having sparklers!’ Hannah informed her.
‘Wow! Lucky you!’ said Katie, then asked Ross, ‘What time are you going to be home?’
It felt weird, even asking.
‘Not sure,’ said Ross.
‘Well, can you
be
sure?’ she asked, tetchily. ‘I mean, will it be before the kids go to bed?’
Ross gave her a sarcastic look, and she realised he was getting her back for all the evenings she hadn’t been able to put an exact time on her return.
She changed tack, trying to keep her voice cheerful. ‘So, what are your plans?’
‘Oh, you know, I’m going to talk to some people about work, then Jo and I are having lunch.’ He dumped the toast on the plate. ‘Hannah, jam or marmalade?’
Katie had the feeling that was all she was going to get, and left it, miserably, at that.
At work, she waited until Eddie was hovering around the office opposite hers, exchanging golf-related pleasantries with Nick Felix, and then called the office that dealt with listed-building applications.
‘Yes, it’s about the Memorial Hall,’ she said in a loud voice, watching as Eddie’s ears pricked up. ‘I was wondering if there was . . . Oh, you have? Seventeen letters? I had no idea . . .’
Eddie marched in and glared at her.
‘Well, that does put a different complexion on things,’ said Katie, pulling a clownish frown. ‘I’ll have to filter that back to the information gatherers. Who’s applied for an events licence? For what?’
‘What?’ mouthed Eddie, leaning over her desk.
‘For a charity ball?’ She raised her eyebrows in a ‘fancy that!’ gesture. ‘Really? Historic significance . . .’
Bridget had been busy, obviously; it sounded as though she’d done everything short of calling the BBC.
Eddie didn’t waste time. ‘What the hell’s that about?’ he demanded, almost before she’d put the phone down.
‘Looks like there might be problems getting demolition orders on that Memorial Hall,’ said Katie.
‘But the roof’s rotten!’ exploded Eddie.
‘Well, apparently there’s now some Friends of the Hall fund-raising group been set up,’ said Katie, innocently. ‘To fix it. For posterity.’
‘Really?’ He gave her a suspicious look. ‘In the last few weeks, perhaps? That’s a coincidence.’
‘Oh, I think it’s more in use than the initial surveyors realised,’ she said. ‘Probably been meaning to do something about it for ages. It’s a lovely old place, Eddie, very romantic. Have you ever had a look round?’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘It’s just an old building, Kate. And one that’s in the way of a very important new housing development.’
‘The new housing can go in several different places, though,’ she heard herself say. ‘Can’t it?’
Eddie’s expression wobbled in surprise.
I’ve been so wrong, thought Katie, running myself ragged getting my self-respect from pleasing morons like Eddie. That’s what you do when you’re twenty, and you don’t know any better. ‘People obviously love it,’ she went on. ‘Sometimes it takes a big crisis to get them galvanised into writing these letters.’
‘And how would they know there is a big crisis?’ Eddie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Unless someone leaked plans of the development?’
‘Who knows?’ said Katie, and smiled, sphinxishly. ‘I’ll look into it.’
At lunchtime, Katie skipped her usual egg mayo baguette and headed straight for the Memorial Hall, her silver shoes in her bag.
Although she was thinking about the councillors and the developers as she walked, she certainly wasn’t expecting to see them standing right outside the Hall.
Nick Felix was tapping dubiously on an outside wall, clipboard in hand, with a couple of men in suits. They were all wearing hard hats.
When he saw Katie, a furtive look spread over his face.
‘Kate?’ he said. ‘I, er, did Eddie send you?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘I’m here to use the Hall.’
‘You’re not here to do the assessment, then?’ one of the developers asked.
‘No.’ Katie refused to feel guilty. Let Nick report back on her. So what if she had an interest in the place? So did lots of other locals – that was the whole point.
‘Don’t let us keep you,’ Nick said smoothly, making a ‘do go in’ gesture with his hand, and, pushing her suspicions to one side for a moment, Katie marched through the doors.
Angelica was already there, wearing her red dancing shoes as she stepped slowly around the Hall, staring up at the stained-glass windows, lost in her own thoughts.
When Katie coughed, she spun round with her usual grace, and smiled to see her, then smiled directly at her silver shoes and the red lipstick Katie had hastily swiped on in the vestibule, using the reflection in a framed Coronation Ball programme as a mirror.
‘Wonderful!’ she said. ‘I did wonder if you’d come.’
‘The new me,’ said Katie. ‘As of today, I fit work round my commitments, not the other way round.’
‘Let’s not waste any of your lunchbreak, then, eh? Now, the first thing I want you to do,’ said Angelica, standing next to Katie and taking her hand, ‘is put everything you
think
you know about tango right out of your head. The rose between the teeth, the silly head-flicking – that’s not what this is about. That’s just tea-room nonsense, really, no sex, please, we’re English. Tango Argentino is the real thing – think about gauchos and prostitutes, and hot, steamy rooms. It’s not about falling in love, like the waltz or the foxtrot, it’s about
making
love. But you’ve got to commit yourself to it, otherwise it just doesn’t work.’
She gave Katie a stern look. ‘No half-measures, Katie. Tango is a dance you have to lose yourself in. Be someone else.’
‘Right,’ said Katie.
Although, it might be easier after a few drinks. Already this was seeming less of a good idea.
No, she told herself. You’ve got to try.
Angelica seemed to see her hesitation, and shook her hand encouragingly. ‘I know you can do this! Now, I want you to imagine you’re like a big cat, with nice loose limbs, prrrrowling for a man.’ She stretched out her long leg, making a languorous line as she drew her foot slowly back to close. ‘Seductive. Body conscious. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Katie, obediently, though it felt stupid.
‘Now, there’s not much to learn, you’ll be pleased to hear. The basic step is called a salida.’ Angelica took one slow step forward on her left foot, drew her right foot slinkily next to it, slowly slid back past it with her left foot, then closed with two quick steps and a slow. ‘Like a backwards c shape. And again.’
She did it again, this time with Katie following her, mirroring the sway of her hips.
‘Slide your feet,’ said Angelica, ‘sloooower, slinkier. And again.’
They did it over and over again, until Katie was sure she had the pattern right. It wasn’t hard, and with Angelica teaching just her on her own, she didn’t feel as self-conscious either.
‘Fabulous, I think you’ve got that. Now, the hold.’ Angelica put her arm round Katie, and took her hand, keeping eye contact as she pulled them close together. ‘This is where it’s a bit of a disadvantage learning with your female teacher, I’m afraid. There isn’t a formal hold, because it’s not a formal dance, it’s very improvised. You’re much more intimate, much more connected to your partner’s body. It has to be close, because most of the steps involve you playing around with your partner’s legs.’
‘Really?’ said Katie. ‘Don’t you fall over?’
Angelica laughed. ‘No. No, it’s part of the struggle of the dance. Anyway, he’ll be very focused on keeping upright. So let’s try those steps together . . .’
And she set off, walking outside Katie’s backwards steps, counting the slows and the quicks. They went round and round, then Angelica angled them off to the side, and round again and back, and soon Katie was remembering to slide her feet, and when Angelica tipped her backwards, she actually felt herself lean into it.
Like she was doing her own thing, not following instructions. And that was something she’d never felt in any of the other dances. A flicker of excitement rippled through her.