“It’s just the town hall,” I explain, trying to see this, too, through his eyes. “Although I think it might have been a dance hall at some point, back in the day. I’m sure I remember Dad saying something about that. Hey, maybe your great-grandfather came here when he was in town?”
“Maybe he did.” The thought makes his face light up. “Let’s pretend he did,” he says, grinning down at me. “Let’s pretend he stood on this exact spot, with a cute English girl he’d just bumped into in the village, and then they went inside to dance.”
“And then they lived happily ever after?” I say, my heart keeping time with the fast pace of the music as I wonder where he’s going with this.
“Well, no, I guess not,” he says apologetically. “I don’t think my great-grandmother would’ve appreciated that somehow, and she was from Boca Raton, so…”
“Ah. Maybe not, then.”
I stuff my hands into my coat pockets, trying not to be too disappointed at the idea of this completely fictional mini-romance not ending well. Elliot, however, is undaunted.
“Let’s do it,” he says, his eyes shining as he holds out his hand. “Let’s go inside and dance.”
I’m about to say I don’t really dance; which is true, as it happens — not to mention the fact that I don’t think either of us will pass as over 60s, somehow. But it strikes me now, as I stand next to him, that there are a lot of things I don’t do these days; like laughing, for instance, or falling asleep without spending at least 20 minutes worrying about imaginary scenarios that are unlikely to ever come to pass. I don’t ever really let go, and allow myself to enjoy something, without worrying about losing it.
But maybe I should.
“Sure,” I say, returning his smile as I slip my hand into his. “Why not?”
Why not indeed?
Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we walk hand-in-hand into the hall, and join the crowd of old folks on the floor, none of whom seem particularly perturbed by our presence among them.
Almost as soon as Elliot and I set foot on the dance floor, though, the music changes from a fast-paced foxtrot — or, at least, I think that’s what it is — to a slow waltz; the kind that requires you to stand close to your partner and put your arms around them.
Okay, this is definitely not how I imagined my afternoon going.
Not that I’m complaining.
“I should warn you, I’m not much of a dancer,” Elliot says softly, reaching out and pulling me towards him. I nestle easily into his arms, surprised to find that it doesn’t feel awkward at all.
It feels quite perfect, actually.
“It’s okay,” I reply, tilting my head to look up at him. “I’m not either. I guess we’ll just have to make it up as we go along.”
And so that’s what we do.
I put my hand on his shoulder, he winds his arm round my waist, and we sway together to the music, slightly out of time, but not remotely caring.
The scene is not particularly romantic. The lights in the hall are far too bright — probably due to some kind of health and safety red tape to make sure no one sues the council if they trip and fall — and Elliot and I are both still bundled up in our winter coats; me with my bag slung awkwardly across my shoulders, and him still with that tomato-red scarf of his wrapped around his neck.
It might not be romantic, but itisabsolutely perfect; and when the song comes to an end, and he leans forward and kisses me, his lips soft and warm against my snow-chilled skin, I know beyond doubt that this is one of those moments that I won’t need to redraft in my mind when I think about it later; because it’s absolutely perfect the way it is.
The kiss goes on and on; my body molding to his, and his hands coming up to gently cup my face, until the dancers around us notice the young couple kissing in their midst, and burst into a spontaneous round of applause: which still doesn’t convince us that it’s time to stop kissing.
I don’t think it’lleverbe time to stop kissing.
Idothink I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my life.
What Idon’tknow — but am destined to find out — is that pretty much everyone I know, plus a few hundred thousand people Idon’tknow, is going to remember this moment too; but ever so slightly differently, when Elliot puts it into his book, turning the 40s-themed dance into the actual 1940s, and me into a local woman with a faintly ridiculous name.
On this cold December night on my 24th year on earth, though, I have absolutely no idea that none of this is real. All I know is that I’ve just met someone who makes me feel like this Christmas might not be so bad after all. And so I reach up to wind my arms around Elliot Sinclair’s neck, and I kiss him back as if this is the start of something that might last forever.
Because I really think that it might be.
7
PRESENT
