And then, when I’m almost down to the last stanza, I hear Philip’s voice in my head.
When are we going to take those dancing lessons, Lizzie?
I’m dancing again now, Philip. I’m dancing now!
I belt out the last part of the song with everything I have.
Two more lines.
I’ve torn off the skirt. Can I take more off?
Oh gosh...
It’s now or never. My row waits for their cue. This isn’t about the male gaze. I might love this crowd, but I’m not doing this for them. I’m doing this for me. I put everything into the last line.
And I rip the corset off as the crowd erupts in cheers and whistles.
“You were brilliant!” Tyler gushes as he hands August and me to-go cartons of the bar’s lamb scouse and walks us out to our waiting Uber. Both he and Gertie were beyond pleased and wanted me to stay longer to hang out with the cast. Unfortunately, it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I texted Ms. Fernsby and Henry to let them know I’m safe and fine, and I would be late. I told Ms. Fernsby not to wait up for me. But I’m losing steam now. The excitement of dancing, the adrenaline rush from the touch of stage fright, and likely the gummy have worn off.
“Tonight was wonderful, a beautiful dream,” I say to Tyler as he kisses me on the cheek goodbye. He’s wearing a long jacket over his costume in the cool night air. I’ve changed back into my own clothes, but the spell isn’t broken. Although exhausted, I’m deliriously happy.
“Ab-so-lutely!”Tyler says as we hug. We’ve already exchanged numbers and plan to stay in touch. After August andI load into the car, Tyler pulls one of the ostrich fans out from inside his jacket. “Here, take this. As a souvenir.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, smiling. “But you need to promise me you’ll use it again.”
“I promise,” I say, taking the fan and squeezing his hand one more time before the car window goes up. I catch a glimpse of the wrist tattoo again. He blows us a kiss and turns to walk back into Fin de Siècle as the Uber drives away.
Both of us starving, August and I dig into the cartons of steaming scouse; warm bites of lamb, carrots, and gravy flood my mouth.
“You’re welcome,” August says cheekily after a big bite of stew.
Like me, he’s back into his normal clothes, but hasn’t washed off the eyeliner yet.
“Thank you. I needed that more than you know.”
As we pull up to the row house, we stuff the empty cartons and plastic spoons into the trash bag. I move to get out of the car, and he lightly touches my arm. “Late-morning coffee in Westminster tomorrow morning—eleven o’clock-ish?”
I smile. “You bet.”
18
After a very good night’s sleep, I wake up feeling refreshed. If it weren’t for the used makeup remover wipes all over the bathroom countertop, my sore muscles, and the ostrich fan on my nightstand, I would have thought I dreamed last night. But I didn’t, and I remember every remarkable detail from my time at Fin de Siècle. Tyler, the dancers, the audience. I tapped into a part of myself I’ve left dormant for twenty years, and now I know why Philip gently nudged me over and over to dance again.
After taking a long Epson salt bath for my muscles, I walk downstairs, pour a cup of coffee and sort through my mail at the kitchen island. Heathcliff sits beside me eating one of Ms. Fernsby’s perfectly rolled chocolate crepes. Ms. Fernsby had been asleep when I got back, but she told me she’d leave her phone on in case I needed her. This morning, she had a gardening club meeting, so it’s just me and Heathcliff and the crepes.
I sign the film rights and then the book contract and put them back in the mail. (I’m still loving my no-email policy.)Then I pour another mug of coffee and take a bite of crepe. Ms. Fernsby’s crepes are not only meticulously shaped, like something on the cover of aGreat British Baking Showcookbook, but the subtle flavors of cognac, coffee, and chocolate blend deliciously in the whipped filling.
“I miss Uncle Ian and Grandpa,” Heathcliff says, chocolate staining his upper lip and the front of his pajamas. “When can we see them?”
I picture Dad, alone in his den eating Twinkies and struggling miserably through the Match app.
“This fall. Maybe Thanksgiving?”
“Sure,” he says, licking his fork one more time and then running to the parlor to watch cartoons.
Suddenly, I’m longing to be with Dad, to support him now as he’s supported me. I’d test bake a thousand lasagnas with him just to try to get one as perfect as Mom’s.
