The organiser shouts, “And Mr and Mrs Hazelwood.” Just as the band starts a fast rendition of theCancan.
Almost immediately, we’re separated, men and women in two lines facing each other. Lessa still looks panic-stricken and keeps her head slightly down so her long hair curtains her face.
The organiser signals a start, and the women quickly step forward, shaking the hems of their skirts above their knees. It’s easy enough to copy, step, shake, step, shake until the line reaches the men and twirls to face the same way. Lessa, next to me now, whispers, “I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”
There’s no time to answer because the men’s line moves forward in a sequence of fast steps, arms folded at shoulder level. It isn’t too different from a Cossack dance, and I can squat and kick my leg out as well as the next man. It isn’t exactly right but close enough and makes people look at me instead of Lessa.
By the time the men reach the other end of the floor and rise to face the women, I’m breathing faster and something of the energetic dance and lively music has transformed my mood. I laugh as Lessa widens her eyes at me. When it’s the women’s turn to advance, she lets herself go, kicking her legs high.
This goes on, getting more and more energetic. By the time the band reaches a crescendo and finishes, both Lessa and I collapse in each other’s arms breathing very hard. “Jesus.” She gasps. “Who needs a treadmill?”
The dance ends with us on the far side of the dance floor away from the journalist, but I keep her close, with her face turned into my body.
Other couples are hugging and cheering while the organiser calls out names.
“Have the journalists gone or are we going to have to do a lot more of this dancing?” She asks.
I grab her and swivel us both slightly so I can look over her head. “They’re still here, but they’re busy talking to the winners.”
She looks up at me. “You mean we didn’t win the Cancan?”
She can still make jokes? I snort a laugh. “I think it’s a safe bet that we are no credit to the art of French folk dance.”
“Damn, and I showed off my legs for nothing “
“What do you mean, for nothing? I, for one, was very grateful.”
She gives me a mock smack on the chest. “Shame on you.”
Shame on me, indeed. Then something changes inside me. I don’t know if it’s the jokey teasing, the music or my awareness of how scared she is, but something shifts. What would it cost me to put myself out a little?
The band starts tuning up, but the journalists have drifted away to the next stand. I follow them with my eyes. This is as good a time as any to slip away.
“Come on, wife, I’d better take you home before you get into any more trouble.”
Chapter Twelve
Brandon
I’m not cut out for manual labour. And digging up weeds is backbreaking. The only thing that can be said in its favour is that it’s helping with my vow of celibacy. By the time the sun sets, I’m usually too tired to even think about sex.
And that’s my priority at the moment. Of the ten wishes in Liam’s list, too many are yet to be started. The vow of celibacy is at least in progress; even if the last two months felt more like twenty-two years, so it had better stick because I’m not startingthatagain. And this is the problem about Lessa.
“Tea?”
Right on cue, as if she could read my mind.
Dropping the shovel, I stand up slowly, a hand pressed into the small of my back, and turn around.
She’s wearing her usual cascade of red curls and a lively glint in her blue eyes. Also, clothes, obviously, but I do my best not to let my eyes wander below her neck. She’s still slim, so you can’t tell she’s pregnant. Her ribbed jumpers and leggings hug her figure as if they were in love with her.
She waits for me to remove my gardening gloves then hands me one steaming mug.
“Your electricians have finished and said to tell you they’ll be back when you have the new switches.” She wraps both hands around her own mug and lifts it to her mouth. I make myself look away.
“Switches, right! They mentioned this before, but I forgot.”
Liam wanted me to do the work myself, another of his requests that I’m halfway through. Weeding and digging until my legs, arms, shoulders, even my eyebrows ache, but I draw the line at falling off the roof or electrocuting myself. So, I’ve hired two builders, Trevor and Terrence Malon, nice men who seem honest and know their stuff. I trust them to do the work, and they trust me to buy things like tiles, door handles, and light switches. I seriously hope they’re more trustworthy than me because I keep forgetting to buy things on time.
