“Seriously, I will.”
“Don’t write cheques you can’t cash.”
Shit.
“I gotta go. Stay safe in Bolivia.” With that, he hangs up. I end the call and tap my phone on my forehead a few times as penance. I am the world’s worst brother. My own niece doesn’t even know me.
I start dialing Rosy’s number so I can apologize and beg her forgiveness, but Gregory clears his throat. I turn, hoping he didn’t hear any of that. “We really should resume our lessons, sir.”
“Of course,” I tell him, pocketing my phone and following him into the ballroom.
I put on a grin and pretend everything is fine, even though I’ve hurt everyone who matters to me in the world, other than my fiancée. Speaking of her, I can’t help but feel irritation clawing at my insides when I think of my future bride. She really should have told me she was sending the handbooks so I could tell her not to. Also, she didn’t tell me my family would be at the meeting. And, possibly worst of all, I am starting to second-guess whether my future is going to be anywhere close to what I want it to be, because so far, things arevery muchthe opposite.
Gregory and I make our way over to the table to go over the settings again. After I go through each piece of cutlery, getting them all wrong of course, he says, "Try not to get discouraged, sir. I'm throwing a lot at you at once, but we don't have to learn it all in one day. We've got several months to practice. You'll have this all down pat in plenty of time."
I nod and offer him a grateful smile, even though inside I'm calculating the actual number of weeks that I'll be here over the next six months, and it only adds up to about four. But, truth be told, four weeks is probably all I can stand of this. Four well-spaced-out weeks. I glance at my watch. Oh, bollocks, it’s only noon. I was hoping it was almost four in the afternoon so we could be done already.
"Perhaps now would be a good time to practice with actual food,” Gregory says. “I've taken the liberty of ordering a four-course lunch. I thought maybe if you saw the tools in action, it might stick a little better. While we’re waiting, why don't we take a break from meals and move on to proper bowing order at the second station?”
I glance over at the grouping of chairs with pieces of paper taped to the backs of them, each with the names of my future in-laws on it. I stand and make my way over. "Okay, let's do this."
Two hours later, I have bowed until I can feel it in my hamstrings and consumed a heavy lunch including Peking Duck Consommé, Escargots with Shallot Mousse and Parsley Coulis, Beef Wellington with a side of French beans, and a strawberry tart on a Breton shortbread-style base withCrème à la Verveine(whatever that is) for dessert. And now that I’m about to slip into a food coma, my ballroom dance instructor has shown up—an extremely tall, thin, middle-aged woman dressed in a flowy light blue gown, along with a short woman who looks like she’s in her eighties.
Gregory rushes over to meet them. "Madame Truffaut, Mrs. Murphy. Lovely to see you again."
After they give each other quick air kisses, Gregory turns and introduces me and tells me Mme. Truffaut is one of the best dance instructors in the kingdom and Mrs. Murphy is her pianist. Mrs. Murphy gives me a bored nod, then makes a beeline for the grand piano in the corner while Mme. Truffaut hurries toward me as though she knows there's no time to lose. "Mr. Banks, look at you!” She says in a thick French accent.
Oh, this is weird. She’s squeezing my biceps. And now she’s pressing both hands to my chest as she looks me up and down. I feel totally violated. I don’t think I want to learn to dance after all.
Finally, her eyes come back to mine and she removes her hands from my body. “Yes, we’ve got a lot to work with here. Have you had any formal dance training?"
Yes, yes, I have. A lot actually. In fact, this should be the easiest part of my day. “My family's resort offers salsa lessons, so I used to stand in for guests without a partner from time to time. I can do a mean salsa,” I tell her with a broad smile.
Her expression morphs from overly excited to utter disdain. "No, salsa is no good. What about the waltz? Surely you must know this?"
I shake my head.
"Tango? Foxtrot? Quickstep?”
As she lists them off on her fingers, I continue to shake my head.
“Never mind,” she says, glancing at my pecs again.Eyes up here, lady.“I’m sure you’re going to be a quick study. Let us waltz like lovers.”
Oh no. Let us not.
Okay, so according to the clock it’s only been an hour, but it feels like at least six years since this ‘dance lesson’ started. If you could call it that. It’s more like me being repeatedly groped by a horny French woman under the guise of teaching me to waltz. Oh, and to make matters worse, she alternates between groping and yelling at me when I mess up. I’ve stepped on her toes at least a dozen times now and each time it happens, she mutters, "Ouch!Merde,” or my favourite, “Toi idiot!” which causes me to get more flustered, which means I inevitably do it again, only sooner this time. You know what else has me flustered? Her hand on my left buttock. I should really have some sort of signal for Reynard when I’m being sexually violated.
Like, right now.
Seriously, no one else sees this? She’s kneading my cheek.Kneading!
I let go of her and jump back, yelling, “I’m getting married!”
Mrs. Murphy stops playing, and the room goes dead silent.
“Yes, I know this. It is why we are doing these lessons,” Mme. Truffaut tells me, shaking her head.
Lowering my voice, I say, “Isthatreally necessary?”
