“What?” she asks, looking completely confused, even though I know damn well she knows what she was doing.
“You were kneading my butt cheek. I don’t see how that is going to help me learn to waltz.”
“Kneading? What is this word?” she asks loudly.
I mime the action of kneading. “You know? Like what you do to bread dough? Squeezing? Kneading.”
She stares at me for a second, looking like I just slapped her in the face. “You think I’m…how you say…hitting on you?”
“A little bit, yeah,” I say. “Isn’t your right hand supposed to be on my shoulder, not my rear end?”
“But, of course it would be if we weredancing, but I do this to try to get you to relax so you can feel the flow of the music,” she says, then she bursts out laughing. “You think I want to make sex with you?”
My face heats up with humiliation because she basically yelled that, and I can practically feel the wind from Gregory’s jaw dropping. “No, I didn’t—”
“You silly Avonians. So uptight when it comes to the body. It is not working when I touch your bottom?”
‘No. In fact, it’s having the opposite effect.”
The doors to the ballroom open, and in walks Arabella. There’s a part of me that wants to rush over to her and tell on Mme. Handsy. She’d put a stop to it. No, wait. I’m an adult and I’m already doing that.
Arabella grins at me, then spots Mme. Truffaut and her eyes light up. They hurry toward each other with their arms out for a long embrace. Then they start speaking in French while I listen carefully for my name in case my dance instructor is telling Arabella to call the whole thing off.He is a complete buffoon. He thinks I want to make sex with him. Also, he is a terrible dancer. Do not marry him, cheri.
And now Arabella is probably saying, “Yes, I know, but I already said yes so I can’t get out of it now.”
They link arms and walk in my direction, still chatting excitedly. When they reach me, Arabella says, "Darling, you areso luckyto have Mme. Truffaut. She taught me ballet and ballroom for what?" she asks, turning to Mme. Truffaut. "Twelve years?"
Twelve years? Poor Arabella’s bottom.
"At least. The princess is a pleasure to work with—such a quick study," she tells me. "If she were not already a royal with important humanitarian work to do, she most certainly could have danced for the Avonian National Ballet."
"She's being very kind, I assure you," Arabella says. “So? How are the lessons coming? I'm sure Will is sailing through at record pace since he's one of the most coordinated people I've met."
Mme. Truffaut lets her eyes land on my torso again and says something in French, but I distinctly hear a word that sounds timid.
“No,” Arabella answers. “Not at all inhibited.” She looks up at me. “Are you all right, darling? Mme. Truffaut thinks you are not enjoying your lesson? Is something making you nervous?”
Uh, yeah. Mme. Gropey over here is making me pretty damn nervous. “There was one little thing, but I think Mme. Truffaut and I were just about to sort that out actually.”
“Brilliant!” Arabella says. “Can I watch?”
Are you kidding me? Please, floor, open up and swallow me whole. I have to get out of here.
“Certainement,” Mme. Truffaut says, snapping her fingers at poor Mrs. Murphy. The music starts up again and we take our positions. This time, Mme. Truffaut puts her hands where they should go.
Things start out well enough, with her counting out the steps. I’m keeping up and starting to feel like I might have it. Then, she squeezes my upper arm and makes a little moaning sound which causes me to jerk back while letting out a high-pitched yipping sound like a little girl.
The music stops mid-bar and Arabella, who is standing only a few feet away, says, “Oh dear. I see what you mean, Mme. He is extremely tense.”
Mme. Gropy nods. “Perhaps we should end for today and try again when he is not so afraid of waltzing.”
Afraid?I’m not afraid of waltzing. I’ve jumped off the Cascata del Salto in Switzerland, for God’s sake.
Before I can set the record straight, she pats me on the arm. “Not everyone can have the heart of a dancer, but if we work together twice a week for the next year, you should be almost passable."
Arabella's face drops. "I’m afraid we won’t have that much time. The date has been set as June third and Will is going to be away a lot between now and the wedding.”
The older woman bursts out laughing, then glances at Arabella and stops short. "You're serious.”
