‘Hello, Miss Johnson.’ He guffaws loudly. I’ve always wondered what a guffaw sounds like and this definitely is one; it’s kind of like a cross between a laugh and a snort but very nasal. ‘It’s always a pleasure to meet beautiful ladies and you two little dazzlers are friends, aren’t you?’
‘Erm, yes,’ I utter, trying not to catch Mel’s eye as I’m sure I’m going to laugh. He’s such an odd mix of arrogance and pretentious old-fashioned obsequiousness.
‘And your lovely friend, Mandy isn’t it, informs me you’ve a glamorous job working for Modiste. Are you a model then?’ He leans in hopefully, peering at me in a totally obvious way, his horribly stale breath hitting me like a wall. I take a step back; I also hate people in my personal space – I have an invisible bubble round me that I need respected unless I really like the person. I glance at Mel whose red face makes it obvious that she’s struggling to control herself. I send a silent message to her that I’m going to get my own back at some point, though I guess she has to have some fun, this was my idea after all.
‘So, where do you work?’ I ask politely, hoping this will distract the geeky guy. I couldn’t have chosen a subject in which he excels more.
‘I’m a technical programmer at Dafco Systems,’ he says proudly. ‘Name’s Rob, Rob Bright. Bright by name and bright by nature.’ He snorts at his pun, which is a bit of luck as no-one else finds it funny, especially not me as a little piece of his spit has landed on my cheek and I’m trying surreptitiously to remove it without seeming rude.
Rob continues, oblivious. ‘Of course I’m blessed to have the MD, Richard Simms, as my advisor. You know, Richard Simms, Head of Dafco and heir to the Dafco fortune. He’s my mentor and good enough to look out for me generally. I’ve been to his family estate no fewer than ten times for dinner and he always sends a car so I can have a drink.’
‘Wow,’ I respond, because there isn’t a lot else to say. ‘Does he live near here?’
‘His estate is only three miles from my house in Marlow. Of course, he has several properties but that is his main residence. He’s chess champion for Bromwich and we have some very exciting evenings, I can tell you, pitting our wits against each other.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ I murmur, desperately trying to avoid Mel’s eye because I might burst out laughing.
‘I used to go to chess club when I was at school,’ Mel pipes up suddenly, rather surprisingly. It goes to show you never know about people really.
‘Oh,’ Rob says in a disinterested tone; he obviously likes to be top dog. ‘Did you play for the county?’
‘No not really, but I wasn’t bad.’ Mel winks at me.
Welcome back to the Mel I know and love, I think, smiling to myself. Only I could come to a Regency evening and meet the world’s greatest chess-playing nerdy guy.
Chapter 8
A violin strikes up the opening bars of a cheery melody played by a small group of musicians who have been inconspicuously setting up behind us. Emma claps her hands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you like to choose your partner and join us for a Regency dance lesson?’ she announces.
‘Not really,’ Mel mutters, backing towards a nearby wall, presumably hoping to hide there unnoticed. To my amazement, Nick Palmer-Wright walks past with Chloe following, takes her hand and stands in the line of dancers already in the middle of the room.
Rob turns to Emma with an atrociously camp mock bow. ‘May I have the honour of this dance, madam?’
‘Oh no,’ she says decisively. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to dance as I have things to attend to, but I’m sure Sophie or Mel might like to join in.’
‘Of course,’ Rob acquiesces, taking a step nearer me with an ingratiating smile, revealing a row of crooked slightly off-white teeth. Obviously dental hygiene isn’t very high on his agenda. ‘Would madam care to dance with me?’
‘Erm, well…’ Darn, I’m always rubbish at thinking up excuses on the spot, must make a mental note of reasons for not dancing for future occasions, write them in a notebook and memorise them. ‘Oh yes, that would be lovely,’ I reply. Oh God, now I’ll have to dance with this creep. Why couldn’t I think of an excuse?
Rob holds out his hand, which has slightly too long nails, and we walk to the dance floor.
A lady in Regency dress stands at the top of the room accompanied by a rather depressed-looking middle-aged bewhiskered gentleman in leggings and boots. ‘Now John and I will lead the steps round the room, so keep your eyes on us. I will call out the next moves in a clear voice so you can follow.’ I have no doubt of this; the woman is sturdily built with the kind of booming voice that could probably penetrate a soundproof room. ‘I’m Jane and this is John.’ For some reason this makes me unaccountably want to laugh.
The woman continues. ‘We are going to do a Scotch Reel, a very popular dance step from Austen’s time for all echelons of society. It is very simple, we need three or four people in a line, that’s it, and if you follow me, ladies you begin the dance, put your right foot forward first.’
We’re lined up, apparently in the style of most Regency dances with ladies on one side and men on the other. It feels all wrong in modern dress and I’m totally self-conscious. I used to do ballet but it was a long time ago and I haven’t really danced properly since, apart from clubbing at uni. Then I was always the first on the dance floor and the last off when the night ended, not even needing a drink first. This, however, is a lot more formal and I’ve no idea what I’m doing.
I glance at Chloe down the line, but she’s mouthing something at Nick opposite her, who’s in fits of laughter at whatever she’s just said. It’s great to see her having such a good time – she hasn’t looked so happy in ages. The music begins and Rob launches himself forward rocket style like a monkey with two left feet tied together.
‘Remember, ladies first,’ Jane booms. ‘Now you men come to the middle, join hands with your partners and one two three four, and back two three four.’
We concentrate dutifully and don’t do too badly, although I don’t know how on earth the actors in Austen films manage to memorise dialogue, get the timing and intonation right, and achieve the correct dance steps. There’s so much to remember.
Unfortunately Rob Bright is the most irritating and embarrassing dance partner in the world. He keeps trying to talk or catch the eye of the people around him because he has to be the centre of attention, which inevitably means he messes up the steps totally. He has a hot sweaty little paw too, which I have to grasp every so often as we meet in the middle of the dance, and I begin to long for the protection of long white Regency gloves. Perhaps that’s why they wore them, in case of revolting partners with disgusting clammy hands, I think grumpily. I catch sight of Darcy watching from the corner of the room and I’m sure he has a slight smirk as he witnesses my discomfort with the worst partner in the room.
Thank goodness Rob’s so unfit; he decides to sit out for the next dance and I’m delighted to be asked by Nick Palmer-Wright. Dancing with Nick is like riding a thoroughbred after having bumped around the field on a stubborn stocky old carthorse. Nick doesn’t have a clue about the steps but at least he has some idea of rhythm and we laugh companionably at each other’s stumbling attempts at these Regency moves.