‘Would you, eh, would you like to dance, Eleanor?’
My heart started to pump faster. Dance! Could I?
‘I’m not sure I know how,’ I said.
Keith laughed, and pulled me to my feet.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’ll be fine.’
We’d only just reached the wooden dancing area when the music changed, and he groaned.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s no way. I’m going to have to sit this one out. Birthday boy privileges!’
I watched as some people left the dance floor and others flocked to take their place. The music had a lot of brass instruments and a fast beat. Michelle, Gary’s girlfriend, beckoned me over and pulled me into a small group of women, around the same age, who smiled at me and looked very happy. I joined in with what seemed to be jigging on the spot. Some people moved their arms as though they were jogging, some people were pointing at nothing; it appeared that you were supposed to move your body around in any way you saw fit, as long as it was in time with the music, which was a steady eight beats, helpfully marked out by a drum. Then the beat changed abruptly and everyone started doing the same thing, making strange shapes with their arms above their head. It took me a moment or two to learn the shapes, and then I was able to copy them. Freeform jigging, communal shapes in the air; freeform jigging, communal shapes in the air. Dancing was easy!
I found myself not thinking about anything, sort of like how the vodka worked, but different, because I was with people and I was singing. YMCA! YMCA! Arms in the air, mimicking the letters – what a marvellous idea! Who knew that dancing could be so logical?
During the next freeform jigging section, I started to wonder why the band was singing about, presumably, the Young Men’s Christian Association, but then, from my very limited exposure to popular music, people did seem to sing about umbrellas and fire-starting and Emily Brontë novels, so, I supposed, why not a gender- and faith-based youth organization?
The song finished and another one began; this one was not nearly so much fun, being entirely freeform jigging with no communal arm patterns in between, but nevertheless I remained on the dance floor, with the same group of smiling women, feeling that I was in the swing of things now. I was beginning to understand why people might find dancing enjoyable, although I wasn’t sure I could manage an entire evening of it. I felt a quick tap on my shoulder and turned around, expecting Raymond to be there, a smile ready as I thought how he’d like to hear about the arm-shape dance, but it wasn’t him.
It was a man in his mid to late thirties, whom I’d never met before. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, like a question, and then simply started freeform jigging in front of me. I turned back to the group of smiling women, but the circle had reformed without me. The man, red-faced, short, with the pasty look of someone who has never eaten an apple, continued to jig enthusiastically, if somewhat unrhythmically. At a loss as to how to respond, I resumed my dancing. He leaned forward and said something, which, naturally, was rendered inaudible by the volume of the music.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I shouted.
‘I said,’ he shouted, much louder than before, ‘how do you know Keith?’
What a bizarre question to ask a stranger.
‘I assisted his father when he had an accident,’ I said. I had to repeat this twice before the man understood – perhaps he had some sort of hearing impairment. When it had finally penetrated, he looked intrigued. He lunged forward towards me with what I could only describe as a leer.
‘Are you a nurse?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m a finance administration assistant.’ He seemed to be at a bit of a loss for words after that, and I looked ceiling-wards as we jigged in order to discourage further conversation; it was quite challenging to dance and speak at the same time.
When the song ended, I’d had enough for the time being, and felt in fairly urgent need of refreshment.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ the man yelled, over the top of the next song. I wondered whether the DJ had ever considered introducing a five-minute break between records, to allow people to go to the bar or the lavatory in peace. Perhaps I should suggest that to him later.
‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to accept a drink from you, because then I would be obliged to purchase one for you in return, and I’m afraid I’m simply not interested in spending two drinks’ worth of time with you.’
‘Eh?’ he said, cupping his hand around his ear. Clearly he had tinnitus or some other hearing impairment. I communicated via mime, simply shaking my head and waving my index finger, while mouthing NO. I turned around and went in search of the lavatory before he attempted any further conversation.
It was difficult to find, located down a corridor, and I could only see signs for a Powder Room. This, it eventually transpired, meant Lavatories. Why don’t people just call things what they are? It’s confusing. There was a queue, which I joined, standing behind a very inebriated woman who was dressed inappropriately for her age. I do feel that tube tops are best suited to the under twenty-fives, if, indeed, they are suited to anyone.
A sheer, sparkly jacket was doing an inadequate job of covering up her enormous, crepey bosom. Her makeup, which would have been subtle had it been intended for a stage performance in the Royal Albert Hall, had started to run. For some reason, I could imagine this woman sobbing on the stairs at the end of the night. I surprised myself with the insight, but there was something rather febrile about her demeanour which led one to this conclusion.
‘How much of your life do you think you’ve wasted queuing for the bogs?’ she asked, conversationally. ‘They never have enough of them, do they?’
I didn’t speak, as I was trying to calculate the approximate queuing time, but she didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t responded.
‘It’s all right for the men, isn’t it?’ she went on, in an angry tone. ‘There’s never a queue for the gents. Sometimes I feel like just going in there, squatting over the urinal. Ha!’ she said. ‘Imagine their faces!’ She laughed, a long smoky laugh that turned into a protracted cough.
‘Oh, but I think it would be terribly unhygienic in the gentlemen’s toilets,’ I said. ‘They don’t seem to mind so much about cleanliness and that sort of thing.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice full of bitterness, ‘they just come in, piss everywhere and then waltz off, leaving someone else to clean up after them.’ She gazed unsteadily off into the distance, clearly with a specific individual in mind.
‘I feel quite sorry for them, actually,’ I said. She glared at me, and I hurried to clarify my statement. ‘I mean, imagine having to micturate in a row, alongside other men, strangers, acquaintances, friends, even? It must be dreadful. Just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!’
She belched, very gently, and stared with uninhibited frankness at my scars. I turned my head away.
‘You’re a bit mental, aren’t you?’ she said, not in the least aggressively, but slurring her words somewhat. It was hardly the first time I’d heard this.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, I suppose I am.’ She nodded, like I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. We didn’t talk after that.
When I returned to the function suite, the mood had changed – the pace of the music was slower. I went to the bar and bought myself a Magners and a vodka and cola, and, after a moment’s thought, a pint of beer for Raymond. It was quite tricky to carry it all back to our little table, but I managed without spilling a drop. I was glad to sit down, after all the jigging and queuing, and finished my vodka in two gulps – dancing was thirsty work. Raymond’s denim coat was still slung over the back of his chair, but there was no sign of him. I thought he had perhaps gone outside to smoke. I had a lot to tell him, about the dancing, about the queue lady, and I was looking forward to doing so.