I thought of several smart replies to that and in the end just nodded and smiled.
‘Maybe I should. What about tomorrow?’
She stood up and pulled me to my feet.
‘Let me see…I’m going to a wedding on Saturday. I’ve got shopping to do tomorrow lunchtime. Hen night in the evening, recovering the night after. And sorting out dresses and stuff.’ She mimed a curtsy. ‘How d’you fancy coming along to the dance at the reception? Saturday evening.’
‘That sounds great! Thanks.’
She peeled a sheet of paper from a pad and scribbled on it. ‘Place, time, bus routes,’ she said, handing it to me.
‘Thanks very much. OK, I’ll see you there then.’
We found ourselves at the door.
‘We still have to say goodnight,’ she said, and made good on it.
The reception was in a hotel in a part of Glasgow I hadn’t been before, reached by a succession of buses through parts of Glasgow I didn’t know existed. They looked like a war had been lost there: entire blocks and streets razed or ruinous, street-lamps smashed, derelicts or wild kids around fires…
I later learned that this was the result of a road-building programme disguised as a housing policy, but at the time – sitting in the smoke-filled top deck of the bus in a suit I normally wore only for interviews – I indulged in some enjoyably pessimistic thoughts about the breakdown of civilisation. As the bus wended on, however, the islands of darkness became less frequent and I eventually hopped off in a residential area in front of a reassuringly bright and noisy hotel. I followed the light and noise to the function suite where I found a scene just like a disco except that most people were wearing something like Sunday best and the age range approximated a normal distribution curve.
Around the edges of the room were tables, a buffet with food and trays of drinks, and a bar at the far end. I picked up a glass of whisky at the buffet and looked around for Annette. The music stopped, a dance ended, people moved on to or off the floor.
Annette came out of the crowd as if it were parting just for her – for a moment, it seemed a spotlight had caught her, so that she shone, while everyone around her dimmed. Her hair was circled with leaves and small red roses, and her dress started with a frill at the throat and ended with a flounce at the floor. It was likewise rose-patterned, red on green on black, and over it she wore an organza pinafore with ruffles from the waist to over each shoulder, the tapes wrapped to a bow at the front. Her face, flushed by the dance, was smiling. As she stopped in front of me I smelt her strong, sweet perfume.
‘Hi, Jon, you got a fag?’ she said. ‘I’m gasping.’
As I lit the cigarette for her she caught my hand and pulled me to a seat by a table. She dragged up another chair and sat down facing me, our knees almost touching through the rustling mass of her skirts.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ she said. A passing waiter offered her a tray – she reached past the expected wine and lifted a shot of whisky. ‘Thanks for coming.’
I raised my glass. ‘Thank you. You look different. Beautiful.’
‘Aw, gee, thanks.’
‘Beautiful in a different way,’ I hastened to add.
She gave a quirky smile to indicate that she was only pretending to misunderstand.
‘You didn’t mention that you were a bridesmaid,’ I said.
‘Didn’t want to scare you off.’
I laughed, unsure what to make of this. ‘I like your dress,’ I said.
She leaned closer and said in a gossiping whisper: ‘So do I. I dug in my heels to get one that I could wear again for parties, so after long discussions with Irene – that’s the bride, went to school with her – we settled on this nice little Laura Ashley number. Then she decided it wasn’t icky and brides-maidy enough, so she got her Mum to run up this thing.’ She flicked disdainfully at the apron frill.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘The pinny’s what makes it. You really must keep that for parties.’ I was only half teasing – there was something undeniably sexy, in an undeniably sexist way, about its trailing associations of feminine servitude.
‘Oh yeah, and get taken for a wench?’ she grinned.
‘Never,’ I said. ‘Lady, would you like to dance?’
‘Well,’ she said, considering, ‘perhaps after you’ve refilled my glass, and I’ve emptied it.’
By the time this was accomplished, more than once, Annette had introduced me to some of her friends and relatives and the dancing had changed from disco-style bopping to traditional, but much wilder, Scottish dancing. Annette drew me into it, and started flinging me about until suddenly, like a memory of a previous life, I discovered I knew the steps and the moves and was able to fling her – and the bewildering, spinning succession of other partners – about with the best of them.
As I danced, skipped, stomped, turned, twirled, lifted and swung, I tried to remember how I remembered all this, and realised it was all down to my father. His interpretation of Marxism – broad-minded even for his socially tolerant, if politically dogmatic, party – insisted on the desirabilty of culture in all its forms. Hence, piano practice and dancing classes – and, when that had led to playground taunts, boxing lessons. Hence also, the Science Museum and the BMNH and the Zoo and the theatre. He was interested in everything. He was there.
And at Hyde Park on Sundays, telling unbelieving onlookers that whatever demo-of-the-week was passing through was a complete waste of time…He thought he was turning a space-age schoolkid into a scientific socialist, but all he was doing was raising me to be as stubborn an outsider as himself.
The dances flew past as fast as the dancers, with only snatched gulps of whisky and puffs of smoke between one and the next. An eightsome reel finished the set. Annette and I leaned on each other’s shoulders with one thought between us. ‘Drink?’
‘Drink.’
We went to the bar this time, our fortuitous and fortunate position at the end of the dance getting us there ahead of the rush. Annette perched on a stool, the hang of her skirt concealing it so that she seemed suspended on air. I propped my elbow on the bar and ordered pints.
‘Well, that was something,’ I said. ‘I enjoyed that.’
‘Me too,’ Annette said. ‘Cheers.’ She sank half a pint of lager. ‘Mind you,’ she went on, ‘throwing the littlest flower-girl in the air, swinging the bride onto your hips, and carrying her granny halfway across the room weren’t all absolutely essential.’
‘Oh.’ I thought back. ‘Did I do that?’
She grinned. ‘You sure did. Made me proud. Nobody’s going to gripe now about me bringing along a strange Sassenach.’
‘I didn’t know I was a subject of debate.’
‘Well, now it’ll just be speculation.’ She winked.
‘About us?’
‘Aha,’ Annette said. ‘So there’s an “us”?’
Face suddenly serious, haloed in red and black.
‘If you choose,’ I said.
Her green eyes regarded me levelly.
‘And what do you choose?’
Around us people were shouting, reaching for drinks, brushing against us. The music was rocking again. I see and hear it only now. At the time there was nothing but her.
‘There’s no choosing,’ I said. I took a step forward and put my arms around her waist. Our foreheads touched. ‘It was all decided the second I saw you.’
‘Me too,’ she said, and we kissed. It felt strange doing it at the same height. By the time we’d finished she’d slid off the stool. She looked up at me, smiling, and said: ‘But I saw you first.’
‘So what,’ I asked in a bitter-tanged amazement, ‘have the past three months been all about?’
‘I’m like you,’ she said. ‘I want to be free.’
‘You can be free with me!’ I said. ‘Any time. Please.’