I wander in the direction of the floor, and the man I’m dying to dance with. He’s wearing trousers in a glorious clear bright red – not the classic Chelsea colour, brighter – and spins you like nothing on earth.
At the start of the evening I made a promise to myself, two in fact:
- I would not ask men to dance (test-driving the ‘don’t take the initiative’ theory), and,
- I would not dance with men if women asked me on their behalf, which seems to happen a lot, often without the woman first consulting the man. Awkward.
The net result of this is that I don’t dance. That’s not entirely true: so far one man has asked me…
I’m standing chatting to a girlfriend and a guy I know through of the next dance, that the cold war comes to an end.
‘W-ell,’ he says, looking down at the floor, ‘I can’t really ask you to dance now….’
My friend crosses her arms. ‘Nope.’
And he turns to me.
So, with the end of the evening in sight and just the one dance under my belt, I decide to break the rules. I tell myself Red Trousers is shy (word on the street is he’s a terrible flirt), that I’m a good dancer so he won’t find the experience too awful, and… to hell with rules! OK, so I won’t appear hard to get, but right now I care more about getting a good dance. And I don’t regret it as he spins me down the room; or when he turns me, his arm at my waist in the way I love; or when he asks me to tell him off if he puts me in the wrong place (he never does); or when our eyes meet across the set.
Or when we say goodnight.
‘Thank you for the dance.’
‘No, thank you. I really enjoyed it,’ his arm at my waist.