'I thought I’d try some Salsa next week.'
Sheila had dropped this in, after dinner, as she picked the dirty plates up from the table and turned towards the sink. Briefly Hugh’s thoughts, which had been focused on his growing waistline, went in the direction of sauce before realising it was exercise that she was talking about.
‘Why are you saying this now?’ he thought, ‘and, indeed, why are you mentioning it at all?’ Sheila went to the gym three or four times a week after work, varying her classes as the mood took her. He would often pick her up on his way home.
Now, however, there was something she was wary about. Her back was to him as she spoke, and he could pick up an edge to her voice. He waited, curious at this nervousness. She was bored with her routines and fancied something different.
He thought that the interest would fade and turn to something else as usual. But no, not this time. Instead, she came home whistling Latin tunes and her body seemed to still hum to the movement even as she climbed into bed. There was more energy in her now than when she left, he thought. This worried him. Could he afford to ignore this?
On one, cold, wet February night, Sheila prepared to leave. Hugh sat at the kitchen table with a glass of red in front of him as the radio played a painfully familiar tune. She put her coat on and pulled the hood up. Listening to the wind and rain, she shivered.
'I’ll drive you.' The words were out of his mouth before he could think.
'I’ll survive,' she said.
'No, it’s absurd. You’ll be blown halfway down the street.' He rose and went to pick the car keys up in the hallway. How, he wondered, had it come to this; no arguments, no obvious external influences and yet, here they were, like icebergs, he thought, fracturing off some arctic floe and gradually drifting apart.
And now he was with her, in the room above a large pub.
'I finally persuaded him,' Sheila laughed at a friend, as she dumped her coat. She switched outdoor shoes for dance ones, slipping the latter on as her eyes scanned the room. With some guilt he wondered who she was looking for. She turned to him as she smoothed her dress down. 'Don’t be too critical.' A smile wavered around her lips. She turned to seek a partner.
He quickly lost track of her. Then, there she was, cheeks slightly flushed, facing an older partner whose experience was obvious, moving her around with a grace complemented by the formality of his white shirt, the top button undone, and black trousers. Sheila mirrored his movements, the tip of her tongue visible as she concentrated, slipping under his arm, rotating and returning. Then they were lost amongst the others as bodies overlapped, pairs circling, bodies advancing and retreating, around the room, each couple operating within their own intimate exchange, some acknowledged movements with a brief smile, others had faces, frozen, almost cartoon-like.
Hugh’s eyes roamed across this moving pattern: shoulders, some bare and gleaming, feet sketching shapes on a dusty floor, skirts swaying, all of which, it seemed to him, made it reminiscent of a bullring. Did that make the men the bulls, he thought? The intensity and sensuality had an allure without doubt but he felt excluded, a voyeur.
Sheila was there again, in the middle of the floor, glancing at him with a hint of anxiety. He was tugged back decades to when their eyes had first met, when everything had started between them, at a birthday party in the upstairs room of another pub – then the shared look across a room and the painful hope that they would chance upon each other before the evening ended - which they did – stumbling through a conversation which started everything.
He went for a drink and returned, standing at the doorway, as views of Sheila appeared and disappeared. Another dance must have started. The warmth in the room had risen and faces were becoming more flushed. There was a tension building in his head as the heat and noise allied to the constant flow of movement curdled his senses.
He tried to imagine himself up there on the dance floor, moving in rhythm to the music with this version of Sheila, her eyes on his and their bodies linked. Instead, aware of his clothing and the glass in his hand, he felt aroused but disengaged.
He put his glass down and considered going outside to sit in the car. He started to turn, and a hand grabbed his, pulling – hard, jerking him towards the dancers. 'You’re Sheila’s man aren’t you; c’mon give it a go you, its bloody easy really,' and she grabbed his other hand making it impossible to refuse without a fight. In front of him was a muscular woman with short, blonde hair, in her early forties perhaps, and as tall as him. She wore a figure-hugging black dress. He could see the creases of amusement around her eyes which had a glint of determination.
'I’m not… ' he managed.
'Well, that’s bloody obvious. Don’t worry, you are in safe hands – for now at least. You just needed a push – and a pull. Move your feet a little and loosen those shoulders – you must have hit the floor once or twice with Sheila, surely?'
He had no energy to resist. He felt like a marionette, his arms pulled and pushed as his feet scuffed the floor. The music was louder in the middle of the room and bodies brushed past them, hot and perfumed. He looked into the smiling eyes of his captor. She was relentless. 'Think of it as an adventure for your feet. Lean back and think of Argentina. Sheila will love you for it.'