Chapter 15
With predictably no matches from Games Night, I decide that my next choice, tango dancing, sounds the least horrendous activity, despite having never tried it.
I’d rather be a beginner at that than try to chase a ball around or remember how to ride a bike after thirty-five years.
I could dance. I have rhythm. I think. I’m also not in bad shape.
For a forty-five-year-old woman, I can still touch my toes and I’m able to climb at least one flight of stairs without needing a ventilator.
I sign up for their next tango event and immediately jump on to YouTube to get some pointers.
You need special shoes: closed-toed, three-inched heels, preferably leather or suede.
I don’t relish the thought of forking out for tango shoes, but I don’t want to turn up like a loser in my worn-out ballet pumps.
I give my name to a man on reception. As usual, I’m issued with a name badge though they’ve called me Sopphia with two ps. Honestly, I’m not even mad.
I enter the dance hall, a spacious, bright area with yellow walls and spotlights on the ceiling.
It’s already filled with people, maybe around forty with at least half the room looking like they’ve done this before.
Men in button-down shirts, women in little skirts and fishnets.
I see a couple of women in yoga pants and one guy in grey joggers and dance shoes.
The rest, thankfully, are in an array of casual shirts, leggings and jeans.
I place my bag on a chair at the side of the room and stand awkwardly waiting for the class to begin.
‘Welcome, everyone. My name is Amaya.’
I turn towards the soft-spoken woman at the front of the room.
She’s wearing a black wrap dress and beautiful vintage-looking velvet shoes, probably crafted in Argentina by Eva Perón herself.
They make mine look like I purchased them on a whim from from a seller with only one three-star review.
Which I did. Amaya’s hair is pulled tightly into a neat bun and I long to be that graceful at some point in my lifetime.
‘If you’d all like to partner up, we can get going.’
Timidly, I look around, desperately hoping that this won’t be like school PE lessons, where the last person picked never quite gets over the humiliation.
Thankfully, there’s a system in place. Each female’s number will pair with the male equivalent and the women will move around the room until all partners have been danced with.
I pause to wonder how we’ll get to know each other over the noise of the music and the painful cries when toes are inevitably trampled.
Amaya and her partner, Geoff, show us an example of what we’ll be doing, followed by a breakdown of the simple footwork. To me, walking is simple footwork; anything more advanced might require safety gear and a liability waver.
Arms in position, they glide across the floor, their feet never colliding, even throwing in a little ‘open fan’ to overcomplicate matters. If I can’t trust my arm to swing a table tennis bat, then I sure as hell can’t trust it not to whip someone else in the face.
They run through the first basic step we’ll be inflicting on each other shortly. I pray to God that my partners have a sense of humour given the carnage that’s about to ensue.
‘Ready to boogie?’ I hear a voice say behind me. I turn to see Anton, who is slightly shorter than my five-foot-six stature and who can only be described as ‘former Love Island contestant’. Sunbed tan, tight white T-shirt, biceps like Popeye and Turkey teeth so bright I need atomic bomb goggles.
‘I think so,’ I reply, our arms rising into a ballroom dancing frame.
As he puffs his chest forward, his nipples become visible through his T-shirt and make it clear that they will be joining us for the first dance.
The music begins. I had anticipated ‘La Cumparsita’: dramatic, powerful, rose clenched between my teeth while I glide around the room.
But when Beyonce’s ‘Don’t Hurt Yourself’ starts blasting, I’m surprised.
Maybe the name is a warning to the rhythmically challenged amongst us or maybe the teachers are just trying to make the whole experience less conventional.
Either way, at least thirty per cent of the class are now singing along.
Anton and I manage to stumble around the floor without any major incidents, although he does slip out of one of his shiny black loafers as we attempt a turn.
As predicted, when our time is up, we’ve learned nothing about each other, except that he knows more words to the Beyoncé track than I do. We thank each other and he moves on.
By the time I reach my sixth partner, I feel like I’m getting the hang of this. If this was Dancing with the Stars, I’m certain I wouldn’t be voted off first.
‘Hi! Please don’t be good at this.’
The auburn-haired man in front of me smiles widely. He’s obviously younger than me, wearing a black vest covered by a plaid shirt and Converse trainers. His name is Jack, and he seems clueless. I can’t help but smile back.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reply, ‘you’ll literally be the sixth person on earth I’ve ever tangoed with.’
We begin our slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, apologetically bumping into a couple beside us for the umpteenth time. But it’s fun. He’s fun. For the first time I feel like stepping out of my comfort zone might actually pay off.
Halfway through we stop for a fifteen-minute break. Drinks have been provided, so I grab a bottle from the table and begin the obligatory small talk. I see Jack edge towards me, can of Coke in hand, still smiling.
‘This hasn’t been as horrendous as I’d imagined,’ he states. ‘And I think I’ve only crippled three women, which is a bonus.’
‘I think feet are overrated anyway,’ I reply, laughing. ‘It’s definitely an interesting way to meet people.’
He nods. ‘Totally. I signed up for another class in Wandsworth, but they closed before I even had my first lesson. Something to do with the rental rates.’
We get back to the rest of the lesson and as nice as the other men were, I wish I could steal another dance with Jack.
The lesson ends and I find Jack, a tad red-faced, packing up his cross-body bag.
‘Really nice to meet you,’ I say, phone in hand in case he wants my number. It wouldn’t be unheard of, I’ve given my number to at least four men since I started dating in 1997.
‘Same,’ he replies. ‘Maybe next time I’ll drag my fiancée along. She’d find this—’
‘Fiancée?’
‘Yeah. Harriet. We’re getting married next year. I promised I’d acquire some rhythm before the wedding, first dance an’ all that.’
‘But this is a singles’ class. For single people. Who don’t have fiancées.’
He looks confused. ‘Is it? You sure?’
I nod. ‘It was on Fit Singles.’ God, I sound lame right now.
‘I have no idea what that is,’ he replies. ‘I just googled tango classes, and this came up. I’m so sorry if you thought—’
‘It’s fine,’ I insist, slipping my phone back into my pocket. ‘No problem.’
He smiles awkwardly.
‘Anyway, take care. Good luck with the wedding!’
He replies but I don’t hear him. I’m too busy heading towards the exit. He’s the one who screwed up but I still feel like an idiot for thinking that there might have been a small glimmer of hope there.