Strictly Love

‘There's Twinkletoes Tone,’ said Ffion. ‘They must have made it up again.’

As Twinkletoes Tone went over to kiss Jasmine – a small, dumpy, rather cowlike creature – full on the mouth, the fact that they had indeed made up was plain for all to see.

‘Tony babe,’ Jasmine purred. ‘Get me another chardonnay, will you?’

‘Maybe they're just snogging for the cameras,’ said Emily, thinking, ‘like, do we care?’

‘Of course we care,’ Ffion scolded her.

Damn it. Emily's annoying habit of thinking aloud had snuck out again. One day it would get her into serious trouble. Luckily Ffion was too preoccupied with the various permutations of Jasmine's love life to take much notice.

‘But yes, you could be right, they could be just doing it for the PR.’ Ffion's beady little eyes lit up with excitement. How she got so titillated by all this stuff was beyond Emily. ‘Word on the street is that ever since Tony got ditched from his club, Jasmine's been looking for ways to get rid.’

‘That's a bit rich, isn't it?’ laughed Emily. ‘For someone whose sole claim to fame is being the first person in Love Shack ever to have performed live fellatio on TV, she's hardly famous for her own merits. At least Tony has talent.’

‘Hmm, tell that to his team mates,’ said Ffion. ‘Wasn't it his lack of talent that caused them to go crashing out of the FA Cup?’ Twinkletoes Tone had earned his moniker by scoring an own goal in last year's FA Cup final, thereby earning the never-to-be-forgotten Sun headline: ‘IT'S ALL GONE TITS UP FOR TWINKLETOES TONE!’

‘Well, I feel sorry for him,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, what has Jasmine got that is so wonderful?’

They watched as Jasmine scrawled her illegible signature across the front of an adoring fan's book.

‘Ooh, Jasmine, I want to be just like you,’ the girl, a spotty fifteen-year-old, gushed.

‘It's easy,’ said Jasmine with a lascivious wink, ‘all you need to do is get your tits out on TV and you can do anything.’

‘Jeez, there's an ambition,’ muttered Emily.

‘I dunno,’ said Ffion. ‘Jasmine's just signed a mega-deal with that cosmetic dental chain Smile, Please! ’ Ffion's PR firm, A-Listers, represented Jasmine so she knew these things. ‘Smile, Please! are going to be huge, you know. Everyone wants cosmetic surgery these days. And if that works out, who knows? According to OK! magazine, her aim is to be the face of L'Oréal.’

‘Jasmine?’ Emily snorted into her glass. ‘I didn't know they were planning to put heifers in their ads.’ ‘Okay,’ admitted Ffion, ‘her looks are more bovine then elfin. But you don't know how she'll look after Smile, Please! have finished with her. And you've got to admit, those teeth … now they do look fantastic.’

They watched as Jasmine flashed her brilliant smile at another sappy group of fans.

‘Well, I think without the smile she wouldn't be the face of anything,’ replied Emily. ‘God, the world's gone mad!’

‘Maybe so,’ said Ffion, ‘but it sure as hell beats going to work for a living. If I had a chance to appear on Love Shack, I'd bite your hand off.’

‘I'm sure you would,’ answered Emily. ‘Listen, I'm knackered, I think I'm going to call it a day.’

‘Don't you want to come to Macy's?’ Ffion looked disappointed. Up until relatively recently, a night like this would always end up with them visiting Macy's. But Emily was tiring of sitting bored in the roped-off VIP area, drinking tasteless cocktails for exorbitant prices. She'd blown Ffion out several times recently, and she had a feeling her friend was none too pleased with her.

‘Not tonight,’ said Emily, ‘I've got an early start tomorrow.’

Despite Ffion's efforts to make her change her mind, Emily refused to back down. Once, the thought of a night out on the tiles would have appealed, but recently, even as a means to drown her sorrows, it was losing its allure. Besides, Callum had hinted he might call. She hated being so in thrall to him, but sometimes she missed him with an intensity that was nearly physical.

Indeed, as she sat on the train, making the long journey home, watching London racing away from her in the dark, Emily realised that she had at least made progress in one area of her life. More and more, Thurfield was feeling like a refuge from the nightmarish world she seemed to be trapped in. Katie had been telling her for years she needed to get out of her job. Emily wished it were that simple. If only her mortgage wasn't so big, the cottage didn't need so much work, her mum didn't owe so much money, and her firm didn't pay quite so well. If only.

Her mobile bleeped and she saw a message from Callum.

Where r u babe? Hope yr hot & waiting fr me.

In yr dreams, she texted back, experiencing the familiar feelings of lust coupled with irritation that Callum always engendered in her. She hoped he wasn't drunk. Or high. Though he had a penthouse flat in town, he had grown up in the town next to Thurfield, and his best mates still lived nearby. There'd been a football match on this evening. No doubt he'd spent the evening tanked up with them, and was now looking for a bed for the night. She leaned against the window and stared into the dark as the countryside flitted past her. She should probably teach him a lesson and not let him into her bed. But knowing what she should do and actually doing it were two very different things. Two very different things indeed …

Rob checked the steps again as they were laid out on the website he'd brought up on his laptop. Then he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the lounge, secure in the knowledge that Mark wouldn't be home for at least an hour. He flicked the button on the CD remote and the sound of South American music filled the room.

‘One,’ Rob counted under his breath, ‘remember those snake-hips, two …’

He took a small step forward. What was it Isabella had said last week? Step forward on the ball of your foot, take the weight onto the flat foot, and swing your hips to the left. Easier said than done, of course, but he'd just about got the hang of it by the end of the lesson. And he had his silly little diagrams to refer to.

‘… three, right foot remains in place, transfer weight onto it,’ Rob muttered. ‘… four – then one, left foot to side, swing hips to left. Fuck this is difficult.’

He stopped, switched off the music and then peered myopic ally at the computer screen again. He really ought to get glasses, but Rob knew he was way too vain for them. And too lazy to keep changing contacts.

‘Okay, so it's forward, rest, side, back, rest, side. Swing those hips. Right, I get it … I think,’ Rob said. He switched the music back on and started again. This time it seemed to work, and before long he actually felt he was getting the hang of those ‘ssssnake-hips’ that Carlo, the hilariously camp Latin American dance teacher he'd found in an online dancing video, had talked about.

‘I am the man!’ Rob declared proudly as he pirouetted round the room. He even felt he'd got the hold right, left hand held high, holding the lady's hand, right hand (the bit that Rob particularly liked) snaked round the lady's back.

He had to crack the rumba. Since he'd started learning to dance, the tally on his bedpost had been the highest since his student days. He felt sure the rumba would only add to his allure.

‘John Travolta eat your heart out,’ he said, before spinning rather madly out of control and crashing headlong into Mark's oak dresser. Getting up, he rubbed his hip ruefully. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’

‘I don't know how you do it,’ Mark Davies laughed at his flatmate later that evening, as Rob bustled into the kitchen to provide drinks for his latest conquest. ‘Here you are, thirty-five, plump, those famous curly locks receding faster than the tide, and still you pull them. I can't think what's sadder – the thought of you practising the waltz, or the stupidity of the women prepared to fall for your lines.’

Mark had been on his way to bed, but Rob couldn't resist showing off his prize, an over-made-up girl whom he had picked up at his ballroom dancing.

‘Well, you either have it or you don't, mate,’ Rob winked knowingly.

‘Mind you,’ continued Mark, loading the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher – living with Rob was like revisiting their student days, only more depressing; at least they had a dishwasher now – ‘it's always been a mystery how you do it. I've never known what women see in you.’

‘Treat 'em mean, keep them keen,’ said Rob with a wink.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Mark. ‘That explains why they never last more than a week.’

‘Well, have you got a hot babe waiting next door for you?’

‘No,’ said Mark.

‘And, of course, there's my natural charm,’ continued Rob.

‘Of course,’ snorted Mark. Rob's mop of unruly curly hair and cute grin seemed to be what got the girls hooked, but his love 'em and leave 'em reputation should have been enough for them to run a mile. But somehow it never was. Presumably, each and every one of his hapless victims thought they would be the one to change him. And of course they never were.

‘You should watch and learn from the master,’ continued Rob.

‘You know there's only one woman for me,’ said Mark miserably.

‘Yes, but she's nobbing a lawyer,’ Rob reminded him.

Mark pulled a face.