Spinning Around (31 page)

I was telling Deborah about this particular nose-job when the music was bumped up a few notches, and coloured lights began to flash. Clearly certain members of the reunion committee were determined that some of us should hit the dance floor. At first, I was annoyed at this presumption. I still wanted to tell Tracy about Ms F. (Her case was conciliated, by the way; she received $8000 and an apology, while Mr L. received training in all the relevant equal employment opportunity issues.) I also wanted to tell Sally about Miriam, because they'd met a few times, many years ago. But Matt, bless his heart, was in a frisky mood. Since I can never drink much alcohol without throwing up, I had agreed to fill the role of designated driver—and Matt, in consequence, had taken full advantage of the freely circulating drinks tray.

‘Come on,' he said, attacking me suddenly from the rear. I felt his arms creep around my waist and his chin drop onto my shoulder. ‘Come on, let's dance.'

‘Oh, no.'

‘Come
on
.'

‘Go on,' said Deborah, with a smile.

‘I'm not going out there,' I protested. ‘No-one else is.'

‘Then you can be the first,' said Deborah.

‘No—
you
can be the first,' I rejoined. ‘Where's Sean? He was here a minute ago.'

But Deb withdrew, laughing, into the crowd, and Matt began to hustle me towards the empty parquet square under the mirror ball. I'll say this for him: he's never afraid to get up and make a fool of himself when properly lubricated. He can't dance for nuts, mind you. Neither of us can. He tends to throw his arms about dementedly while bouncing on the spot with bent knees. My style is much more restrained—a sort of muted twist—unless he takes it into his head to spin me a bit. That's what he did as ‘Let's Do The Time Warp Again' blasted out of the nearby sound system.
Chugga-CHUGGA-chugga-CHUGGA-chugga
went the music. Bounce-bounce-BOUNCE went Matt. Then he seized both my hands, pumping my arms back and forth like someone playing choo-choo trains, before dropping one of them and using the other as a sort of pivot, to whirl me around and around as if I was a figure skater.

This move normally has the effect of making me so dizzy that I crash into his chest—a result that he always appreciates.

‘Christ,' he said. The rough texture of bandaid had finally communicated itself, via the nerve endings in his fingers, through the alcoholic fog enveloping his brain. ‘What the hell have you done to your hand
now
?'

Still reeling a little, I gazed down at my right forefinger and thumb.

‘I burned myself on the pizza pan,' I replied.

‘God help us.'

‘The other's a paper cut. And that's just where my skin's cracking up again.'

‘Poor baby.'

‘Battle scars,' I declared. ‘They're battle scars. Nothing to be ashamed of.'

‘No, no. Course not.'

‘They're like stretch marks, aren't they? They're badges of honour.'

‘Absolutely.'

‘You admire them, don't you? You look at them and think: This is My Woman. She has shed blood for me.'

‘That's right.'

Which is total crap, needless to say, but what would life be without these little illusions?

Then a new song started.

Matt immediately launched into a really tragic piece of choreography which was heavily reliant on pelvis and elbows. His gap-toothed grin was a challenge. He was practically daring me to leave the floor.

I didn't, you know. I stayed. I put up with his highly individual interpretation of the moonwalk, and was rewarded with one of his nice, smoochy variations on the two-step when he got too tired to do anything else.

Swings and roundabouts, I suppose. Give and take. A negotiated settlement.

You just have to get used to it, when you're in for the long haul.