Ballroom: A Novel by Alice Simpson Page A

satins that could be dyed to match any gown. Silhouetted against the fogged window, on a stepped rack, were the sexiest Argentine tango styles, with stiletto heels, strappy and naughty.
    “Rebecca Douglas has at least five gorgeous pairs,” Sarah had remarked. “They’re so high, I don’t know how she dances in them all night.”
    “She brings a few pairs with her and changes. It makes it less painful. She’s an eye doctor. Lotsa money.” Tina admired her own reflection in the mirror. “Takes privates three nights a week.”
    “She’s got some wardrobe. I’d do anything for her clothes.”
    “You could use a couple of flashy dance dresses, my dear. Have you seen Hernan, that South American she dances with? Is he a hunk?” Tina spoke to Sarah’s reflection. “And can he dance? The strong, silent type.”
    “You know, I saw him uptown riding a bike. He’s a messenger. Do you think Rebecca knows?”
    “You’re kidding! I can’t believe it. He can put his shoes under my bed anytime!”
    “I swear. He was riding a bike and carrying a messenger bag.” Sarah picked up one shoe after another.
    “A messenger? Well, he sure can dance, so who cares?”
    “I suppose. Don’t you think she looks like Grace Kelly?” asked Sarah. “You think she’s sleeping with him?” Then, trying to sound casual, “Or with Gabe Katz?”
    “No one ever tells at the Ballroom!” Tina winked. “You’re funny. You think everyone looks like some movie star. Don’t get involved with anyone you dance with. D’ya hear me?” She emphasized the statement. “Don’t even tell them your last name.”
    “Like Joseph what’s-his-name.” Sarah decided not to mention she was meeting him Saturday night at Roseland. “I’ve been dancing with him for more than two years, and I can’t get him to tell me his last name. How old do you think Joseph No-Name is? Sixty-five?”
    “It don’t matter,” Tina said. “Look at these! These would be great on you. Almost the color of your hair. Get yourself a wild dress to match.” With two fingers she held a shoe—an Arabian slipper of copper satin lace—at arm’s length like a precious object. Two slender satin straps crisscrossed the arch, fastened at the ankle with a rhinestone buckle. Sarah ran her fingers over the brushed kid sole. It felt like the skin on the inside of her arm. The heel, slender and high, seemed perfect in every way. It even smelled exotic. Slipping the shoes on, she tried some tango steps. Her own glass slippers. A perfect fit. All she needed was a prince. Her own Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Robert Taylor. Gabriel Katz looked like Robert Taylor, she thought. Although she preferred movie stars from the forties, she’d settle for someone more contemporary—like Antonio Banderas.
    I t is almost seven thirty. Realizing she’d better get upstairs to look for Joseph, Sarah checks her reflection one last time in the Roseland mirror. She’s bought herself the perfect skirt to match the shoes, a daringly short copper sarong that knots at her waist, which she coordinates with an iridescent body suit. Dangling amber earrings flash with reflected light, setting off her pale neck.
    She never goes out in the sun, having decided that, getting close to forty, she wants to preserve the paleness of her skin. She hates the pink patches that reveal her moments of distress; appearing without invitation, they announce her emotions, which she prefers to keep to herself.
    Clairol’s Sun Kissed Autumn and a shorter cut turn her hair into a blaze of curls. It’s the same color Carita Sante, this year’s Latin division international solo gold winner, wears.
    Sarah concentrates on the imaginary string running up through the top of her head, feels her whole being reaching for the ceiling. One deep breath. Shoulders back. Stomach tight, and she’s ready to dance.
    “Beautiful,” remark two men in their sixties passing Sarah as she climbs the carpeted staircase to meet Joseph.
    It is dark