Running in Heels by Anna Maxted Page A

Which I suppose is the same thing. But they do allow our mother to check up on us without breaking into our homes.
    â€œSo who is he?” she says tightly. Tony whistles and clicks at the waitress for another hot chocolate.
    â€œHe’s called Chris,” I reply meekly, “Chris Pomeroy. He was at Babs’s wedding.”
    â€œWhat!” exclaims my mother. “Not that man named after a poodle?”
    I grit my teeth. She’d criticize a rainbow for being bent, and although I’m used to it, today it grates.
    â€œHe’s an old friend of Simon’s. He works in the music business,” I add, raising my voice as Tony’s attention wanders.
    â€œYeah?” says Tony. “Doing what?”
    I sip my coffee and say, “He was at our table, remember?”
    Tony shakes his head, “Doing what?”
    I sit on my hands and say, “It would be nice for you two to meet properly. He…he manages a band. Called, er, Blue V”—on impulse, I castrate them—“called Blue Fiend.”
    Tony snorts. “Never heard of them.”
    My left hand shoots up to twirl my hair. “I mentioned you to him the other day,” I say, “and…and he was very impressed—”
    â€œThis band of his is unsigned, right?”
    â€œYes, but, Tony, I think you’d get on. He’s so dedicated, and his band, we were with them last night, they had a gig at The Red Eye—”
    â€œPay to play.”
    â€œEr, I don’t know, but it was really good, Chris said the response was even better than when they played at—”
    â€œSo who are they like?”
    â€œChris says they’re a loose genre, sort of New Romantic Rock, the first Romo Metal band, think Iron Maiden meets Spandau Ballet with a dash of Rage Against the Machi…”
    I trail off as I realize I am not being heard. My mother, who has been sitting in silence, follows Tony’s mesmerized gaze to the patisserie door, where a tiny Eskimo with dark glossy hair and huge blue eyes is standing in a long puffy black coat, a faint line of anxiety clouding her dolly features.
    â€œMel!” I cry, leaping to my feet. “Well done for making it, you’re early!”
    â€œYou know her?” murmurs Tony.
    â€œShe’s one of our principal dancers, she’s being interviewed and shot by The Sun today, and I’m the nipple police, we’re due at the gym in, oof, one hour—Mel! The taxi picked you up okay? knew where he was going? I told him precisely where it was, great, sit down, would you like anything? This is my mother, my brother, Tony, this is Melissandra Pritchard, star dancer of the GL Ballet.”
    Mel shakes hands with my mother and bats her eyelashes at Tony. Should she ever fancy a career change, she could bat for England.
    â€œDelighted,” says my brother, sizing up Mel with a reverence he usually reserves for expensive cars. He even takes off his sunglasses.
    â€œHi,” replies Mel, tilting her head so that her dainty chin all but disappears into the collar of her coat.
    Tony spies a whiskery woman hobbling toward a faded gilt chair, leaps up, intercepts the prize, and presents it with a flourish to Mel. My mother looks on in silence as I fetch another chair for the woman, who has stopped to catch her breath and is leaning hard on her walking stick. “Sorry,” I say, wincing, “my brother didn’t see you.”
    I return to the table in time to hear Tony asking, “Can you do the splits?”
    I glance at Mel, who giggles and says, “Yes!”
    Tony—whose knowledge of ballet is nil—purses his lips, impressed.
    Mel giggles again and lisps, “That’s the least I can do!”
    My brother narrows his eyes and says throatily, “Sounds to me like you’re the cleverest girl in your class.”
    Mel shudders in delight and cries, “Oh, do you think so?”
    I look at my mother. Her face