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Tilly Turner was not sure wearing a wire was such a good look. The strip of duct tape securing it just beneath her left breast pulled uncomfortably every time she moved—and this evening, she was moving a lot. But if the mini-microphone was uncomfortable, the wretched three-inch sparkly heels were ten times worse. True, they gave her much-needed height and stature, and they made her booty sway inside its thin covering of glitzy nylon like animated peaches, but a peachy butt was not acceptable compensation for a broken ankle.
“Oh God, sorry,” she muttered once more to the suave elderly gent guiding her around the sprung floor of the Colliton community centre.
“Take it easy,” he said again. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. It takes time to master the tango.”
He had that right. Who would believe that Tilly ‘Two Left Feet’ Turner would ever be spotted at an evening class devoted to the Argentine tango? Certainly not her old school friends, who couldn’t even prevail upon her to do some freestyle flailing to the Arctic Monkeys at Indie Night in the local nightclub.
“I don’t do dancing,” she always told them. “Dancing is for people who sway. I lurch. Lurchers should never dance.”
“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow,” dictated the teacher from the front of the hall, directing the crumpled hordes of would-be passionate lovers of all ages, sexes, heights, weights and social profiles. Tilly’s gent was one of the more fragrant members of the group; her first partner had been a sweaty man in a soaked football shirt. It had come as a massive relief to find that partners were swapped every ten minutes or so, to give each dancer the opportunity to shimmy with an expert.
“I’m okay with the slow, it’s the quick that floors me,” Tilly said.
“Just concentrate.” His smile was polite but frosty.