Nicola Marsh - Valentine's Day

Georgia glanced in the mirror. Her full, beaded skirt fell from her hips down to brush the floor and the matching top-piece they’d selected for her was equally modest—no worse than the vest tops she often wore at home in summer—cupping her small breasts and cascading stringed coins down in a V to point at her exposed belly button. She’d never before mourned her slim build—in fact her curvier friends had envied her for it—but standing here amongst the luscious curves and generous breasts and gorgeous outfits of the other women in the class she’d never wished more to be curvier. Rounded instead of flat.

And Zander was about to get an eyeful of all that flatness.

Emma pinned Georgia’s face veil up behind her ear and gave her a shove.

‘Out you go, love. Get it over with.’

Then they all rushed out, ankle bells ringing, dragging her along in their bright, jangly wake.

Zander’s eyes locked on her the moment she stepped out. How he spotted her amongst so many disguised, Technicolor women was a mystery. Unless he was just looking for the only boyish figure in the room.

She shrivelled up inside, instantly. This had to be her most foolish of fool-moments...

The woman he’d given his digital recorder to returned it to him with a flirty smile, and he flirted right back. In fact, from that moment on he seemed to become entranced by every other woman in the room and—God love them—they enjoyed his presence just as much. Far from being shy about the presence of a strange man in this heavily female environment, the room full of housewives, teachers, and bank clerks dressed in little more than sexy pyjamas lapped it up, escaping into their dance personas and focusing their attention on the only man in the room.

They weren’t gratuitous—they seemed respectful of the awkwardness of Zander’s position—but they were thorough. They zeroed their efforts on him and unleashed the full force of the moves for his benefit.

He grinned his way through the whole thing.

But avoided looking at her at all.

Small mercy, perhaps, given how hot she flamed and how stumbling her movements were. But she’d signed up here for a reason—actually two reasons—and she wasn’t in a hurry to go back to the close, breathy, partnered clinch of salsa nor to be doomed for ever to being not cut out for seduction.

She lifted her chin, willing to bet that every woman in this room turned up in a tracksuit the first time and had to ease their way into the rhythmic gyrations they were currently exorcising on an indulgent Zander. And every one of them must have felt exactly as out of place and outclassed as she now did.

But had they ever felt as invisible? Despite the raunchy outfit?

Or was she deluded in thinking the draped fabrics and accenting jewels were attractive? Maybe where she saw rich, sensual colour, he saw tacky, flashy glitz.

She turned back for the change rooms.

‘Not yet, love,’ the instructor called, leaving Zander to fend for himself against the barrage of oestrogen and turning Georgia away from the gaggle that shielded her from his non-gaze towards the large mirrors lining the wall.

She forced her focus on the instructor, keeping one eye on the professional moves and the other on her own reflection, mimicking the basic choreography, taking correction, and trying to repeat the positions and sequences of the more experienced dancers.

Keeping her eyes steadfastly off the man in the background the whole time.

Belly dancing wasn’t about sex, the instructor told her, correcting Georgia’s too-jerky hips. It was about empowerment. But right now she felt pretty darned sexy. And that wasn’t something she could remember feeling in the past.

Pleasure, sure. But not sexy. Not...sensual.

The fluidity of the moves started to come more naturally, and the way the soft fabric brushing against her bare skin accentuated and teased her senses. It made her feel so...alive.

Between the concentration, the keeping of her arms above her head, and the surprising amount of effort required to gyrate everything that needed to be gyrating, her colour and her breath were up in no time. And with rows of dancers between her and the only distraction in the room she was able to concentrate better, forcing the embarrassment away with her focus and determination. It took no time at all to realise that every woman here wore a mask, something they slipped on with the beautiful fabrics. She might not be naturally seductive but, by God, she’d learn to fake it. Under her veil, she could be anyone she wanted. Sexier, smarter, stronger, more fun, more delightful—everything Zander and Kelly and Dan and her mother thought she apparently should be.

She twisted and twirled and undulated to the throng of the music and kept her eyes firmly locked on her own reflection in the mirror. She took a few more risks. She turned and twirled and kept only half an eye on what Zander was doing as he wandered the room, recording the music and the vocalisations of the women who danced for—and around—him.

He seemed totally uninterested in her presence.

Anger fuelled her moves, turned them more defiant.

Really, Zander? Even this isn’t enough...?

She spun back to the mirror, tired of trying to be what other people wanted and failing. Tired of making her decisions based on priorities that weren’t her own. She was going to be wild and sexy and beautiful just because she could. Here, in this place and in these clothes, she could.

Zander could go jump.

She slowly raised already-aching arms above her head, her concentration focused on the serpentine movements of her hands, the slow twists, the way the dozens of borrowed bracelets jangled and spun on her undulating wrists. She swayed and rolled and let her head fall back, her eyes close, and just felt the music, felt the movement of the women around her.

And she danced purely for the pleasure of it.

And then she lowered her gaze back to the mirror, back to her own flushed reflection and sparkling eyes.

Straight into Zander’s.

Everyone else in the room danced on, the instructor dissolved tactfully back into the throng and the odd person danced across the gap between them. But it did nothing to shake Georgia’s gaze free of Zander’s.

Every part of old Georgia screamed to stop. Still. On the spot.

Yet her body kept moving. Fluid, teasing. Flirting.

And just like that she felt the empowerment kick in.

Two hours ago she wouldn’t have been able to brush up against him without feeling self-conscious, but behind the veil she could do anything. Be anyone. She could look at him as she’d so desperately been wanting.

She danced on. His recorder hung, ignored, by his side.

Around them, the music faded slowly, the chat-level rose. A door opened on the far side and someone’s husband tiptoed in with a small boy in tow, both of them dressed in football colours. The balance between make-believe and real-world started to shift back.

Georgia lowered her arms, and her eyes. And she turned.

Zander still watched her, though his own expression was as guarded as hers must have been.

‘That was fun,’ she said, still breathing out the exertion. Not ready to lose the rush of empowerment.

He looked around them. A few covert glances looked back. ‘For everyone, it seems.’

‘Great workout.’ But all that did was draw his eyes to the heaving rise and fall of her tiny, beaded top. And he didn’t speak, just nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll just get changed. Won’t be a minute.’ She knew what came next. He always liked to interview her right after the first class, to capture her first impressions. She wasn’t sufficiently clothed or her breath sufficiently recovered to do that just yet. She followed a couple of other women into the change area. Most went home exactly as they were so it was just the few of them, all newer participants, returning to street wear.