The Thirty List. Eva Woods

tapping constantly at her phone. ‘How’s work?’ I asked. ‘Where are we right now on The Great Escape scale of awfulness?’

      ‘We’re dropping soil out of our trousers in the exercise yard.’

      ‘So, making progress?’

      ‘Making progress. What about you?’

      ‘We-ell, I’m not having much luck getting interviews. A few possibilities.’ I’d applied for every single vaguely art- or design-related job I could find in London, but my inbox was deafeningly empty. When I thought about it, I got a gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach, so I tried to push it away as Emma ran in several minutes later in her work clothes, sensible trousers and a blouse, with paint on her hands and a foul expression. ‘God, whose idea was it to meet in town on a school night?’

      ‘Yours.’

      ‘Hmph. Well, I suppose we better do it.’ Cynthia gave her a look. Emma forced a smile. ‘I mean, it’ll be great. Yay! Dancing! My favourite thing! Embracing life!’

      Emma had certain physical skills—I’m told at school she was the terror of the netball court, bearing down with murder in her eyes on hapless Goal Defences. She could lift up small children who were having hissy fits over the allocation of the class pencils and carry them right into the ‘timeout corner’. She could make a working model of the London Eye using only drinking straws and toilet roll tubes. But one thing she couldn’t do was dance. In fact, at uni we had a little dance routine we called ‘the Emma’, which involved stepping from foot to foot and waving your hands as if trying to dry nail polish. Cheered by the thought that someone might hate this more than me, I pulled on my shiny new shoes and stood nervously on the dance floor.

      We were in a bar near St Paul’s, all dark lighting and wooden floors. The tables had been pushed back to create an empty space, and around it were gathered twenty or so students, all wearing the same ‘going to the guillotine’ look of British people who are going to be called upon to dance in public without the aid of alcohol.

      ‘Hiya, everyone!’ The teacher was a dancer. I mean, of course she was. But she was really a dancer. Slender, graceful, wearing leg warmers over her dancing shoes and a pink leotard. All the men in the room visibly straightened their spines. ‘I’m Nikki, yeah.’ She spoiled the graceful impression somewhat with a hard-as-nails Cockney accent. ‘If everyone’s here, then—’

      There was a noise at the back of the room and someone bumbled in, a blur of expensive suit. I saw to my surprise it was Rich. ‘He’s here?’ I said to Cynthia. ‘He actually left work?’

      She tossed her hair vaguely. ‘I thought we’d better try new things—you know what I said about us both working all the time.’ He was coming over. Her face morphed into a smile. ‘Darling. You made it!’

      Rich was frowning and stabbing at his BlackBerry. ‘Had to cut the damn meeting short. The partners are not happy.’

      ‘Well, you’re here now. There’s Rachel.’

      ‘Hi, Rich,’ I said, making a vague forward movement to hug him, which wasn’t reciprocated, so I turned it into a pre-dance stretch instead.

      ‘Hi,’ he said briefly. He didn’t ask how I was, though this was the first time he’d seen me since the split.

      We were all amazed when Cynthia turned up with Rich on her arm. It was Emma’s birthday, her twenty-sixth, I think, and we were at a World War II–themed dance. Emma had on red lipstick and a tea dress, and Ian was in a shroud—his idea of humour. I had on a pair of overalls and my hair in a victory roll, which fell out after half an hour. Dan, who didn’t really do fancy dress, had reluctantly worn combats and carried a plastic gun. Rich, however, rolled up in a full Navy uniform, which it turned out had actually belonged to his grandfather Admiral Lord Richard Eagleton. At uni, Cynthia had joined us in mocking the public-school boys who banged on about rugger and tuck. Now she’d fallen for one. Granted, back then Rich had been tall, fair and strapping, though now corporate lunching and long hours were leaving him with a distinct brick-like appearance—red, square and hard.

      Cynthia stood close to him, snuggling into his arms, and I was left with scowling Emma, who was limbering up as if going into the boxing ring. ‘Right. At least I can dance with you if I have to …’

      ‘Male-female partners only, yeah,’ called Nikki. ‘This is tango, innit. The dance of love. Maybe you will fall in love tonight.’

      She made us pair up. Cynthia clung to Rich and I got the feeling that if forced to move she’d draw up some kind of contract to show that her rights of dance partnership were clearly asserted. Emma, still sulking, had somehow been paired with a slightly geeky but cute man in glasses. And me, of course, I got Mr Groper. The only man in the room who was over fifty. He had awful breath and insisted on squeezing me tight. ‘It’s how you do it,’ he said in that man-splaining way of men doing any activity. ‘It’s a dance of submission. I lead. You follow where I say.’

      ‘We’re not doing that,’ I heard Emma say to her partner. ‘It’s 2014, for God’s sake. I’ve read The Female Eunuch.’

      ‘Um … me too,’ stuttered Sexy Geek Man—I upgraded him on the basis of the Germaine Greer reading.

      Nikki had us learn a sliding step—we had to get up close to the other person and then sort of slide our feet round theirs. I kept hearing Emma say sorry as she stepped on Sexy Geek Man’s toes. ‘Look, it’s really better if you just let me lead.’

      ‘It is,’ called Cynthia, as she glided past in Rich’s arms. Although she was naturally tall and gangly, she’d trained herself out of it with dance lessons before her wedding. Rich had learned at public school, and I’d remembered watching with a sort of mounting fear while he hurled her about the floor during their first dance, in a series of pre-learned moves to the strains of ‘You’re Beautiful’.

      Dan had refused to get lessons for our wedding, pronouncing it ‘totally naff’. So it was just us plopping about aimlessly to ‘Dancing in the Dark’, to totally different rhythms. Sort of a metaphor for our whole marriage, really.

      ‘Not like that. Here, let me show you.’ Mr Groper put his hand on my lower back. My very, very lower back.

      I’d had enough. ‘THANK YOU. I get it.’

      Thank God Nikki then told us to change partners. I was hoping for Sexy Geek Man, but he got snapped up by an aggressive-looking girl in spandex, and Emma was on to someone on the far side of the room. Cynthia had Mr Groper, God help her, and I saw Rich had ended up dancing with the teacher, who seemed to be laughing at something he was saying—maybe she found corporate tax really funny. I’d wound up with Adrian. He was very nervous—his palms felt wet against mine and he had sweat stains under the arms of his beige shirt. He was nice, but after a few minutes being manhandled by him, coated in sweat and constantly apologised to, I was a bit fed up. How was this supposed to help me get over my disastropiphany and find a more joyful and fulfilling life? It wasn’t fair. Eat Pray Love woman got to go to Italy and Bali, and I got to dance with sweaty men in East London.

      Things that suck about divorce, number fifty-seven: other women thinking you’re suddenly after their short, ugly, balding menfolk. I could catch the suspicious looks when I took a man’s hands for the dance, as if I was just dying to seduce Derek, who worked in Accounts and had the remains of his lunch down his tie. I was starting to realise why people talked about their ‘other half’. There were some things you just needed another person for. Dancing was one. So was Scrabble.

      Another was, well, sex. I remembered that this was on the list too. Did that mean I’d also have to sleep with short men who had sweat issues? I tried to think of things I could do on my own. I could dine in restaurants, smiling mysteriously when asked if it was just for one. I could play solitaire and cook gourmet meals, then eat them by myself with a single candle burning. Oh God. It sounded even worse