Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh

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.

      They chatted excitedly as they stripped off the layers of magic and mystery and slid themselves back into their clothes. Just one hour ago being in her underwear in front of strangers was excruciating. Now they were sisters. Lumps, bumps, big, small. The thing that had shifted inside her wasn’t switching back.

      The three others had only been coming weeks and were curious whether she’d enjoyed it, whether she’d be back. She knew, without question, that she would.

      ‘I hope you’re bringing him every week,’ Emma said. ‘Way to change the dynamic!’

      They all laughed.

      ‘No one means any offence by dancing for your man,’ another said. ‘It’s just the novelty.’

      ‘He’s not my man,’ Georgia was fast to correct, though low so that Zander wouldn’t hear them through the flimsy fabric walls.

      That caused more hilarity. ‘Oh, love,’ Emma whispered, ‘if he’s not I think he soon will be. We all saw his face while you were dancing. He’s wound as tight as a drum. It would be a shame if no one was to benefit from all our good work tonight.’

      Georgia stopped one leg halfway into her tracksuit bottoms and stared at the women. They laughed wildly again. She understood exactly. A weird kind of adrenaline was still coursing through her body, too. She would have joined their laughter if the suggestion hadn’t thrown her into such a breathless stupor. And an unshakeable vision of her benefitting from tonight’s endeavours.

      She tidied her hair, carefully folded her borrowed costume items, and placed them in the washing pile, and then dawdled a moment longer. Delaying the inevitable. She wasn’t sure she could walk out there and see Zander if the women with all their speculation were still around.

      The longer she took, the fewer people would be in the room.

      But eventually she couldn’t delay any longer. He needed his interview. She rolled the waistband of her running pants down to be more like the beautiful women she saw at the gym, more like the low-hung skirt that had just caressed her legs. More casual. As if this weren’t an enormous deal. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the change area into the dance space. Only a handful lingered. None of them was male. After the events of the evening she couldn’t really blame Zander for stepping outside so that he didn’t have to face his unexpected seductresses in the full fluorescent light of indoors.

      She thanked the instructor warmly and whole-heartedly, assured her she would be back the following week and stepped out into the cool night air.

      She looked left.

      She looked right.

      She looked across the road in case he was leaning on the lamppost, waiting.

      Her stomach clenched. Nothing. No Zander anywhere.

      They’d arrived separately but she saw him pull up so she knew where his Jag was. Tucking her crossed hands under her armpits, she hurried down the road a way in case he was waiting in his car. But there was just a dry rectangle on the otherwise rain-dampened road where his Jag had been.

      Gone.

      Her jaw tightened. Maybe he’d gone for a drink with one of the other participants in the class. Maybe he’d formed a connection with someone in particular while she was so busy ignoring how he was ignoring her. But that seemed both unlikely and unfair to Zander—he wasn’t a complete jerk. His absence didn’t automatically mean he’d scarpered with some hot, bejewelled stranger. It just meant he hadn’t stayed to see her.

      That probably should have made her feel better.

      But it didn’t.

      All that power, the erotic blast, the sensual costume...the out and out risk she’d taken forcing herself to let those secret feelings show on the outside. All that had done was sent Zander running. So embarrassed by her display that he couldn’t even stick around to face her.

      She’d thought maybe he was being tactful, keeping his eyes