‘It must cost a fortune to run an event like this,’ I muse as my glass is filled with once again. The remains of our sumptuous dinner have been cleared and people have begun to drift away to speak with other friends or join in the casino games being run in adjoining rooms.
‘Yes, it’s very expensive, as I understand it. It’s largely my mother’s concern.’
‘What does it cost to get a seat at one of these tables?’
‘Four thousand euros,’ Remy answers without missing a beat.
‘What?’ I almost choke on my bubbles. ‘Wow. Why don’t people just donate to the foundation—cut out the middleman?’
‘Then they don’t get to be seen doing good, decked out in their finery and quaffing champagne.’
‘Rich people are weird.’
‘Does that include me?’ he asks, full of good humour.
‘No, honey.’ I press my lips to his cheeks. ‘You’re so rich you passed by weird a long while ago. You get to be classified as eccentric.’
‘Lucky me.’ After another halting conversation with the little old man industrialist, I turn to Remy’s voice once again. ‘Do you dance?’
‘What, you mean like that?’ I tip my glass in the direction of the couples waltzing very properly around the room, the orchestra now playing The Second Waltz, if I’m not mistaken.
‘There will be other dances later in the night, if you’d like. Though I’d hoped we’d be home by that point.’
‘Doing the no-pants dance?’ He shakes his head indulgently as I add, ‘I can dance, and I can dance.’ My words are heavy with a comic kind of meaning. ‘One I learned in a class. The other . . .’
‘Yes?’ he asks, his lips wrapped in some semblance of a smile.
‘Probably underneath the bleachers,’ I admit. ‘But not with the math teacher.’
‘Not everyone learns to dance these days.’
‘No, some of us just stumble our way through it and hope we get better at it each time.’
‘I was talking about actual dancing.’
I begin to giggle, so much so, my cheeks begin to sting. ‘I guess not everyone’s mother forced them into a summer of cotillion classes in the seventh grade. God, I hated every minute of it,’ I confess. ‘The dress. The shoes. The stuffy atmosphere. But, yes, I learned to dance. What about you?’
‘Also at school.’ He scratches his head with his forefinger, his eyebrows riding high. He seems bashful, almost. It’s a look I like on him.
‘Are you going to tell me she was very thorough?’
‘I wasn’t about to say a word.’
‘She should’ve stuck to teaching math. Maybe you should ask me to dance,’ I add. ‘On the floor, I mean. Here.’
‘You’re giving in far too easily for me.’ He narrows his gaze playfully.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘With you, it’s almost as though your opposition is a pleasure all of its own.’
‘Then Remy Durrand, I will never dance with you.’
‘Never?’
‘Waltz,’ I qualify, because I’m not giving up the other kind. ‘Unless you ask. Nicely.’
To my amusement, though mostly my delight, he pushes back his chair and doffs a courtly bow as he addresses me. ‘Miss Ryan, would you please honour me with this dance?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I reply, beaming as I place my hand in his.
‘And if you’d be so kind to permit me, I’d like to fill your dance card later. And by dance card, I mean—’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
As the orchestra strikes the first chords of It Had to Be You, Remy rests his hands in places I’m sure Miss Pierce, leader of the cotillion class, would never have stood for. And as he leads us smoothly into the moving throng, I’m certain his touch is the only thing that grounds me.
We dance and we dance, until my heart is light and I’m breathlessly giggling.
‘What’s so amusing,’ he asks as he leads me back to our table.
‘I was just thinking of that saying. Dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.’
‘That’s just what I need to hear when I’m about to ask my mother to dance.’
‘You’re a good son.’ I angle my head to look up at him. ‘Besides, the waltz is a perfectly proper dance. No one watching you move so elegantly would ever guess what a beast you are in the bedroom.’
‘Beast?’
‘Totally in a good way. You’re safe to dance with your mom.’
And it does my heart good to see her smile up at him as he offers her his hand. It also makes my pulse skitter as, on the way to the dancefloor, he glances back, sending me