Page 96 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Everyone will be wondering where we are,” I say after a couple of minutes.

“Nah.” I feel Jack stretch out in the chair beside me. “They’ll think I’m out here ravishing you.”

“Hey,” I protest, “I could be the one ravishing you, you know.”

“Good idea. I’m all for equal opportunity ravishment.”

I laugh, something in my chest easing. I pull the handkerchief from my eyes. “What’s the verdict?” I ask. He examines my face carefully.

“Almost back to normal. Think happy thoughts.”

“Distract me with something cheerful, then.”

“Okay.” He gets up, pulling the other metal furniture to the side until he’s cleared a large space in front of me.

“What are you doing?”

“You asked me if I could tap-dance,” is the only answer I get.

“Nooooo!” I squeal, actually wriggling in my seat. “You’re really going to tap-dance for me?”

“I’ll do my best.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes at the screen until music emerges tinnily from the speaker. I recognize it at once as Fred Astaire singing “No Strings” from Top Hat.

“An Astaire man,” I observe.

“I bet you were a Gene Kelly girl.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” As it happens, I love both of them. When we were kids, Hannah and I devoured all their films, leading to our own “tap dancing” performances which—without the benefit of any actual lessons—consisted of the two of us flailing about and making as much noise as possible with our shoes on her mum and dad’s linoleum. “I just wanted to be Rita Hayworth.”

Jack positions himself in the middle of the space, one hand in his pocket, and he sends me a grin. I have a funny feeling in my stomach that might be affection, but then he starts dancing and the feeling rapidly shifts into something else.

He’s tentative at first, but then the muscle memory clearly kicks in and he’s moving effortlessly, the gentle sound of his shoes against the tiles echoing the sharp recorded tapping at the back of the music. I’ve seen the film enough times to know that he’s doing the same dance Astaire does. I know with a strange sense of certainty that he taught himself, practicing for hours and hours in front of the footage. I’d bet money on it.

And he looks good. He moves with a kind of louche elegance that’s all Astaire, but his body is big and powerful. He makes it look easy. He’s so in control. It is almost unbearably hot, and now I find myself squirming in my seat for a different reason. The look of concentration on his face falls away to be replaced with exhilaration. He’s enjoying himself.

Finally, he stops. Pink-cheeked and breathless, he laughs. “That’s all I remember. I haven’t done that for ages. Well?” he says in the face of my silence. “Was it all you hoped it would be?”

“And more,” I manage, and I wish my voice didn’t sound so hopelessly needy.

“Are you cheered up enough to head back inside?”

I pull myself to my feet, trying to hide the fact my limbs are trembling like I’m a nervous fawn. “I am. That was amazing. You know, I’d pay to watch you up onstage.”

“Yeah?” He sounds pleased.

“Yes. But I appreciate the private performance.”

Our gazes catch, tangle. His chest rises and falls, and maybe it’s the dancing that has him breathing hard, but what the hell is my excuse?

I turn and make my way toward the door before I actually do decide to ravish him.

“Anytime, Cynthie.” The soft words follow me inside, the second time he’s said them, and I shiver.

I almost believe him.

Chapter 31 JACK

The first day of filming dawns bright and sunny, which is quite a contrast to my memory of doing this last time—as is my feeling of cautious optimism.