Free Running in Heels by Anna Maxted Page B

and Frannie giggles .
    â€œDrink, anyone?” I ask, relieved.
    â€œI’ll have a pint of bitter, please,” says Frannie.
    â€œWhite wine and lemonade for me.” Robbie grins. I leave them to it and head for the bar.
    â€œNatalie,” says Andy, blocking my path.
    â€œAndy,” I reply, as politely as I can.
    He takes my hand and leads me into the corridor.
    â€œNow,” he murmurs, “you’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me what’s wrong. I haven’t seen you for, what, years, and you seem to have developed a grudge against me. What have I done? Is it what I said in the car? Is it to do with Big Tone?”
    He treats me to a smile that I’m sure works wonders on his mother and secretary but makes me want to smack him.
    â€œNo,” I say stiffly. “Nothing to do with Tony. No.”
    â€œNatalie,” he says in a cooler voice, “whatever it is, I can take it.”
    I’m not sparing your feelings, I shout in my head, I’m sparing my own. My insides churn and I blurt, “It’s nothing, okay? Happy birthday. I mean, welcome back. It’s nice to see you again.”
    â€œBut no welcome-back kiss?” he says cheekily.
    â€œI’d love to only I have a large festering scab on my chin,” I retort. “I wouldn’t want to transfer it.”
    â€œShame.” Andy sighs. I step daintily over his foot and scurry to the bar.
    When I return to my original party position, the first words I hear are “The pointe shoe is merely a phallus.” I tense. Ballet is another crime Frannie holds against me.
    â€œI didn’t realize,” says Robbie. “Is that why me mum’s so keen?”
    I hold my breath. Frannie peals with laughter.
    â€œYou’re the expert, I’m told, what do you reckon?” says Robbie to me.
    I say carefully, “I see Frannie’s point—classical ballet is sensuous, but it’s sexless too. Upright and prim. The center of gravity is in the upper chest. Modern dance is more focused on the, er, pelvis.”
    â€œUpright!” Frannie nods. “ Exactement! The female ballet dancer is merely an erect phallus being manipulated by the male for his own pleasure!”
    I look about for deliverance and to my relief see that Babs and Simon have arrived. Babs looks luminous, as if she is lit up from the inside. Her curls gleam in the green and blue disco lights. As I wave at her, a waitress digs me in the ribs with a tray of pizza.
    I shake my head. Frannie takes a slice and says, “What is it, Nat—scared your belly button might detach itself from your spine for five minutes?”
    I squirm. “I don’t like garlic.”
    Nor do I wish to greet Chris with breath so potent it could power a jet plane.
    â€œSo you’re a midwife?” says Robbie politely to Frannie. “I admire people what do that job.”
    Her face softens. “ Do you?” she says. “Well, I appreciate that. It can be so thankless. People scream at you when you’re only doing your best—I’m always relieved when the husband faints because then he’s out of the way and you can step over him—the trouble is we’re constantly short staffed and what with the heat and the mess and the smell, it’s all too easy to lose your sense of amazement but, oh hello!” Andy looks through me, and drags Frannie off to join him and Babs in a rendition of “Wives and Lovers.” As this is a song warning women not to let themselves go after marriage, I can only conclude that Frannie has a sense of humor, even if she doesn’t waste it on me. To me Frannie is like a thistle, prickly and dour, and has been ever since we vied for Babs’s friendship at school. (When I was twelve, classrooms were full of double desks. Those double desks caused a lot of grief.) To Babs, Frannie is gruff but loyal. A serious person who you do things with, visit