Free Dancing in the Dark by Susan Moody

with a holiday.’
    â€˜I’m far too busy,’ I say, though right now, the thought of a few days in the sun, doing absolutely nothing, is incredibly tempting.
    Irritatingly, Fergus Costello appears at my side again, and the Cartwrights move off elsewhere with what seems to be over-elaborate tact.
    â€˜That’s what you call a truly happy union,’ he says, watching as they join Charlie and Caro. ‘You look at those two and you understand what it’s all supposed to be about.’ His eyes slide up my face. ‘Are you married, Theodora?’
    â€˜I was, but it didn’t work out.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜All sorts of reasons,’ I say lightly. I have to admit that sometimes I think of Harvey with regret. His reasons for wanting to get married might have been the wrong ones, but so were mine. We lasted five years before we split up; they weren’t unhappy years, just rather meaningless.
    â€˜So why did you choose him in the first place?’
    â€˜He’s twenty years older than I am. He offered me safety and I took it.’
    â€˜What did you offer him?’
    I shrug. ‘Who knows what these bargains entail?’
    â€˜Is that how you see marriage? As a bargain?’
    â€˜Isn’t it? In return for security, he got a young body in bed. A dutiful hostess. A chatelaine to take care of his home. Which, let me say, I enjoyed doing.’
    â€˜So why did you split up?’
    â€˜In the end, it came down to the chains,’ I say, to my own surprise. I’m not in the habit of talking so freely to virtual strangers.
    â€˜Chains? Do you mean real, or symbolic?’
    â€˜Both. Every birthday, every Christmas, Harvey gave me another chain. Solid. Beautiful. Expensive. Red gold, yellow gold, rose gold. I started to feel as though they were a slave collar, like a badge of servitude.’
    â€˜Pretty classy servitude.’
    â€˜Servitude, all the same.’ On my twenty-sixth birthday, seeing the by-now-familiar shape of the package beside my plate, I’d panicked. I have nothing against gold, but I prefer it in ingots, stashed in a bank vault, rather than hanging down between my boobs. As I picked up the package and began to tear off the wrapping, I had an absolutely clear image of myself ten, fifteen, twenty years down the line, shoulders bowed, forehead scraping the ground from the accumulated weight of all the chains I’d been loaded with. ‘It was the way he looked at me when I put the last chain round my neck. Exactly the same as when he bought a new car or a new tie. I realized that as far as he was concerned, I was just another chattel. Another asset.’
    â€˜So what happened?’
    â€˜A week later I left him. It was all very amicable.’
    â€˜Where is he now?’
    â€˜Happily remarried, with a clutch of babies puking all over his Savile Row tailoring.’
    â€˜And you have no regrets?’
    â€˜Very rarely. What about you?’
    â€˜I’ve been in a couple of long-term relationships but nothing serious.’ He looks at me quizzically and I know he’s wondering if I’ve read about him in the papers.
    I pretend I haven’t. ‘Does it worry you, still being single?’
    â€˜A little. No, actually, that’s not true. I’m heading towards forty, and it worries me a lot. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up as a crusty old bachelor. Trouble is, I’m too much of a wanderer. I never stay in one place very long – I just have to hope that one day I’ll meet someone who doesn’t mind.’
    â€˜It won’t be me,’ I say, before I can stop myself. ‘I had enough of the gypsy life when I was a child. I never really acquired the taste for it.’
    â€˜Your father was in the services, was he?’
    â€˜Erm . . . yes. Do you have a base somewhere?’
    â€˜A houseboat in Chelsea.’
    â€˜Very suitable.’ A houseboat is not