Two Left Feet

When clumsy Joe literally bumps into Emma it starts something that sweeps them off their feet

- SASKIA SARGINSON

Joe sits in his window at his laptop. He works late most evenings, but every Tuesday and Thursday, at exactly seven o'clock, his eyes rise above his screen and gaze across at the flat opposite. On the dot, a golden couple appear, and he watches, mesmerised as they dance.

They are both blonde and physically co-ordinated to a degree he finds breath-taking. They swirl and turn, dip and glide together around the room. Sometimes the man lifts the woman, and she appears to float above his head as if she's taken flight. It's a hot September, and both his window and the doors to their balcony are open, so he hears occasional snatches of music. Watching them move makes him feel a sense of awe at their elegant connection, and despair at himself. His own attempts at dancing are embarrassing. He's always had two left feet.

They've been dancing for an hour, damp behind her ear, panting. Her right ankle throbs; she'd felt it twist as she'd landed. She's over-heated and tired, but there's no point in asking for a rest. George insists they keep moving. On Tuesdays and Thursdays his living room doubles as a dance space, but after a long day at the office, going over and over their routines is the last thing she wants to do, especially on an evening like this.

She imagines how wonderful it would be to sit in a pub garden basking in the embers of summer with a glass of cold white wine in her hand. But George likes them to practise at his flat on the two evenings they don't go to the studio to meet their coach - he's obsessed with adding to their already impressive array of trophies. They've been dancing together since they were nine years old. "Fred Astaire made Ginger practise till her feet bled," he likes to remind her.