The Silver Foxes

They’d once been young dancers, ready to take on the world. Things were a bit different now . . .

THEATRE, chip shop, bingo hall, amusement arcades . . . the familiar seafront attractions were all closed as Faye hurried along the prom on a windswept afternoon.

Hunched up in her best coat, because she’d always been skinny and hated the cold, she had her head down and almost bumped into a man coming the other way.

“Oops, sorry.” She nimbly sidestepped in her dainty heels.

“Faye? Is that you?” She was already several steps on when she turned and looked back.

“Ian?” She peeled away a lock of grey hair that had whipped into her eyes.

She almost thought he was a ghost, although he looked far too solid for that in his sharp suit and swirling black overcoat, which had always been his signature style.

A long cashmere scarf tossed over his shoulder was a flash of light against the dark.

He was older, of course. Silver sparkled like frost in his long, swept-back hair. But as his ruddy cheeks rose in a wide grin, something still melted inside her.

“I can’t believe it’s really you!” Ian spread his leather-gloved hands wide as he stepped towards her.

Her first thought was that he was going to hug her, and she felt a pang of disappointment when he didn’t. She guessed it had been a long time.

Then again, who was she kidding? Things had always been awkward between them. Especially in the end.

“Do you live around here?” Ian asked.

“No, I . . .” Faye hesitated. “You?”

“Business.” Ian jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

The same old Ian, Faye thought with a smile. Their old life seemed so long ago, but men like Ian never retired. There was always another deal to make.

“Look, I have a meeting,” Ian began, “but it’s been so long. Could we meet up later for a cup of tea or dinner?”

“Well . . . um . . .” “Hey, why don’t you come with me?” Ian enthused. “It’s at the theatre. It will be just like old times. And it’s only a quick meeting. Then we can have a proper catchup.”

He stood aside, one glove touching her arm, the other sign-posting the way. He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

Faye laughed. Where had she been on her way to anyway? She could hardly remember. Nothing important, that was for sure.

It felt inevitable that she would fall into step with him as they headed back the way she’d just come, wondering what she was getting herself into.

An hour later, they were in a café. It was getting dark outside and rain was pattering on the steamed-up window.

Inside there was a scattering of customers, out-of-season holidaymakers, shoppers and solitary men reading the papers provided.

But at their corner table Ian and Faye were absorbed in their conversation.

“So that’s the plan.” Ian beamed. “Proper family entertainment like we used to have on the telly before all the reality stuff started. Singers, dancers, comedy and magic. We’ll play a summer season here, then hit the road around the country.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Faye gazed at him admiringly over a cappuccino that she was cupping in both hands, hoping to bring some colour and feeling back to the fingers that were numb and white for most of the winter months.

She wished she had better circulation. More than that, she wished she had a plan, the way Ian always did.

It had been fun going back to the theatre where she’d danced in the old seaside variety shows. While Ian had met the manager, she’d excused herself to sit in the stalls and gaze at the empty stage, remembering her graceful movements to the music of the times.

What was that song that had been her favourite? Oh, yes, Fleetwood Mac’s instrumental “Albatross”.

Ian slapped the table, bringing her back to the moment.

“Hey! Why don’t you be in it?”

“Me?” Faye laughed heartily.

“You may laugh, but we could get the old dance troupe back together,” Ian enthused. “You, Abi, Cheryl . . .”

Faces Faye hadn’t seen in years flashed

through her mind. Young, flawless faces with smouldering eyes and long, flowing 1970s hair. Not drawn faces framed with grey streaks like the one that greeted her in the mirror each morning.

“But we’re all in our . . . I mean, that was years ago. We’re not young any more.”

“But look at you!” Ian declared. “You’re as slim as you ever were. Still glamorous! And still gorgeous.”

Faye blushed under the intensity of his stare.

“That’s the trouble with the girls of today,” Ian went on. “They’ve no presence, no class. But you! You’ve got sophistication, mystique . . .”

“Raynaud’s.” Faye giggled, and showed him her bloodless fingers. “Arthritis.”

Ian wasn’t listening. His eyes glazed over, imagining, and she remembered that look he’d get on his face when he was in the throes of one of his big ideas.

“This could be the gimmick the show needs. We just need a name for the troupe that sums up the glitz, glam and Seventies nostalgia.”

“How about Pan’s Pensioners?” Faye joked. “Or Hot Cocoa?”

She caught sight of her watch.

“Oh, no, I have to run.

I . . .” She blushed. “I have a date.”

If she thought that might prompt a little jealous reaction, she was disappointed.

“Do you need a lift?” he asked, practical as ever.

They leaped up together, then froze as something seemed to mesmerise Ian. Faye caught her breath as he reached out and gently touched her hair.

“How about the Silver Foxes?” he breathed.

Faye wasn’t supposed to answer her mobile at work, but seeing Ian’s name on the display when it rang next morning, she couldn’t resist.

Bending low at her desk, she pretended to be looking for something in her bottom drawer.

“How was the date?” Ian asked.

“Oh, you know.” She tried to sound light.

In truth, Faye had come to expect little from online dating. After a series of disappointments – oh, perfectly pleasant men, but somehow lacking the verve she was still hoping to find – she was thinking of giving it up.

She’d only travelled so far to the last one because she thought it would be nice to stroll around the seaside town where she’d spent so many happy summers, forgetting that it wasn’t summer, and would be freezing.

She’d gone halves on a pleasant meal, but the conversation had been stilted. Mainly because she kept thinking of velvet hot pants, bell-bottomed trousers and platform shoes – and Ian.

“So how about coming back to work?” Ian asked. “Can I buy you dinner to talk about it?”

“Faye, is that another personal call?” her nasal harpy of a boss called across the open-plan local authority office.

Honestly, she made it sound as though she was never off the phone.

“Got to go,” Faye said. “I’ll call you later.”

****

“OK, Abi, we’re done. That was wonderful.” The photographer put the lens cap back on his camera.

Abi stepped stiffly out of the walk-in bath in her swimsuit and reached for her dressing gown. The modelling jobs sure weren’t as glamorous as they used to be, but she supposed that at seventy-three she shouldn’t grumble.

Pulling her glasses from her pocket so she wouldn’t trip over the cables and spotlights, she headed for the dressing-room.

Waiting by the door were two unfamiliar figures who suddenly didn’t look quite so unfamiliar.

“Faye? Ian?”

Ian’s handsome face cracked into a grin.

“How are you fixed for a summer season?”

****

Cheryl gazed across her ironing board at her pot-bellied husband snoring open-mouthed on the sofa. His dirty dinner plate sat on the cushion beside him.

The football roared, unwatched, on the TV.

She looked back at her phone and the Facebook message that had come out of the blue.

Her slender thumb didn’t hesitate as she typed. Count me in!

****

“Night, then. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Faye closed the door of Ian’s black Jaguar – he’d always had a particular taste for cars – and hurried up the path to her door.

She turned to see him waiting at the kerb until she was safely inside, and gave him a silly little wave.

It was late and she was exhausted, but she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in years. Tracking down the old gang and brainstorming ideas for songs, costumes and speciality acts was more fun than her job at the council.

In the old days, she’d been only a dancer – just a pretty grin and a pair of high-kicking legs to Ian, she’d always supposed.

This time, it felt like they were partners, hammering out the details of the show between them. And he listened, really listened, to her ideas.

Later, as she lay in bed, too buzzed to sleep, Faye dared to wonder why he was involving her so much.

Was he simply enjoying the chance to share his passion for show business with an old friend from the past? Or was it more than that?

Was he lonely, as she was?

Ian had never seemed the lonely type, always more focused on business than relationships. But a lot had happened since she’d known him.

He’d been married and widowed. His grown-up children had inherited his driven streak and were busy leading their own lives.

“Which is as it should be,” he’d said.

But he was in his sixties, and alone, with nothing to pour his boundless energy into except one venture after another. Was that enough for a man?

Wincing as she realised her leg had gone dead, Faye wondered what sort of woman Ian had married. Had his wife shared his many projects, as Faye was doing now? Had their union been more fulfilling than her own sad marriage to Dan?

Faye didn’t blame Dan. She’d met him on the rebound and stumbled into motherhood and matrimony. Perhaps if she’d loved him deeply he wouldn’t have left her for someone who did.

But even when she was married, her mind had often strayed to Ian, wondering, “What if . . .?”

****

“That’s everybody,” Ian said, when he called her a couple of days later. “Except Portia.”

Faye tensed on her sofa as he named the one member of their old troupe that she wasn’t looking forward to seeing again.

“Do you think she’ll do it?” Ian asked.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t bother with her,” Faye dared to say, her mouth dry.

“But think of the publicity!” Ian enthused.

Faye pictured Portia, the only one of the dancers who had gone on to bigger and better things as an actress who was regularly on television. The dance captain who, back in the day, had set her sights on Ian – and the one who always got what she wanted.

Faye would never forget the day she’d walked in on their dressing-room clinch, and a stupid dream of hers had died.

“Her agent isn’t

interested,” Ian was saying. “But you know what agents are like. I have decided to take the direct route, so I’ve invited Portia to dinner on Friday to see if I can still charm her.”

The theatre foyer sounded like a schoolgirls’ outing as nine Silver Foxes gathered in their coats, giggling and shrieking over stories from their shared pasts and their lives in the years since.

Faye stamped her feet to keep warm.

“I can’t believe I’m actually wearing a white wig to look older!” Abi laughed.

“I know!” Faye touched her own fake silver bob.

A few months ago, she’d thought a few grey streaks were bad enough. Having to “age up” was flattering, but it was still hard to believe Ian thought they all looked too young for his gimmick of glamorous senior dancers brought out of retirement.

“I feel so much younger since I’ve been back in training, don’t you?” Faye said. “I can touch my toes again!”

“Where’s her ladyship?” Cheryl asked, looking around. “Twice our pay, separate dressing-room – you’d think the least she could do is turn up on time.”

“Speak of the devil,” Abi muttered as Portia swept regally into the foyer, a faux fur coat draped round her shoulders.

Like the rest of them, she was wearing a silver wig modelled on Joanna Lumley’s bob in “The New Avengers”.

“Come on, Ian,” Portia commanded, without a glance at her co-stars. “Let’s get this photo shoot over with.”

“OK, ladies.” Ian grinned. “Time to disrobe!”

Portia peeled off her fur to reveal a floral blouse knotted beneath her bust to show off the high waist of her silky flared trousers.

Faye couldn’t help a pang of envy. All the dancers had kept their bird-like figures, with poker-straight backs, flat stomachs and shin bones like razors. But Portia had a body to die for.

“Well, those aren’t real!” Cheryl hissed to Faye and Abi, making them giggle.

“After you, ladies,” Portia said silkily. “Let’s build up some expectation before I make my appearance.”

“Quite right,” Cheryl shot back. “Youngest first.”

One by one the dancers draped their coats over Ian’s outstretched arms, until he could barely see over the pile.

There were cheers and wolf whistles from the waiting press photographers, a local TV crew and a knot of curious bystanders as the ten performers filed outside on to the theatre steps in their hip-hugging flares, bare midriffs and glittery platform sandals.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kieran, the cheeky young comedian they’d enlisted for the occasion, called, “with a combined age of seven hundred and twentyseven, and the best legs this side of KFC, let’s have a big seaside ‘Phwoar’ for the Silver Foxes!”

It was sunny, but with a biting wind whipping in from the sea that tore through their flimsy costumes.

But the dancers were professionals. Ignoring their rising goosebumps, they put on their brightest grins to pose in formation for the cameras.

Ian threw a first-night party in the theatre’s rehearsal room for the cast and their families, theatre staff, press and assorted local dignitaries.

Faye was one of the few who didn’t take a guest. As the lights dimmed and couples started dancing, she found herself sitting alone on the sidelines in her glittering evening dress.

She didn’t mind. Opening night had gone like a dream.

Still high on adrenalin and applause, she was content to watch her oldest and dearest friends enjoying themselves.

Even Cheryl, who had spent the weeks of rehearsals moaning about her husband, was smiling happily as she circled the floor in his arms.

Being back on the boards had taken years off all of them, Faye reflected. She wondered if Cheryl’s new lust for life had reignited her marriage.

Ian came over, suave as ever in a well-cut taupe suit and open-neck shirt, his silvery hair tied in a ponytail. He held out his hand.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said shyly. “But would you like to . . .?”

Without hesitation Faye placed her hand in his.

The DJ started playing “Albatross”, the dreamy Fleetwood Mac instrumental that defined 1973 for Faye.

She had been twentyseven when it was played on every radio station, and what a turbulent year that had been. The hypnotic melody stirred up such strange feelings.

She moved in close to Ian, heady with the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his arms encircling her. It was the first time they’d ever danced or held each other. She couldn’t believe how perfectly their bodies fitted together.

Why couldn’t it have been like this half a lifetime ago? Almost tearful at the waste, she moved even closer to him.

She rested her cheek on his shoulder and he caressed her back as they swayed gently.

“I’ve really enjoyed the past few months,” he said, his lips close to her hair. “Me, too.”

She felt him breathe in and tense, as if he wanted to say more, but dared not. She didn’t know if she wanted him to go on or not.

Eventually, he spoke again.

“I still don’t know why you left the troupe all those years ago,” he said tightly.

She lifted her head and searched his eyes. Did he really not know?

Before she could speak, there was a commotion on the other side of the room. They and everyone else stopped dancing to stare as Portia tore a strip off her much younger husband at the top of her voice, before turning on a stiletto and flouncing from the room.

The poor guy stood red-faced and helpless, before casting a sheepish sideways glance at all the faces turned in his direction.

He shrugged, his body language clearly saying, “Here we go again”, and headed for the door to follow her.

Ian winced in sympathy. Faye turned him towards her and they carried on dancing.

“She’s great for ticket sales,” Ian confided, as the dance floor returned to normal. “But between you and me I’m glad she’s only available for the first four weeks of the season. Things will be a lot smoother when she’s gone.”

“You liked her once,” Faye reminded him.

“It was never what it seemed.”

“Really?” Faye raised a teasing eyebrow.

“OK, I was young, and flattered,” Ian admitted. “And Portia can be overpowering.”

They both smiled, then Ian became serious.

“The truth is, Faye, that I was too shy to ask out the girl I really liked.”

They’d stopped dancing, but he was still holding her. Her heart was pounding so loud she couldn’t hear the music.

“Shy? You? I never realised that . . .”

He smiled and she’d never seen him look so vulnerable.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I might get another chance?”

Her answer was to raise her lips.

He brought his lips to hers, pulled her to him, and they clung together, knowing they’d never be parted again. n