The question had taken her by surprise:
“What kind of dancing do you do?”
“Sorry?” she asked the woman.
“Your legs,” the woman offered, as if that was some kind of explanation.
The girl paused. What on earth was this woman getting at?
“Your legs are so beautiful and shapely, what kind of dancing do you do?” the woman asked again.
She paused. How was she going to explain that the only dancing she did was the dirty kind, in the privacy of her own bedroom, when the lights were dimmed and she’d had a few too many cans of the latest cocktail mixer that was on the market?
“Oh, I do ballet,” she heard herself say.
Where the hell had that come from? It was a blatant lie. She hated ballet. The only time she had ever done anything like ballet was when she was seven years old and her mother had insisted on taking her to lessons. She’d only been once. The dance instructor had told her mother she wasn’t the ballet type and to enroll her in something more energetic like jazz… or perhaps soccer.
“Wow! I have a group of female friends who would like to learn, could you possibly teach us?” the woman asked.
Jesus, how had the conversation progressed so quickly? Or perhaps the word was, ‘deteriorated.’
“Sure, I can do that!” She beamed at the woman with what she hoped was her most confident smile. Dear God, she thought to herself, this was getting worse and worse.
“Great!” said the woman, mirroring the girl’s smile. “If you can write down your details here, I’ll be in contact with you regarding a time and place.”
The girl stepped forward to scrawl her name and phone number on the piece of paper the woman held out to her.
She paused again. There was only one thing to do. Lie again.
“Here you go,” she said, passing the paper and pen back to the woman.
The woman studied it.
“Ginger Rogers,” she said. “What an unusual name!”
“Ah yes… my mother had a thing for spices; my sister’s name is Rosemary.” The lies were coming thick and fast now. Where would this end?