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Catching myself in a dusty old mirror, I was disappointed to see me waddle – it wasn’t Mum’s elegant glide, but then I’d never been as beautiful or graceful as my mum. Even as a child I was aware of the surprise on people’s faces when my mum or dad would say, ‘And this is our Laura.’ ‘Your daughter?’ they’d ask with unconcealed amazement that two beautiful people could create this chunky, plain child. It didn’t bother me, I’d come to expect the reaction, and apart from some painful times as a teenager I didn’t let my looks shape my life. Or did I? Here in the colours, the sparkle and surprises of the past... my past, I realised how grey my life had gone on to be. As I’d grown up, my parents’ firework display was over and I’d been left with the embers. I’d retreated into a life, where I could be in control and there were no surprises – but looking around me at all this, I realised, there hadn’t been any sparkles either.
    I eventually gathered myself together, and remembering it was Sunday and the ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ results show would be on later I was slightly lifted. I would have a glass of wine in front of the TV and come back to Mum’s later in the week to sort through all the gowns and the rest of the house. I would have to store them at my house. Despite the fact that they would fill up my tiny spare room, I didn’t want to sell them. I couldn’t bear the thought of flogging my parents’ past on Ebay for a few quid. To others they would just be sparkly dresses, but these were the fabric of my childhood, their layers and sequins told a story – my story. I put the gowns back into their bags. They’d been preserved for over thirty years, I didn’t want to leave them exposed to the dust and elements now.
    Frothing the tulle on the pink fondant gown and drinking it in one last time, I noticed something fluttering out from the folds. An envelope, like an escaping butterfly, preserved in pink satin landed on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and when I pushed my fingers inside the ripped top, I could see there was folded paper inside. A letter. I held it for a few seconds, knowing it was probably private – but I couldn’t help myself, I had to read it.
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    M y Darling ,
    You said last night you might have to leave me and I’m sorry I was angry. I wanted to write to you because it seems we can’t talk to each other anymore without hurting. I don’t blame you for saying you want to go – I haven’t been the most attentive of husbands. But I’m begging you not to.
    I can see the effect he had on you, and how, he changed everything. But leaving me isn’t the answer, and my heart bleeds when I see that faraway look in your eyes. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to make it better. I’m hurting too, I can’t even bear to say his name.
    I know you think after what happened that I don’t love you. But I love you in spite of everything – nothing has or ever will change my love for you.
    I want you to stay, Margaret. It won’t be easy but let’s try to put the past behind us and concentrate on the future. If you won’t do this for me, think of Laura. Let’s make the most of what we have – our beautiful daughter, the golden link between the two of us. Let’s teach her to dance, to lose herself in movement, and to ‘feel’ the music that has given us both so much. We must share that gift with Laura – I want her to believe in herself, to shoot for the moon and dance under the stars. I don’t know where we’d be now without our ambitious tangos and complicated waltzes. Our dancing is the life blood that flows through both of us. During that difficult time when we couldn’t speak about what was happening, our touch on the dance floor meant more to me than anything else.
    Darling, stay with me and we will win at Blackpool, then sell up and move away from the painful memories, and start a new life somewhere else. We’ve always wanted to dance