Interpoetry

BELLY ROLL

I’m staring, transfixed, at the crumpled leaflet I just found in the bottom of my
handbag. A poor quality photocopy, the pale yellow paper it’s printed on a vain
attempt to add colour and excitement. But it’s the figure I’m gawking at, a line-
drawing of a woman dressed like she’s just stepped out of the Harem, curved and
contorted, her arms stretched out, a smile on her yellow face. ‘Belly-Dancing for
Beginners. Great exercise! Make new friends!’ screams the loopy writing. This was
the pamphlet that came through my door all those weeks ago. And silly me was
taken in by it, which is why I’m in this mess right now.

Disaster. Total disaster. I don’t know what I’m doing. This lipstick may as well be
poster-paint I’m applying it so thickly. Any more blusher and I’ll look like a clown. That
special gene that women just have for slapping on the slap, passed me by
completely. Make-up is just not in my make-up. But then Jasmine did say “plenty of
war-paint girls, those bright lights will drain you”. And god forbid I upset Jasmine, with
her swishy hair and impeccably varnished nails. Perhaps I should ask for some tips.
Claire’s over there, she’s always been nice to me. Well, not nice exactly but she
didn’t clam up each week when I walked in so she’s a step up from Janice and Barb
and Lucy the rest. All over a throw away remark – “belly roll sounds like something
you’d order off a menu – belly roll and chips, please”. I thought it was pretty funny, for
me. But then word spread I’d directed my remark squarely at Fat Sylvia. Word spread
she’d gone crying off home and was never seen at the class again. I can’t even
remember if Fat Sylvia was there when I said it. But who cares about the details - my
card was duly marked, the tittle had been tattled and I’ve been persona non gratis
ever since. ‘Make new friends!’, ha - that’s a laugh.

Is my hip-scarf sitting right? It’s hard to tell when you’ve got no hips. No boobs either,
but I’m improvising with toilet roll. My Dave says he doesn’t like big breasts. But then,
my Dave says a lot of things. “Of course I won’t forget to hang the washing out”, “I
love you”, “I did fill that form in, it must be a mistake their end”. Time has taught me
to take all, and I mean all, of the above with a pinch of salt. Is he here? I left him with
his head in his hands in front of Deal or no Deal. “Off to make God’s ears bleed?”
he’d mumbled as I scuttled past. It’s the same quip he’s made every Tuesday for the
past six weeks, but little does he know I’m not (like I told him) a Chorister. I’m a Belly-
Dancer. Of course I should have come clean there and then, but I’ll let the note I left

under the kettle do the talking – ‘St Gabriel’s Church Hall, 7pm, please come’. No
indication of what or why. That can come later. If he comes. It’ll be quite a shock,
when that grubby curtain swishes back and he’s faced, not with a timid little church
mouse, but a gyrating, pulsating exotic princess. What will he say? Will he take the
piss? Of course he will. Tears streaming down his face at me, at this lot – a raggle
taggle line-up, more lumpy than lithe, swathed in rainbow fabrics, our tubby midriffs
framed in jingle-jangles. See, disaster.

I should leave, grab my bag and go home. If I leg it now I’ll be home in time for
Corrie. Nice cup of tea, feet up, pretend this never happened. If Dave has come out
I’ll tell him it was just a joke, thought he could do with cheering up, send him off to
laugh at the silly women trying to dance. He’ll never know. No-one will. He won’t see
me humiliated. Won’t know the work I’ve put in, the time I’ve invested, the wiggling
and jigging and bouncing I’ve done along to the same CD week in, week out. He
won’t know that I didn’t see it through, that I bottled it like I always do. But I’ll know.
Jasmine will know. And god forbid I upset Jasmine, with her washboard stomach and
perfectly plucked eyebrows.

What was that? Someone out there, out in no-man’s land, just laughed. A low rumble
of voices is easy to block out, low and indistinguishable, but that, a hoot of laughter,
that belongs to a real live person. Is it Dave? Get a grip it can’t have been, not unless
he’s been on the helium. But it was someone; a friend, a sister, a daughter, a mother.
Everyone heard it, everyone’s looking now. Claire’s gone white, Barb looks like she
might throw up. “Come on ladies, buck up, we can do this. And if we can’t, at least
we tried”. Crikey, did I really just say that out loud? No. It was Janet. But I surprise
myself by agreeing. Maybe sheer terror is addling my brain.

The music just swelled up, hushing the crowd. What’s that in my mouth? Ah yes, my
heart. Why does it taste of Marmite? I knew I should have tried to eat a proper
dinner. Someone’s squeezing my hand. A glance around reveals it’s … I don’t know,
I never managed to learn everyone’s name. I squeeze back and smile tightly. We’re
starting to ebb forward. Slowly, inexplicably, maybe unwisely, one foot moves in front
of the other and I’m off towards those draining bright lights. I hope Dave’s here.