Getting In Step - 1. The story

Both legs were spread wide over the edge of the bed, as if primed for sex. Or maybe they belonged to someone enticing a reluctant lover to offer fellatio? He shrugged. It was all surmise as he hadn't any direct experience on either count.

Harold shuffled into the bedroom and inspected what his housekeeper had laid out. He did a quick check: dinner jacket, bow tie, cummerbund, and the X-rated trousers. A gala evening at the ballet warranted dressing up. With an air of resignation, his gaze took in the black, slip-on shoes. They had nothing on lace-ups, but his hands couldn’t manage tying knots. Same with the cuff-links.

First losing the embroided slippers, he stripped off. The taxi was due in thirty minutes; it wouldn’t do to keep his companion waiting.

A young man tapped the inside breast pocket of his only suit. Had he got everything? He ran through a mental list: condoms, miniature lube, dental dams. Chances of using them were slight, but if he didn’t go prepared, there might be awkwardness and trouble. As ever, he was torn. Extras paid handsomely but at the price of some personal grubbiness.

One burp escaped, followed by another. Maybe the takeaway Southern fried chicken and chips hadn't been such a good idea. He frowned.

A hasty return to the cramped bathroom added more peppermint to a pungent bouquet of aromas hanging around the shabby bedsit. He couldn't uneat the chicken. Anyway, breakfast had been twelve hours before; he'd already put in a day's work for a mind-numbing desk job that scarcely paid the rent.

His phone pinged. A final reminder from the agency. Swiftly, he scanned the details. It was another older guy. He shrugged; being fussy was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Harold took a seat in the theatre’s foyer. He gave thanks for virtually no pain as he did so. The miracle of another successful hip replacement. Numerous couples milled around, acknowledging others with raised voices and smiles already fuelled by alcohol. He and Sheila had performed the same rituals once.

She'd been the one with the kaleidoscopic memory for names and faces, greeting people as friends when he barely recalled their existence. In those moments, he spared a glance or two for any wait staff in attendance before she inevitably drew him back to the conversation.

He sighed, feeling his loneliness. In between glancing at the glossy, overpriced programme, his eyes scanned the crowd. Only a few older men like him wore the traditional black and white penguin suit. Such a pity, in his opinion. Feeling a buzz in his trouser pocket, he retrieved his phone.

Entering the foyer from outside, the young man paused. The glare from so much refracted wealth and entitlement hurt. He stood tall, taking time to acclimatise. First impressions on his client mattered. Anyone present wouldn't appreciate their newly-arrived companion acting like an ingenue. He twitched the charcoal grey suit into shape. Travelling the Tube at any time of day didn't do much for clothing. Or shoes. A quick inspection revealed the same mirrored gloss he'd left the house with.

It took several scans of the packed foyer to reveal his ‘date’. A number of disparate groups coalesced in such a way that revealed the seating behind. Before the vista closed again, he hurried through the gap.

On the approach, he smiled broadly. “Harold? Hi, I’m Justin. Very pleased to meet you.”

“Good evening, Justin.” The older man held out a hand. “I’m so very glad you’re on time – it gives us more time to talk before the performance. I miss a good chat.”

Introductions over, Justin followed his client to the upstairs bar. The other man moved with a grace that was intriguing. Some people he knew would interpret that slight hip sway as a come-on. The agency never commented on the sexual preferences or inclinations of the clients. He shrugged. Gay or straight, he had to believe it made no difference. As long as he received his payments – from all sources – life hovered around the 'bearable' line.

They settled down with a glass of wine each. Unlike in the foyer, it was possible to hear each other without shouting.

“Evening wear suits you, Harold. You look distinguished.” Justin paused. “Actually, dapper is a better word.”

His client laughed. “One has to make an effort for a gala event. Thought I wouldn't fit into the trousers though.”

Justin raised an eyebrow.

The older man grimaced. “Not been getting around like I normally do. Had both hips done over the past six months. Try telling my housekeeper. She continues to feed me as if I'm still running the company I sold five years ago.” He savoured the wine. “One imagines that's a gamut of problems which don't trouble you?”

A moment passed while Justin processed the implications. In a way, it was a compliment of sorts. “My day job isn't physically demanding. Any free time I spend time working-out instead.”

“And watching what you eat is an everyday thing, I imagine.”

He bristled before hastily papering over his bad temper with a professional smile. Why else would he be doing escorting? The monthly bills refused to pay themselves. He refocused. The shrewd pair of eyes opposite regarded him with interest and sympathy.

“Justin, I have no rags to riches story to relate, but I know any member of the corps de ballet here struggles to keep afloat. How any young person survives nowadays defeats me.”

“I get to meet all kinds of people I wouldn't otherwise.”

“Hmm.” Wry amusement now dominated. “Some individuals more to your taste than others, I shouldn't wonder. One shudders at the frequent lack of manners on display.”

Memories of a black eye and split lip that took weeks to heal made Justin shift in his seat. Yes, the agency banned the bastard concerned but that was all. He had no doubt some homophobic tosser in the police would've taken pleasure in accidentally informing his workplace of any alternative employment in the name of making enquiries.

He upped the smile's wattage. “So are you here solely for the ballet?”

“Rather than the so-so buffet, you mean? Yes, indeed. Do you know the House had the cheek to ask a thousand pounds per ticket for the stalls? I hasten to add that's not what I paid. Still, the company is at its best for a long while. Some of the male principal dancers are a delight to watch.”

Justin ticked a mental box.

“So, young man, does a night at the ballet strike fear into your heart?” A smile played on his lips.

“Err…” He shrugged slightly. “I'm your companion for the evening, Harold. Where you go, I follow. Within reason.”

Opposite, a frown surfaced. “You’re honest at least. How can you not appreciate dancing?” Even sitting down, the older man struck an elegant pose, arms outstretched. “Modern ballet is hardly designed for the Strictly Come Dancing TV audience, but anyone can admire its beauty and structure.”

Justin wondered about former entrepreneurs who were also dancers. It seemed an unlikely pairing.

His client leant closer. “Did you watch the couple who won last week's round of Strictly?”

“Nope.” Having no TV or the accompanying licence, he never watched BBC channels.

The other man chuckled. “You didn't miss anything. The male performer's footwork was shoddy – I forget his name. All over the place. I would've done won hands-down in my prime.”

A genuine smile replaced the other. “You danced professionally or as a hobby?” Justin allowed himself to relax a little – enjoyable, real-life chats were a rarity.

“A serious leisure-time occupation. Now my mobility's returned, I wonder if the jive is still within my grasp.”

“Jive?” Only the faintest of images came to mind.

“Yes, indeed. It was our dance.” Regret filled his whole countenance. “At our peak, my late wife and I were quite the spectacle.”

Justin unticked the box in his mind then hesitated. The result was confusion rather than certainty.

“Harry, darling!” A high-pitched, feminine voice from across the room startled both men. “How wonderful to see you here tonight.”

Justin watched a rake-thin woman of indeterminate age approach their table at speed. He was surprised the heels of her multi-coloured shoes didn't punch holes in the carpet. As she got nearer, it became apparent she wore jewellery sufficient to pay his wages until he retired.

His client's expression changed from one of barely-concealed anger to politeness. He turned. “Bianca. Good evening. A very pleasing turnout, I see.” A suitable smile was summoned.

“Gratifying. The organising committee has such talent, don't you think?”

“You are one of its leading lights, my dear Bianca.”

A faux simper from the woman made Justin bite his lip.

“You are too kind, Harry. Now, if your companion…” She turned and appraised Justin as if he were a prize bullock up for sale. “If your companion would be so kind as to excuse us, I would appreciate a moment or two with you in private.”

He waited for the resigned nod from his client before getting up. “I see some food's finally made its way up here. I look forward to sampling it.” With a smile to both, Justin retired to where two liveried women stood with full salvers.

On to his fourth piece of sushi, Justin wondered how his guts would react to rice and raw seafood after heavily-spiced chicken. He stood at one end of the bar, a lone figure, but within easy distance of the authentic Japanese delicacies. Succulent, jewel-coloured fish roe, slices of what he thought to be squid, both unrecognisable from the usual mass-produced sushi offerings he found at the local supermarket.

A few more guests had ventured upstairs. In search of what, he didn't know. Certainly not him – he observed no glances, Bluetooth pings or anything else out of the modern dating armoury. Any prospect of free food causing a restless night weighed little on his conscience. The daytime drudgery required no imagination or creative thinking. He swallowed a sliver of tuna, fresh caught and uncooked.

Being on duty, as he saw it, didn't prevent him scanning the surroundings. A new waiter took station next to the others. His salver's cargo included soft green amongst the sea of black. Cucumber? A possible palette cleanser wasn't the only thing to make Justin's mouth water. The waiter himself would make a pretty, south Asian-influenced mouthful if he could ever get the guy into bed.

Thinking to try his luck, Justin turned to observe his client and the woman. Their encounter had already lasted far beyond the 'moment or two' requested. They sat unspeaking, postures suggesting the conversation hadn't gone well. Harold was the more composed, outwardly at least. The woman leant forward to say something. A final plea, request, demand? Justin lowered the remaining tuna sushi back onto his plate. Whatever was being proposed, the other man dismissed her with finality, decisive hand gestures making his points plain.

She rose, society hostess expression pinned back into place, and stalked off towards the stairs down to the foyer. On her way, a brittle, crystalline greeting to a startled same-sex couple drew attention. He noted several smirks and concealed comments.

Justin breathed in deeply. Duty called.

“Harold, I've brought you a couple of vegetable sushi.” He held out the plate. “They're refreshing and very moreish.”

“Thank you. My apologies for the overlong interruption.”

“I trust it was nothing unpleasant in nature.” He took care not to make the sentence into a question.

“That depends.” His client bit delicately into cucumber and rice. “Refreshing, indeed. Where were we? Oh, yes – the jive.” Harold paused. “We stopped about ten years ago. My hips got too bad, then Sheila was poorly.” Another pause. “What’s the point though? She’s gone, and I’d never countenance a female dance companion.”

“Not even a lady your age, Harold?”

“Such as Bianca, perhaps.” His nostrils widened. “I think not.”

“It must take a lot of physical energy and strength to dance competitively.”

“I need to exercise more. One's strength and flexibility doesn't return of its own accord.”

“But why no companion, Harold? As a pair, you'd support each other, push together towards goals.”

His client finished off the sushi in silence. Justin wondered whether he'd caused offence, but the other man appeared turned in on himself rather than angry. Both wine glasses stood empty. He reached over, intending to make himself scarce at the bar for five minutes.

“Don't go.”

“I thought you'd appreciate another glass.”

“It can wait.”

“OK.”

Harold stirred, regarding him with the same keen eyes as before. “Humour me for a little longer, Justin. The performance will be called soon enough.”

Curiosity stirred.

“One can spend a lot of time thinking without someone else in the house. It's happened to me quite frequently since Sheila died. Such self-analysis is a revelation, I find.” His client paused. “At last, I understand more about who I am.”

Would he get paid extra for being a counsellor? The question bubbled up without any conscious thought. Justin slapped it back down – he liked what he'd seen of Harold – and made encouraging noises instead.

A smile emerged opposite. “Why should I tell you though? Good question. One can confide in near strangers more easily than one's social circle perhaps. If you disapprove of what I say, it harms neither of us.” Again his hands added emphasis. “After the final curtain, our paths might not ever meet again. Imagine confiding in Bianca or one of her friends.”

“Women can be good listeners.”

“Indeed. I fear it doesn't apply to everyone.”

Ladies and gentlemen. The public address system halted all conversation. Tonight's gala performance will commence in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the auditorium.

Harold shrugged. “Don't worry. What I have to say will be short.” He exhaled slowly. “I loved Sheila with all my heart. No other woman has ever drawn a second glance.”

“I've read that can…” One raised hand cut him off. Justin guessed the man opposite would've been a formidable business adversary.

“Let me finish. No, if my eye wanders, it is to my own sex. Are you surprised? By all accounts, young people are unshockable when it comes to sexual matters. Anyway…” He paused. “I admire fit younger men such as yourself, Justin, but I've never wanted to take it any further. One reads stories of course, where daily quite the opposite happens.”

A pink flush of heat made Justin shift uneasily. There was no way his earlier scoping could've been spotted.

“Not that I'm a prude.”

A twinkle in his client's eye increased the warmth.

“So now you understand why a female companion is doubly unacceptable to me.”

“You haven't told anyone else?”

“You're asking whether I should come out? No. I fear it's a little late in the day for a general announcement. I wouldn't care to sully Sheila's memory and there's the question of what I should come out as.”

The urge to tick some box in his mind led Justin to consider one marked 'On the LGBTQ spectrum'.

Harold picked up the large, glossy programme. “I shall miss dancing.”

Justin hesitated. He found the possibility of a regular fee attractive – it might augment his meagre savings perhaps, or allow for a deposit on a better rental. “I could learn. It would give us both a good workout. Two men can dance together.”

“In some arenas.”

The last call for them to take their seats boomed out. They both stood up.

Harold smiled. “We’ll talk more at the interval, Justin. What you suggest interests me. First, let’s watch the professionals in action.”

Justin stretched. “I'm sure we'll both learn stuff. Not how to dance the jive though.”

“That will come.”

“So I'm hired!”

“Let's see. I'm rather a fan of trial runs. Would that suit you?”

Laughing, both men headed towards the auditorium, each with a dance in his step.