© Cherry Radford 2013
About Cherry Radford
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
Men Dancing
© Cherry Radford 2013
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
With the exception of Paco Peña (with his kind permission), all the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published in Great Britain by Indepenpress
Cover design by Jacqueline Abromeit
Cover photo by Jeremy Woodhouse
About Cherry Radford
Cherry Radford has been a piano teacher at the Royal Ballet Junior School, a keyboard player in a band, and a research optometrist at Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. She lives near Brighton, England.
Her first novel, Men Dancing, was published in 2011.
For more information, please visit www.cherryradford.co.uk
'She [Penélope Cruz] is absolutely in my imagination, and when I'm writing, I'm thinking about her.'
- Pedro Almodóvar
Chapter 1
consuelo m consolation, comfort
Somehow, it was always his fault.
‘I’ve finished with David.’
He leaned back in his chair; I was looking at the interview photo of him, the one they used for the literary festivals - all benevolent scrutiny and perfect jawline. ‘Oh dear. But you know you don’t get anything for a dumping. No consolation prizes for send-offs. Heavens, Yol, I know it’s a first, but they’re in your control - you could bankrupt me.’
Why was he being like this? But then he didn’t know what had actually happened. I looked away, fixed on a watery image of a red bus hissing through the slush outside…
He squeezed my arm. ‘Okay, let’s hear it. D’you want to go across the road? I take it you haven’t eaten.’
I shook my head.
‘Probably should go to yours anyway. The poor sod might ring.’
He got the lasagne out of the fridge and motioned with his head for me to open the door. We went out into the hall, closed his and stood in front of mine.
‘Uh, didn’t…’
‘Well use my keys, silly.’
I considered putting my hand in his jeans pocket, imagined the warmth in there, but he passed me the dish and pulled them out himself.
There was a wince at the dirty mugs and pistachio shells, the balled-up tissues on the sofa; for someone whose flat was tidied and cleaned for him, he was unfairly disapproving of other people’s chaos. ‘So what’s been—?’ The phone blurted. ‘Told you.’
David.
‘Listen to me, please… Yolande?’
‘Yes… I’m here.’ My throat tightened.
‘Don’t do this. It was really nothing.’
That painful ice through my veins again. ‘I can’t…’ I focussed on the kitchen calendar, willed myself to imagine how much better I was going to feel the next week, the next month. Come spring.
‘No, this is no good on the phone - let me come round,’ he said.
Yes. I could ask Jeremy to stay here as some kind of referee; let him see David for what he was. But what he’d see was handsome remorse: I’d be the monster. And then there was the risk I’d be talked round and waste another precious year.
‘Please. We need to talk about it, I need to explain,’ he was saying.
‘We already have.’ Well, he’d talked; I’d screamed and sobbed. ‘You need to cancel Seville. And there’s Saturday…’ A wedding: just what I needed. ‘You go, he’s your friend.’
‘But what about the Trio?’
‘Annie can cover for me.’
‘But it’s rather short notice. And you can’t expect her to cope with some of the new pieces in the set without a proper rehearsal, like the…’
Of course - music always came first. Just talking about it was relaxing him - or perhaps he thought it would relax me, like discussing football with a chap about to jump off the top of a building. I watched Jeremy clear up, put the oven on, check my face; I was ready to jump.
‘Well I need to keep away from you… and right now that’s more important than the odd wrong note in the Allegro. I’m going now, David.’
I was pleased with my resolve, even if I’d only managed it because Jeremy was there to catch me. David started pleading; I heard the word love, but it was rather late for that.
Jeremy took me over to the sofa. ‘I don’t get it. There’s been a few weeks of you finding him slightly irritating, but…’
Irritations: yes, I needed to remember them. His insistence on Yolande. His over-reaction to my inadequate wardrobe. His under-reaction to the inadequate behaviour of the hooray friends I was supposed to impress. The prickly perfection of his white-and-chrome flat. And things I hadn’t mentioned, like the way he always jumped up to have a shower straight after lovemaking.
‘Can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him,’ Jeremy was muttering.
He’d always liked David; I’d never had the heart to tell him it wasn’t mutual.
‘Well if you’re considering offering him comfort, I can tell you he’s been getting plenty of that elsewhere.’
‘What? Oh no.’ He put his arm round me. ‘Can’t believe it… Why didn’t you say?’
‘Well it just gets so boring, doesn’t it? Every bloody time…’
‘But what—?’
‘A college pupil… brilliant clarinettist, apparently. Says it was just a sudden physical thing, but it went on for months.’
‘So it’s over?’
‘That’s what he says. But he’s still teaching her of course. And I couldn’t tell, from…’
‘From looking at his texts.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, I had to… I know it’s awful… but I was right, wasn’t I? Cheating on me, just like all the others—’
‘Not all the others. Tom was faithful to you.’
‘He dropped me after a dinner and who knows what with his ex-wife.’
‘And Colin? Oh… no, he was the one who…’
‘Exactly. I’m just never… enough.’ I yanked a clump of tissues out of the box.
‘You’re more than enough,’ Jeremy said, pulling me closer. ‘But I think you’ve tried to rush things again. Sounds like David took up with this girl not long after Venice and… isn’t that when you asked about marriage?’
‘I didn’t! Well, not exactly… Anyway, couldn’t he have just said no rather tha
n… and what am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-eight, I can’t keep hanging around guessing.’
‘But he’s been married before, had a hell of a time. You seemed so good together, are you sure you can’t—?’
‘No! How could I ever trust him again? It’s over.’ Although I still had all the self-torturing to get through: images of us laughing when we improvised duets, making love in that red-walled Venetian hotel and imagining what our children would look like…
‘Come here you,’ Jeremy said, lifting my legs over his and pulling me onto his lap.
And once again I sank into him, pressed myself against his neat, firm body. Ran my fingers through the soft waves of sandy hair, even though that was probably a bit weird. Not for the first time I thought, if only Jeremy could be mine - not completely of course, but there to snuggle with most nights, a calm friendly presence in my flat, my ever-amusing but sensible companion, perhaps keeping his place just for his writing, an escape from my pupils’ piercing squeaks, somewhere to be on his own when he needed to be - I could give up on other men altogether. The daydream rumbled on to its inevitable finale: the occupant of the tiny second bedroom - preferably a result of new adventures into heterosexuality, but clinic-assisted if that was how it had to be.
Lasagne had been filling the air and was bleeping for attention. ‘Lunch. Up you get.’
I followed him over to the oven and put my arms round him, hanging on like some baby monkey.
‘Careful, you’ll get burnt.’
I flopped back into my chair.
‘Mm - you remembered to put broad beans in,’ he said. He put two spoonfuls on my plate, ignoring my stop-sign hand. ‘Yes. You’re going to need the energy. We’re going for a walk this afternoon - you’re coming with me to the pet shop, I need to get Pavlova a new collar. Fresh air’ll do you good. And you never know, you might get inspiration there.’
‘Is that where you got the inspiration for Pavlova? Can’t remember.’
‘No - she was your idea. You said my consolation prize had to be something to do with ballet, but flicked through the About the House magazine and saw a picture of one of the ballerinas holding a white cat.’
‘Oh yes, and later Bradley called and objected when you told him about her, saying he was allergic to cats so it would be a problem when he visited. Just assumed he’d still be staying over whenever he performed at Sadler’s Wells.’
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. ‘Dancers. When will I learn. Your fault - if I hadn’t treated us to becoming patrons following Colin’s shenanigans I’d never have met him.’
‘Or Sergei.’
‘God. Colin should be taken to task for setting off such a catalogue of misery. But look, what about consolation from Sadler’s for you? You’re missing out on Seville so… how about tickets for all of the flamenco festival?’
‘Well I hate to be ungrateful, but weren’t we going to do that anyway? I’m sure last year we promised ourselves—’
‘Yes you’re quite right, we did. I must get on and book it. Okay. So, let’s think…’
‘No - you’ve done far too much for me already. Let’s give the consolation prize thing a miss this time. Just some films and chocolate on your sofa, that’ll do me fine.’
‘Of course. As long as you finish your lunch.’ He took another mouthful and closed his eyes in bliss. ‘You know, when I first took you on you were a downright bloody awful cook. I just liked the way you left everything exactly as you found it after cleaning, wanted to help you out. But now you’re getting to be almost good.’
‘Just as well, looks like you’ve got me for keeps.’
‘Oh come on, you’ll get snapped up again in no time. You should go next Saturday - you’ve got a phenomenal record of picking up admirers at weddings.’
It was true. Playing in a girl flute trio probably had a better hit rate than speed dating. But I didn’t want a hit. Being blonde isn’t all it’s cracked up to be - constantly being picked up, considered and put down again like some glittery paperweight in a gift shop. I wanted to jump straight to having a man whose happiness with me was more important than games-playing with an ex-wife, a threesome with twins or adventurous sex with a twenty-year old; a man who didn’t have to get his pilot licence, buy his own dental practice, move up to being first clarinet in the orchestra, finish alterations to an already stylish docklands flat, tour South America (alone) and do heaven knows what else before he could tell whether or not he wanted to have a family with me.
‘What’s the point? In six months’ time, a year, I’ll be in the same state. And so on and so on, until either I’m too old for anyone to bother or there are simply no more fish in the pond. That’s it - they’re all just slippery fish. Fucking jellyfish. I don’t think London can produce a male with an honest backbone.’
‘Hm. I think we’re entering the anger phase, so it’s definitely time for that fresh air.’ He stood up and took the plates to the kitchen. I followed him again, clamping onto him as he tried to stack the dishwasher.
He put his arms round me, stroked the back of my head. I closed my eyes, let them weep; I’d soaked Jeremy’s shoulder enough before, he wouldn’t mind. I found his spine.
‘You’ve got one.’
‘One what?’
‘A backbone.’ You couldn’t fault Jeremy’s decisiveness. Trouble was, he’d decided many years ago that he’d search
as long as it took for a sensitive, intelligent, preferably dark and handsome man.
He twitched: I’d found a susceptible spot, one that had almost certainly been found by one of the sensitive but in other ways deficient men. ‘Of course, and if there’s one of us there must be more,’ he said. ‘Let’s go then. Look - the sun’s come out for you.’
We draped each other in scarves and took the detour through the gardens and along the canal. The sun on the snow made my eyes smart, made me remember walking there with David in the Summer, before the college term and Lucy began, on our way to a pub lunch feeling dazed after…
Jeremy yanked me to his side. ‘God… every time: watch out for the bikes Yol! One of these days you’ll be flattened.’
As if encouraged by my thoughts, David rang.
‘Please don’t keep calling.’
‘Where are you? I’m outside your flat.’
‘On the Regent’s canal, by the red and yellow boat.’ That we once imagined owning.
‘Oh… are you okay? Wait, I’ll—’
‘Not throwing myself in, if that’s what you mean. I’m with Jeremy. Don’t wait, I—’
‘Of course you are. And what’s he giving you this time? A Spanish villa? A dance company? What am I worth Yolande? And when’s he going to figure out that what you really want is just him?’
‘Uh, I’m not listening to—’
‘No, no - don’t go. Sorry. Look, when will you be back? I could have a coffee at the croissant place and wait for you.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tell me what you’ve got to say now. What you wanted to explain.’
‘Well I… just don’t want to stop seeing you. Lucy was just a… fantasy, I suppose I was just really flattered… but it’s over. I was so stupid. I’d never do anything like that again, you have to believe me.’ There was a pause. ‘And really, all this has made me realise how much… I love you.’
I’d waited so long for this but it didn’t mean anything now, however many times he said it. He wanted to see me. As before. Living separately, never discussing the future. As before. Presumably until the next time he was flattered.
‘Yolande?’
‘And that’s it.’
‘What d’you mean? Look come here now and I’ll take you to my place, we’ll have—’
‘No… Look, I’ll call you in a few months’ time and we’ll go to a film, okay?’ I switched off the phone and put it back in my pocket.
Jeremy took my arm. ‘He’s waiting outside the flat? Better go back—’
‘No.
He was probably just passing anyway. And Pav needs that new flea collar…’
‘Why don’t you let me get you a Pavlova? Hey - we could get a boy one. I could put off getting her spayed and have kittens.’
‘I don’t want a kitten, I want a child.’ I stopped dead; where had that come from?
‘Well… you could think of it as preparation for that. Go on, it would be fun.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think it closes at five - we’re not going to make it at this rate.’
‘That’s it exactly - I’m not going to make it at this rate.’
‘What? Oh stop it, of course you will. And meanwhile how can you turn down—?’
‘I’d love to have a kitten with you. But why don’t we just go straight to having a…’
Then he stopped dead. Looked down at the frozen puddle in front of us. It had been there all along, of course: the question I was always going to ask. And even though his mouth was open in shock I still felt confident as ever of the answer.
‘Come on, don’t be daft. You’re going to meet a wonderful guy at this gig or another, and one day you’ll make me a useless godfather—’
‘No I’m not. And I’ve already met the wonderful guy, I want your child.’ His hand was going to his face. ‘No listen, we could go to a clinic… and I wouldn’t expect you to help at all, I know you—’
He took hold of my shoulders. ‘Yol… stop. Please. Don’t ask me for the one thing I can’t give you.’
‘What… Why?’
‘Because… I haven’t given up hope of finding my soul mate.’
‘Aren’t we soul mates?’
‘Of course we are… but you know what I mean.’
‘I wouldn’t stop you… I don’t see why—’
‘Too… complicated. What about the child? This would be a person, growing up and asking questions. And one I’d be letting down from the moment they were born.’
‘No you wouldn’t, you’d be a fantastic—’
‘I’m sure he or she would be wonderful but…’ His eyes were glinting with tears. ‘Come here.’ He held me tightly. Then pressed his lips firmly upon mine, for the first time in ten years. We looked at each other for a moment with shocked watery smiles.
FLAMENCO BABY Page 1
