FLAMENCO BABY

by Radford, Cherry

‘Is first time?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No.’ God, was I that awkward?

  ‘But first time with man that is not boyfriend.’

  I gave a little nod.

  He held me close, his hand slipping under my top and sending shivers through my body. Spanish in my ear. I listened carefully and my heart started to pound: follar, to bother. Or to help a fire. But not in this context; I’d seen enough Almodóvar films to know that. The directness was unnerving, even cloaked in the most beautiful language in the world. He was waiting for a reply: a meek ‘sí’? But I was done with meekness.

  ‘Antes y después de cenar?’ I said, immediately wondering if I’d gone too far: he’d just done a performance; perhaps he didn’t have the energy for it before and after dinner.

  But he laughed and gave some encouragement that I didn’t catch. Then whispered something about más confortable and stood up, took my arm and led me to the spare bedroom - where bouncing blocks were kindly hiding the SD website.

  ‘No, aquí,’ I said, pointing to my bedroom door.

  He picked up my stuffed lemur from the bed. ‘De Khe-re-mi.’ I nodded. He sat Lem on my bedside table, legs dangling over the edge; David had just swept him off with the duvet. Then he was making a suggestion about Jeremy and pointing to the phone.

  ‘Ah, sí,’ I said, taking it off the stand.

  He was starting to unbutton his shirt. I had a moment of panic - the thought of exposing my February-white imperfect body to a man accustomed to passionate, sinuous señoritas. Before I hardly knew him.

  ‘What’s your bedroom like?’ A last attempt to learn more about him, sounding like a girl on Blind Date.

  He went over to the window and looked out into the gloom. Taking off his shirt, he described a balcony a little larger than mine, a vase that was valuable but always filled with flowers; a painting of horses.

  I started to witter on about how Jeremy and I had once gone to the Feria del Caballo in Jerez, but he whispered ‘Y hay una cama blanca como la tuya’, gently pushing me back onto the bed, white like his own. We were in each other’s arms, kissing again… and he was pushing against me, his leg coming between mine…

  ‘Estás segura?’ he whispered, his black eyes so near to mine now.

  Was I sure. I must have nodded. He helped me take off my clothes in between removing his, pulled me under the duvet with him, said something about me being precious, pushed stray hair out of my eyes, stroked my cheek. Not boyfriend. But that’s not how it felt. He was moving down my body with his kissing, as I ran my fingers through his hair, along his muscular back…

  Then he came back to me and quietly asked about using something. Did I want to. At least that’s what I think he said. Not necesita: I would have recognised that word. But there are other words for need. It was madness; I was allowing our futures to depend on his exact choice of words and my unreliable translation of them.

  ‘No,’ I said, a further wave of excitement and warmth passing through my body. And a little fear, as he seemed about to ask me something else, but he just smiled and started kissing me again… Then there was an urgency, a frenetic need that conjured images of his dancing. Primitive. Except also somehow… spiritual, as if there was no other way to do it.

  Chapter 5

  precioso adj precious, lovely, beautiful

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Oh good. Haven’t done curry for ages, couldn’t remember—’

  ‘Lunch too, of course, but…’

  Jeremy had found the programme and was running his finger down Nando’s profile.

  ‘God, you must have been the envy of Islington.’ He closed it and looked at me. ‘Just wish you hadn’t gone to our restaurant.’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice, they were all going there.’ I’d sat there wishing I’d worked harder at my Spanish, but enjoying his translations in my ear, his hand on my thigh…

  ‘Weren’t you worried he’d expect to come back here and shag you? Especially after a few drinks.’

  ‘No!’ I got up and put the plates in the dishwasher. ‘He didn’t drink much… I’d sort of made it clear that… Anyway, he was tired, wanted to get back to his hotel.’

  ‘Surely he walked you back here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Arm in arm, his feet rhythmical on the pavement and so fast I had trouble keeping up. ‘I gave him a hot chocolate and then he left. Perfect gentleman.’

  ‘Bloody hell, what’s wrong with the man? He’s a flamenco bailaor, and according to this, with gitano blood for God’s sake. By rights he should have been up for brandy, Ducados, a line of coke and some fast sex.’

  I opened the freezer. ‘Ice-cream or sorbet with the mango?’

  Jeremy was shaking his head. ‘…but he opted for a friendly dinner and a nightcap with the most difficult lay in London.’

  I shrugged, took my time selecting bowls from the cupboard. Wished I could find some way to tell him the truth without him seeing me as a deluded little groupie or a shameless trickster.

  ‘Hey - no chance he’s gay is there?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ I said, rather too quickly. ‘Well… from what I could make out his friends were saying…. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself tonight, they’re all going there again and he said we should both come along.’

  He stopped eating and looked at me. ‘We? Now this really doesn’t make sense.’

  I shrugged again, got up to switch the kettle on. ‘That’s what he—’

  He grabbed my hand. ‘Okay, just sit down will you? Look, I know the state you’re in at the moment…’

  He was going to ask me outright. Of course he was.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that he might actually be… taken with you?’

  I almost sighed with relief; it obviously hadn’t even crossed his mind that I’d… He had such faith in me - such misplaced faith… I tried to hide my watery eyes with my hand.

  ‘Oh Yol… You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you? Look, I won’t come tonight—’

  ‘No, I want you to meet him.’ So that maybe one day he would understand… ‘And what if I have? He’s touring all over the place, it’s impossible.’

  He got up and put his arms round me. ‘Not completely impossible. Admittedly not a very good idea… But I don’t want to spoil your last evening—’

  ‘You won’t. It’ll be good having you there, when he’s gone you can help me remember him.’

  ‘As long as you promise you’ll get shot of me if you change your mind. Come on now, no more tears.’

  Not a boyfriend, but being given the usual treatment. Where he lived and why. How he’d become what he was, his hopes for the future. All in rapid Spanish but the pattern so familiar that I had little difficulty following. And I knew Jeremy would be moving on, almost imperceptibly, to the testing, red-rag pases. In the past having demonstrated knowledge and devil’s advocate views on a range of subjects including NHS dentistry and Arts Council funding. Sure enough, he went on to discuss the sacrifices needed to perform flamenco in a large theatre, even though I knew he’d loved the show. But surely he’d realise he couldn’t go in for the kill with Nando: the questioning on how we’d met - which he’d want described as a life-changing event - and whether the guy realised how lucky he was.

  Nando had the earnest stance I’d seen in other victims. But not for long. Jeremy had met his match; Nando was comfortable with their place in the popular flamenco scene and countered enthusiastically. Then turned the tables and prised out Jeremy’s theatrical parentage and stage school childhood, even the pivotal teenage relationship with a Spanish dancer at an international summer school that made him come out as gay, fall in love with Andalucía, give up his dance aspirations, study English and Spanish at university and feel inspired to write. He even had the nerve to ask Jeremy if he thought he ‘gave difficulties to my relaciones’. Jeremy frowned and looked over at me for an answer.

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ I said, putting my hand over Jeremy’s.

  Then I felt Nando�
��s over mine. ‘Lo siento. You are beautiful friends. Who wants to break this is not good man for Yoli, así que no es importante.’

  ‘Exactamente,’ Jeremy and I said.

  ‘Now we go to your house for chocolate, no?’

  Back at the flat I didn’t mind that I was getting too tired to concentrate properly on their Spanish - jumping as it did between the rest of the shows in the flamenco festival and Jeremy’s novels, the contrasting attractions of Sevilla and Cádiz. I just enjoyed seeing Nando getting on so well with Jeremy, as none of my boyfriends had.

  ‘Thank you for… keeping our secret,’ I said as soon as Jeremy had bid us hasta luego and gone. ‘I know it must seem strange, but…’

  ‘Is okay, Yoli, I not understand, but I do this for you. I like to meet him, is special man - but also it is good to miss him,’ he said, drawing me closer.

  ‘I think you mean lose him. It was certainly kind of him to dis—’

  But his lips were on mine. He pulled me up and led me to the bedroom.

  We were taking off each other’s clothes, smiling and caressing. But I couldn’t forget that time was running out.

  I shivered. ‘I need to turn the heating up.’

  ‘No, come here,’ he said pulling me down next to him and putting the covers over us. ‘Is okay, Yoli… I see you again, I know this.’

  We wrapped around each other and I took his warmth, felt my body melt under his touch again. Not thinking of a baby, just enraptured - as nature intends, perhaps. But afterwards I looked into his eyes and ached to ask when.

  ‘No goodbye, Yoli, I will see you again. Next year. Maybe before. If you are not married then! But you not wait for me, entiendes?’

  I tried to understand. ‘Entiendes?’

  I nodded. He held me tightly, stroked my hair, whispered the Spanish about me being precious again, very quietly, over and over… until I must have fallen asleep.

  Chapter 6

  perder vt to lose

  He’d gone. But that was okay, he’d said he would. As he had the previous night. Sleep was important, he’d said, and there was something about it being easier for me. But I imagined waking and stroking his sleepy body, watching those eyes open, making him breakfast; this, I would never know. Not boyfriend. Hot tears ran down my cheek until I fell back to sleep.

  A few seconds of blissful confusion and then the pain was back. This time, too weary for tears - just lifeless, empty. But I needed to get up; I didn’t want Jeremy to see me in this state. I wandered round the flat, hoping Nando had left a note. A sweater, a hotel key, his mobile. Anything. It was always like this - once he’d gone, his presence here seemed unreal. His mobile. Did he have one? Maybe it was broken. He could have asked for my mobile number. But he’d made it clear, he didn’t want contact. Don’t wait for me.

  I showered and got dressed. Collected the post - there was a tiny chance he’d put a note in the letterbox - but there was just a Next catalogue. I used it to distract myself enough to eat a Weetabix.

  I’d been planning to surprise Jeremy with some new socks in his drawer and ringed my choices. I looked at the male models: none - not even our favourite, the one with the sexy-soft Caribbean smile - were nearly as beautiful as Nando. I closed the book. Then opened it again. I could order my nephews something for their birthday. There they were, all these gorgeous boys of every age and hue in their coordinated outfits. Every hue, it seemed, other than Hispanic. But then with our opposite colouring, presumably ours would be somewhere in the middle of the spectrum… I found a boy with light brown hair and serious dark eyes. I pulled him closer, imagined holding him, reading him tractor books, taking him to toddlers’ music classes and seeing him show early signs of a fine sense of compás…

  Helen rang; I let her leave a message about a change of rehearsal evening to accommodate something to do with Imogen the following week. It could be a daughter. I flicked on and eventually found her. Maybe she was half Indian: black hair but light eyes. An athletic girl in school PE kit, then lithe and laughing in a denim mini skirt. On another page, her hair up and wearing a tulip party dress in which she was much less assured - as her mother would have been…

  Rat-a-tat-TAT. Jeremy. I closed the book and opened the door.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, studying my face.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, forcing a smile.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘He was lovely. Gave me a big hug.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And said he’d see me next year.’

  ‘Well, well. Who’d have thought? Divine fellow - you really should be flattered, Yol.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Now look, half term, so leave me to look after myself - go round and see Emma or something. Don’t sit around here daydreaming about him… I’ve got to push on, but come round sixish and I’ll make us an omelette before we go to the show, okay?’

  I’ve got to push on meant he had some ideas he had to get down, and I knew better than to come between him and his characters when they were desperate to move forward.

  I too needed to move forward; unusually for me, I was off for some retail therapy. The shops on the Green were out; I needed anonymity. I caught a seventy-three to Oxford Street.

  First, John Lewis. Cots, white or wooden. High chairs, cute or subtle. A herd of prams and buggies, someone demonstrating the complex folding, unfolding and optional features to a monstrously pregnant woman and her proud mum. I would try them out with Emma or an embarrassed Jeremy, but hopefully somehow being watched from above; Mum had reared Charlotte and me on her own since we were nine and six, but I remembered her as laughing, smiling and serene. Surely she would understand?

  I ran my hand along the velour babygrows, the teddy bear dungarees with matching button-necked tops, the ludicrous pink miniskirts for age three to six months… Then started to suffer from some kind of overload and had to hang on to a Sale rail of tiny polar bear coats.

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’ A solid, motherly woman with a John Lewis badge.

  ‘Yes… probably didn’t have enough breakfast.’

  ‘Oh no, you need little and often. Why don’t you sit down for a bit?’ She showed me some chairs next to the bottles and nipple protectors. ‘I could get you some water. Or the coffee shop’s just…’

  ‘Ooh yes, I’ll go there. Thanks.’

  The thought of a buttered sandwich was turning my stomach. As, oddly, was a cup of tea. But tomato soup and a roll was suddenly essential to my continued existence. Could this be the beginning of morning sickness already?

  Revived, I turned my attention to more immediate concerns and walked along to Boots. Pregnacare had too fate-tempting a name, so I opted for a simple packet of folic acid tablets. Then it was over to the boxes: pink or blue, as if we should be following our gut instinct about the type of baby possibly inside us. I took a multipack of each.

  I needed to get home, examine my cache and find somewhere safe to hide it; I couldn’t have it tumbling out of my wardrobe next time Jeremy helped me choose something to wear. Meanwhile I could use the bus ride to ponder when the hell my last period was.

  I leant my head against the window and closed my eyes.

  I was on Beauport Beach, sitting on a rock and wishing Mum and Charlotte would ignore me so I could get on with my mermaid daydream. It was risky, coming out of the sea in the height of summer, even in this bay that those four-wheeled things couldn’t reach, but it was nice getting some sun on my scales…

  Charlotte had said something, her words carried off on the sea wind, not interesting enough to cut into my world. Then she looked up from her Jackie, smirking and raising her eyes to the heavens. Mum was sitting up on her towel and looking at me as if waiting for an answer. Although actually she was waiting for a question, because apparently that’s what you do, you wait for the child to ask. But I wasn’t asking, even sitting there with a sister in shorts rather than her usual crimson bikini.

  ‘She’s nine and three-quarters, Mummy, she
really needs to be told.’

  Mum glared at her.

  ‘Told what?’ I expected to hear another story warning me of the danger of the fast Jersey tides. Or wandering off on my own over the head-cracking rocks. But Mum was looking down in concentration, as if choosing her words. Like last time.

  ‘It’s okay, I know about the baby thing, what a man has to do with his tweeny… you told me, everyone’s told me.’ And uh - how I wish they wouldn’t. I stretched out on the rock. I need to enjoy the sun on my half-lady half-fish body before the people come, specially the men with their nasty hairy legs and baggy shorts…

  Charlotte couldn’t stand it anymore. Maybe for Mum’s sake. Her description of what would happen to me every month, painfully and inevitably, came out like a torrent. A shocking torrent of blood.

  I sat up, my hand to my stomach, staring between my legs at the little crease in my swimsuit from where this shameful sludge would gush. ‘No! That’s disgusting! Disgusting! I can’t live with that!’

  I stomped off down the beach towards the rocks. It wasn’t going to happen to me; I could have an operation, like the one Grandpa had had to stop him weeing all the time. Mum was calling out my name. Then she was lumbering after me pathetically - she’d not been well. So I veered off towards the sea instead and walked in, aching with the sudden chill of the water. Thinking mermaids don’t have legs, so nothing can come out from between them.

  The day became one of those family memories, softened by understanding and humour. But it was hard not to feel that I’d had some kind of premonition of the misery periods would cause me; my first one all over the sleeping bag on a guide camp, followed by years of pressing my aching tummy against school radiators. And now, of course, the monthly reminder that time was running out.

  Monthly? Sometimes six weeks apart, but more often three. Or even two. You’re always on, David would complain. Stress, illness, excitement - the slightest thing would bring it forward. I’d been blighted nearly every important day of my life: Mum’s funeral, my final exams… even the evening I met Jeremy. Staggering that I hadn’t had one on meeting Nando; it was difficult not to see that as a benevolent sign.