The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer

by Leeann Whitaker

  “I think it would be better if I stand.” I narrow my eyes.

  He takes a swig of his whisky, inspecting me over the rim of the glass. With a slight sigh, he brings it down and places it back on his knee. I’m concluding fast that this guy is not very good at talking to the opposite sex. His demanding tone when I didn’t do as I was told, and now this god awful silence. He is wasting his ten minutes here. Do I care? No. As soon as the clock hits ten-thirty I’m out of here. He has only seven minutes remaining.

  “You’re afraid I might touch you?” his low voice asks.

  Well, yes of course I am. That’s what these rooms are for, and that is why I have always refused to do that little bit extra by being in them. But now, like a complete fool, I’m stood in one. So I’m guessing that’s what he wants, a quick fumble.

  “I don’t want to touch you Jen, so you’re safe to take a seat.” He’s still staring at me; in fact, I’ve not seen him blink once. “Please.”

  My pupils flash to the beamed ceiling, then with reluctance, I perch on the opposite side right at the very edge of the couch. I wish I’d have put my clothes on for this. I’ve never felt so exposed. Awkwardly, I clasp my arms around my waist.

  “I’m looking for someone suitable to fill a vacancy.” He uncrosses his legs and shuffles to face me. “It would only be for a few hours a week, and the pay would be extremely beneficial.”

  I’m finding it so difficult not to inhale his pleasant aroma. I don’t know what cologne he’s wearing, but it’s doing something very strange to my body. I hum and bite my cheek. Going back into negative thought, I contemplate what position I could possibly fill. I’m guessing it’s something shady. I mean, he’s scouting for a pole dancer.

  “The conditions will be clean, safe, and you will not be touched in any way.”

  I crinkle up my brow, noticing his fingers scrabbling over his knees. He’s clearly anxious, but his steely eyes are doing one hell of a job hiding it.

  “What kind of vacancy?” I squint.

  He inhales. “That is a matter I would like to discuss with you in private. Over dinner… next Saturday evening.”

  “I don’t date customers,” I say quickly.

  I don’t know what it is about him. He doesn’t seem perverted, or really interested in trying to grab a quick feel. He’s mysteriously intriguing me, and the part of my brain that’s lacking in intelligence is telling me to go for it; to have dinner with a complete stranger.

  “It’s not so much a date, just the opportunity for you to learn more about the position.” He looks at the clock, then takes out a business card from his inside jacket pocket. “This is my number and address.” He hands me a glossy white card. “Dinner will be at eight.” He stands over me, so his scent stirs my senses. “If you’re interested in finding out more, I shall see you then.” He walks to the door. “If not, it was a pleasure to meet you again… and goodbye, Jen.” He displays a sweet smile and hangs his head as he walks through the door.

  Results

  I bend over outside the gates in the heat of the searing sun. Sweating profusely, I check my time: seven-K in thirty minutes. Not bad going for someone who’s been on deaths door. I should be worried. I should be in the depths of some deep dark depression, but I’m not. Optimism this time is getting me through each day.

  It’s been five days since my lumber puncture. Dr. Jenkins insisted I have one there and then. My blood count is heading toward the same damning level it was before I had chemo. Those blasted platelet and white cells, have decided to take a vacation from remission to haunt me once more. So now, I’m waiting on the inevitable call, telling me to pack a bag and get down to Rose Springs oncology unit, to start invasive treatment right away. But my mind is set this time. I’m not going through all that again. It has taken three months for my hair to grow back to the length I’m used to. And only now have I achieved the muscle tone I had before I was nearly eaten away. I’m as good as I’m ever going to be, and my fitness levels are right up to scratch.

  Jenkins did his bit. The routine of preparing me for the worst case. Dishing out pamphlets on alternative therapies and counselling sessions. I attended one of those self-help groups when I was first diagnosed, and came out of there in a worse state than when I went in. To talk is to accept; to recognize that time is fickle. I don’t want to know how many days, weeks, or months I have. All that matters is the here and now, and that’s good enough for me.

  Steam surrounds me in my wet room. The haze upon the glass reminds me of the screen Jen danced behind all those years ago. She hasn’t called, and I had no expectations she would. She clearly sees me as a man with deplorable taste. I noted the concern on her face in that room. I can’t blame her. She has no idea that my true intent is not sexually inclined. Looking back on how I went about the matter, I’m not at all hopeful she’ll be here when the clock strikes eight tomorrow. But perhaps I planted the idea. It’s simmering inside her, and maybe I should have a little faith.

  I won’t admit to not being attracted to her. I’ve seen her soft skin and her sensual movements. And being consumed by this illness, hasn’t done great things over the last twelve months with the ladies. I, like any man, have needs and urges. But, I have a newer prospective of how I need her.

  ***

  Henry comes through the front door as I sweep back my damp hair. He’s carrying his white hardhat and the blueprints of the new plans for the hotel restaurant.

  “Henry, I told you to take the afternoon off.” I take a drink of my high supplement organic smoothie. “Are you going to follow my request?”

  He offers me a bemused look for a moment, stuck with his next words. I know exactly why he wants to stick around. To be here when I receive the dreaded news. After all, he is the only one aware of my circumstances. My own Father thinks I’m well on the road to recovery. And my estranged Mother, well, I’ll be expecting a rare call from her soon from afar as she basks in the sun aboard a luxury liner, having some young Spaniard rub oil on her back.

  “Sir,” he says. “I thought I would look over these plans for you, see if the contractors are worth the small fortune you’re paying.”

  “Henry, that is my job,” I exhale. “If you’re looking for something to do, you can make some preparations for tomorrow evening instead.” He frowns, unaware I may have a guest dinning with me. “I would like a dozen red roses to be delivered to five-seven-five, fifty- fifth Street.”

  “And what name do I put?” he asks, suspicious.

  “Jenifer Conner.”

  He strolls to my workstation and drops the rolled papers beneath the lamp. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I would like a meal for two to be delivered by seven forty-five from my good friend, Chef Larson, tomorrow evening,” I hum. “Err, starters: spinach ravioli. Main: rack of lamb, and dessert: raspberry cheesecake.”

  He stiffens on the spot. He’s waiting for more information; information I’m not willing to give.

  “Henry, it’s you day off tomorrow, so let’s keep it that way.” I wink as I make my way into the bedroom to change.

  ***

  I slip my reading glasses further up my nose. I’ve been over and over these plans now. And the measurements for the colossal walled fish tank my father wants fitted, simply don’t add up. Each layout has a different measurement for the corresponding wall. This means I’m going to have to do it myself and call my architect. It also means I’m going to have to put on hold the floor screening and speak to my father. A task I’ve been trying to avoid.

  My cell illuminates and vibrates under the lamp light. I put it on silent for a reason. I should have moved the damn thing out of my sight. Rose Springs hospital flashes and flashes, blinding me with worry. I pick up the phone and hold it: my existence- my life, lying in the palm of my hand. I clench my teeth, press green, and bring the cell to my ear.

  “Mr. Crane,” Jenkins voice echoes.

  I breathe in. “Good evening, Jenkins.”

  There’s a p
ause. A complete standstill of time. I know immediately what it means and could just hang up now. I drop down into my chair and rub my eyes.

  “Mr. Crane, I would like you to come and see me in my office first thing.”

  I inhale deep. “There will be no need for that, you’re free to discuss my results with me over the phone.”

  Another long deafening pause occurs through the receiver. “Mr. Crane, I… I would rather discuss them with you in person.”

  I swallow. “Like I’ve said, there is no need. I will not be available tomorrow, or in the foreseeable future,” I madden. “So please, explain… do I now have an expiry date printed on my damn head?”

  “Mr. Crane.” He mutes for a few seconds. “It is of vital importance you…”

  “Stop,” I bark, slouching over. “Give it to me straight… no bullshit. Just straight to the point with it Jenkins.”

  “Mr. Crane… with samples we took last week, along with the variation in cell count.” I hear the reluctance in his loud sigh. “Your condition is no longer stable. If you don’t return for treatment, you will deteriorate in…” He stops.

  My pupils haze. I fought with myself over this damn sickness. I’ve prepared myself for this. But even I didn’t expect the way this call has shaken me. It is better not to know. I should have never answered this stupid call.

  “How long do I have… without treatment?”

  “Six months… tops,” he says. “But Mr. Crane, like I said, with treatment your chances will improve considerably.”

  “The odds are stacked against me Jenkins. We’ve already discussed what would happen if it returned.” I remove my glasses and fling them across my desk. “We went over it before my transplant and the first round of chemo. You specifically went into detail on how aggressive it was; how it might return.”

  “But Mr. Crane… please.”

  “No Jenkins,” I bark. “You can’t flog a dead horse.” I hang-up and my cell joins my glasses on the desk.

  It’s time to crack open that bottle I’ve been saving. A vintage bourbon my father gave to me on my twenty-first birthday. Never touched a drop. I’ve been saving it for a worthy occasion. And this- well- this time warrants a worthy drink. This warrants drinking myself into oblivion.

  His Proposition

  I’ve never been sent flowers before. And these are not just your average bunch of flowers. These roses are beautifully gathered and dressed with cream ribbon. When I opened the door, I automatically thought the courier had got the wrong address. But no. Grayson Crane sent them, and I’ve been mulling over what they imply all day. The card gives nothing away. It simply says- To Ms. Jenifer Connor- From Grayson Crane. I frown at them arranged in my mom’s vase as I climb the stairs. Maybe I shouldn’t have them on display. Every time I see them my mind fills with uncertainty. As though I’m willingly letting him in, when encouraging him is the last thing I should be doing.

  It has been on my bed all day. Now, with only two hours until eight o’clock, I still haven’t made up my mind. My nude colored lace and chiffon dress is waiting for me, crying out- I haven’t been worn in over a year, put me on. I adore the dress. It’s classy, knee length, and flows beautifully. But the fact I’ll be wearing it for Grayson Crane, has got me in an indecisive state. I have work tonight at Venus, or the opportunity of a new job. Cleaner and safer he said. And the pay would be beneficial too. Would I be a fool for not checking it out?

  A knock on my bedroom door breaks my hot fluster, and Flick pops her head through. “Jen, are you going to call a roofer… I can see the sky in my room.”

  I sigh. My room is the same. Tiny shards of light flitting through the damage caused by the freak ice-storm last year. With the roof, the cracked plaster, and the damp peeling wall coverings. It won’t be long before we’ll have to walk around the house wearing hardhats.

  “Are you not working?” She notes my dress on the bed.

  “Yes.”

  “In that?” she lifts her brow. “Has the dump implemented some new fancy dress code,” she smirks.

  “No Flick.” I really haven’t got the energy to gossip with her.

  “Anyhow, I’m going out… but don’t worry,” she says, sarcastic. “I will be tucked up in bed before midnight.”

  “Fine,” I murmur.

  Her lips purse in the reflection of my mirror. Usually we would be arguing about this. But right now, I just want her to disappear.

  “Alrighty then… see you later.” With big eyes, she skulks away.

  I haven’t really much choice. I have to go and find out more. Otherwise, Flick and I will be living in a motel by winter. Maybe it’s an indication of something half-decent about to happen. I’m well overdue some luck.

  I slip the dress over my wavy hair and pull the zipper up at the side. Okay, my hair is fine, make-up at a minimum, and nude flats to match the dress are on my feet. I’m ready as I’ll ever be.

  A cab waits outside as I check out my image in my mom’s mirror by the front door. She made it herself before she died. She loved anything arts and crafts. While she was sick, it was therapeutic for her. I can remember her taking pride in it when she’d completed the last lilac ribbon stencil. I run my hand around the wood, swallow down the lump of anxiety, and head out through the door.

  ***

  The journey has taken around fifteen minutes, to a part of town I’ve never been before. The cab driver leans over the headrest as I gaze at Grayson Crane’s home. It’s stunning, new, and way beyond what I’m used to.

  “Lady,” the cab driver barks. “Meters ticking.”

  I fumble in my clutch bag and take out my precious money. Fifteen bucks. Perhaps I should have walked.

  I get out and stand on the pavement as cab pulls away, leaving me stood nervously still. My mind is spiraling with unease, making me feel ill. I’m regretting wearing this dress; it says I’m trying too hard. God, this is so stupid. What am I doing here? I must have lost some of my brain cells working in that joint. This is about as braindead and low as you can get.

  A light suddenly emits from the huge double doors over a beautiful landscaped rockery. Grayson stands waiting, as I hold my bag timidly before my waist, chomping on my cheek. I look down at my shoes, fill my lungs, and follow the winding path.

  My eyes take in everything other than Grayson, until I have no option but to look at him standing right before me. He’s wearing gray trousers and a pale blue shirt, with the sleeves casually rolled to the crease of his elbow. And now I’m standing only a foot away from him, I can see how handsome he really is. I heat up from my core. I feel ridiculous.

  His lips display a warm polite beam as he moves aside to allow me through. With a side step I slip by him. Thankfully, he keeps a good distance.

  Wow. My jaw falls open a little. This place is wonderful. It’s contemporary with subtle hints of old, like the large bookshelf to my left, and the warm wood flooring throughout. And with the contrast of the industrial white kitchen, and huge glass windows, it all blends so perfectly. Then I notice the paintings sparsely spaced out on the cream walls. Another dream of mine taken away by circumstance. I gape in complete awe at a framed photo of Grayson, holding the one of the most stunning paintings ever produced (in my opinion) Starry Night.

  “You like art?” Grayson moves close to my back. Too close.

  “Yes,” I sigh.

  I want to tell him more, but how can I trust someone like him, considering the environment in which we met? The reason I’m here, is because I have no light at the end of the tunnel, and I need to believe that this is a way to improve things for Flick and I.

  “Is this yours?”

  “No, it’s my fathers… not that he appreciates it.”

  “It’s one of my favorites, along with William Bouguereau for capturing emotion. Picasso for thought provoking. And the dark stuff, Francisco Goya,” I utter fast, forgetting where I am, lost for a moment in the painting.

  He goes quiet, and instantly I know I’ve said too mu
ch about myself. Until I know what he wants, I mustn’t give anything personal away. These are my passions- well they were. They are private and for me only.

  I turn to see him gazing. His blue confounded eyes wondering how on earth a pole dancer knows about art. I shy away and turn back to the cream wall.

  “I thought we would eat first, and then discuss my proposition.”

  He steps down three stairs into the vast open-plan space, and waits for me with his hand out. I heave in air, gather myself, and descend to see a small dining table set. Music plays in the background. It’s lovely: orchestral, and emotional. There’s a white candle aflame on the table. A candle lit dinner is not a good way to address a business proposal. He sees the panic on my face.

  “Okay,” he sighs heavy “Is this too much?”

  “I’m sorry, but this is all confusing… in view of how we met,” I cringe.

  I don’t get it. If he has a job offer, he should be going down a more formal route. This is too intimate and intense. I’m just not sure what to make of it. I notice the disappointment in his eyes, and for some bizarre reason, I feel guilty.

  “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he says, with both arms out. “I’m not going to hurt you, touch you, and have no intention of making you feel uncomfortable.”

  I purse my lips and blow out. He’s nothing like the guys I’ve come across before. He seems really desperate to put me at ease.

  “And can I say something without you taking offence?” he asks with big appeasing eyes.

  I smile slightly, “Yes.”

  He lowers his head with a tilt. “You look great tonight.”

  “Opposed to me wearing hardly a thing at all?”

  He laughs. “Come, sit… what would you like to drink?” He moves and I follow. “I have red, white… beer?”

  “Err, small white.” I quail inside as he pulls out one of the two chairs from beneath the small square table.