MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  Copyright

  About Cherry Radford

  For my boys

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  Acknowledgements

  Flamenco Baby

  Copyright

  © Cherry Radford 2011

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  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.

  First published in Great Britain by Indepenpress

  Cover design by Jacqueline Abromeit

  About Cherry Radford

  Cherry Radford has been a piano teacher at the Royal Ballet Junior School, a keyboard player in a band, and then a research optometrist at Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. She lives near Brighton, England.

  Her second novel, Flamenco Baby, was published in 2013.

  For more information, please visit www.cherryradford.co.uk

  For my boys

  1.

  I shouldn’t have been on that train. Or not at that time, in that direction. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of those annoying men who feel it necessary to sit with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my seat to minimize contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.

  I took out my research papers but thought, sod it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn biography. Then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’

  The boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough: my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely him. I’d seen him twice that season alone, at irresponsible expense, from the front row of the Royal Opera House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the after-show dinners with Emma.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned form, there was no evidence of it.

  I considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to say.

  But then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the obviously much needed coffee, he prodded Margot’s face with a long finger. ‘Is good?’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  A lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’

  ‘Er... It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners, so why on earth wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed, clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.

  We needed to change tack, if I was to regain a neutral colour. The boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and rocking from his mate. Perhaps they’d heard the ‘why not?’ and looking at me, a possibly mother-aged person, could think of plenty of reasons.

  Then I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book to read. Or pretend to. But his book was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.

  ‘Are you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ I came out with. This was probably alright: the documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.

  There was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was. ‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’

  ‘Yes, but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’

  ‘Mine?’ he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.

  ‘No. But I saw you in it last year.’

  ‘So why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’

  This was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?

  ‘No... I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling, I really liked you in that.’ Liked you: rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.

  The boys hauled themselves up and steered unsteadily over to the other side of the carriage to join their friends. Probably fed up with us. We were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research papers.

  ‘Why you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.

  ‘I didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, he just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice costume though.

  ‘I dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’

  ‘I think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’

  ‘At a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’

  ‘You are doctor?’

  ‘Not a medical one. A vision scientist.’ ‘Contact lenses are dangerous?’

  ‘Not very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them safer.’

  ‘And after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots of crazy ladies and ballet critics.’

  ‘Don’t say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’

  ‘No, no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a loud clap.

  ‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against m
y knee with pinprick intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish, that I wanted to touch him there. Then he was up again, putting the book into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.

  ‘So... you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket, apologising as he elbowed me. In my stupefied state I thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same coin and collided.

  ‘Ow!’ we exclaimed in chorus, clutching our heads. ‘Aren’t you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘Is bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’

  ‘Or maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’

  ‘Well...’ started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly in front of us.

  I opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers before finding my pass and letting the man move on.

  ‘Ah! Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said, pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’

  I looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your soft curly hair.

  ‘Why not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ I exclaimed as the treasured chocolate balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly all over the place.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, trying not to laugh at their disapproving faces. They carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  Then he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’

  ‘Yes, I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half each.’

  He turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and murmured our pleasure.

  ‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he asked.

  I considered this for a moment. ‘I think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else. Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.

  But he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’

  ‘It’s okay, you—’

  ‘No. I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.

  But then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’. And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding swiftly away down the platform.

  It was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his warmth on my thighs, smiled at the chocolate balls still comically rolling around the floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.

  ***

  Seb wasn’t there. Ten thirty in his school holidays and he should have been fast asleep. But there’d been a change of plan and Ollie’s mum had scooped him up and deposited the two of them at the station so they could meet those Brighton College girls – the ones who’d said they’d never see them again – and take them to Thorpe Park. He never even liked Thorpe Park. I went straight into his room and was met with that stench and such a tangle of duvet and hoodies that at first I thought he was there. ‘Hey, Seb,’ I said to the empty bed, so I must have been going to tell him. He’d been bowled over by Mayerling, sat there with his mouth open, forgetting to drink the Coke we’d rowed about and afterwards talking about restarting ballet lessons. And if I’d told him, I would have told Jez. What had happened to me needed to be brought out into the air, normalised. Ridiculed even. It could have made a difference. But he wasn’t there. And then there was a string of sleepovers and the blow-up about his mobile phone bill at the weekend. It’s the sort of thing you talk about at the time. Leave it a few days, a week, and it looks odd: as if you’ve had to think about how to describe it, as if there’s something to hide. Perhaps there was already, intuitively, something to hide.

  I went through to the kitchen, saw remnants of Kenny’s breakfast on the table. Jez and the school friend mothers assured me that getting kids off to school was a stress-out; I wasn’t missing anything. But here was evidence to the contrary: a mucky egg-cup surrounded by chicks from his old farmyard set, and there seemed to have been time to draw a large chicken on the electricity bill and assemble some chocolate eggs left over from Easter round the ample bottom of his toy duck. I fought off an image of Alejandro impressing Kenny with a perfect half-bitten creme egg and a bit of the chicken dance from La Fille Mal Gardée.

  Then I spotted Jez in the garden. Sculptural Plants had phoned to say they could deliver the tree fern I’d ordered for his birthday that morning instead of on Saturday. With his usual bizarre sense of priority he’d obviously called the art shop, with heaven knows what excuse, so that he could be here for its arrival. Bloody hell, I thought, while I’m flogging up and down to London every day, he’s jeopardising his part-time job by playing hooky. But I couldn’t help smiling at the sight of him running his hand through his hair and pacing the end of the garden like an expectant father.

  ‘Tree fern’s coming!’ he called out when he saw me coming out to him. ‘Been sent home for booking ballet tickets on the hospital phone?’

  ‘Very funny. Here, put this on, you idiot, the heavens are about to reopen,’ I said, holding out his jacket. ‘Forgot my bloody memory stick didn’t I. It’s stupid – if I’d known you were here I could have got you to email the file to me.’ I looked around for a hole. ‘Where are you going to put it?’ It had been a while since I’d had any say in such matters.

/>   He pointed to two damp shady areas. ‘Can’t decide - I need to see which works best. Either would be a perfect condition.’

  ‘I hope so, or it’ll be a disaster like the last one.’

  He winced. ‘You promised you’d forget that. I didn’t know what I was doing then. I won’t let it happen again.’

  For a second I couldn’t help taking this as a metaphor for a more serious past let-down. Something neither of us would forget, however much we made out we had.

  ‘What excuse did you give Bill?’ I asked. ‘In case he rings.’

  ‘Said I really needed to catch up with my illustrating – asked for the week off.’

  ‘So you got the wildflower book job? That’s great! So –’

  ‘Er... no... Well I haven’t heard, and probably would have done by now.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wanted to ask why he needed the whole week off, in that case. Remind him that we needed the money. Ask whether he was pitching for any other illustrating jobs. Or whether the impending gardening season was about to turn us into a one-income family. But it wasn’t the moment: the silver Structural Plants van was pulling into the drive.

  There she was: not the magnificent giant she is now of course, but we toasted her health with a coffee and christened her Fernanda, like the ballerina we’d seen fall over in The Nutcracker. I should have said, ‘Talking of ballet dancers, guess who I sat next to on the train?’ It wouldn’t have taken long: he could have only named two or three in those days. Or, ‘Why is it that celebrities always look smaller in real life? I sat next to Alejandro Cortés on the train, and he looked tiny!’ Simultaneously reassuring him that I hadn’t been struck with attraction. But I didn’t.

  He flung his arms round me, lifted me up.

  ‘Uh! Can’t breathe... put me down, Grizzly.’

  ‘She’s wonderful. Must have cost you a fortune.’ My feet were back on the ground but I was still in his bear hug. He kissed me, a hand slid up under my skirt. ‘Been a while since I had you against a tree,’ he said.

  ‘Shh. Fernanda will wonder what kind of a garden she’s come to.’