MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  I realised I hadn’t been listening for some while, turned over a few pages of the agenda. Costs: Christ, what a bore. They were arguing about the number of months I’d need to be paid for, while I amused myself trying to work out how many piano pupils I’d have to find to be able to refuse to do the study at all. Unfortunately, it was quite a few. Then I thought, as Ana would say, who knows? Ali had asked if it was okay to give my number to a ballerina friend who was interested in having lessons. Very polite of him to ask, really. But then he’d been on his best behaviour all evening, even though I’d arrived ten minutes late...

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll work on it,’ I said, putting a red line along some paragraphs.

  Then it was over, and I made my goodbyes and lies and went off to see if I could get back home before Jez did.

  ***

  ‘This is very kind. I could have got a taxi, I don’t mind,’ Jez said.

  ‘Yes you do. And it’s no problem. Good trip?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re such great guys. And it was good to go on my own, make myself get to know my way around.’

  Much too quick to tell me he’d been on his own. For a moment I was wickedly tempted to ask about the Greek wedding, but he was reaching into his bag on the back seat for something he’d got me.

  ‘Cristale. That is the one isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, I’ve nearly run out.’

  ‘I know, I noticed.’ Of course. His presents were always pre-meditated. Predictable. Prescribed. I would have preferred something cute, like something with a Minoan dolphin on... No, perhaps not.

  ‘Boys okay?’

  ‘Fine. Did you text Seb about his drama competition?’

  ‘Yes – great isn’t it. And he sounded chuffed about being asked to do the summer holiday workshop for next term’s West Side Story.’

  ‘But did he actually say he’d do it?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, he’s up for it. Got to be a good sign, hasn’t it.’

  Kenny was bounding out of the front door in his pyjamas and Jez was dragged in to the living room for a cha-cha-cha and waltz demonstration.

  I said goodbye to Terry, and while Jez was reading to Kenny in bed I went out into the garden to ring Emma.

  ‘So it’s still on?’

  ‘Very much so. But look – I haven’t much time, I’m calling from home – can I say I’m staying with you tomorrow night?’

  ‘You want me to be an alibi.’

  ‘You don’t have to make it sound like a crime.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s no problem. If he rings I’ll say I’ve dispatched you to the off licence. Don’t worry. Although... I’m a bit worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t be. Everything’s sort of... getting clearer.’

  I went back inside and opened the fridge; I had a sudden and unusual urge to cook something.

  ‘Move,’ said Jez behind me.

  ‘No,’ I said with sudden inspiration, ‘I’m going to do scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, putting a hand to my forehead and steadying me with his arm. ‘Look, let me. You sort out the table a bit, okay?’

  The table bore the morning’s milk splats and jam smears, a fan of school letters and bills, a large dead beetle, a ball of sheep’s wool and a badminton racket. The kind of still life that would usually have him bellowing his head off at me. But he’d calmly walked past it and was stirring the eggs, whistling a tune.

  ‘Ooh – I bought a great CD of Greek music – it’s in the side pocket of my bag. Stick it on would you?’

  I went to the hall and unzipped the pocket: passport, a Crete map, the Coelho book - now nearly finished. And inside it, two boarding passes: one for J. Firth, one for S. Hilliard. Did he want me to find this? No, he just wasn’t good at deception. Like me. Or rather, like I used to be, because I’d probably moved up a level or two by now.

  I took the CD back to the kitchen and put it on, filling the room with a Greek ambience that, considering the situation, was surprisingly agreeable. And over his as-ever perfect scrambled eggs I told him about Seb’s rooftop escapade, the essay, and the psychologist appointment. He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Well, if it has any meaning, he’s just trying to tell people to get off his back. Is that so weird for a teenage boy? But I agree you had to go along with seeing Professor Borden earlier, to keep them happy. I don’t mind taking him.’

  ‘No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be in London already – I’m staying with Emma tomorrow night, if that’s okay – so if you could just put him on the train to London Bridge I could catch him the other end and take him.’

  ‘Maybe we should both be there. How about Seb and I coming up to the hospital for lunch and the three of us getting a cab from there?’

  Heavens, I thought, that really mustn’t happen. I imagined Ricardo looking across the canteen and realising who the shaggy-haired tanned guy in shorts and a t-shirt must be. ‘I think I’ve got a lunchtime meeting with James on Thursday,’ I improvised. ‘But I could meet you at half one in reception.’

  We cleared up the kitchen and I wondered who was going to disappear off to check emails long enough for the other to be asleep, or pretend to be, when they came to bed. But he was pouring us each another glass of wine. He showed me sketches of the new designs Yiannis was working on and asked me which I liked best. Then he asked me about my work and nodded sympathetically at my wine-loosened confession that I couldn’t find any enthusiasm for the new study. His consideration was reaching an unnerving level.

  ‘Just going to check my emails,’ I said, wandering off to my study. But after a jittery delay I was informed that there was a Send/Receive error. I jumped when he opened the door. He’d made me some fruit tea.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking at the screen. ‘Bedtime then, come on.’

  I shut the computer down and went through to the bathroom, pulled clothes out of the bin and fussed around with righting inside-out t-shirts, checking the pockets of shorts and trousers.

  ‘You don’t have to do that now,’ he said, yawning and putting the clothes back into the bin. ‘In fact,’ he added quietly, kissing me on the head like he would Kenny, ‘you don’t have to do anything now. Just come to bed and get some sleep.’

  That’s what I did, lying there next to him but separate. After all those years. That night marked the moment, and I think we both knew it at the time: it was the end of our relationship. Or, as I prefer to think, the beginning of our new one.

  26.

  I woke early, disorientated for a moment. His hair had all flopped forward, giving him a thick black fringe; I was in bed with a South American Indian. I considered waking him up to tell him this, but I was enjoying him unconscious: the long straight eyelashes from his heavy lids, the pirate-worthy black stubble, the occasional twitching of his long, dark-haired fingers. I pulled back the sheet and ran my hand down his body. He groaned softly and said my name, his eyes still shut, pulling me towards him and pushing my hand down further – to where he was very much awake. Soon we were making love again, pausing only to deal with the orange-flashing alarm clock that was supposed to stop when you spoke to it.

  And then he was in the shower, singing something in Portuguese with a soft, tuneful voice. I lay there and remembered how he used to say it won’t always be like this. But it wouldn’t always be like this either. One day we’d be waking to the clutter of domesticity: irritating lists of errands, heaps of tedious mail, a kitchen calendar yelling out the conflicting demands of three children. Or possibly four.

  I put my hand on my tummy, imagining having a nenê inside. I replayed the look on his face when I’d told him that Jez and I wouldn’t be making love anymore, how he’d then suggested that I came off the pill.

  ‘Already?’ I’d asked, assuming that we’d want some time to ourselves first.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said, ‘gives us more time. And... is very sexy to be trying...’ and went on to demonstrate with a very inspiring running c
ommentary.

  He came out of the shower just as I was pushing the pill out of the packet. He stopped still and stared at me, looking hurt.

  ‘Just until my next period,’ I said, and watched his face relax into a smile. And just until the baby’s father isn’t still having sex with his wife, because reassurance on that point hadn’t been forthcoming.

  ***

  ‘He’s a Latin man – once a week won’t be enough. Besides, if he suddenly stops she’s going to ask questions,’ Emma said.

  ‘Well perhaps it’s time she did.’

  ‘Presumably she’s got no idea. You’ve just got to be patient, just five... six more weeks?’ She started rummaging through the glove compartment. ‘Chambao. Tomatito. Hell Ro, there’s nothing but Spanish bands in here. Shouldn’t you be listening to Brazilian stuff?’

  ‘Well most of them are Jez’s. I find them relaxing. Plus it’s good for my Spanish.’

  ‘Oh yes, how’s it going with Alejandro?’

  ‘Fine. And Jessie’s coming on well too.’

  ‘So... you just sit there and teach him, completely un-distracted by his gorgeousness?’

  I couldn’t say I’d been completely un-distracted when he’d absent-mindedly put his hand on my thigh, or when he’d reminded me, his hot breath in my ear, that if I was too strict with him he’d have to kiss me again. But communications with Ali just didn’t go by the usual rules.

  ‘Well, you sort of get used to it,’ I said.

  ‘You really must be in love with Ricardo.’

  ‘Yup. Uh, what’s the hold-up here for? Look I’m really sorry about this – not much of a relaxing country weekend for you, sitting in a car for an hour and a half. I just knew Seb would go and miss the bus.’

  ‘Well, if the medication’s making him feel a bit sick, you can’t be too hard on him. How long before he – or you – notice a difference?’

  ‘Couple of weeks apparently. But he’ll sleep better, so that should help immediately. And if I don’t have to get up and tell him to turn his bloody music down when he’s at home, hopefully I’ll sleep better. Here we are. Oh – and there he is, waiting for us. Perhaps we’re already seeing a change!’

  We got out of the car and Seb came over and hugged me and then kissed Emma on both cheeks like an old friend.

  ‘Hello. Haven’t seen you since... Ballet Boyz in Brighton? Have you shot up another three inches?’

  ‘Might’ve,’ he said, making an exception to a long-held habit of never responding to such comments. ‘So is Kenny doing his dance class or did he chicken out?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes, he went – should have finished by now.’

  On the way home he phoned Jez. ‘How did Kenny’s class go?’ There was a pause, and I began to feel anxious. ‘Really?’ Another pause.

  ‘Come on, tell us.’

  ‘Dad says he was a bit weird at first, talking complete shit, but when they put the music on he was great. Teacher said he did really well.’ In the mirror I saw him grin and give Kenny a round of applause.

  ‘Are you still dancing Seb?’ Emma asked.

  I winced. ‘Nah, I’m crap.’

  ‘You’re not crap at dance, and you are still doing it – for GCSE.’

  ‘Dunno why.’

  ‘Because you wanted to, remember? One of the reasons we chose this school.’

  ‘It was your idea. You made me do it, saved you money.’ He’d got a drumstick out of his bag and was whacking the seat. Emma was mouthing sorry.

  ‘Can you stop that? Your talent, your drama scholarship saved us money, and dance was part of that. We didn’t –’

  ‘Here we go. Fucking leave off okay? You’ve got a new dancing boy now that can live out your dream. Stop you boring yourself to death with all those questionnaires.’

  I swerved into a garage and stopped the car. I was shocked at how quickly he could change his mood: ten minutes earlier he’d been hugging me, now I was just a meddling, bored mother at the root of his downfall.

  I turned round. He’d trapped the drum stick in the seatbelt holder and was now examining the snapped off end. There was a torrent of things I wanted to scream at him. But it was more important to get old Seb back again, the one I’d had the previous weekend.

  ‘Look, can we just not do this?’ I asked. ‘You were fantastic with Kenny last weekend, so encouraging – he probably wouldn’t have done the class if it hadn’t been for you. Please don’t spoil his day by picking a row with me.’

  No response. Just a jiggle around to his iPod, some tuneless singing and continued fascination with the broken drumstick. We’d been planning to have lunch at the Italian, but suddenly that didn’t seem such an attractive idea.

  ‘Tuna and sweetcorn?’ I said, reaching for my purse.

  ‘What? Aren’t we going to a restaurant, with Emma here?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Where did you want to go?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Pizza place would be nice.’

  ‘Well say sorry to your Mum and I’ll put in a word.’

  ***

  ‘Heaven. Right now I don’t know how I stand living in London. Ooh – sorry – probably shouldn’t have said that.’ Emma opened an eye and looked over at me.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, crunching the sun lounger up to semi-sit position and looking over the garden. Jez was on his knees by the bog garden; I wondered if he was thinking about Sarah and considering putting a pond next to it. Seb, most unusually, was standing almost next to him and watering Fernanda, occasionally whipping the hose to one side to inflict a tropical storm on Kenny’s Action Men on manoeuvres among the hostas.

  ‘Seb seems on good form today.’

  ‘Now, yes. Somehow you slept through this morning’s full volume smoking-in-the-bedroom row. Fortunately Jez took over before I completely lost it.’

  ‘That’s good – great he’s getting better at pulling his weight dealing with Seb. By all accounts he’s getting better in a number of ways. He’s certainly looking good these days. Typical isn’t it. Just like when I got a referral to that specialist about my stubbornly painful ankle and then it suddenly cleared up the day before my appointment. Except of course the foot in this case is intent on wearing another person’s shoe, and that can’t be tolerated.’

  ‘That sounds... disgusting.’

  ‘Sorry. Are you going to show me round the wood then?’

  ‘Show you round? I wasn’t joking, I’m lending you some shorts and you’re going to be helping me with it. But yes, come on then.’

  We distributed lollies and took ours into the wood. I pointed out the self-planted baby oaks that I lovingly kept clear of weeds, the wide mat of ivy that I’d encouraged to grow between the two sycamores, the wild privet and crack willows that I’d wanted to have more of but had learnt that you can’t buy them. A fairy dell, Emma was calling it, as we sat down on Seb’s smoking bench. I was suddenly overcome with a weary grief, the jolly but acidic orange lolly nauseating me. What would become of this little glorified scrubland? Jez and Sarah would pull up my two-foot oak babies to make way for more show-off tropical plants, dig up my lake of ivy to put in a plastic-lined pond, pronounce my crack willows half dead, maybe correctly, and have them sensibly chopped down.

  ‘Oh come here you,’ she said, letting me wet the shoulder of her t-shirt with my tears. ‘Kenny plays in here with his mates; Jez’ll keep it lovely for him. And you’re going to stay good friends, so maybe you could even help him with it a bit sometimes when you come to pick up or drop off the boys. And anyway, you’ll have a new garden, a whole new life.’

  ‘Sometimes it all seems so daunting. I wish I could just jump past the next six months, wake up and find myself all sorted out.’

  ‘Mummy! There you are. Daddy says come and talk to your phone,’ Kenny said, coming up the path.

  I sat up quickly and Emma and I looked at each other. I was trying to remember what messages I might not have deleted.

  ‘Ah, here she is. Ja
mes,’ Jez said, handing me my mobile with a you’re-in-trouble-now grin.

  ‘Oh hello Rosie, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday but I’m just looking over the pilot study and wanted to check a few things. Have you... could you get it in front of you?’

  I could, it was beside the printer in my study with an impressive coffee ring on it. ‘Okay, hold on.’ I stomped towards the house. And really it was Seb’s fault: he looked up at me from a deckchair and I’m sure he was shaking his head. Why would he do that? It occurred to me later that he was probably plugged into his iPod and moving his head in time to it. But at the time it seemed like he was clearly signalling that I needed to stop boring myself to death with questionnaires.

  I reached my study. The coffee-ringed document was the full protocol, not the pilot. I searched through my recent-stuff tray: a questionnaire with a patient’s amusing scrawled advice that it was too frigging long; the parents’ section of Kenny’s Annual Review; Professor Borden’s monstrous bill; a flyer for a flamenco show at Sadler’s Wells. These and much else fanned out and began to avalanche onto the floor. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just looking.’ Looking for it, but not keen to look at it. Because with a sudden clarity I absolutely knew I was going to opt out. ‘I can’t do it,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Okay, I’ll just email you a copy.’

  ‘No, I said I can’t do it. I can’t do the study. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You like your kids’ clinic on Monday, I know. Keep that, we’ll get someone to help.’

  ‘No. I mean I don’t want to do it, at all.’

  A few seconds passed. ‘Rosie, is there something wrong? Family okay?’

  ‘More or less,’ I said. ‘But I just can’t take it on. I’m afraid I can’t explain why.’