MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  ‘You’re not preg—’

  ‘No of course not.’

  ‘Look I know the timing’s not great, the studies overlapping for a few months, but once you finish your current study you’ll be fine. Come March, you’re going to need something, your grant will run out – you do realise that don’t you? I can’t promise something else will come along in time.’

  But something else was coming along: my new life, and I needed my energies for that. And just possibly by March I’d be getting ready for someone coming along.

  27.

  ‘We could, I can lock the door from the inside. Stupid I never noticed before,’ Ricardo said, one hand under my blouse, the other pushing me against him.

  I scanned his secretary’s tidy but cramped office: bundles of notes on every surface. Including the floor.

  ‘Where, exactly?’ I giggled. He lifted a pile from the desk and added them to a heap on the carpet.

  ‘Oh no, not like that,’ I said, as he pulled me towards the desk, my body saying yes, definitely like that. But the trouble was I didn’t want to turn up at Ali and Jessie’s in a ravaged state. ‘Can’t one of the cleaners still open it with a key?’

  ‘No. And it won’t take long,’ he whispered into my hair, his hands now under my skirt, pulling at my underwear.

  ‘I’ve got to go soon anyway.’

  He let go of me. ‘Always these piano lessons. Does it have to be every week?’

  Yes, I thought, and soon there might be another evening as well – for the ballerina. ‘They’re going on tour... on a touring holiday soon, so there’ll be a long break.’ I put my arms round him. ‘I’m sorry. But Wednesday’s still on isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. And this time we leave early, half past twelve if you can.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And bring a bikini and a towel. It’ll be like a holiday.’

  ***

  I pressed the bell before checking my watch. Quarter to – how did that happen? I hoped Ali didn’t have a problem with earliness as well as tardiness. But for the first time since that crazy first visit, it was Jessie who opened the door.

  ‘Hiya! Perfect timing. I’m just pouring a smoothie.’ I dropped my bag by the piano and followed her into the kitchen. Two glasses: my heart sank. And then sank further still with my awareness that it had sunk. She was listing the ingredients, needlessly really, since they were all there on the work surface. Next to a printed itinerary for the Royal Ballet’s China tour with notes in the margin in both Jessie’s familiar round writing and Ali’s flamboyant scrawl. Flying from Heathrow to Beijing on Wednesday I noticed, as Jessie went over to the fridge; I wasn’t going to see Ali for about a month. Or longer, if he was out this evening.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Jessie said, with a hand on my arm as if I’d just received bad news. ‘Now Rosie,’ she said, turning to me with as serious a face as her small, freckled features could muster, ‘since the tour’s coming up, and I’m off on holiday, and then we’re off to Cuba, we thought–’ The doorbell rang. ‘Sorry.’ She went to talk to someone in the corridor.

  I wondered what she was about to tell me. Supposing they had, after all, decided to quit for some reason? The long break, the demands of the new season in September. There was a fluttering nausea in my tummy.

  ‘Sorry, my neighbour. She’s always forgetting her front door key – I don’t know why she doesn’t put it on the same ring as the one to her flat. What I was going to say was, we’d really like you to stay for dinner this time. Please say you will.’

  I probably grinned stupidly. And ‘we’: she was expecting him home.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  It had to be. And I said yes, lamb curry would be great, even though I hadn’t eaten sheep for years out of respect for Kenny’s adoration of the daft creatures.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I don’t know where Ali is. He usually gets home early on Mondays – likes to practise before you come. Never mind, it gives me a chance to have the first lesson for a change.’

  She must have played for hours each day: she’d perfected everything I’d set and tried the next few pieces on her own, just like Ali always did. But the new tunes had a ragtime rhythm that she hadn’t got the hang of at all, and it took a lot of time and patience to undo the mistakes.

  ‘I know he’s catching me up, but I’m going to put up a good fight!’ she said.

  I wondered if this was how she felt about their relationship generally: a constant struggle to keep up, a feeling that, sooner or later, she’d be defeated.

  After forty-five minutes she stopped; she didn’t like to go over time, even though it was surely clear that I didn’t mind. She picked up the phone, tapped a button and waited, put it down again. ‘Uh. Where is he? I’m surprised he hasn’t called.’

  ‘He didn’t half give me a bad time when I was late.’

  ‘When? Oh, that Wednesday lesson? He didn’t say anything to me about it. But then he was in the dog house for asking you to come on a day when he knew I wouldn’t be able to have a lesson too.’ She got up from the piano stool. ‘I’m going to make a start on dinner.’

  I followed her. ‘What can I do?’ I asked, hearing Jez’s absolutely sod all that he came out with whenever he heard me ask this at our friends’ houses.

  She looked over at the table. ‘Well I suppose you could clear that stuff off there.’

  There was an About the House magazine with a languishing ballerina on the front sprouting bushes of biro underarm hair. I sniggered. ‘Oh dear, I take it she’s not a favourite partner then.’

  ‘No, I did that. She was so patronising at this party we went to. One of those ballerinas who think the rest of us are a less advanced species.’

  ‘Well I’ve never warmed to her. Too skinny and a really hammy actress.’

  She beamed at me. So I picked up the shopping list pen and added a goofy and incomplete set of teeth, which immediately had us guffawing like a couple of schoolgirls.

  I made a start on the table, picking up a small pile of mail, a dance clothing catalogue, a prescription form.

  ‘Just shove everything on the shelf.’

  ‘What d’you mean everything? You should see my kitchen table... Oh!’ Neatly to one side, Thomas Hardy’s Selected Poems. Jane Eyre. An A4 pad and a Study Guide showing complacent students of varying maturity and skin colour sitting in front of books. ‘You’re doing A level English?’

  ‘Well, hopefully. Have to see how it goes.’

  ‘God, I always wanted to do that.’

  ‘So did I, but at school I did sciences to get into nursing.’

  ‘You were a nurse?’ I remembered to pretend I didn’t know.

  ‘Yes. Until I realised that it was alright, but... wasn’t really me, you know?’

  Yes, I knew.

  And then we heard Ali stomping into the flat, the floorboards vibrating under our feet.

  ‘Ali, Rosie’s here, why didn’t you –’

  ‘This celular is shit, why it not keep charge?’ he said, thumping into the kitchen and clacking it down on Jessie’s work surface; clearly she was expected to sort it out or order him a new one. He gave Jessie a quick hug and a pat on the bottom and then turned to me and greeted me in the usual way, holding my shoulders and kissing me on each cheek. He smelt freshly showered, his curly hair wet and neatly combed back. Adorable. But there was no apology for being over an hour late.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be saying sorry to Rosie? Especially after giving her a bad time when she was late,’ Jessie said.

  I winced.

  ‘I never give Rosi a bad time,’ he said, breaking into a grin.

  ‘Yes you did. “I am Cuban but I am on time you know. Is professional. I like this in all I do.” Followed by a torrent of Spanish filth.’ I’m usually the only one in the family who can’t mimic, but I’d been studying his every word and gesture with unhealthy intensity for some months.

  Jessie burst out laughing, but Ali looked worryingly serious.

&
nbsp; ‘Is not my fault, physio make me wait.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘But... this is not how I am,’ he said breaking into a smile again, ‘and you are very bad woman to laugh at me, and... How you know Spanish bad words?’

  ‘Just take it I do, okay?’

  ‘Why you not say before?’ he asked, putting his fingers to his mouth.

  I shrugged, walked past him and took cutlery out of the drawer.

  He sat down at the table, said he was starving, stretched noisily and then leant against the wall with his hands behind his head. Jessie told him what we were having and he nodded approval. It probably never occurred to him to help: meal preparation was women’s work. I wondered how I was going to cope with feeding my own Latin man; he’d been sweet when I’d told him I was no good at cooking, but I hadn’t quite let on that I’d hardly done any for fifteen years.

  I put Ali’s cutlery in front of him. ‘Who teach you the Spanish palabrotas, I want to know,’ he said, grabbing my arm and looking up at me with a cheeky smirk.

  My mother, an Alhambra tour guide, a website that I’d come across during one of my many teach-myself-Spanish phases. ‘Various sources.’ Perhaps thinking of my mum reminded me. ‘Ooh – I’ve just remembered, I’ve got a little surprise for you two.’ I fetched it from my bag.

  Ali looked at the tatty yellowed book. ‘Look, Four Hands?’

  ‘Yes... well you have to get over the title. But it’s got some lovely duets – there’s a couple you could manage now. I’ve got it on order, but it’s taking forever so I thought I’d lend you mine. I had it when I was a kid, so it’s amazing it’s still available.’ Why did I have to say that? Making myself sound so bloody ancient.

  Jessie wiped her hands on a cloth and came over to have a look.

  ‘Let me see,’ Ali said, snatching the book. It dropped on the floor with a loud clap. ‘Perdón,’ he said, just like when he made me drop my Margot Fonteyn book in the train. He picked it up and I saw him staring at the inside cover.

  ‘Rosana Bu-chan-an, Upper Three A,’ he read.

  I looked where he was pointing. ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t noticed it. If I had, I might not have lent the book; I had so few reminders of my mother that even a few words in her handwriting were precious.

  ‘Rosana. Is Spanish name.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why you have Spanish name?’

  ‘Well, my mother’s father was Spanish – from Sevilla, in the South.’

  ‘Yes I know it – I have danced there. Así es que hablas español, no? Por qué no—’

  ‘Not very well, I’m afraid – ’

  ‘Ah but Rosi – explica mucho!’ he said, leaving me to wonder just exactly what it explained, and was suddenly up from the table and giving me a hug. Like I’d just told him I’d passed an exam or something. I could feel Jessie’s eyes on me, so I prised him off, smiled and fetched the bowl of salad while she turned to serve an enormous plateful of curry and rice for Ali and two smaller ones for us.

  ‘Is good. Jessie make great curry, no?’ he said with a mouthful, patting her arm.

  ‘Yes – it’s really lovely.’

  ‘Your husband is not cross he has to cook for children tonight?’

  What did he think Jez did all the other Monday nights? ‘Well it’s just him and Kenny, Seb’s at school during the week. But no, I’m often back late, so he’s used to it. Anyway, he’s much better at cooking than I am.’

  ‘Really? That’s nice,’ Jessie said. ‘And he works in art, you say.’

  ‘Yes, he’s an illustrator – does pictures for books. Mainly children’s books or plants.’ Although very seldom, I wanted to add: too busy messing around with pots and shagging his way onto a TV gardening programme.

  ‘You not teach him the piano?’ Ali asked.

  ‘No. But he used to sing and play guitar in a band.’

  They were both intrigued with this, and made me tell them the story of how Jez and I had met. It pained me to see them smile while they listened, oblivious of the imminent sad ending to the tale. Of course it led to them asking about the boys, and whether they were also musical. So I simplified Seb’s talents and failures, like some kind of nominator-denominator equation, and had him playing the drums and enjoying school drama. Then swiftly moved on to Kenny and his Latin and Ballroom dancing.

  ‘He know salsa?’ Ali asked.

  ‘He’s only just started Ali, give him a chance,’ Jessie said.

  I asked how they had met; I’d always imagined that she’d nursed him after an injury or operation. But they were strangely reticent. The story, such as it was, was fragmented and – mercifully perhaps – interrupted by a phone call. From what I could gather they’d met at the stage door, and a casual arrangement – although probably not for Jessie – had unexpectedly developed into a living-together relationship.

  Jessie came back to the table. ‘Tara,’ she said, putting the phone down on the table in front of him rather than in his outstretched hand. She started clearing the plates – rather noisily I thought; I saw Ali put a finger to his ear.

  ‘You must be excited about China,’ I whispered against Ali’s animated and over-my-head Spanish.

  ‘Oh – no, I’m not going. I was going to, but... Ali says it’s a hectic schedule and... Well, it wouldn’t work really,’ she said, slamming the dishwasher shut. ‘But I’m off to Corfu on Friday with a couple of friends, and then I’ve got a family reunion at my grandparents’ villa in Majorca, so I can’t complain.’

  ‘Mm. Yes, that sounds good.’

  ‘Are you off anywhere?’

  ‘No, not this year,’ I said. This sounded a bit depressing, so I added that we were planning a winter sun holiday instead and hoped they wouldn’t ask for details. But Ali had overheard as he was finishing his call. ‘Is good idea, get out of shit English weather. You need holiday in Cuba at Christmas, Rosi, and while you are there you visit us and give lessons! And now we have lesson, no?’

  He took my arm to lead me into the living room, even though Jessie was preparing some mangos and guavas for dessert. ‘But...’ I said, looking back.

  ‘We have it after,’ he said. I noticed he was limping slightly, saw him wince as he sat down.

  ‘Oh dear, your knee again?’

  ‘Yes. Is better, but still I have to miss first week of the tour. The piano is my best friend this week – makes me forget – even I take book to Opera House again yesterday but then Jessie was cross that she not have it.’

  ‘I must remember to bring the second copy, can’t have any more dramas about that book.’

  ‘Ah Rosi, I have to tell you. You will need now two more books in September.’

  ‘One for the ballerina.’

  ‘Yes, and one for dancer called Chris, is good guy, you like him – maybe you know, he is soloist, Christian Prit... oh I can never say...’

  ‘Prittlewell? Sort of reddish hair? Yes I know. Is he a beginner?’ I didn’t want to take on a grade seven, or even a grade six or five for that matter.

  ‘He says he learnt for a little time at the junior school but stopped, the piano teacher was, well... He says he has dis... You know, problem for reading –’

  ‘Dyslexia.’

  ‘Yes. And I tell him you will not be cross, like other teacher.’

  Two more pupils: unless I could somehow get them in the same place for their lessons that would be two more evenings I would be back late. Jez wouldn’t mind these days, but I could just picture Ricardo’s angry and disbelieving face. I would just have to say I needed the money, use the future dwindling of my grant as an excuse.

  Ali was tutting and groaning at mistakes.

  ‘Look, you can swear as much as you like, I really don’t mind.’

  He broke into a smile and kept playing. More mistakes. Then he folded his arms and looked into his lap.

  ‘I am thinking, maybe is problem. I find you more pupils, but then maybe you say to me, can only come here every two weeks.’ He looked at me. ‘I don’t want this.�
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  ‘That’s not going to happen, I promise,’ I said.

  He looked over to the door, and then back to me. ‘De verdad, I don’t want to share you,’ he whispered, and leant over and quickly kissed my cheek.

  ‘Try it again,’ I said, feeling rather breathless, and laughed as he moved back towards me. ‘I mean the Clog Dance.’ He patted my thigh and got his hands in position, waited for a few seconds. It was perfection. As was the Gavotte after it, which I’d feared he’d find rather tedious.

  Then we were starting the next chapter, and as I’d anticipated, he was baffled by the new hand position and the number of new notes to learn for each hand. It occurred to me that he might well be dyslexic too.

  ‘Ayuda! Help!’ he said, and put his hand over his eyes and his head on my shoulder. And then he turned to me.

  ‘You know, now I fly later, maybe you can come next week? I have a meeting, an interview, at the moment I don’t know if is Monday or Tuesday, but I can call you, no?’

  ***

  I’d bought it in Florida: pink fruit on black, with an attached skirt that flapped prettily in the wind. But not, of course, at an indoor pool. I waited until a stringy twenty-something had finished her post-gym makeup and put myself in front of the mirror. I was going to have to haul in the pre-menstrual tummy, but at least I wasn’t having my usual demonic start-of-the-month moody. I wrapped one of the logo towels round me as if I were venturing onto a cold English beach and went through to the pool area.

  Ricardo was slicing through the water, drawing open-mouthed looks from some mothers putting their babies in the playpen, a pair of blonde young men and a woman old enough to know better.

  I stroked the warm water with my arms, bounced up and down enjoying the weightlessness, danced around, wondered why I didn’t do this more often.

  He suddenly emerged in front of me like a seal, shaking his head to get the hair out of his eyes. ‘Come on. A bit of exercise Rosie – it’ll do you good.’

  ‘I am, I’m doing ballet exercises,’ I said, holding on to the edge of the pool and moving my leg around.

  ‘You and your ballet,’ he said, his arm coming round me. ‘We are going together in September, no? I look forward to that. But not one with lots of stick-out skirts.’