MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  ‘He should. Can be good at it, make new start.’ My face must have clouded for a moment. ‘What other music they play for you in class?’

  ‘Um... something that starts uno, dos, tres...’ He looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘Don’t like that one anyway. And er... there’s a song by Gloria Estefan—’

  ‘En español?’ I nodded. ‘Ah. Maybe I have it. My sister has left here for Jessie, espera.’

  I waited while he ran his finger along some CDs on a shelf. Jessie. I wondered what she was like at salsa. Eventually he pulled a couple of boxes from the shelf.

  ‘What is called, the song?’

  ‘I don’t know, something about hurting when I lose you... him,’ I said, embarrassed about the girl-soppy lyrics.

  He scanned the titles. ‘Ah!’ he said suddenly, and put in one of the discs.

  ‘So this time, relájate, and also important, you must look at me, not feet. Anyway, I don’t want you watch mine, dancers’ bare feet are very ugly!’ he said, which immediately had me staring down at them of course.

  ‘They seem okay to me,’ I said.

  But the intro was starting, and with a gentle ‘mira’ he put a finger under my chin and lifted it so I would look where he wanted, just as I had done to him in his first piano lesson. I wondered how the hell I was going to keep it up, giggled and bit my lip. But once the song started some kind of miracle happened; looking at him I could stop thinking about the steps, just let the gentle signals from his hands, the little pushes and tugs, take care of the directions I would take, the turns I would make. Leaving me free to blend myself into the warm, lilting music; respond to the crescendo up to the chorus, the sinking back into the verse, the changing colours of Gloria’s voice. And enjoy the tenderness of sharing all this with him.

  ‘Bravo Rosi!’ he said at the end of the song. ‘You not find it easy, but your musicalidad, your intención... make you good partner. Preciosa.’ He gave me another hug, but I started pulling away.

  ‘Again!’ I demanded.

  ‘Vale, I can’t say no after what I do in my lessons!’ he said. So we danced to it again, and again, and then rather hectically to a fast Los Van Van track – a favourite of his with a title that roughly translates as ‘Who hasn’t said a lie?’ – before I agreed it was time to collapse on the sofa.

  He poured the drinks and then made the vast screen come to life.

  ‘Wow, it’s like being at the cinema!’

  ‘But better, more comfortable,’ he said, pulling me over to him.

  Very soon I was singing along with the ‘America, fuck-yeah’ theme and the two of us were exclaiming and laughing as we sat there leaning up against each other.

  When it was finished I said I wanted to see again the bit where the down-and-out hero is volcanically sick in the street. We laughed hysterically and then competed to see who was better at copying the scene; it was agreed that I had the edge, probably due to personal experience.

  ‘And you want see marioneta sex again?’

  Of course I did. More laughter, but holding back a little; aware that we could hardly act this one out. Or at least I was. Because he then lay back, his head on the arm of the sofa, and acted the hero.

  ‘I can’t help it, this feels so right and I don’t want anything mess it up,’ he said, with a hopelessly inadequate American accent.

  ‘Shh, mustn’t talk Gary,’ I whispered seductively, pointing with the guffaw-inducing vague puppet finger that misses his mouth and pokes him in the eye, ‘there’s not a thing in the world that can mess this up.’

  Then we made explosion noises and tossed the cushions into the air, shaking and wheezing with laughter. Perhaps he moved the shoulder I was leaning on to keep my balance – perhaps deliberately, come to think of it – but suddenly I fell on top of him, our faces an inch apart.

  ‘Oh! That was close – I nearly head-butted you!’ I said, laughing again and trying to get myself up. But his arm came round me.

  ‘No, stay,’ he said, twisting his body slightly and his leg pushing on mine until I no longer had a foot on the floor, so that all of me was lying on top of him. It was suddenly very quiet in the room. I was sort of trapped and I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so I tucked my head under his chin and let myself melt into his warm, firm body. Just for a moment, I told myself. Just a bit longer. Oh God.

  ‘Is so nice, no?’ he said. Gently. The softness of his voice lowering my defences, lulling me into receptivity, an acceptance of the inevitable. After all, I could hear myself thinking, it’s going to happen sooner or later. Late or soon.

  His hand slid under my blouse, stroked my back, tickling my sides deliciously. He started to kiss me. Then all of a sudden he needed to be in control: he turned me over and was swiftly undoing the buttons, kissing my tummy, his hand coming up under my skirt, murmuring something in Spanish that I couldn’t quite catch... and that’s what did it. It reminded me of Ricardo whispering in Portuguese. His desperation. And I pictured his despair if he could see me lying here under Ali.

  ‘I’m really sorry... I can’t do this. I better go now anyway.’

  He sighed, smiled wearily. ‘Is your Brazilian. Cómo se llama?’

  ‘Ricardo.’

  ‘Is very lucky man. Lo siento, Rosi. Por favor, perdóname.’

  He did up my buttons, helped me sit up. ‘We are... You still teach me the piano?’ he asked, his head in his hand.

  ‘Of course, don’t be silly,’ I said, trying to stand up. But I was unsteady on my feet, nudged the table and sent the pistachios clattering to the floor. So we were both on our knees, picking up shells, eating a few, scooping up a few more. And then we bumped heads.

  ‘Ow, fuck!’ we shouted in chorus, and then started laughing again, rubbing each others’ heads.

  ‘One day we knock the other out!’ he said.

  Or maybe knock sense into each other. ‘Look, I’m going now. Thanks for my lovely evening. And have a good trip.’

  ‘I am back on thirty of July, maybe I have lesson before I go to Cuba? I call you, yes?’

  Before long I was sitting in a post-Ali cab again, wondering about what could have happened, what still could happen, if I let it... but it was just stuff for my daydreams. Because the real Ali, much as I loved him, was a cheat – even if, as he claimed, an honest one – and I knew all about being with one of them. Except that he was probably five times – God knows, maybe twenty times – worse than Jez. Poor Jessie – I suddenly didn’t envy her at all anymore. But how could one expect Ali to be doggedly faithful to anyone? He was passionate, impulsive, and probably adored by nearly every female he knew. Besides, he was from Cuba, where – according to something I’d come across in my surfing – sex and infidelity was a national pastime. From Havana, for God’s sake. And then it came back to me and I was grinning to myself: Havana City! Havana Cra-zy! Welcome to the Cap-it-al! I felt like I’d been there and back in one evening. What a laugh. And then I could hear Como Me Duele Perderte singing in my head and closed my eyes at the thought of his tenderness... what heaven, and without having to worry about how it would hurt to lose him.

  30.

  ‘She absolutely adores him, and frankly I don’t blame her,’ Emma said, taking me through to the kitchen. Ricardo was standing there in his Florida shorts and t-shirt, Margot pushing her flat white face up against his chin and rattling with pleasure.

  ‘Here, get off him, you fluffy floozy,’ I said to her, stroking her sensuous back and kissing Ricardo.

  ‘It’s amazing, she usually doesn’t trust men, but she’s completely smitten.’

  ‘Is that you or Margot?’ I whispered.

  ‘Both,’ she whispered back, ‘I can now see how you... managed it.’ I’d arrived in such a state that I’d had to tell her about what had happened with Ali, and been simultaneously consoled and congratulated with a large vodka. I gave her a warning glare.

  ‘Well, walking in with the meat could have helped,’ Ricardo said.

  ‘Oh yes Ro, he’s
going to show you how to make fay...’

  ‘Feijoada.’

  ‘I’ve told him to go easy on you.’

  She showed us the alarm, and what we had to do for Margot and the worrying number of exotic houseplants, and then we sat out on her roof garden with a bottle of wine.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ said Ricardo. He looked over to me. ‘I could live here, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s lovely, but – ’

  ‘Rosie needs some grass to pad around on. The ground floor ones have got nice little turfed gardens, but I like a view and... Actually, I’ve just thought... Alvin’s going off to Hong Kong in late September and thinking of putting his on the market. I wonder if he might be persuaded to rent it out for a while instead. Just think, we’d be neighbours! D’you want me to have a word with him?’

  Ricardo and I looked at each other with open mouths.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, am I –?’

  ‘No, no, I think we’re just... God. What do you think Rosie?’

  ‘Call him! Oh... it would be perfect.’

  ‘I think his might be slightly smaller, but it’s absolutely – ’

  ‘Can we see it from here?’ I asked, peering over a trellis.

  ‘Just about.’ She pointed out the garden and left us gazing at it, hanging on to each other. It was probably half the size of our front garden, but it had some shrubs, grass, and a little square of decking. Ricardo thought he could see a tiny pond.

  ‘Well,’ she said, coming back out again, grinning and lighting a cigarette, ‘he said he’d look into it, talk to his solicitor, but he sounded pretty positive. He’ll give you a call Rosie... talked about you coming round on Wednesday evening.’

  Ricardo and I hugged each other, and then Emma, and she made us promise to text her with any news. Then her friend Sophia arrived and they were off to Stansted, leaving us on our own.

  ‘Together, on a Sunday. Wonderful isn’t it?’ He pulled me towards him. ‘Come on, let’s go and try out the bed.’ He led me to the spare room that was ours for the eternity of six days.

  ‘Emma – how can we thank her enough?’ I said, smelling one of the roses she’d put in a vase on the bedside table until my dress was coming off over my head. ‘Hey, no rush.’

  ‘No... But come on, come here.’ I lay down next to him.

  He ran his hand over the contour of my tummy, one of my breasts. ‘You’re looking healthier, put on a little weight.’

  ‘I know. I’m happier, that’s why. Although I’m not happy with the weight, I need to start using that pool more often.’

  ‘You couldn’t be... pregnant?’

  ‘No! I had a period last weekend. God, I don’t look that bad do I?’

  ‘Not at all, you’re lovely like this, more rounded... Ah... so if you had your period, that means... you’re not on pill now?’

  It should have meant that, but I’d started a new packet. Decided I’d wait for one more cycle, by which time we’d hopefully be living together. But with a jolt I realised that the packet was in its usual place in the kitchen cupboard at home.

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘That’s right. No more pills.’ I was thirty-eight; it wasn’t going to happen immediately.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, taking his hand away and sitting up. I thought he looked uncertain; I waited for him to suggest we went out and found a chemist. I half-hoped he would. But then he smiled at me, lay down again and whispered amo-o, and started to kiss me all over, saying something like ‘I give you’ in Portuguese. It was like the first time, very gentle, very caressing, but then he put his hands under me and it became intense, ecstatic, and soon we were gasping and holding on to each other.

  ‘Beautiful...’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, although... it hurts a bit like that.’

  ‘But it gives the best chance to make a baby. And now you must keep lying there.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘You want tea?’

  ‘Coffee please.’

  ‘No, you need to cut down on your caffeine. Probably why you get so many migraines. I’ll get you some tea.’

  I did as I was told, imagining the little Ricardos making their way deep inside me. He brought back a horribly weak Earl Grey and a bowl of nuts and raisins.

  ‘Just imagine, Rosie, a spring baby – the Portland would look after you of course – then a summer sitting in the garden with the pram, maybe go back to work in the autumn for just one or two days, if you want. Don’t worry, you could still go to the ballet with Emma sometimes. Or me if I like it as much as you say I will. And then we’ll start looking to buy our own place. It’s a good plan, no?’

  A good plan. A good programme. Is this a Latin trait, this exhilarating mapping out without consultation? But apart from understandably omitting the issue of our spouses and existing children, he’d left out something important, a now essential part of my life.

  ‘And my piano pupils? I’ve got two new ones starting in September, and maybe there’ll be more.’ I watched his face darken for a moment before smiling again.

  ‘They can come to us. Yes, a Saturday morning, when I always have work to catch up with at home. The baby could be with me while you teach.’

  On Saturday mornings three out of four of them would usually have a ballet class, so that wasn’t going to work. Anyway, I thought, it might be better if Ricardo never met Ali or knew who he was. At least not for a while, until he trusted me more. I told myself there was no point fretting about it now – something could be worked out.

  ‘Can I get up now, doctor?’

  ‘I think it best not. Because anyway,’ he said, his hands on me again, ‘it’s time for your next treatment.’

  ‘Really? A slightly weaker dose this time, please.’

  ‘Okay, but you must understand, if I reduce the dose I have to increase the frequency.’

  ‘Whatever you say, doctor.’

  ***

  We were woken by my buzzing mobile: probably a query from Jez about PE kit or something, I thought; it could wait half an hour. But it buzzed again. I picked it up, not having to worry now Ali was in Hong Kong. But it was Ali.

  I sat up and quickly read it: ‘Rosi, I can call you? There is piano in hotel, I practise, want show you both rag times Ali x.’ He’d sent it twice, and could well send it again.

  ‘I’ve got to call Seb,’ I said, putting on my dressing gown. I went out to the roof garden.

  ‘Ah yes, Rosi, I say to Tara, look, I have twenty-four-hour piano teacher.’ I heard a woman’s voice reprimanding him in the background.

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  ‘Okay, I put down phone, espera.’

  There were a couple of loud bangs, some Spanish and laughter, and then he started. But he obviously had his left hand in the wrong position.

  ‘Ay, coño! Siempre me pones nervioso,’ I could hear him say to her. ‘You make me nervous Rosi, already I play without mistakes for Tara. Tell her.’

  ‘Hello Rosi. It is true, he played them well, and anyway I have to say this or he kills me. Oh, he will try again.’ Tara Lopez. Imagine if he persuaded her to learn.

  Silence: he must have been focussing. And then he played both, a short pause in between for Tara’s applause.

  ‘Well? Is good, no?’

  Ricardo had come onto the roof garden with Margot in his arms.

  ‘Excellent, well done. Perhaps Mopstick was a little fast for ragtime.’

  ‘I do this to make different, separate character for each. Better programme.’

  ‘Well... okay,’ I said, laughing at his indignation.

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘The balance – perhaps the left hand could be a little quieter, but you’ve done really well. I’m sitting here in Emma’s roof garden, I can see for miles.’

  ‘With Ricardo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I must go now?’

  ‘Yes. Be good. Bye now.’

  ‘Adiós Rosi. Un be
so.’ There was the sound of a kiss, and he was gone.

  ‘Playing the piano to you down the phone? That’s very sweet. I thought you said he gave up and does drums instead,’ Ricardo said.

  ‘He still plays occasionally,’ I lied.

  ‘Hungry? Is time to make lunch now, come.’

  He was patient at first, but I was a challenging pupil.

  ‘No Rosie. My God, you have no idea.’

  I carried on butchering the onions. ‘You promised Emma you’d go easy on me.’

  ‘Yes, but...’ He showed me again. He was surprisingly chef-like for a married Latin man. I folded my arms, fighting a rise of petulance.

  ‘Look, it’s not difficult.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says, and it really doesn’t help.’

  ‘It looks like you’re just not trying.’ I started to protest. ‘But the differential diagnoses are cul... culni...’

  ‘Culinary?’

  ‘Culinary hysteria, or severe culinary dyspraxia.’

  ‘Very funny. So what’s the cure?’

  ‘Lots of love, encouragement, practice and regular kicks to the bottom. But I’m hungry so you just watch me do the rice and beans and then do the table.’

  So I decided to take notes, unhooking a pad from its place next to the pin board, and noticed with relief that Emma had taken down the ballet postcards that would have included at least two or three of Ali.

  ‘Oh. Can you find a... what’s it called, with holes to let water...’

  ‘A sieve?’ He’d obviously only ever cooked in Portuguese. I started rummaging through the saucepan drawer.

  ‘Ah – there it is, look, hanging on that rail next to...’ We saw it at the same time. A bit tucked away in the alcove, but it was unbelievable that we hadn’t noticed it earlier: a shrine to dance. A huge pinboard, with two posters – Ali and Tara in Romeo and Juliet, and Matthew Bourne’s male swans – surrounded by what looked like the complete collection of Royal Ballet postcards. A couple of front row tickets: hers and mine to the previous year’s Mayerling. The flyer for the flamenco show at Sadler’s Wells. A Royal Opera House letter about In Conversation with the moody-at-the-barre Alejandro Cortés.