Slow Burn, page 2
I stifled a yawn as I put the dishwasher on in the bar and swept the floor in the reception area. I was half-tempted to leave the rest of the clearing up until morning, but I knew I’d regret it when I arrived at 8am to get ready for a day of lessons. Fridays were always busy now that people could work from home – it made it easier for them to slope away from their desks for a sneaky dance lesson. Then there was the kids contemporary class at four, street dance at five and beginners waltz at six-thirty.
Carlos thanked me on his way out, calling me by the wrong name, which I tried not to be insulted by.
‘Thank you, Lena, darling. It is a shame your studio is not in London; I would use it again if it was not so difficult to get to.’
I nodded, grateful for the backhanded compliment and resisting the urge to remind him that the studio was only about five miles outside of south London. And did he know how much the council charged to rent a space in central London? Mum would have loved to have had a studio there. She’d never quite taken to suburban life either, having spent her childhood in bustling Cape Town. As my dad had constantly reminded us, Castlebury might not be the most vibrant place on earth, but at least we weren’t going bankrupt.
I thought about the day as I finished tidying the studio, running dirty plates and glasses back and forth to the bar, putting the tables and chairs away and emptying the bins, which seemed to be overflowing with protein bar wrappers and empty cans of Coke Zero. It was taking longer than I’d hoped, so I put some Argentine tango music on.
Every so often I stopped to replicate the steps I’d seen Carlos and his assistant teach the auditionees earlier. Having spent most of the last six hours surreptitiously watching the dancers perform the routine, I had pretty much memorized the whole thing. I’d even had the sense that I could do that, too. In fact, with only one or two exceptions, I knew for sure I could do it better.
They’d all picked up the steps easily enough – they were professional dancers, after all, and these things came naturally as long as you kept practising and attending classes and castings. But the Argentine tango was special, and they hadn’t been dancing it with their soul, the way I knew it needed to be danced.
I turned the music up, performing the steps as though it had been me in front of a panel. I had a vivid imagination and could picture myself there, letting the music course through my blood, moving effortlessly to the beat, bringing alive the story of the tango, the passion I imagined my character was feeling as she tried to lure the object of her affection into bed using just music and dance. I got so into it that, when the music stopped and I looked up, I was almost surprised to see the studio mirror in front of me, rather than the line of judges I’d imagined were watching, enraptured.
I ran over to turn off the sound system. That had been fun, but I had to remember who I was now: Lira James, studio manager, not Lira James, world champion in Argentine tango.
My whole body jerked in shock when I heard a slow clap coming from the reception area. I turned around, dreading what – or rather, who – I was going to see there.
I must have forgotten to lock the door. Had someone let themselves in? I was usually so careful – being alone in a studio at night wasn’t the safest, even if the crime rate in Castlebury was practically non-existent. But when my eyes locked onto the gaze of the man standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face, I felt the air leave my lungs.
It was okay. I wasn’t about to be murdered; it was just Carlos Torres.
I cleared my throat, embarrassed that he’d caught me dancing the steps meant for the girls he’d auditioned earlier, not for me, just some woman who ran the studio he’d hired. He probably thought I had no business performing his steps, even if it was just for myself; that they weren’t mine to execute.
‘Again,’ he said.
I swallowed hard, assuming I’d misheard him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Dance those steps again,’ he repeated.
I shook my head, mortified. ‘I was just messing around. I’m not sure I’d even be able to repeat what I just did.’
‘Try,’ he said, strutting arrogantly into the studio.
He unfolded one of the chairs I’d just put away and took a seat in the corner of the studio.
‘I would like to see you dance those steps again. Please.’
I’d never been so confused in my life, but also had never been less able to articulate the thoughts flying around inside my head. Why had he come back here? Why did he want me to dance the steps again? What possible good could come of any of this? It was an understatement to say I was rusty when it came to performing – I could remember the steps, sure, but I was nowhere near as good as I’d been when I was competing, especially under the pressure I suddenly felt consumed by. It would be embarrassing to show him what I could – or more likely couldn’t – do.
‘Did you forget something?’ I asked, moving slowly to the stereo, wondering what was even happening here. Could I really dance in front of Carlos Torres again, like I had in the Junior World Championships all those years ago? Would he even remember me if I reminded him who I was? I must look so different now – more curves, the odd wrinkle on my face, my hair relaxed straight instead of worn in the bouncy curls I’d sported back then.
‘Yes, I believe I left my phone in the bathroom. And now I am glad that I did,’ said Carlos, brushing imaginary dirt off his impossibly tight trousers.
‘Glad why?’ I asked, still baffled. Did he want me to go and get it from the bathroom? I hadn’t got around to tidying that part of the studio yet.
‘Because unless my eyes have deceived me, you are the best dancer I have seen all day.’
I scoffed. ‘You saw fifty people. And they were all amazing.’
And yet even as I said it, I knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful. The Argentine tango was my speciality. In my prime, nobody had been able to capture the spirit of the dance as well as I had. Maybe I did have something the other girls didn’t.
‘You really want to see it again?’ I said, my finger hovering over the play button.
‘Yes,’ said Carlos. ‘Quickly, please.’
I started the music and took my place on the dance floor, ready to begin.
* * *
Afterwards, Carlos didn’t say a word. He went to find his phone and then he came back to collect his bag. I busied myself tidying, assuming I’d disappointed him. He probably wished he’d never asked to see me perform, because now he’d have to let me know I wasn’t up to scratch. Mind you, I didn’t think Carlos struggled with giving negative feedback – his brutal delivery was well known in the business. So why was he holding back now?
As he walked towards the exit, he stopped, looking at me over his shoulder.
‘This studio – James Jive is the name of it?’
I nodded. ‘It’s a family business.’
There was a moment of recognition on Carlos’s face. ‘You are Amahle James’s daughter.’
‘I am. Mum and Dad own this place.’
‘You used to compete, yes?’
I nodded, reminding myself to be proud of my achievements, even if they were a long time ago. ‘Junior world Latin champion. Twice.’
Carlos looked confused, as though he was struggling to understand why somebody with as much talent as I must have possessed to win those titles was now teaching tango to pensioners in a small market town.
‘Come to Pineapple Studios on Monday, two o’clock. I want to see you dance with our leading man,’ said Carlos.
I swallowed hard. ‘What?’
He couldn’t be serious. If Carlos was choreographing the show, it was going to be an almost guaranteed success. There was no way he’d want a non-pro dancer anywhere near it.
‘We are struggling to find him a partner. I think you could be what we’re looking for.’
‘But I haven’t…’
My voice faltered. I wanted to tell him I hadn’t danced professionally for years; that no leading man was going to want to try out with someone like me. My reputation might have been impressive once, but that was when I was a teenager. It counted for nothing now. I’d probably arrive at the studio only to have him point-blank refuse to dance with me, and I wouldn’t blame him.
But by the time I formulated the words of protestation in my head and put them into a coherent sentence, Carlos had left, as silently as he’d arrived.
I sank to the floor in shock as I tried to process what had just happened. He really wanted me? He really thought I was good enough?
The more negative part of my brain soon kicked in, questioning whether I could face opening myself up to this kind of life all over again. The dedication it required, the competitiveness, the rejection. It meant having to tell my parents that this was what I wanted after all, even after all this time, because what would that mean for them and the business I’d helped them build?
But even though my head was saying no, that it was too late, that I was an excellent studio manager, that I couldn’t up and leave just because I fancied being a dancer again, I felt a thrill deep inside of me that I hadn’t experienced for a very long time.
I was probably worrying for nothing, anyway – I wouldn’t get the part. How could I, when my audition skills were rusty at best?
Yet my heart was singing to an entirely different tune: I still had it. I still had it. I still had it.
CHAPTER TWO Gabriele
As morning light filtered through my eyelids, I slowly became aware that somebody was lying under the duvet next to me. This was not unusual in itself – I was a single man, of course I had women in my bed on occasion, and it was never difficult to find someone who wanted to spend time with me. What was unusual was that she was still here in the morning. Usually, I made some excuse about having to get up early so that she’d leave and I could sleep in peace. I must have crashed out before I could insist upon it.
My eyes eased themselves open and I glanced, bleary-eyed, at the clock on my bedside table. It was 7.30am. Jesus.
I threw back the covers; I had to get up. I had already missed my gym slot: 6am was when I worked out longest and hardest, and with the show opening in just three weeks, it was more important than ever that I be in the best shape of my life. After that I had some errands to run, my mother to call and I had to be at Pineapple Studios for midday for a meeting with Carlos, followed by yet more auditions. No, I definitely did not have time to be languishing in bed as late as this.
On the pillow next to me, Jasmine’s dark hair fanned out as she stirred. At least I thought her name was Jasmine – we hadn’t actually talked much the previous night.
I reached over and ran my fingers along her arm, tugging at her hand. She moaned as her eyes opened.
‘Ciao,’ I whispered.
‘Hey,’ she said, sleepily.
I rolled over so that my naked body hovered above hers. She was here now, looking sexy as hell. What difference would another ten minutes make?
‘This is a very pleasant way to be woken up,’ she said, pulling me on top of her.
If we were quick enough, I could be at the gym by 8.30.
* * *
Several hours later, I tried to look enthusiastic as Carlos ran through the names of the girls I would be paired with that afternoon, but I could not help thinking this casting session was going to go just as badly as all the others. Maybe I was the problem? Maybe it was not that the female dancers could not connect with me, but that I could not connect with them?
Not a single one of the routines I had performed as part of this audition process had felt special enough, which was strange, because all the dancers were professionals – exceptionally talented and capable ones at that. They were perfect, just not perfect for what Carlos and I had in mind. I would be headlining a show on the West End stage for the very first time and I wanted it to be unforgettable; to have the audience flying to their feet, screaming for more. Was that too much to ask? Was I setting my standards too high?
I recognized most of the names from years of competing, and some I had even been paired with before.
‘Daniella Thompson?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I have told you that is not going to work.’
Carlos put on his best soothing tone. I had never known a man who could go from terrifying to charming so quickly; to be screaming instructions at dancers who were not performing his steps properly one minute, to getting exactly what he needed from you the next.
‘She might be our best option, Gabriele. You have said no to absolutely everyone we have put in front of you. We have given you world champions, West End stars, Italian, British, American – you name it, you have danced with them all.’
‘But you agree with me, right?’ I said to him. ‘Not one of these girls has blown us away. Come on, admit it, we are in trouble here. And it sounds like you think we are going to have to compromise.’
Carlos sighed. ‘I am still hoping not. But Daniella you know very well. You were partners once, you know what makes each other tick, what your weaknesses are.’
‘I do not have any weaknesses,’ I said. Carlos raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Not on the dance floor, anyway,’ I added.
Off of it there were many, but that was another story.
Dancing with Daniella again would be fine, even if it was a complicated situation that I did not particularly want to get myself into again. But in my opinion, fine wasn’t going to be enough to sell out every seat of every night of our West End run, followed by a European tour.
‘And who is this?’ I said, poking my finger at the last name on the list. ‘Lira James? I have never even heard of her.’
Carlos cleared his throat. ‘That is an interesting question…’ he said enigmatically. ‘I want you to trust me on this one. I’m not going to tell you too much because I know what you are going to say. Just dance with her. And then I’ll tell you how she ended up on my list.’
I sighed. ‘Fine, but she had better be worth whatever it is you’re hiding.’
I knew I was being difficult, but getting it right was important, and we were already running way behind on rehearsal time. We needed to find a leading lady and fast, otherwise the entire thing was going to be a disaster, with my name attached to it. If it went wrong, I doubted I would be cast as the lead in a show as big as this ever again.
* * *
While Carlos taught the steps to the ten girls in another room, I stood alone in front of the mirror that covered the entire front wall of the studio. I went over and over the routine Carlos and I had created, checking every movement, the placement of every hand, of each foot. I had a photographic memory for dance steps – somebody only needed to show me once and they were locked in, which had always served me well for auditions. And it meant I could focus on connection and performance rather than remembering where I was supposed to be putting my feet.
After I had run through the routine several times, Carlos’s assistant, Emily, rushed into the room and turned on the music, ramping it up loud.
‘Sound check,’ she explained. ‘We’re nearly ready to start.’
I took a few glugs of water and towelled myself down. I would try not to be negative – perhaps the perfect dance partner was in the next room, waiting to audition. Maybe one of them was going to surprise me.
‘How are they looking?’ I asked Emily.
‘Not bad. One or two standouts.’
There was this mysterious woman on the bottom of the list that I didn’t hold out much hope for, but at least I knew that everyone else was talented and established. If the chemistry was there as well, we could hopefully make it work, but the problem was, it never seemed to be, not to my standards.
Evocative Argentine tango music pumped through the studio and I used the hairband on my wrist to tie my shoulder-length curls back into a pony tail, getting them off my face, preparing to begin.
This could be the moment the dance partner of my dreams entered the room, and rehearsals for Slow Burn could really get started.
Carlos swept in with his clipboard, scraping back a chair and taking a place at the table. Three men in shirts and smart trousers followed suit: the show’s producer, director and tour manager.
‘Okay, Gabriele, we begin,’ said Carlos, picking up his pen, preparing to make notes. ‘Be nice, si?’
‘I am always nice,’ I growled at Carlos, keeping my voice low.
Although I knew that was not strictly true.
I stalked into the middle of the dance floor, checking myself out in the mirror one more time. I looked good, and I was going to dance good, too. Whoever was about to come through those doors was about to be flung around the dance floor like they never had before.
The doors opened and in walked the first girl – I remembered her from a show in Italy and already knew that she was not the one, but I smiled at her anyway and pretended I was excited to dance with her again after so long. I was not, but I knew how to fake enthusiasm. Turning on the charm when needed was like second nature to me. Actually feeling it? That was another matter.
* * *
The ninth girl through the door was Daniella. I knew she was not right for the job either, but given my lack of enthusiasm for the other eight girls I had danced with over the last hour or so, she might very well have to be. The thing was, our relationship was complicated – we had been dance partners then lovers, we had not spoken for years, and now we were kind of friends. Our relationship was all over the place. Plus, I had the feeling she wanted more from me than I would ever be able to give her. She was hot, I had to admit that – a tall, willowy blonde with a great work ethic and a dirty sense of humour. But we did not connect on a deeper level, and I knew our relationship would never progress outside of the bedroom. In some ways that was ideal – who wanted the inconvenience of actually having feelings for someone?! And she was a great dancer – but she did not rock my world. And unless somebody rocked my world, there was always this emotional distance that I could not get past, great sex or no great sex.
