Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (18 page)

Over the past few months I’d changed, my life had changed and it was all about dancing. But here on a hot summer night in a magical place I could feel myself changing even more. The final stage of my metamorphosis had begun and I was a different woman. No more subdued, anxious checkout girl whose journey had stopped halfway, never chasing her dreams, never believing in herself. She had such low self-esteem she thought she was only worthy of an online flirtation with someone from her past, who she knew would never be her present.

But here, in Spain was Lola – the flamenco dancer, filled with heat and fire. And when, the following day, my flamenco teacher complimented me on my passion, I smiled, thinking back to the night and how the moonlight reflected on the sheen of Juan’s chest as I sat astride him, uninhibited, finally free.

T
he following evening
I joined Bette and Eva to see a real flamenco show. We went straight from the school into the local bars, where we ordered jugs of sangria and laughed about our communication problems. Later we went to the flamenco clubs in the caves, sitting in high-backed Andalusian chairs, large oak wine barrels lined the wall and an array of copperware hung from the wooden beams. It felt like old Spain, and when the dancers came on I was transported back to the past, Mum and Dad dancing at home, trying out their own brand of flamenco. Dad had a record of Engelbert Humperdinck singing ‘Spanish eyes’ – I could almost hear it in the flamenco guitar, and Dad’s voice, singing to Mum, ‘Please say si si... say you and your Spanish eyes will wait for me.’

My eyes filled with tears but I swallowed them back down and smiled – I was beginning to understand my mother’s reaction to her loss. Mum had always had her problems whatever they might be, and those problems took her physically and emotionally. Whether her stays in hospital were connected to the difficulties in their marriage that Dad alluded to in his letter I didn’t know, but she could barely go on after losing my dad. I’d blamed her for not following Dad’s last wish, to bring me into their world of dance and teach me everything she knew... but without him, how could she ever dance again?

I’d never really wanted to meet Cameron, I was happy to keep him at a distance, just chat online, text now and then, because that way he couldn’t hurt me. I’d only asked him to meet me because Sophie said I should and I wanted to impress her. Even if he’d been single it would never have worked, we were different people now from the kids we’d been. I’d just needed to revisit my own, teenage past and put it to rest. And as Engelbert sang his last refrain, I knew I’d stopped looking for forever, I was only looking for now.

L
ater
, the flamenco guitarist began to play, and the pace quickened, the dance beat grew louder, stronger, as the fiery feet hit the floor, fingers clicked castanets, and I was lost. Dramatic wrist curls, sudden head movements, very straight bodies – how I envied them their craft, their performance. To the onlooker there is little movement, but I knew now that to dance flamenco, every single muscle and every single emotion is wrung out.

My friends and I were engrossed, pointing out the dancing, the dresses, and In spite of our language issues and the noise, we also managed to pass on snippets of information about ourselves and our lives. Eva was divorced, her children grown and she wanted to get her old self back, the one before she became Mrs and Mum... or as she would say Madame and Maman. Bette had spent her life on the farm and wanted to feel less like a pig farmer and more like a woman again. We were all from different countries with different lives, but we’d been brought together by flamenco. And it seemed each one of us had a reason to dance.

I thought about it later as we watched an older Spanish woman dance – her flamenco was intimate yet open, powerful emotions, thunderous steps, her dance reaching out to the audience, but always, always, keeping a little bit back for herself. And I thought – yes that’s the woman we all want to be, she’s inside all of us – we just need the key to unlock her.

Dancing had freed me and forced me to express emotions I’d buried deep for a long time and to begin to understand myself, why I was here and what I was really looking for in life. Sitting in the flamenco club until dawn, we laughed and we drank and we joined in the dancing. I had never felt so free, so happy – and I realised I wasn’t relying on a man to provide that happiness, it was coming from inside me. I thought about Dad and how he would be so proud of me being here, finally, after all these years, achieving his last wishes... and finding my own dream along the way.

T
he next day
, I whirled and clapped and stomped my way through class and at midday I wandered out into the sunshine, exhausted and emotional. Standing on one of the many terraces overlooking stunning views of Granada, I breathed in, the sun warming my face, recharging me. I felt strong and positive, like my life had some direction, some meaning – and to add to my joy, when I walked out of the gate, Juan was unexpectedly waiting for me by the vine-clad caves.

The sun was beating down on his tanned face, his black hair tied back, he looked like a handsome Spanish gypsy and I felt a surge of pride and excitement that this guy was actually waiting for me. Here was someone who could probably have any woman he wanted, but he had chosen to be with me. And today, I was choosing to be with him. He’d brought wine and fresh bread and cheese and we went straight back to my apartment and made love all afternoon like young lovers.

‘How old are you?’ I said, lying naked in a tangle of cotton sheets, both of us shimmering with sweat in the aftermath of lust and hot weather.

‘I am forty-six, but you are only thirty-four, thirty-five?’ he said, a twinkle in his eye.

‘Mmmm, I wish. But you are being kind – you know I’m nearer to your age,’ I said.

‘Age, she doesn’t matter when love is nearby,’ he sighed, then he got out of bed and took out a bundle of papers from his bag.

‘I write this for you... and for me,’ he put his glasses on and began reading from the handwritten notes. A poem. He had written. For me. I was so touched, it was like a scene from a film, the Spanish lover so intoxicated by me he couldn’t help but write about it. No one wrote Spanish poetry for check-out girls from the West Midlands – did they? But apparently they did.

It was called ‘Amor’, and sounded so beautiful in Spanish I cried.

‘That’s just beautiful,’ I said, gently taking the well-worn piece of paper from his hands. He’d obviously toiled over this, writing out each word, folding and refolding the paper, probably wondering whether or not he should share it with me. ‘Read it to me again,’ I sighed, laying back on the pillows listening to the sensual way he spoke while looking into his Spanish eyes. I could hear the music in my head, Engelbert’s sincere, pleading voice, ‘please say si si...’

‘El amor, a qué huele? Parece, cuando se ama,’ Juan said softly, his eyes melting as he looked at me. He might have been reading his shopping list and it would still have sounded like the most wonderful love poem I’d ever heard. ‘Que el mundo entero tiene rumor de primavera,’ he went on, still looking at me, he didn’t need to read it he knew it so well. I suppose when you write your own poetry it’s written on your soul, I thought to myself, looking at his beautiful hands, wanting them all over my naked body – again. ‘Las hojas secas tornan y las ramas con nieve.’

‘What does it mean?’ I asked, hoarse with desire.

‘That our love is like spring... like a new rose – “y él sigue ardiente y joven, oliendo a la rosa eterna...” – and it will live for eternity, no matter how old we are.’

This man was baring his soul to me and I felt so moved, no one had ever done anything so caring, so romantic.

‘Y él sigue ardiente y joven, oliendo a la rosa eterna...’ I sighed, saying the words after him. Reaching out, I pulled him towards me, kissing him full on the lips. He threw the paper on the floor and within seconds we were making love again.

My muscles ached from the dancing but it was a good feeling, to be aware of every part of me, every sinew, every muscle being worked... awoken after years of sleep. I felt like a princess in a fairy tale, my body had been frozen for years and a handsome Spanish Prince had woken me with his kisses. I climbed on top of him, my hands on his chest, my new, firm, dancers’ hips on his. I heard the thrash of flamenco, the beat of his poem and felt the movement of our bodies, together, like dancers. And when the dance ended, we collapsed together in an exhausted heap.

I lay in the afterglow, the sun slanting through the window, casting warm rectangles of light onto the bed. Who would have thought at the age of forty-four – just when you think you’re life’s mapped out on a conveyor belt of soap powder and yoghurts and ‘what’s the weather like?’ – that this would happen? Juan had come into my life at a time of such significance, a time of huge change for me. Was it more than just a holiday romance? Perhaps he really had fallen for me? After all, when did a holiday romance involve writing love poetry?

Later, when Juan had left to go to work, I FaceTimed Sophie; ‘So I’ve met this lovely guy,’ I started.

‘Oh God, mother, you’ve only been there three days,’ she said, looking alarmed. ‘Have you been out with him?’

‘Yes... we’ve been... for drinks and dinner and...’

‘You haven’t been alone with him, have you?’ She sounded worried.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mum, you have to be careful, you know what these Spanish guys are like, make sure you meet him in the day in a public place.’

‘Well that wouldn’t be appropriate, I mean you can’t have sex in a...’

‘Oh my god Mum! You haven’t...?’

‘Oh yes. More than once... and oh Sophie, he’s so good,’ I smiled.

‘Mum, I hope you’re being careful. You’ve turned into some kind of man-eating nympho...’ she was mortified, but I swear I saw a glimmer of respect in her eyes.

‘Yes – I think I have. But the dancing uses up most of my energy, so sadly I can only manage sex a couple of times a day...’ I laughed. It was nice to enjoy a bit of role reversal, I felt like a rebellious daughter for once.

‘Mum, can you stop please...’

‘He wrote me a love poem and read it to me in bed. In the afterglow.’ I was enjoying teasing my daughter, I felt like I’d finally joined the human race and I wasn’t going to hide away any more.

‘That’s enough, Mum,’ she snapped.

‘I’m only having fun with you, Sophie. We’re both women of the world, I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable for you to know your mother’s having amazing sex with a Spanish Gypsy but...’

‘It’s pretty uncomfortable for me too, Mrs Watkins,’ came a male voice.

‘Oh... hi Carl?’ I said.

A
s lovely as
it was to have a man around, being in Spain was about my freedom and enjoying some time alone. I wanted to experience this place through my own eyes without anyone else’s input or opinions, to see how I felt, how I reacted – it was a holiday with myself. And I was finding out so much about me – I liked to get up very early before anyone else, and taking long walks before the sun was too warm. I loved the feeling of being truly alone, wandering through the Albayzín, with its geranium-filled balconies and glimpses of the Alhambra between every building. Most of all I loved the quiet, I loved that I didn’t have to hear the looped music I was force-fed every day in the supermarket – here I could choose what I listened to. Life for me was finally about choices and on those early mornings all I chose to hear was bird song and the delicious swishing sound of running water from the fountains dotted throughout the squares.

Drinking strong coffee on pavement cafes and watching as the world woke up was another favourite pastime for me. On the way to class I would sometimes stop for chocolate and churros at a bar on Plaza Nueva, dipping the doughy sticks into the warm, pudding-like chocolate was pure therapy. On other days I’d stroll into town and breakfast on crisp tostados drenched in olive-oily tomatoes, sweet and ripe in Plaza Larga. And there were days when a warm and golden tortilla was the only companion I needed to share the stunning views of Granada. I just ate when I wanted where I wanted, and wandering alone through the early morning Spanish streets seeking my breakfast of choice still unable to believe I was really here.

I grew to love the stalls and markets overflowing onto pavements, stuffing the narrow streets with even more noise and heat and colour. I loved the food, served on the street in paper, or just in bread, the wine from dusty bottles, the children out late playing in squares while their parents sat nearby with a coffee, a glass of wine. Life was so different here and I imagined what my father would think walking these streets, dancing in class, just letting go to the music and the movement.

With Juan I saw a different Granada. He’d take me to quiet little bars in the back streets, the restaurants the Spaniards kept secret from the hordes of tourists. In these hidden, little places, we’d eat tapas and drink red wine. We’d talk about everything and I learned so much from him about the place and its culture. I couldn’t imagine how Granada with its permanent sunshine and Moroccan-style buildings in rainbow colours was on the same planet as Bilton’s ‘where quality counts’ and the car park was vandalised.

I’d asked Juan early on why he was single and he’d told me he was recently divorced. ‘She broke my heart and left me for another man. She lives in Madrid now, it’s all over.’ There were no children involved and though he said he’d been alone since she left the previous year, I suspected he’d enjoyed the company of a few women before meeting me. He was suave, charming and good-looking. I doubted he would ever be on his own for long.

As we sat on my little patio outside, we fantasised vaguely about a future in the same place and I told him how I would one day love to live in Granada there.

‘I would love to live in England,’ he said. ‘See the Queen’s palace, the Houses of Parliament... the great Wayne Rooney... ’

I smiled as he went on to list more famous people, monuments and buildings.

‘My England is a little different from yours,’ I said; ‘I live near Birmingham, in the Midlands, with no sea and not much sunshine. We don’t have any palaces or many celebrity footballers... and unlike here, the night isn’t filled with the sounds of flamenco guitar…’ It’s filled with the sound of cars and arguments and people puking up on the way home from the pub.’

One evening I was with Juan and we passed a shop selling Arabic lamps. It was just a hole in the wall, but once inside it opened out into a gold-lit fairy-tale setting of jewel colours twinkling everywhere. It was an Aladdin’s cave of light and I took it all in, looking above and around me, entranced by the lights and shadows dancing on the walls, lifting the windowless room. It was like something from a Disney cartoon, impossible colours, and illusory beauty – so captivating it couldn’t possibly be real.

‘You like this lamp?’ Juan asked holding a pretty lamp in silver and blue. It reminded me of a Tiffany lamp my parents had in the hall at home. ‘Let me buy this for you,’ he said, and though I said no out of politeness, I wanted it desperately.

‘I love it – I could put it by my bed at home,’ I sighed. I wasn’t ready to think about home yet, I wanted to wonder about what life would be like living here under sunny skies, dancing all day. I played around with the idea of waking up to the views of Granada, the daily thrill and frill of flamenco instead of loyalty cards and green nylon. And though I knew in my heart I could never leave my home and the people I loved – there were alternative lives to the one I’d been living.

T
he flamenco school was wonderful
, and how I wished my dad could be there with me. It sounds crazy, but there were times I was convinced he was – like when I was lost in the Albayzín and I almost felt his hand on my elbow, guiding me back to my apartment. And while dancing, feeling exhausted, dripping in sweat and my muscles screaming for me to stop, I would feel a gentle breeze on my face – Dad saying, ‘Go on Laura, just a few more minutes, girl.’

By the second week I wondered if I could ever live another life but the one here – dancing by day, practising at night, and spending precious time alone with Juan or with my lovely ‘international’ friends, drinking coffee and talking about flamenco. The teaching at the school was brilliant and I couldn’t wait to get into class. I was the fiery, passionate flamenco dancer, learning that flamenco is not just a dance in Spain, but a way of life, I understood how it crept inside you. Flamenco steals into your bed in the night when you’re awake and makes you count steps and practise arm movements in the dark. It visits you in the shower and lifts your arms and stomps your bare feet, hot water lashing down, soap suds everywhere. It is everything.

Late one afternoon after classes, I sat with Juan on my sun-drenched patio, he was playing notes on his guitar, gently talking me through the sounds, the rhythm. Then he began slowly tapping out a rhythm on the concrete floor with his foot and playing a tune, which always sounded sad to me, like listing a lifetime of regrets. I couldn’t help it, I stood up and started slowly dancing, thinking of my own list of regrets and I danced for the lost years, for all the times I’d locked myself away, saying no to life, and pretending everything would be okay.

But as the rhythm became faster, I thought about how I’d come to Spain and was learning to dance flamenco under the stars, just as Dad had dreamed of doing. And here I was, finally carrying that baton and living his dream along with my own. And as Juan began to build the steady beat with his weeping guitar I raised my arms in the air, a sign of strength and pride. I stamped to the beat as I’d been taught while Juan increased the speed until it was almost too fast for my feet and I was whisked away on a tide of music, I stopped thinking about my own emotions and tried to master the complex flamenco footwork. I couldn’t, and I almost fell to the floor, defeated by the dance.

Juan caught me, grabbing me by the waist and kissing me passionately on the mouth then letting me go, like we were dancing.

‘There is a phrase, which says, “When you learn to dance, you must also learn how to forget it”,’ he said, gazing out onto the dusk.

I looked at him, puzzled.

‘How to explain... all that you have been taught must at times be ignored, the dancer must rely on the wisdom that flows in his blood. You must feel the rhythm of your own heartbeat and let that guide you.’

I nodded, I understood what he meant and wondered if that’s what Tony meant when he said I had to ‘perform’ and stop worrying about the steps?

‘Flamenco is not a technical art performed with... how you say, the precision,’ he explained. ‘It is passed down from father to son, mother to daughter – there are no “rules”. To dance flamenco you have to have the
duende
... the passion. I have met the British women afraid to show how they feel, you too – but with Flamenco it is okay to feel, Laura. Good to express anger, sorrow, loss, loneliness... and of course, love.’

He held my gaze for a while and took my hand, walking me through the steps, and I let him lead until he led me into the apartment.

Gently pushing me back on the bed, he made love to me, passionately, moving as fast as the flamenco, until I gasped, hearing myself scream with pleasure. I’d never done that before, I was always worried someone might hear, but that night with him, I didn’t care about anyone but me. Afterwards he slept, and I lay entwined with him and the sheets and my abandoned dance skirt, just looking at his face and thinking how lucky I was.

Later, when the sun had dropped behind the mountains and little lights appeared in the city below, we went back out on to the patio. We drank wine and as the moon appeared, he played his guitar again. The sound filled the air, reminding me of the dark caves, the gypsy dancers from the past and how I would love to dance with their spirit, no inhibitions. I stood up, gently tapping my feet on the floor, reaching my arms in the air and moving my hips to the music, then I started dancing slowly, hitching my skirt a few inches from the floor and stamping out the rhythm. The tempo increased and I moved with it, and this time I felt different, magical, and almost unaware of my feet, the rhythm rushed through me, drawing inspiration from the sediment in my blood. Years of hang-ups, anxiety and feeling uptight were being unleashed, like toxins, stomping out of me onto the floor in a dazzling swirl of fabric and footwork. It was as though my mind had disconnected from my body – I felt free and strong and I danced like I’d never danced before. I was that Spanish gypsy girl with nothing but the ground she stood on. I whirled and clapped and stomped and shook my hair loose and threw myself into the music, the rhythm, with no thought for anything just the dance. I danced like I was alone and as the music ended I collapsed into a chair, exhausted.

‘
Now
you can dance,’ Juan smiled, and his Spanish eyes twinkled.

So that was duende. The thrill of flamenco, the feeling that ran from the tips of my toes and came out somewhere through my head and shook my whole body. Now it all made sense – believing in myself wasn’t a technical aspect to be taught or learned; it had to be felt – something I’d never quite comprehended before. Now I understood my father’s phrase in his letter because I finally knew – I had to ‘feel’ the passion to dance.

As a child who’d stood on the sidelines watching and who lost a parent only to gain responsibility for another at a very early age, I had never really been able to let go. I’d never truly grieved for my father because I’d been too preoccupied dealing with my mother’s grief. I’d rarely shared my real feelings with anyone, especially not my mother or daughter because I was the one who looked after them. As for my relationships, Sophie’s Dad and Cameron had never encouraged or coaxed me to talk, but then along came Tony, and now Juan, who not only asked me how I felt, but told me how he felt in poetry... but most of all showed me.

And that night I discovered the strong, passionate woman I had always wanted to be was there all the time, she just needed coaxing – her name was Lola.