The Director's Cut (23 page)

I’m n
ot sure how I should feel about this. I do love to watch flamenco. But it feels like a private thing to me. I’m not sure I want to watch it with James.

“I had difficulty finding a place with real talent,” admits James. “I’m assured the dancers here could rival
those in Madrid.”

Personally, I doubt that. But I do have my own national bias. My mother’s family is from Madrid.

Plates of smoked almonds and green olives are laid in front of us, and James orders two beers.

T
he drinks have barely been brought to the table when the seated diners descend into a hush.

I turn my head to see what is undoubtedly the star attraction
.

A tall, slim woman has
entered the room. Her raven black hair is slicked back into an impeccable bun, with styled curls arranged around her face. At the back, a festoon of white silken flowers flow towards her neck.

Her eyes are heavy, lidded with dark make-up, and her lips are a slash of bright scarlet.

She wears a deep red dress, which is tight on the body and ornamented with drifts of black lace around the arms and shoulders. At the bottom, her dress explodes in a flowing cascade of ruffled fabric, like a frothing river of red.

I feel my heart make a little leap.

This was what first inspired me to dance flamenco. As a little girl, I was stunned by the dramatic beauty of the dancers. I loved the accent of the dark hair and pale skin, and of course, I wanted to wear the flamenco dress.

My mother borrowed money to buy my first dancing dress, and I adored it so much, I never wanted to take it off.

“I take it you like to watch flamenco?” asks James.

I turn to see his eyes are dancing. My expression must have been a picture, staring after the dancer, lost in my own thoughts.

“Yes,” I say. “I like to watch it.”

“But not with me?” guesses James, picking up on the tone of my voice.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve watched a lot,” I add, “to improve my own dancing. Flamenco always seem a strange paradox to me. In some ways, it’s an intensely private, personal dance. In other ways, it’s a public outpouring of grief. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

James is looking at me, fascinated.

“You’ll see what I mean,” I add. “If she’s good.”

The dancer has reached the middle of the floor now, and there is a boom of sound as the first dramatic bars of the music echo out.

The dancer stands rigid, one arm swept upwards, her eyes fixed. Every muscle in her body is unmoving.

I know from experience how hard it is to achieve that stillness. James
has chosen well, I realise. She is good.

Instantly, the bar is silent. Then the music quietens out, weaving a disarming new tempo, and slowly, the dancer begins to curve and sway.

My eyes move to her face.

Her face. She’s got it.

The dancer’s expression is so deep in loss and pain. Her mouth is taught with grief, her eyes heavy in mourning.

Her hand spins gracefully at the wrist, like a swirl of water
. Then her other hand follows, and her torso sways with the rhythm. It’s enchanting. Mesmerising, to watch.

I remember my own practice. The dedication needed to weave those graceful loops and circles.

Without meaning to, I turn my own hand at the wrist, keeping time to the music.

My mouth is chanting the silent pace to the dancer. I almost feel as though I am part of her as she collapses forward and spins upwards again, her feet stamping to the music.

Her back is curved, upright, proud. But her face is lost, alone and full of devastation. The contrast is so incredibly moving. It’s the pride which so many women bear, every day, through loss and grief.

My eyes burn with sudden tears.

I feel a surge of feelings and memories rising up.

I close my eyes, trying to ride it out, but the flamenco music continues to lance at me, even with the dancer out of view.

I feel James squeeze my hand, and the pain in my heart lessens.

I
open my eyes to look at James. His face is stricken, and his eyes are bright.

My hand is warm in his. And suddenly, I feel safer to let the tears flow down my cheeks and lose myself in the dance.

My eyes sink back to the whirling dress, and the relentless rhythm of the music. The dancer’s footwork matches every beat, whilst her upper body keeps its rigid twirling shapes.

Following her movements, I feel my body respond. I want to dance.

Flamenco is not choreographed, and I feel my mind spin around the possibilities of how I would move.

Then, in a final dramatic beat, the dance is over, and the dancer stands rigid and upright.

The audience breaks into stunned applause.

James rises to his feet, clapping, and I join him. Soon
, all the seated diners are standing and applauding.

The dancer’s face fl
ushes with delight, and she nods to her audience.

Then with a quiet grace, she exits the stage.

I sit back down, stunned with what I’ve just seen.

“Thank you,” I say to James as he sits next to me. “That was incredible.”

James is assessing my face.

“Are you sure?” he asks, “I was worried it
might be a step too far. I almost didn’t bring you.”

I sigh out, thinking about this. “I loved it,” I admit. “I haven’t seen flamenco like that for a long, long time.”

“Good,” says James. He looks relieved.

“I have no idea why that dancer is in Barcelona, rather than Madrid,” I add, with a laugh. “She could have her pick of where to perform.”

“I’m glad you liked her,” smiles James.

I give him an uncertain smile in return. I’m still confused.
The raft of memories and long forgotten feelings. It’s as though I’ve been in the eye of a storm, which has suddenly dispersed. And I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.

“Shall I order us a few dishes?” asks James.

“Sure.” I haven’t touched my beer, and I pick up the bottle and take a long sip. The cold liquid feels good.

“
It’s not table service now,” says James. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And he heads to the bar.

I let my thoughts drift around the flamenco act, and my gaze settles on the empty stage.

Part of me misses the dance, I realise. Part of me would have liked to be the dancer, whirling to the crowd.

James is back at the table, suddenly, and his face is uncharacteristically surprised.

“Isabella,” he says as he sits. “Did you know that flamenco dancer?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Well, she knows you,” says James. “She says she remembers you.”

“She does?” I blink up at him in confusion. To my knowledge, I have never seen her before in my life.

“Yes,” says James. “She’s asked to come over to our table.”

Chapter 27

The dancer approaches our table with a cautious smile. She’s lost the elaborate flowers in her hair and taken off some of the flowing train from her dress.

I smile politely as she
nears, hardly knowing what to make of the situation.

“Isabella?” she says, pronouncing my name with the Spanish emphasis on
bella
.

“
Si
?” I answer as a question.

“I’m sorry,” says the dancer, speaking in Spanish. “I know you won’t know who I am. But I remember you. You are the child dancer.
Aren’t you?”

I am stunned into silence.

“I watched you perform,” she continues, “when you were very young. It was magnificent. We all assumed you would be one of the greats.”

I feel myself blushing at the unexpected praise.

“I don’t dance anymore,” I say, not sure how to take the compliment. “You were incredible,” I add. “The depth of emotion. It was stunning.”

The dancer blows out her cheeks and taps my arm in remonstrance.

“You talk to me about emotion.” She turns to James. ”In Spain, the best flamenco dancers are not young,” she explains. “They do not have the depth of feeling. But this one.” She taps my arm again. “This one, as a
child
could command feeling in her face like an adult.”

She shakes her head.

“Why did you not stay in Madrid and train?”

“I went to London,” I say. “My mother thought my dancing would get me into drama school there.”

“It’s a shame for Spain to lose you,” says the dancer, with feeling. “For one so young to have that
compas
…”

“What is
compas
?” asks James, questioning the unfamiliar Spanish word.

“
It’s a bit like rhythm,” I say.

“No, no,” says the
dancer, shaking her head. “It is not rhythm. Rhythm is da da da,” she waves her hand disparagingly. “
Compos
is
Bom. Bom. Bom.
” She strikes one hand hard into the other with each word.

“There is no translation. It is much more precise. Very difficult,” she adds.

“Where did you see Isabella dance?” asks James.

I feel my face flush with
embarrassment.
Don’t ask her that!

The dancer’s eyes widen in surprise.

“In the main square, in Madrid, of course. Her mother used to take her to dance there. They used to make a lot of money. People would come from all over town to see.”

Argh! I hate that he knows we had to busk for money.

I see James’s face register this revelation, whilst I am cringing with embarrassment.

“We didn’t have much money,” I say, feeling my cheeks burning. “So sometimes we would busk.
But not very often. Only when we were in Spain.”

“Has he seen you dance?” the dancer is asking me, glancing at James.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t dance anymore.”

The dancer shakes her head. “A woman
never
stops dancing when she has learned flamenco. You should dance for him. Let him see. There is a stage and music here. Many of the women here will dance tonight.”

I’m shaking my head. Although the idea is far less awful than it would have been a half hour ago.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” says the dancer, standing up. “You have grown up to be very beautiful. I always wondered what happened to the little girl with the sad face.”

Chapter 28

The evening draws on, and James and I enjoy drinks and tapas plates in the heady atmosphere of the bar.

At regular intervals, music strikes up, and several of the local women dance their own improvised flamenco to the crowd.

Several are very good, and I enjoy watching their performances. But none are so technically accomplished or emotionally beguiling as the first dancer.

“Does it make you want to dance?” asks James as a woman drifts away from the floor to rounds measured applause.

“A little,” I admit. “But mostly, I just like to watch.”

James’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me, but we continue to enjoy our evening without further mention of my dancing.

Eventually, the bar has all but emptied out, and we’re almost the only people remaining.

Since watching the flamenco, I feel as though something inside me has shifted. It’s almost a physical sensation. As though I’ve developed some new muscles and am carrying old wounds a little better.

Mostly, I realise, I feel safe around James. As though he could carry me through anything. I remember what he said to me in the Paris restaurant.

That he’d catch me, if I fell.

Am I starting to believe him?

I let myself sink against his body with a little sigh. James moves his mouth to kiss my hair. His next words come out so quietly, I am hardly sure I’ve heard them.

“I want to watch you dance,” he says.

My body tenses.
I stay silent, not knowing how to reply.

“You’ve been so brave
, Issy,” he says, murmuring into my hair. “You’ve given me so much. And you’ve been willing to try things, to make me happy.”

I swallow and nod. It’s true. I have been brave. Sexually. But this is something completely different.

I feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“What good do you think it would do?” I manage. “For you to see me dancing?”

“It’s not only for me,” says James. “It’s for you. I think it’s a part of you which needs to come out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Issy. There’s a sad part of you which is locked tight. I know you can’t tell me easily. But I think you could show me. In your dance. And I think… I think it would help you. To share that.”