I’d thought of him often over the years, and desperately wished I could stop. I knew I’d romanticized it all in my mind, so much so that nothing had ever quite lived up to that night. Or tohim.And the idea that one single night, thirteen years ago, was going to be the best thing that had ever happened to me was too awful to contemplate.
As ever, the auditions ran over – by two and a half hours! They’d only hired the studio until six, but it was eight-thirty before we knew it and the last group of dancers had only just left the building. Emily was looking even more annoyed than she had been when she’d first arrived – if that was even possible – and Carlos and his team were huddled together, no doubt deciding who they wanted to call back for a second audition.
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 dayof 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 thedancers 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 theirsoul, 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 someonelet 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 thesteps, 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 likelycouldn’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 Ididhave something the other girls didn’t.
‘You really want to see it again?’ I said, my finger hovering over the play button.
