Page 4 of The Dance Deception
I still had to suffer through my four-week notice period at work, but it was easier to handle knowing it was coming to an end. And then, before I knew it, I was free – and thrown into a whirlwind of group rehearsals, where there was so much to learn, so much to think about, that I didn’t even have time to wonder if I’d done the right thing.
And here I am now, wondering why I ever hesitated.I’m itching to get to my second day of kizomba practice with Merle – and so thankful Lucy decided she knew what was best for me.
‘Gorgeous,’ Lucy declares when she sees me caked in make-up and with a swishy new blow-dry. ‘He won’t be able to resist you.’
I hold up crossed fingers. ‘I hope you’re right.’
But on the way to our Kensington studio, my bravado starts to falter. What if Merle has decided kissing me was a mistake? What if I turn up looking like this while he just wants to forget all about it? The doubts crowd my mind as the Tube clanks its way across London.
By the time I reach the studio, I’m almost as nervous as I was yesterday. And I nearly jump out of my skin when I swing the door open and step inside, because he’s crouched down right beside the entrance, pulling his dance shoes out of his bag.
He straightens up to his full height, studies my face and says, ‘You look tense again. Are you thinking about me or are you thinking about dancing?’
I feel like I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning.
Before I’ve even contemplated an answer, his lips are on mine and he’s fighting my tongue with his. He pulls me tight against him and buries his fingers in my hair, crushing his mouth against mine. It’s the most passionate kiss I’ve ever experienced.
‘I’ve been thinking about that all night,’ he says when we finally come up for air.
‘I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind too,’ I admit breathlessly.
He pushes my hair back from my face and runs his thumb over my lips. ‘We’ll have a good session today, I can feel it. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, you and me.’
I break out in goose bumps at the thought of it.
Then he switches back into teacher mode, delivering instruction after detailed instruction about the next part of our routine to ensure I get every element just right. At least this time, they’re interspersed with knowing smiles and the occasional squeeze of my hand. He even uses the word ‘beautiful’ when I’m working on my hair flicks. I know I still haven’t cracked it so I think he’s just being polite, but still …
When we break for lunch, he pulls a salad box from his bag and sits cross-legged on the floor. I lean back against the mirror and try not to feel embarrassed about the giant ham and cheese baguette I picked up on the way here.
While we’re eating, he asks me how well I know the other dances we may have to perform during the course of the competition – the salsa, rumba, bachata, cha-cha, merengue and Argentine tango. I was taught the basics during the pre-show training with the other contestants, but I can’t say I know any of them well – and I still feel like an idiot when I’m trying to dance them.
I doubt this is the answer he was hoping for, so I hastily change the subject – I don’t want him to focus on my shortcomings. I ask him what made him want to be a dancer in the first place.
He shrugs. ‘I never wanted to be anything else. And I was fortunate. In Paris, where I lived, I had access to thebest performing arts schools. I won my first competition when I was ten.’
‘Ten? Wow. That’s impressive.’ I think my greatest achievement at that age – and possibly even since – was not coming last in the obstacle race on school sports day.
‘I trained every day,’ he says, his voice full of passion. ‘I wanted to be the best.’
‘So what made you want to doFire on the Dance Floor?’ I ask – then instantly wish I hadn’t. Because he replies, with a certainty I don’t think I’ve ever felt in my life, ‘It’s something I haven’t won – but I intend to.’
I struggle to swallow the bite of sandwich I’ve been chewing. Much as I’d love for that to happen, he must be able to see I’m not really up to the task. I change the subject again before even more self-doubt can take hold.
‘It must have been exciting, growing up in Paris. I’ve been a few times on the way to my sister’s and I love it. It’s pretty where she lives, down in the south-west, but there’s so much to see and do in Paris.’
‘Paris is cool, but London is my home now. I’ve lived here for nearly six years.’
‘Oh, which bit?’ I find myself hoping it’s near me. ‘I’m in Balham. I moved there with my mate Lucy after we graduated last summer.’
‘You’re not living with a boyfriend, then?’ he asks, which makes the hairs on my arms stand up on end. Why else would he enquire unless he was considering himself for the role?
Still, my voice cracks just a little when I tell him I don’t have a boyfriend. Ed and I had been talking about gettinga place together before we split up. We might even have moved in by now if he hadn’t run off with someone else. It hurts to think he might now do that with her instead.
Thankfully, Merle doesn’t seem to notice my wobble. Keen to get back to rehearsing, he claps his hands, jumps to his feet and declares it’s time to get back to business. And I do a pretty good job of following his lead as he teaches me the next section of the routine. I can’t brood about Ed while I’m focusing on my dancing – and on the bewitching way Merle moves his body.
When my concentration does slip, I’m sure he must know that’s what I’m thinking about, because it always happens when we’re in one of the close contact parts of the dance or when his hand is on my lower back – lower, I’m sure, than it needs to be.
At one point, his hand brushes against my boobs. It’s my fault, though I can’t say I’m sorry. It momentarily throws us off our rhythm, which makes us both laugh, and I’m sure I catch him looking at them several times after that. It makes me want to stand a bit taller and invite his attention. I want him to look. It feels like the first time in ages that anyone has wanted to.
