Page 2 of Slow Burn
‘Fifty. If anyone works out where Castlebury is and actually turns up, that is…’ said Emily, shuddering.
I knew that my home town was hardly at the cutting edge of the dance industry, but it was quiet and leafy and there were enough affluent locals to make running a dance studio viable. And it was a friendly, welcoming place, filled with couples just getting their foot on the property ladder, young families looking for somewhere quiet to raise their children, and the elderly who had lived here their whole lives. We essentially had a captive audience – after all, there wasn’t that much else arts-related to do around here. There was an Odeon a short drive away, and a theatre in the next town along, but if you wanted bright lights and excitement, Castlebury probably wasn’t the place for you.
Emily looked around at her surroundings, poking her head through the archway separating the bar area from the dance floor.
‘I’m sure the idea of auditioning for Carlos Torres will be a huge pull,’ I said, smiling at Carlos, remembering what an eye he’d had for detail; how he’d notice if you made even the tiniest mistake, and would then shout at you until you got it right.
Part of me envied the dancers about to audition for him, while another part felt relieved that my life was relativelystress-free now, compared to when I’d been competing at the highest level. When things had gone brilliantly, there’d been no feeling like it, but, inevitably, there had also been the crashing disappointment when they didn’t go as well as I’d hoped; the rejection, the constant feeling that I wasn’t good enough. In some ways, I missed those highs and lows now that my life was the same every single day. At least back then I was feelingsomething.
‘They will need to bring their absolute best today,’ said Carlos, showily slipping a sequinned jacket off his shoulders to reveal a black velvet bodysuit tucked into skin-tight black leggings. Stacked Cuban heels competed the look. He’d been world champion several times in his heyday – my mum had once shown me footage of him burning up the dance floor with his Argentine tango – and I bet he still had it in him to blow most professional dancers out of the water.
‘Are you casting for something specific today?’ I asked, genuinely interested.
‘We are looking for our leading lady,’ said Carlos, his expression darkening. ‘And it is proving more difficult than I thought to find her.’
‘How come?’ I asked, surprised.
London was teeming with brilliant dancers – how difficult could it be to find the perfect person for the role when you had a reputation like Carlos? Surely everyone wanted the lead in his new show, which I’d read inThe Stagewas going to be calledSlow Burnand had a sultry, Latin theme,and some dancer from the Italian equivalent ofStrictlyin the lead male role.
‘Not one dancer we’ve seen so far has had enough chemistry with our leading man,’ said Carlos, whistling through his teeth. ‘None of them are right. I need this pairing to look so hot for each other on stage that they leave the audience breathless and begging for more. So far, not one single dancer has had the intensity required to pull off the spectacular Argentine tango I want them to perform at the end of the show.’
‘Well, hopefully the dancer you’re looking for will be here today,’ I said, reassuringly. It would be a particularly good coup for the studio if he found his lead here – maybe then he’d consider James Jive Dance Studio for every difficult part he needed to fill.
‘Shall I get them to line up outside the studio? If they queue to the right, they shouldn’t block the entrance to the Waitrose Local. We want to avoid complaints if we can,’ I said, ignoring Emily’s withering look.
Upsetting the locals was not advisable in a town as small as this. James Jive was an integral part of the community, and the businesses on the high street supported each other whenever we could. Personally, I wanted to keep it that way, and I wasn’t sure having fifty girls blocking the pavement was going to ingratiate us with the majority of residents. On the other hand, I imagined some of them might love it – it would be the most excitement Castlebury had seen in months.
‘Yes, fine,’ said Emily, snippily, tossing her perfect, expensive-looking hair over her shoulder. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing the door myself, but the girl who was supposed to be here missed her train and there wasn’t another one forthirty minutes! I told her not to bother.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy…?’ said Emily, eyeing me hopefully.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some paperwork to do,’ I said, apologetically.
It was true, there was always some admin to fill my time with, but really I just didn’t want to give Emily the satisfaction of being able to boss me around all day.
At five minutes to two, we were ready to open the doors. Emily was clip-boarded up and looking formidable, which, for reasons I didn’t quite understand, the people on the door always seemed to be at auditions. Did they purposely choose the most intimidating members of the team to work front of house, ticking off names so ferociously that the dancers who weren’t robust or confident enough would crumble under the pressure and could be weeded out before they’d even begun?
The rest of the casting team had arrived a few minutes ago – two producers and Carlos’s assistant choreographer, who, along with Carlos himself, would make up the judging panel. I’d set them up behind the trestle table we used for internal exams, and had made sure they had jugs ofwater, glasses and little bowls of healthy snacks pilfered from the bar.
After getting the nod from Emily, I let the dancers file in. Pangs of envy curled in my belly, taking me by surprise. I missed dancing – there, I’d said it –properlydancing; dancing like my life depended on it. Sure, I got to teach now, so I was still moving my body, coming up with steps, and, of course, when I had the studio to myself, I let loose and danced to my heart’s content.
But it wasn’t the same.
It wasn’t like dancing with a partner, and it didn’t come with any of the buzz you got from performing for an audience. There wasn’t the tension of competition, of pushing your skills to the absolute limit. There was no waiting for scores to come in, or being crowned world champion – the best in theworldat something.
I’d been nineteen the last time I’d experienced that feeling, and I was thirty-two now. Where had the years gone, and what exactly had I done with them?
Out of nowhere, lately, I’d had a relentless ache inside me; a nagging feeling that something was missing. Ultimately, it had been my decision to help Mum and Dad with the studio while they travelled the world; to live at home and be the dutiful daughter I’d always been. I’d understood when my mum said she wanted the best for me, a more settled life, not the unpredictable life of a dancer, not knowing where my next pay cheque was coming from. She’d thought I wasn’t suited to a life of uncertainty, she’d wanted me to behappy,and I was, for a while. But suddenly I couldn’t shake the feeling there might be more to life than teaching wedding dances to nice people in a not very exciting town.
Contrary to Emily’s predictions, there was quite a queue, and I watched the women file in, their toned bodies exquisite, clattering across the floor of the reception area on a wave of chatter and excitement. The bar wasn’t big enough to accommodate more than about fifteen dancers at any one time, so I’d subtly suggested to Emily that she let them enter in groups – when one set of fifteen went in to perform, the next group could be ticked off and waiting in the bar for their turn. My organizational skills had always been second-to-none, which was probably how I’d found myself being manager here in the first place. My former dancer of a mother, a three-time South African Latin world champion, no less, knew I could be trusted to keep on top of things, and I’d never given them any reason to think otherwise.
After helping Carlos’s assistant choreographer with the stereo system – a slight tech issue had ensued, but I’d soon sorted it out – the auditions began in earnest. I took my place at the reception desk, using the handily located porthole window to keep an eye on what was happening in the studio, while pretending to be heavily engaged in my ‘paperwork’. Carlos’s assistant was teaching a set of exquisite steps that I couldn’t help mapping out with my feet as I watched – the Argentine tango had always been my favourite.
For one brief moment, I let my mind wander back to a moment in the deliciously decadent Hotel Paris. It had beenmidnight, or thereabouts. A male dancer with slim hips, dark, intense eyes and the most beautifully sculpted cheekbones I’d ever seen had led me onto the makeshift dance floor in the hotel bar. I let myself remember how his hips had moved against mine, the way our legs had effortlessly kicked and flicked between each other’s as we did a set of the fastestboleosknown to man.
It had felt like we’d danced together a million times before, and yet it was our first and only time.
