Page 14 of Tendu: Dancing in the Castle

“Amalphia,” he said as he sat down. Here it came. “I am wanting very much to show… to have you see…” He looked directly at me. “The foot-in-mouth is still with me. There is no way to say without sounding wrong.”

“Whatever it is, just blurt it out. Fast like a plaster, you know.” I mimed ripping one off my arm.

“I cannot.” He seemed to wilt with sadness.

“I really want to know now, even if it’s really bad.” Despite expectations, I couldn’t help but be funny and encouraging to him, and an idea struck. “Tell me in your own language.”

He held his hands up. “But you will not understand.”

“I would like to hear it anyway. And maybe it’ll help clarify things for you.”

“You are a very unique woman,” he said thoughtfully, and I hoped ‘unique’ wasn’t a euphemism for weird or unfortunate or repugnant.

He talked. The words were beautiful, his voice deep. At first it was all very solemn, then he leant sideways against the seat and smiled.

My face responded to his change of expression, joining him in the smile. I felt my eyebrows rise at subtle nuances in tone and inflection. I almost leant forward and kissed him at one point, but reined it in at the last moment.

He awaited my response.

I thought about it. “You seemed concerned for my wellbeing. Is that right? I don’t know.”

“Is right. I want you to have no worries, to be completely comfortable.”

He paused, and it occurred to me that his criticisms of me in the restaurant hadn’t really been that. He’d been questioning whether things were good enough for me, and that was different. He was different.

“Is really quite simple,” he said. “I see yesterday, in Covent Garden, how you are appreciate beautiful things. In my home, I have a painting. I know you would like it. But I do not want you to think, if you accept to come…” He shuffled his shoulders in a dancey way as he sought the right words. “I do not want you to think that I am expecting or assuming anything from you. You see my home, we talk, have hot chocolate – I know you like this – and then I drive you back to your friend who is pacing and looking at watch, no? Yes? Maybe?”

“I would love to see where you live,” I said.

“I know you will like,” he said, bright and happy once more.

Justin would say I had fallen for a line, but Aleks seemed sincere. And did it really matter? My only reservations about this stage of the evening were based on another time, and another man. It wouldn’t be the same. In fact, I suspected it would all be rather delightful.

He chatted on easily, telling me how he had bought his flat many years ago and done it up. We drove past the expensive designer shops of Sloane Street and up several side roads.

“Ooh, you can see the top of the Shard from here,” I commented, impressed by the skyline.

“Upstairs is much better,” he proclaimed, drawing in to a parking space and pulling on the handbrake. “I have the seventh floor apartment, the only one with balcony.”

The red brick walls of the building looked warm, and the white painted windows, bright and clean. The plush blue carpets of the entrance hall only confirmed the elegance of the place.

“I am very hoping you like,” he said, pressing a button on the wall. “Here is the elevator.”

I leant back on more cushioned softness. “What a lovely apartment,” I said. “Small, obviously, but the carpet on the walls is a nice touch.” Making him laugh was a sweet joy. It made my tummy feel tickly inside.

We reached the top floor and stepped out into a small hall. He unlocked what was presumably his front door and ushered me into a long corridor with wooden floors. I immediately liked the place. Although the area was devoid of anything but an old-fashioned, three-legged coat rack, it felt homey and welcoming. We passed through another door and I gasped.

We were in a huge room like a ballet studio, complete with barre and full height mirrors on the wall to the right. A grand piano sat in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sparkling city. Two large black leather sofas occupied the middle of the space, a glass coffee table between.

And to the left? “A wall of books!” I ran my fingers over the spines, some very worn, many titles in Ukrainian, but some English ones too. “Have you read them all?” I asked, still exploring the library. The books, like the windows, were ceiling to floor. Not doing things by halves was a definite theme in the place, or maybe the man.

“Most. Some I buy and never get round to.”

“I do that too.”

“Look,” he said, flicking a switch on the opposite wall and illuminating a painting. A beautiful theatre was viewed from the back of the stalls; the scene in front stretched on and on across the brightly lit stage.

“It goes on forever,” I said in wonder.

---