The Director's Cut Page 16

  “What starts?”

  He doesn’t answer, and instead, takes my hand to lead me to one of the low tables. But I’m already working it out.

  “It’s a flamenco bar?” I guess.

  James nods as we take our seats.

  “I didn’t think they had them in Barcelona,” I murmur. “Flamenco is a southern Spanish thing.”

  I’m not 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.

  The 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 flushes 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.”

  I feel my heart turn to ice. My memories of dancing are hazy. But I remember the audition clear enough.

  “There’s no music,” I hedge.

  I feel James smile into my hair. “They’ll start it, as soon as you get on the floor. That’s what they did for all the other dancers tonight.”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. Something in me is stirring. But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to revisit that place.

  “Do you remember what I said, back at the hotel?” asks James. “I want you to share everything with me. Every little bit. That includes the sadness.”

  The sadness. The way he says it makes it sound so real.

  I feel myself waver.

  I pull away from him, so I can look into his eyes. “If I do this for you,” I say, “will that be the end of it? No more talking about my childhood?”

  James gives a faint smile.

  “If that’s what you decide.”

  “But you’re hoping I’ll change my mind? Afterwards?”

  “I am hoping that, yes,” he admits.

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “I won’t change my mind.”

  “Then prove me wrong.”

  Stubbornly, I rise from the little table, flashing him a defiant look.

  Fine, Mr Berkeley. If that’s what you want.

  I assess my outfit. My skirt is not quite long enough, but it will do. I don’t have the right shoes. But I always preferred to dance bare foot anyway. Silently, I lever my footwear off.

  “You really want me to do this?” I demand, trying for a last minute reprieve.

  James nods. “I really want you to do this.” His eyes are fixed on mine.

  With my heart pounding, I turn and approach the floor.

  The barman catches my approach and raises his eyebrows as a question. I nod to him.

  Start the music.

  And then the first strains start. The music sounds completely different, now I’m on the dance floor.

  It’s so real. Like a heartbeat thudding through me.

  I haven’t felt this in so long.

  Automatically, my body reacts to the music. I stiffen and arch my back.

  Memories are flashing. The audition. The stern faces.

  I let my arms stretch upwards, winding my wrists slowly as they ascend. And as they reach their graceful apex, I strike my foot strongly on the ground.

  With the movement, the dance comes flooding back. And I feel my face load with sadness.

  How could I ever feel this much grief?

  The memories of that sadness are so acute, that they momentarily take my breath away. But my body turns, automatically, in the rhythm of the dance. My wrists, flex and turn fluidly. My hips twists fast, and then stop. My bare feet stamp out the rhythm.

  This is what it was like. Your body helped your mind forget.

  The sudden realisation seems to root me deeper in the music. How could I have forgotten this? This close attention to
the minute movements of every part of me. Pain was lodged in every movement. No wonder my Spanish dancing was so accomplished. The concentration helped me blot out what was happening in my life.

  Papa.

  I feel a physical surge, as though a part of me is rushing open, flooding me with grief.

  My feet whirl, and the moving air catches my face. My cheeks are wet with tears, but I hardly notice.

  I let my soul sink into the music and the sad strains threaten to overtake me entirely.

  I am falling, but my body holds rigid as I hold the next posture.

  Like a stone statue. Stone doesn’t feel anything.

  The sentences from my childhood take me by surprise. Did I say those words to myself? Did my mother?

  Then my torso turns again, and my hand scoops the hem of my skirt into a perfect figure of eight.

  Another memory rears up. I try and fight it, but this time I can’t.

  It feels like I’m falling… falling…

  I suddenly realise that I’m sobbing. And then James is at my side.

  “Issy.” He takes me into his arms, and I sink into him.

  “James. I…”

  “It’s alright, Issy. Shhh. You don’t have to say anything. It’s alright.”

  I look into his face. There are tears in his eyes.

  “Issy,” he whispers, “I had no idea you were hiding so much.”

  James looks so sad.

  “You’re coming back to the hotel with me, right now,” he says. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

  Chapter 29

  By the time we’ve reached James’s hotel room, I’ve mastered some of my emotions. But I still feel like a glass which has been shattered.

  James leads me gently into the room and seats me on the bed.

  “I knew you had sadness in you,” he says. “I didn’t know how much.”

  He pauses for a moment.

  “You need to tell me, Issy,” he says. “You need to tell me what happened to you.”

  He takes my hands and looks into my eyes.

  “What you’re carrying could overwhelm you,” he says. “You need to talk about it. Believe me. I know.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?” I feel lost, drifting, but some stubbornness remains.

  James sighs.