by Fiona Harper
I don’t want to talk about his family. Work is safer. ‘So you travel a lot for your job?’ I ask, finally turning my head.
‘I am more often away from home than I am there.’
‘That sounds lonely,’ I say.
He nods. There is something in his eyes as he does it, something that makes me realise his answer to my question about the Malbec was a sidestep. Instinct tells me his knowledge about its restorative qualities is not professional, but personal. Just like that, I feel a bond forged between us. He understands, a voice whispers inside my head. He doesn’t judge and he understands.
I think it must show in my eyes because, for a moment, I see revelation in his too—this feeling of looking in a mirror. But this time, even though the reflection isn’t mine, it feels as if we are in synch. I look away, take refuge in my Malbec, but I can still feel him looking at me. He is not scared of this strange sense of connection the way I am.
‘And what is your job?’ he asks softly, and I can hear the warmth in his voice. ‘You know my life story now and I know nothing about you.’
He’s right. But I am sad that he’s asked. I was pleased to have this tiny holiday from being me—from being ‘Poor Sophie’. ‘I teach ballet,’ I say slightly hoarsely. ‘To children. I have my own dance school.’
‘Did you ever want to dance yourself?’
I look at him. I have the funniest feeling he can look deep inside me and see my heart—not only its current rawness, but its history, its dreams and desires. ‘Yes.’ This time it is barely more than a whisper. ‘I was good, but not good enough.’ It seems some dreams just aren’t made to come true. Something I have begun to understand more and more in the last seven days.
He seems to comprehend this, and doesn’t press for more. ‘So…apart from crashing my brother’s wedding, why are you here…at The Chatsfield?’
I’m surprised he doesn’t know, I feel that transparent before him. As tired as I am of lying, I can’t bring myself to tell him the whole truth. I tell him as much as I can while remaining insulated from it.
‘Oh, you know…’ I say with false brightness ‘…a trip with the girls. Shopping and silliness, really.’ That much is true, but my voice catches on the end of the sentence, calling me a liar anyway, and I know that he hears it, sees it.
For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. ‘Many people come to this magnificent hotel to run away,’ he replies simply.
I know it’s true. He does too. And I’m angry with him for it.
He takes in my short, staccato movements as I shift on my stool, drain the last of my wine and prepare to leave.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asks, surprising me so much I laugh.
I look round the ballroom, at all the people who were actually invited, who actually know this man’s brother and his new wife, and I shake my head. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
He gives me that long, studying look again. There is a calmness about him that both intrigues and infuriates me. ‘If it really bothers you, you can be my ‘plus one’. I could have brought someone if I had wished to, but I didn’t.’
I glance over at the dance floor. While we’ve been talking the music has changed, and the dance with it. Instead of the upbeat and sassy salsa, everything has slowed into an intense and mysterious tango. Again, it is nothing showy, nothing attention-seeking. Even a couple with silver hair glide round the dance floor, their cheeks lightly touching, the woman’s eyes closed.
I look back at him in panic. I can’t be out there with them. The emotion is tangible, flowing with the music like a second melody. I can’t risk it. What if everything I’ve been feeling since last Saturday starts spilling out of me and I slowly unravel? I’m not sure I know how to put myself back together again.
My voice comes out as if someone is strangling me. ‘I can’t.’
My host takes no notice as he leaves his stool. He just smiles so barely that the expression doesn’t leave his eyes, and then he offers me his hand.
Chapter Four
I hug myself. ‘I can’t. I don’t know how.’
His hand remains stretched out to me. ‘Can you walk?’
I nod.
He gives a little shrug. ‘Then that is all you need to know.’ When I don’t respond, he adds. ‘Tango is merely walking with a partner to the music.’
I glance over to the dance floor. Sure, what’s happening there doesn’t look like the version of the tango I’d seen at the ballroom studio when Gareth and I had gone for our trio of lessons in preparation for the wedding. The couples are close together, and while there are no roses between teeth or dramatic head or arm gestures, there are still patterns and small turns, little flicks and pauses that everyone seems to know by instinct. It looks a lot harder than walking to me.
He reaches out and his fingers slide across mine, then he grips my hand. He doesn’t pull, just leaves it there, like a question waiting for an answer. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, reading my mind again. ‘You are a dancer, you will pick it up. And there are no steps to learn. This kind of tango is improvised, and it is my job as the man to lead and yours as the woman to follow.’
Right there I have another good reason to chicken out. ‘I’m not in a very man-trusting kind of mood at the moment,’ I tell him. I trusted one man with the rest of my life and look what he did with it.
I see that almost hidden glimmer of amusement again, but behind it there is something in his expression that tells me, despite his soft words and calm manner, that my would-be partner is just as stubborn as I.
‘The lead is not a command, but an invitation. All you have to do is accept it, surrender to the music, and forget about everything else for a while.’
My ears prick up. That, at least, sounds appealing.
My hand is still in his, warm and encased. I realise I don’t want to let go.
I slide off the stool, watching my feet, then meet his gaze when I have my balance. There is no look of triumph in his eyes, as Gareth would have given me—he always was a bit too competitive for his own good. Instead this man just leads me away from the shadows at the edges of the room and to the fringes of the softly lit dance floor.
My heart begins to pound inside my ribcage as he pulls me close. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness at not knowing the dance or because it feels strange, and maybe just a little thrilling, to be in the arms of a man who isn’t Gareth.
Like the other couples on the floor, our upper bodies are close. His right hand is firm on back, resting at the bottom of my left shoulder blade, and my left arm rests snugly on top of his, my hand on his shoulder. He clasps my other hand and I find my forehead rests naturally against his cheek. He smells wonderful, of sharp citrus and clean cotton.
‘What’s your name?’ I whisper. If we’re going to be this close, I really ought to know his name.
‘Cristian,’ he replies simply.
‘I’m Sophie,’ I say, even though he doesn’t ask.
We begin to move. I have no idea what I’m doing, but somehow I don’t trip us both up. We keep going like that for a while. We’re so close it’s hard to look down at my feet. And he’s right: while I’m busy concentrating on not causing a five-couple pile-up, I haven’t room to think of anything else. It’s delicious. I wonder if I can take him home and hide him in my wardrobe, get him out so I can tango down my landing when things get too much.
‘Sophie?’ he says huskily.
I hesitate, putting us off-balance momentarily. ‘What? Am I doing it wrong?’
‘No…’ he says, and I can hear the humour in his voice. ‘But you are not yet doing it completely right.’
‘Give a girl a chance,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘I’ve only been learning for five minutes.’
This time his laugh is audible. ‘I like it when you speak that way,’ he says into my ear. ‘It shows you have natural fire. Much better than the wet dishrag I met at the bar. And tango is all about emotion—about passion.’
I want to bristle a
t the dishrag comment, but I can’t really argue with the truth. We carry on dancing in silence for another minute. Somehow I know he’s going to carry on with what he had started to say, that I just need to be patient.
We reach a point where he turns me around him. It’s very clever. I don’t even know it’s coming, but somehow, the way he places his feet, the way he blocks his leg with mine, make the next step clear. He does it again. But this time the movement is larger, more sweeping, and then at the end we both seem to grow taller, hover on the balls of our feet. The moment stretches way longer than feels comfortable, and I move before he does. He tuts softly in my ear.
‘Do not be afraid of these moments,’ he tells me. ‘They are necessary, time to feel the music, work out what it is telling you to do next. You cannot rush them. They reflect how it is in life… There are moments of great complexity and busyness, great drama and emotion. We need the pause after such times, and it is the same with tango.’
I nod, even though I’m not quite sure what he means. The skin of his cheek feels both rough and smooth against my forehead. I feel just the hint of stubble at his jaw. I used to get annoyed at Gareth when he didn’t shave, telling him I didn’t need sandpapering when we were that close, but somehow I like the feel of it right now.
I concentrate on not wrenching the lead away from him, even when the moments of stillness stretch on forever. I concentrate on trying to work out what’s coming next. Now we’ve been dancing a while, my feet are recognising the patterns. I want to be more than a lump that he’s dragging round the floor. For some reason it’s important I am a good partner.
‘You are thinking too much,’ he mumbles as he turns me once again, and then he steps across and blocks my raised foot with his own, uses his weight to send me in an unexpected direction. Suddenly, I feel as lost and off-balance as I did when we first started. I look down to try and work where his feet are going.
‘Ciera los ojos,’ he says. I don’t understand the words but the tone is a command.
‘I don’t underst—’
‘Close your eyes,’ he repeats, just as plainly. I know this is not a request. Nor is it an invitation. I keep my eyes wide open and glare at him. He stares back at me. Neither of us back down. I feel a flash of anger, although I don’t know where it has come from or why. It changes the way I move, and Cristian somehow knows this and changes his steps accordingly. Suddenly, this is more than arms and legs and torsos moving in unison. It becomes something primal. Something I am more than a little bit scared of.
I turn my head away, refusing to look at him, but my act of contrariness becomes part of the dance too. Or is it a conversation our bodies are having while our mouths are closed? I really can’t tell.
‘We call it entregar,’ he says. ‘It means to surrender. It is what a good follower in tango must do.’ His voice grows softer. ‘You almost have it, Sophie… Close your eyes.’
This time I do it. Not because I have been told to. Not in a fit of pique. But because I want to. I have seen the couples around me, even the silver-haired pair, lost in a place where the outside world doesn’t exist any more. I want that too. I want it so badly it’s like an ache deep inside me.
As we carry on I see what he means. Without my eyes I have no choice but to listen to what his body is telling mine. My whole frame becomes hungry to hear from him. He uses his weight, his legs, even the fingertips resting so, so lightly on my back. I feel the way he wants me to move and I just go with it. And he’s right—I’m not a lifeless puppet being directed. I am part of it and it makes me feel alive in a way I just can’t describe.
The feelings I’ve been stuffing down all week, those I’ve been too scared to let out come spilling out. There are moments of anger and moments of sadness. Times when I want to howl and times when I want to punch and scratch, yet the dance contains it all. Each emotion follows the next, working its way out from deep inside me, through my torso, my arms, my legs, even through my fingertips, and there they are exorcised. Set free, like doves that fly off never to return. I feel that Cristian knows me now. Knows all my secrets, for he has felt them reverberate through me and into him as we have moved as one body.
We dance on and on, from song to song. I can’t let go. I don’t want to. I feel as if I was meant to do this, to learn this dance, and that I was meant to do it with him. Something hot and warm slices through me, a wish that we’d met in a different time or a different place. It’s both surprising and terrifying.
Finally we come to a stop. I realise the music is dying away. We stand there not moving. I can tell his eyes are closed too, but I don’t know how. A strange energy pulses around us. With a reluctant sigh, he pulls away. I feel cold air rush in where his body just was and I open my eyes.
The way he’s looking at me makes me want to cry. It’s the way I always imagined Gareth would look when he turned to watch me walking down the aisle.
‘You are a quick learner,’ he tells me, and I can hear a slight tremor in his voice.
‘Thank you.’ I want to walk back into his hold again, lay my head on his cheek and just keep on dancing, but the band are packing up. Apart from a handful of people picking up their belongings from the tables at the edges, that the room is empty. Even Mel and Vikki are gone.
He’s still holding my right hand. A hum starts in the air between us. I realise that I want to kiss him. Not only that, but I think he wants to kiss me. I almost close my eyes and sway towards him. Instead, I snatch my hand from his and clasp it to my body, protecting myself.
‘I need to go,’ I mumble. I look towards the door. ‘My friends…’
‘Sophie?’
I turn my head away. I can’t stand that look in his eyes. ‘Don’t.’
He speaks anyway. ‘I would like to see you again.’
I nod. I know he does. I want it too.
I also know that it would be the stupidest thing in the world. No way am I ready to even notice another man yet, let alone date one. Inside me something starts to weep.
I weaken and look at him. All my pain and confusion must be written on my face, because his eyes grow bleak and then he tilts his head, as if he understands.
‘Dinner,’ he says, ‘is all I am asking for.’
I nod. And then I shake my head. I’m so confused.
He takes my hand, our one remaining point of contact, and raises it to his lips. They feel soft and firm as he kisses the back of my hand. He closes his eyes momentarily as he does so and it makes me want to run my fingers through his hair.
And then we are severed. He steps back.
‘I will wait for you in the lobby at eight o’clock tomorrow evening,’ he says and I feel my breath hitch. ‘It is up to you whether you choose to meet me or not.’ And then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the empty dance floor as a hotel employee flicks the overhead lights on one by one.
Chapter Five
‘Good luck!’ Vikki says with a giggle.
‘Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!’ Mel adds.
They both wave me goodbye as the lift doors slice closed, cutting us off from each other. I breathe out and lean against the back of the lift as it begins to descend, but then I panic. I launch myself at the old-fashioned panel of round push-buttons and press a number, any number, as long as it’s lower than the floor I’ve just come from and higher than the one for the hotel lobby.
When the doors ding open a few seconds later I spill out of the confined space, almost knocking into an elderly couple. ‘Sorry!’ I yell, as they walk into the lift, tutting.
I stumble along the corridor, feeling safer when the lift doors are out of sight. And then I stop. I look down at my smart but not too sexy shift dress, at my black suede kitten heels.
What am I doing? Am I insane?
Maybe, I think, nodding to myself.
I’m considering going on date a mere eight days after being jilted very publicly and painfully at the altar. Clearly something is not as it should be with my mental health.<
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Of course, Mel and Vikki think it’s wonderful. I discovered when I got back up to the suite last night that they’d deliberately left me alone down there with Cristian, and were quite disappointed when I turned up at the door a little after one, alone.
‘You should do it!’ Mel had said, grinning.
‘Do him you mean,’ Vikki chimed in.
I’d ignored them and gone to my room and got ready for bed, ignoring their schoolgirl whisperings beyond the bedroom door. That hadn’t been the end of it, though. They’d continued in the morning, and all the way through a shopping trip to Selfridges. Hence the dress and shoes. They’d wanted me to go with something more…obvious. I’d refused. But I had bought something. Everything in my suitcase reminds me of Gareth.
‘A rebound fling will be good for you,’ Mel had said in one of her calmer moments. ‘And what better revenge on Grimy Gareth than sleeping with another man on what should have been your honeymoon!’
I turn and trudge wearily back to the lifts, press the up button and lean my head against the cool brushed metal of the door surround while I wait for it to arrive. Although my two wayward bridesmaids have said they’ll make themselves scarce for the evening, they won’t have left the suite yet. I’ll just tell them I can’t do it, that we’ll do something else this evening. I’ll need to give Gareth’s credit a card a thorough workout to make them drop the subject, though.
The lift arrives. It’s empty, thankfully. I stand in the middle, not touching anything as it starts to travel upwards and I close my eyes.
I picture him in the lobby. Waiting.
I know what that’s like, to be suspended between hope and disappointment. I know how it feels to wade through seconds thick as treacle. I know the moment when the tiny flicker of brightness inside reaches its expiry date and coughs out.
I reach out and punch another button. The one marked ‘G’.