FLAMENCO BABY

by Radford, Cherry

  ‘As in the latter. But… good anyway.’

  ‘Oh. You know it’s funny, he talked to me like a Spanish Jeremy.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And I never told you… when I first met him I thought he looked like a photo negative of you…’

  He sighed; I wasn’t helping.

  ‘Oh dear. What are you going to do?’

  He answered in a whisper. ‘Get over it. Or rather, used to it.’

  As I’d had to.

  Chapter 19

  cuidar vt to look after

  Still asleep, the curtain of baby-soft hair flopping over his heavy features. Look better on little girl, he’d said. But I loved it. Anyway, I’d pointed out, it made him easier to pick out in cuevas full of curly dark heads. Like the night before, when Liz and I had bought him a beer and a plate of tapas during the break. The place was packed, but it was no problem finding him - taller than most, and standing near one of the stage lights, his hair gleamed like a halo. And I liked the way it fell over his face as he concentrated on those plaintive shivers of melody between Emilio’s singing lines, or those gut-hitting drum-roll rasgueados…

  I felt a rush of excitement and butterflies on his behalf about that evening: the group’s first appearance at La Chumbera. A huge modern theatre up on the hill, eerily not visible from the road. I was looking forward to hearing the full group; in the cuevas Emilio only used his tocaor, his brother on the cajón and a moody, heavily testosteroned dancer with the longest ponytail I’d seen yet. Now they’d be joined by an accordion player, another percussionist, and a guy Javi had told me about who played flamenco flute and sax but was also a classical musician. Javi would be nervous but was too flamenco to admit it; he’d planned a day in the country for me, probably hoping for distraction.

  I pushed myself into him and smiled as his arm came over. Then decided to be a good Spanish mujer for once and make breakfast for him. Mujer. Meaning woman or wife. Like novia meant girlfriend or fiancée. And there was no such thing as being a Mrs somebody; Spanish men could keep their commitments under wraps.

  I showered, got dressed. Laid the table. His mobile rang from inside his jacket. I didn’t want to wake him up, but I didn’t want to answer it either - all that rapid Spanish and explanation as to who I was. And of course it could be… It stopped. Everything was ready; I just had to wait until he woke up. I started sorting out my bag, chucking out the handouts with the glee of an end-of-term schoolgirl and putting in my sunglasses and the map.

  An aggressive buzz at the door made me jump. I peeped through the half-closed shutters: a big dark man, possibly the moody dancer. I’d have to let him in and converse, but he appeared to be a chap of few words so perhaps it wouldn’t be too difficult. But he was wearing football boots, and as he yawned and stretched, the stripy top under his jacket rode up to reveal rather un-dancer-like abdominals. He buzzed again then swung his ape-like arms in irritation. Wondering if I should open the door and ask what he wanted, I assessed his face for the likelihood of criminal tendencies: narrow eyes, a hard mouth, and a pushed out chin above a thick, gold-chained neck. Medium to High. But it also seemed to be the face of the man in front of the house that first evening I’d come here: Isabel and Violeta’s brother.

  ‘Buenos dias. Javi…?’ he asked, with a jerk of his chin towards the bedroom. I launched into a reasonable explanation of how he was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him up because he had an important performance that night.

  His eyes widened to almost normal size for a moment before mumbling something that may not have even been Spanish.

  ‘Victor,’ I heard; Javi was behind me, listening to this consonant-free rumble. He said something to him and then turned to me.

  ‘He wants me to play football this morning. A guy is ill and we have a big match. But it is boring for you and we will lose the morning—’

  ‘What about your hands, supposing you—’

  ‘Oh no, no. I wear good gloves. But listen—’

  ‘Could I watch?’

  ‘Of course, but…’

  ‘Better get eating breakfast then!’

  An hour later we were in the car Emilio had lent us, driving to the other side of the city. Javi in a faded but appealing blue-and-white football kit that I assured him, as I stroked his thigh, made the halving of my outing more than worthwhile.

  We arrived at a patchy field with a graffiti-covered pavilion but an impressive number of supporters waiting either side of the pitch. Javi left me with Rosita, there to watch a schoolfriend striker as well as her uncles in defence. The whistle blew. The ball was in Javi’s half for most of the game, but he and Victor played well together and no goals were scored until the green team lost patience in the second half and caused a penalty.

  ‘Javi is good defensa, no?’ Rosita said.

  A sweaty Javi and Victor came over to us, both grinning, but then Victor asked why Isabel hadn’t come. Rosita glanced at me and shrugged. But he persisted, and it began to look like I might be going to witness another family shout-down. She answered him in fast, quiet Spanish and then looked at Javi anxiously.

  Javi’s face creased in disbelief. Then he looked at me to see if I’d understood.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry. I tell you in a moment.’ We started walking back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s okay, I will tell you in—’

  ‘Then why can’t you tell me now?’

  He didn’t answer. We walked in silence, got into the car.

  ‘Violeta is having an operation for her shoulder. Also she needs break from her boyfriend and for this… she will have operation in Granada. It will be two or three months to recuperar… Isabel will look after her.’

  ‘Isabel.’

  ‘And Rosita, of course. And she has friends here…’

  And a former husband. Three months… I turned my head to look out of the window at the emptying pitch. I opened it, needing some air.

  ‘Yoli, is only that she wants to be with her sister, not a boyfriend who is busy and not very patient.’

  ‘How patient will he be when he realises that she’s spending three months just three minutes’ walk from her ex-husband? Well, not even ex-husband, is it?’

  ‘Oh stop, Yoli. Calm down and—’

  ‘No I won’t calm down! How would you like it?’

  ‘I would hate it, I do hate it, but why you are cross with me, as if I decide this?’

  ‘Because I think you did. You suggested this when you saw her, didn’t you.’

  ‘Yes, to have operation, she needs for long time, but—’

  ‘Obviously she was going to come here.’

  He sighed and massaged the fingers of his right hand. Perhaps remembering the concert and cursing me for no longer providing the pleasant distraction he needed.

  He looked over again. ‘Is it so bad to suggest the best thing for a friend?’

  ‘Don’t you mean wife?’

  ‘No, she is not. Or soon not… when she is better, I will talk to her about a divorcio. There is no difference, I am with you now, so please, we stop this and enjoy our time, no?’

  He pulled me over and kissed me, wiped the tears from my cheeks. We drove off.

  Divorcio. ‘And what was that about Isabel, am I an enemy again then?’

  ‘No, no. She… went to the station to meet Violeta.’ I went cold all over: she was here.

  ‘The operation is next week. Look, I will visit her after the operation, of course, talk sometimes, say hello in the street… but she is not part of my life now. Yoli, please.’

  We drove home in silence. He had a shower while I packed the picnic things that we’d happily planned the previous day but I now couldn’t imagine eating. My phone buzzed: jolly texts from Charlotte and Jeremy that I couldn’t face answering. Then we were back in the car again, driving up out of the city, until he parked and led me up a hill towards a fallen tree, put down a rug and pulled me down to sit on it in
his arms.

  ‘Yoli… relax, come on.’

  He looked at me for a moment then pulled out a little tin from the side pocket of the picnic bag. Inside were some scrawny-looking cigarettes.

  ‘I thought you’d given up.’

  ‘Yes. But this is different.’

  I found the thermos and pulled off its two plastic cups.

  ‘Even better than English cup-of-tea,’ he said, taking them from me. ‘Come here.’

  ‘I don’t smoke. I don’t even know how.’

  But he lit the cigarette and… there was that smell, always reminding me of Father… He drew on it, and then put it to my lips and held my nose, chuckling.

  A bitter dryness hit the back of my throat and made me cough. ‘God!’ I steadied myself with my hand on the tree; I was woozy, needed to eat after all. But he put it to my mouth again and, drawing a breath to protest, I must have taken in a big gulp.

  I had to lie down. ‘I don’t feel right.’ He was laughing, helping me get comfortable. ‘Though actually…’ I closed my eyes. ‘I’m not going to roll down the hill am I?’ Over and over until something was in the way… the Alhambra perhaps. I giggled.

  ‘I won’t let that happen,’ he said, kissing my neck, running his hands over me.

  ‘Tickles! Oh…’

  I was beginning to worry about the incline again, briefly opening my eyes and taking in a touchable blue sky.

  The dizzying drop down to the city below. An unrealistic background of snowy mountains.

  But Javi had it covered. Or rather he had me covered, his weight on top of me taking care of my lack of gravity. And as a warmth spread through my body, taking care of the need inside me too. Then saying - in my ear in case the breeze took the words away down the hill - that he loved me.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m in the coach, Jeremy.’

  ‘Just checking. How are you doing? You didn’t answer my text yesterday.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not doing well. It might be six weeks now - half-term - unless one of us can get out of school or some gigs…’

  ‘Oh dear. Look… if you can’t afford to hand over a bit more to that new flute girl, I’m sure I can—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s alright Yol, I’ve got plenty you could do to earn it, if you must.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well let’s see. Er… sorting out my accounts stuff?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘It’s not hard, it’s just a question of being arsed. Or wanting to cancel work to wing off and see a Spanish boyfriend.’

  ‘Mm. Okay, maybe.’

  ‘Good. So what have you two been up to then?’

  Doped sex on the side of a mountain - he might not need to hear about that. I described the concert, how Javi’s was the best of the ‘promising new groups’ that evening, how listening to him play against that vast glass wall behind the stage - against the lit-up Alhambra and maybe the very slope on which he’d said he loved me - had filled my heart.

  He was quiet for a moment. ‘But he hasn’t taken you to the Alhambra. We had such a special time there.’

  ‘I know. And how about Seville? Did you get everything you needed?’

  ‘Pretty much. Now I’ve got to get my head down and make sense of it all.’

  ‘Right.’ I wondered whether I should ask about Nando. If he felt lonely now, sitting in the Cádiz flat all on his own.

  ‘So did you read my text?’

  ‘Of course… You might see Nando again soon?’

  ‘We. He’s just had it confirmed. He’ll be standing in for one of Paco Peña’s dancers for the Sadler’s Wells shows in June.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And after a few days at Paco’s he’s going to stay with me. Although can you believe it - had to be the week of the Winchester conference, didn’t it. I’ll see what I can do, obviously, but I told him you’d look after him.’

  Chapter 20

  esperar vt to wait for, to hope

  ‘She’s not doing it,’ I said to Jeremy, scratching Pavlova’s fat white cheek. And I wasn’t going to purr down the phone either. I said I had a pupil coming and had to go. Made a hot chocolate - of all things - and sat on the sofa with my arms crossed.

  I’d told him before: my services were strictly non-transferable. After Andrew had stayed for an interminable fortnight during the extensive re-designing of his unused kitchen. Vicente, however, stranded after losing his passport (maybe deliberately, but forgetting that Jeremy was off to the States), had been an adorable burden, almost blushing when I offered to do his washing. Vicente: now in a relación exclusiva, his communications limited to friendly emails. Good for him, he’d got over Jeremy and moved on. As I had with Nando, of course, but that didn’t mean I was happy to have him two walls away for more than a week.

  Look after him. Bloody hell. I suppose I could just leave food for him and tidy up his mess while he was out. As for a disagreeable cat. Certainly if he thinks I’m going to wash his sweaty stage shirts and black boxers he’s got another think coming. I could pointedly leave out the washing machine instruction leaflet; if he’s never done laundry before, it’s time he learnt. Javi had to and coped well, ironed better than I did. That’s the other thing: how was I going to smooth all this out with Javi? He’d wonder how much invitation had gone into the dancer-caring arrangement, possibly seeing it as some kind of tit for tat. But the end of June…

  I went through to my flat and flipped over the pages of my filo. It’d be seven… eight weeks after Violeta’s shoulder operation, and yes, my school term ended that week; hopefully I wouldn’t be here after a few days, having flown out to a Violeta-free Granada. For the summer, returning for the odd wedding gig and to see Jeremy, but otherwise…

  My phone buzzed: Javi wanting to know which weekend I could go and meet his family in Almería. I was excited and nervous about it, but it would be less scary than creeping around the alleys in Granada hoping not to encounter Violeta. I texted back the earlier of the two possible dates, only three weeks away.

  ‘Uh, always knackering first day back,’ I said, putting down my bag and collapsing onto the sofa.

  ‘Oh come on, how hard can it be, one-to-one tooting away? Try taking on a classroom-full,’ said Emma. ‘Looks like I’ll have to make the drinks.’ She went over to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  ‘So are you up for the Thai place later then?’ I asked.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘But it’s only five o’clock… scones? There’s gooseberry or damson jam.’

  ‘After that treacle sponge at lunchtime? God, look at us: both eating ourselves stupid, one for comfort, one for joy,’ she said, but opening the packet.

  ‘So did you see Jason today then?’

  ‘Well of course I did. And we’ve still got the play rehearsals to get through. Bit late to remember why you don’t have flings at work. Didn’t you go through this at your last school?’

  ‘My first boyfriend. Head of English. Head of bullshit, more like.’

  ‘First? You mean you went all through Music College without…?’

  ‘I was always waiting for the right guy. Shame I didn’t wait a bit longer. Like fifteen years.’

  ‘So let’s see, there was the English bullshitter, the linedancing guy now in Corrie, the salsa-class dentist, the screwed up photographer bloke and Darling David of course. Five. Plus fillers.’

  ‘What? No! That’s it.’ Once again I marvelled at the way that every time I didn’t admit to my shameful episode with Nando it came a little closer to never having actually happened.

  ‘And now it looks like you’re going to stick at six. Although… I still can’t imagine you actually leaving Jeremy. You’re like a married couple.’

  But en serio, you are married, to Jeremy. ‘That’s ridiculous. And anyway, I’d still see him quite—’

  ‘No you wouldn’t. Once Violeta’s fixed and out of the way you’ll be busy with IVF and then triplets.’ I started to protest. ‘Meanwhile he’ll
get Ginny installed, picking up after him. Maybe developing the touchy-feely thing you’ve got going with him these days—’

  ‘She lives in Oxford.’

  ‘People can move, Yol.’

  I finished my scone. I tried to recall what ties Ginny had to her home town; surely her job in that little publishing company would act as a thickly anchoring guy rope.

  ‘But coming back to you two… I mean I don’t blame you - I loved all his hugs when I came over here in bits - but have you ever wondered…?’

  ‘It’s ever since he said no to The Question. Weird, it’s somehow made us closer. But not like you’re suggesting - gays don’t suddenly stop being gay, Emma. In fact he’s just fallen in love with a flamenco dancer in Seville.’

  ‘Mutual?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’ Wait for the disappointment, and see how much I can comfort him without letting him know how much I understand.

  ‘We can’t wait much longer, the vicar’s got another Thanksgiving at half past,’ said the mother. She pulled the three-year-old off the floor, moaning about grubby trousers, and warned a friend to stop jiggling the baby about or she’d throw up on her white dress.

  Helen was nodding her head; after the service she had to speed off to Rupert’s school to be sure of getting front row seats in the concert. ‘Get your flute out, Yolly - we’ll start the minute he gets here.’

  ‘I’ll try him again,’ I said, pulling out my phone.

  ‘I’m nearly there, five minutes,’ Jeremy said.

  Lateness, he would often remind me, is a form of arrogance. But with exceptions. And for Jeremy the only exception was romantic necessity. He’d obviously met someone in Cádiz. Why else would he have changed his flight? I should have been pleased for him, but felt strangely disappointed that he’d so quickly abandoned his infatuation with Nando and moved on to someone else. Even though that was exactly what I’d done myself.

  He arrived, quickly disarming everyone with his heartfelt apologies and sun-golden appeal, and took his place among the semi-circle of guests.