Lovers' Dance

by Carr, K

  Matt smiled. “Yes, she is.”

  George’s alarm skyrocketed at the appearance of that almost dreamy smile on Matt’s face. “Before I had arranged suitable clothing to be sent over, she’d come in search of me. Then there was the incident with the tray—”

  “Incident? What incident?”

  “Well, if you’d allow me to finish without interruptions, sir, you’d be brought up to speed.”

  Matt arched an eyebrow at the undertone of rebuke in George’s voice, then waved him on to continue. He let it slide. The man was like his surrogate father.

  “Ms DuMont brought the tray down and I startled her, causing breakage of the dishes. She refused to stop tidying up even though I’d ordered her to.”

  Matt’s face tightened in displeasure at that. George was unsure which part of his recounting had caused it. “Then we had a slight disagreement—”

  “What did you say to her, George? I’m perfectly willing to sack you. Don’t think I won’t.”

  George was always professional, so he did not roll his eyes, even though the urge was great. “She implied I was old and decrepit, sir. I informed her I was not.”

  Matt was grinning. “Did she really? She’s feisty, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir, she is,” he agreed before continuing. “She then requested a taxi, and I informed her of your expectation that she would be here when you returned. She stated she had to go to work and took offense for no reason at all, before rudely saying she was part owner of a dance studio—”

  “Is she?” Matt asked, curiosity piqued. Madison DuMont was the most intriguing creature he’d ever met, and now she was gone.

  “That is what she said. I have no reason to disbelieve her. I think she was under the assumption I was looking down my nose at her.”

  “And were you?” Matt asked quietly, arms folded across his chest while he regarded George with a frigid air of hostility.

  “I was not, sir,” George denied. “Although I will admit to being surprised when I first saw her, with her being…” George began to phrase it as delicately as he could, instinctively knowing his employer would take umbrage if he didn’t. “She is unlike any other woman you have brought here, sir.”

  Matt was observing him with those cold, empty eyes. “Yes, she is. Continue.”

  “She wished to leave and I was unable to change her mind, so I called a taxi and she left you a letter.” George’s morning had been turned upside down by this young black woman who seemed to have done something to Matt. He was acting unlike himself and it was worrying. Bradleys did not socialize beneath their social class, and this woman was with no doubt beneath them. George had not once commented on Matt’s womanizing ways. He knew his employer was careful, and the women he had his fun with would never go to the media with tell-all stories. But this one, this Ms DuMont, was different. She was having a strange effect on his unflappable employer, and George didn’t like it.

  “A letter? Where is it?”

  “On the table behind you, sir.”

  Matt turned around and noticed the piece of folded paper with the imprint of a kiss. He snatched it up, then aware of George’s hovering presence, gave him leave. George hesitated and Matt tapped his foot impatiently.

  “What is it, George?”

  “She’s American?”

  “Yes.”

  “She looks very young.”

  “She’s twenty-six, George. A grown woman.”

  “Sir, I don’t know how to say this but…”

  “I know, George, she’s black. Was there something else?”

  “Sir, how long have you known Ms DuMont?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours. Now I’m going to my study. Do not disturb me.” Matt walked off. He was fond of George. Hell, the man had changed his nappies, but his unspoken disapproval was irritating, and Matt’s previous good mood on arriving had disappeared the moment he’d found out she’d left. He slammed the door to the downstairs study and began to read her letter while pacing the room.

  My dearest Knight—he smiled at that, Thanks for rescuing me from those assholes last night. You kicked their asses. I can never repay you for that. I want to apologize for my unbecoming behaviour last night. I was not myself and I put you in a rather uncomfortable position—Matt had been uncomfortable, a certain part of his anatomy had been very uncomfortable and still was—and I’m eternally grateful you didn’t take advantage of the situation (I’m not writing it down in case you try to sue me for harassment)—she had drawn a smiley face there. You took care of me when it was neither your responsibility nor required and that means a lot to me. So I want you to know that although I want to forget the majority of last night ever took place, I will never forget you.

  Thank you, Matt.

  Love your poppet.

  P.S. Why were you calling me that? It’s kind of weird. Did you mean a real puppet? With strings? Or is it some British slang? Thanks for the ‘you know what’ and hope I didn’t freak you out. That’s never happened before. Well, when I do it—she had put two lines through that last sentence, and Matt could about imagine her lovely brown eyes going wide in embarrassment.

  P.P.S. Please don’t think all black women are crazy. We’re not.

  P.P.P.S. Don’t blame George for my leaving. I threatened to call the cops and called him old. Tell him I said sorry and the eggs were the way I liked them.

  Then there was a row of xoxoxox’s. And that was it. No telephone number with a request for him to call her. Nothing. Matt grimaced in annoyance at the letter in his hand and folded it. The imprint of her lipstick reminded him of the way her soft, luscious lips had felt under his. His grimace turned into a slow smile. She would be easy enough to find. He had her name and countless resources at his fingertips. He could find her within days, then seduce her back into his bed to finish what they’d started. Matt was used to getting everything he wanted and, right now, he wanted her. He’d never had a woman say “no” to him. His good looks and money made sure of that. Madison DuMont was his next target, she just didn’t know it yet. Matt’s conscience made an untimely appearance in his musings, reminding him of the strange protectiveness he’d felt over her. She was the complete opposite of his usual willing playmates. She was different, she was special.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he muttered, annoyed with himself for having these confusing feelings over a woman he didn’t know. Special? No one was special. In the end, they only wanted two things from him: money and social standing. It had always been that way, and he had no hopes that would change. Matt crumpled the letter in his fist, then walked over to his desk and tossed it in the bin. He’d cancelled an afternoon of important meetings, raced home like an infatuated school boy eager to deflower a black woman ten years his junior. He was out of his mind. Completely. Matt sat behind his desk and turned on his laptop, determined to get work done and forget about a woman he would never see again. After ten minutes of staring at the screen, he bent over and picked the bloody letter out of the bin before tossing it in the drawer, consoling himself that the reason he’d done so was because it was a sweetly written letter.

  FOUR

  “YOU’RE OUT OF sync, Madi,” Dante yelled from the back of the room. I stuck my tongue out at him in the mirrored wall and he shook a hand at my reflection. Dante was my best friend and co-owner of our small dance company. I’d secretly been harbouring a crush on him since I was ten years old. He was two years older than me and we’d grown up together back home in New York. Two days after my sixth birthday, my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash that I had miraculously survived.

  “Focus, Madi. For crying out loud, I swear your technique’s been slipping ever since we moved to England.”

  I tried to focus but my mind was elsewhere, and I knew he was bullshitting me. My technique wasn’t slipping. I was distracted. The reason for my distraction had been the long distance call I received from my aunt last night. Auntie Cleo is my dad’s sister. I’d never met her before my
parents’ funeral. I still remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. She’d turned up at King’s Cross Hospital where I was being cared for. Speaking with her fast accent, she informed me she was my aunt and I would be living with her from now on. I was scared, unable to process that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t ever be coming back for me. And she talked different. When she told me we would be leaving England, the place I’d been born, well, tantrum wasn’t the word to describe the fit I had given. Aunt Cleo didn’t mess around. She told me to stop being a baby and ‘act right’. Then the doctors discharged me into her care and we went to the funeral. The next day I was on a plane to New York with this energetic, outrageous woman next to me listing everything she expected from me. I still remember her words.

  “Now, Madison, New York is very different from London. Your daddy, God rest his soul, may have spoilt you but there’s none of that in my house. You do as you’re told without sass and you better respect me, little lady. Your momma was a feisty one. Because of her, me and your daddy fell out. I tell you, that mother of yours was a troublemaker, and if you don’t act right you’ll be sorry. You’ll be starting school with your cousin next week and I expect you to get good grades. Education is the key. Your daddy sheltered you, but I don’t have the time for that. You’ll have chores to do, and I am not going to be running around after you. My house, my rules, little lady. Aww, now don’t cry, sweetie. It won’t be that bad. New York is much better than London, you’ll see. Come here, let Auntie Cleo give you a cuddle. You still like dancing? Your daddy, God rest his soul, told me three Christmases ago you started ballet. That was the last time I spoke to him, you know. My little brother, gone, just like that. Only God knows. Now stop crying, Madison. You’re disturbing that nice man next to you. If you behave and show me you can be a good little girl, I’ll find ballet classes for you. Would you like that? Wipe your nose and go to sleep, it’s a long way to New York. Lord have mercy, you look like your mother with that wild hair. At least it’s nice and curly. Maybe we’ll get it permed when you get older. Oh, don’t start with that noise again…”

  Ah, the memories. One of the worst days of my life that was. Being on a plane for the first time with a stranger who said she was my aunt. But it all turned out okay.

  “All right, take a break everyone,” Dante called in frustration. “Madi’s butchering my choreography. For someone who looks so graceful, she moves like an elephant with cement feet.”

  Some of the other dancers laughed. I laughed, too. Dante and I were close, everyone knew that. In fact, we were all a close-knit unit, like family. His insults were given with affection. I deliberately sashayed over to where he stood holding out a bottle of water for me. Dante was the perfect specimen of a black Adonis. Smooth dark skin covering an athletic dancer’s body, with a face that gave me a thrill of butterflies whenever I looked at him. Yeah, I was crushing on him bad. You’d have thought after so many years of him not noticing me, I would have gotten over it, but no, I still secretly believed one day we would get together.

  “You want to explain what that was on my dance floor?” he asked. Dark brown eyes showed a hint of temper.

  “Our dance floor, and I was doing exactly what you showed me, Dante.”

  “Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Auntie Cleo called me last night,” I divulged. Dante sighed and shook the bottle of water at me. I took it and drank some.

  “What did she want? Wait, let me guess,” he mocked. “She wants to know why you’re wasting your money on a pipe dream and why, you can’t accept if you couldn’t make it on the New York circuit, things will be different here. She probably mentioned the only reason why you sunk all your money in this place was because no dance company over here thought you were good enough to employ, and you still can’t get it through that thick skull of yours that no one wants a black principal ballerina. Of course, she would’ve mentioned that your lack of talent has spoilt my chances of becoming a big name dancer back home because you convinced me to come over here with you, and my mother won’t stop blaming her for that. You know, Madi, I think your aunt has got a thing for me.”

  “Shut up,” I muttered and shoved his arm. “That was not the reason she called me.”

  Dante scoffed, and I amended my statement. “Well, it wasn’t the only reason she called.”

  He rested his hands on my shoulders and began to expertly knead the knots away. We had been dancing the past six hours straight. “Why did she call?”

  “She needs money—”

  “No,” Dante immediately ground out.

  “She’s my aunt.”

  “Like I give a fuck. Madi, you don’t owe her anything anymore.”

  “Uncle David had some issues with the construction company, again, and she’s sick, Dante. You know what her blood pressure is like.”

  “And her own damn kids?” Dante was getting pissed. “What exactly are your cousins doing to help their own mother?”

  I shrugged, not wanting to get into that discussion. “It’s not as much as the last time. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Dante squeezed my shoulder blades. “You told me because you know I would’ve found out anyway. Why are you letting her guilt you? She’s a grown-ass woman with two grown-ass kids. She is not your responsibility.”

  “If I can help—”

  “Have you seen the last light bill for this place, Madi? We’re haemorrhaging cash. I told you last month we’re going to have to increase the fees for the weekend dance classes—”

  “We can’t do that, Dante. Some of the kids who take those classes can barely afford it.”

  “Madi,” he cajoled.

  “No.”

  “We don’t have a choice unless you can miraculously reduce our overhead, find us rich folks to back our latest production, and pay off the remaining mortgage on this place. We’re bleeding money, sweet cheeks. I’m starting to get worried.” He looked it, a furrow between his eyebrows forming. At his mention of rich folks, I thought of Matt. It had been two months since that night I was attacked. Alexi was no longer my friend, she had ditched me that night and deserved some of the blame. Two months since I had stupidly offered myself to him. Two long months since I’d experienced the most exquisite pleasure; my own manual manipulations weren’t the same. Sometimes I thought about him, like when I was in the shower, or snuggled in my small bed clutching my oversized stuffed animals. Most of the times he was a distant memory, the one nice thing of a horrible night which I had almost blocked out.

  “We’ll manage,” I murmured, staring at the far corner of the main dance room. The flooring was a bit uneven there. I prayed we wouldn’t have to redo the whole floor.

  Right before my eighteenth birthday, my aunt had gotten a call from a lawyer based in London, notifying her of a trust fund that had been set up in my name on behalf of my long- deceased parents. The man was Geoffrey Kincaid. He’d been a friend of my dad. Upon my birth, my parents overwhelmed and scared about my future wellbeing, like any new parents, had taken out two substantial life policies in case anything happened to them before I was old enough to look after myself. It was a security blanket. They probably never thought it would be necessary. I mean, who expects to be ploughed into by a drunk truck driver with your six- year-old kid in the backseat? Anyway, they had died and, Mr Kincaid, who was named on the policy to act in my interests, had taken half of those funds and placed them in a trust fund for me. The other half he’d shrewdly invested on my behalf, increasing the overall amount that I had inherited. I think he did it because he missed my dad. Maybe it was his way of honouring their friendship. I don’t know. I did know that my aunt hit the roof on learning she’d been taking care of me out of her own pocket, when there was a nice little nest egg she could have used over those years to maintain me. Hence, the guilt I felt whenever she asked for money.

  Mr Kincaid had flown to New York four months after I’d turned eighteen and made me sign legal documents. Then he gave me a slick business card and
said, if I ever visited England, to come see him. I had tucked away his card, numb from the papers I had signed that put me in a seven digit net worth bracket. I had trained at SAB, School of American Ballet, the best freaking ballet institution in my eyes. Dante had too, and we’d both been accepted to a prestigious ballet company, along with a few other SAB graduates. At first, it was a dream come true. I was an accomplished ballerina, an honest-to-God ballerina. It didn’t take long for Dante and me to move out of the corp and start having bigger parts in productions. But I began to realize that Dante was moving at a much faster pace than I was, that girls who weren’t as talented as me were getting the parts I should have gotten. I worked harder for a couple more years. Then, one opening night before another major production, our ballerina principal took me aside. She had a soft spot for me, and she saw how upset I was over not getting a bigger part. She pulled me backstage and said, “Madi, honey, I’m saying this because you’re a sweet kid and you’ve got talent. But look around you; there have only ever been eleven prima ballerina assoluta, and none of them were black. How many black prima ballerinas have you seen? Ballet is still very much a white person’s world, honey. It’s wrong, but it is the way it is. Don’t set yourself up for heartbreak, honey. Besides, the black body type isn’t best suited for ballet.”

  My heart had been broken; at first, I didn’t want to believe her. But after another failure to land a starring role, I began to see the truth. Few ballet companies wanted a black prima ballerina. The patrons might not like it. Even though I worked twice as hard, even though I gave everything and more wanting to prove her wrong, in the end, I realized she was right. That had been a low point for me and giving up seemed like the only option.

  Dante, my sweet Dante, wouldn’t let me. We’d been friends forever, used to talk about how we would take the world by storm, how we would be classed as two of the top ballet dancers and people would line up to see us perform. Dante could’ve done it; he was exceptional, literally embodies beauty when he performed. He was becoming extremely well known beyond the New York circuits, held so much promise, but he gave it all up for me. I remember that night we were going to the movies, and he suddenly hugged me tightly and said, if they wouldn’t take me, then they couldn’t have him, that we would go somewhere else where I could achieve my dream. And the decision had been made to move here because of my ties to England. Turned out things here were exactly the same as the States. That was a little over three years ago.