LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) (8 page)

I didn’t smile back. “More than once.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Luka. But you’ve got to admit it’s pretty bizarre that out of the whole of London we meet at some party and you’re living in my sister’s flat.”

“Not so weird—she told me to go to that party because it was at a friend’s house.”

“Oh, that makes sense. So, you’re house-sitting while she’s in Australia?”

“Yeah.”

He shuffled his feet.

“Okay, this is going to sound really stupid, but I can’t have sex in my sister’s flat, in her bed.”

“I wasn’t offering,” I said, crossing my arms.

He pulled a face. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

He looked so miserable that I threw him a bone.

“Look, we’re both tired. You’ve just got back from Hong Kong and I’ve been on tour for six months. Let’s just . . . leave it.”

Seth came and sat next to me. “I don’t want to leave it. I really, really like you, Luka. There’s a connection—can’t you feel it?”

I could, and that was a problem for me. I felt a bit sick at the thought that I’d fucked a brother
and
a sister, even though I didn’t know anything about it at the time. I knew
now
.

“She’s your
twin
sister?”

Somehow that made it even worse.

He gave me a pained smile.

“Technically, she’s my little sister. I popped out about half-an-hour before her, so . . .”

Every word he spoke made it worse.

“It’s weird for me, as well. Sarah is a good friend. I’d feel . . . wrong . . . being with her brother.”

“Oh.” He leaned away from me, then changed his mind. “She wouldn’t care. Well, she’d be jealous as hell ‘cause she really fancies you.” Then he paused. “She said you weren’t interested, but my sister is a beautiful woman and you said you like women so . . . ?”

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

“It’s always a bad idea to sleep with people you work with.”

“So you do fancy her?”

I stood up, irritated. “Just go, Seth. I’m tired, like I said.”

He swore under his breath and left abruptly.

I kicked the door closed behind him.

“Have a nice night with Michael,” I yelled after him.

I KNEW IT
wasn’t fair to kick him out like that, but it spun my head to learn that he was Sarah’s brother. I hoped she never told him that we’d fucked. Or maybe I hoped he never told her. I wasn’t sure.

Either way, not having anything more to do with him seemed like a smart move. But I was disappointed. It had been a long time since I’d felt a connection like that.

Tired and depressed, I peeled off my clothes and dumped them on the floor, then fell into bed.

I slept for 12 hours, waking up mid-afternoon. I stretched out leisurely, enjoying the slow climb into awareness. But then memories of last night snapped back, and my mood soured.

I forced myself into the shower, then sat in the small kitchen drinking coffee, staring out at the tiny yard.

I’d had so many things I wanted to do with my time in London, but now the thought of my own company and having no work didn’t thrill me. Being a tourist was more fun when you had someone to share it with.

Several days off from dancing had left me feeling stiff, and coupled with my bad mood, I decided that I need to find somewhere to take a class.

Cursing the lack of wifi and the slowness of a 3G connection, I finally found what I was looking for two miles away. I couldn’t tell if it was the right kind of school, but meeting up with other professional dancers, I’d soon find out.

I called the school and found that a suitable class would be starting within the hour if I could get there and register myself.

Cursing under my breath, I dragged out my favorite jazz sneakers that were well worn-in and really comfortable. They still gave plenty of support, even if they looked battered.

I threw a bunch of clothes in my gym bag and jogged down the road rather than wait for a bus, sweating lightly by the time I got there.

It was an older building but modernized inside. The receptionist remembered me from my call and handed over several forms, explaining that I needed to fill them out before I could take the class.

“Ma’am, it takes me forever to read English,” I said, giving her my best smile. “I really want to take this class, but I’ll be late . . .” and I gestured to the forms.

She frowned.

“Arlene is very strict about that—this is her studio and she’ll be teaching the second part of the class today. She likes to keep up to date with students.”

I pressed my hands together in a prayer.

“I promise I’ll fill them in after.”

“I don’t know . . . she has very high standards.”

I leaned on the counter and saw her eyes widen slightly, and knew that I was winning her over.

“I’m very good,” I said, smiling conspiratorially.

She shook her head and chuckled.

“You’re a smooth one alright. Go on then, off you go! But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Arlene usually makes half the class cry.”

“I never cry,” I said, winking at her.

Grinning, I stuck the papers in the back pocket of my jeans and hurried to the locker room.

I read the first paragraph of the top sheet.

Our classes draw on movement material from upcoming productions, teaching a dynamic release-based class, focusing on skeletal connections and imagery to find an ease and flow of movement through the body. Classes begin with exploratory work alone or with a partner and then move on to formal exercises that build towards driving movement sequences. Emphasis is placed on momentum, inversion and an expansive use of space combined with core strength. Expect your warm up to take at least 40 minutes of a 60 minute class.

My eyes glazed over. I couldn’t be bothered to read any more.

I threw on a tank top, long-sleeved tee, sweatshirt and sweatpants. I liked to be able to peel off layers as I warmed up.

There were two other guys and 12 girls in the studio, and most of them were doing stretches at a long ballet barre fixed down one side. That threw me a little, because I wasn’t ballet trained, and always did a jazz warmup. I hoped I hadn’t crashed the wrong class. But then I noticed that only one of the girls was wearing ballet pumps, and I relaxed.

“Hi, you’re new.”

The girl with the ballet pumps was smiling up at me as she worked through a series of barre exercises: second position pliés and other movements I recognized.

“Kinda.” Then I nodded at her ballet pumps. “Arlene does the jazz warmup, yeah?”

Her eyes widened in horror. “Ugh, no way! Is
she
teaching the class today?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Part of it—that’s what I was told.”

The girl shuddered. “She’s a monster. Everyone hates her.”

I smiled at the look on her face. All dancers have teachers they can’t stand—usually because they’re the tough ones who won’t let you get away with anything.

While I was waiting for the class to begin, I started my own warmup. I was already warm from jogging here, but that’s nothing like a dance warmup. I rolled my neck up and down, side to side, and the same with my shoulders. Then I did isolations of my rib cage. Non-ballroom people don’t do that, but it’s huge for us. Have you ever seen a Samba? The way dancers can make the rib cage ripple? That’s an isolation. I did it forward, back, side to side, then around, and the same with my hips.

Ballet trained people don’t move the hips like we do. They dance like they have brooms up their asses if they try to do ballroom—great extension, but no hip action.

Then stretches and lunges, rumba walks, cha cha locks, samba basics and jive triple step.

I noticed that I was getting stared at by the other dancers—looked like I was the only ballroom trained person here. Huh, this class was going to get interesting.

A woman of about 30 dressed in leggings and a tank top that advertised the dance studio walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m MJ. I’ll be taking your warmup for the first part of the class, then Arlene will design a jazz routine with a Latin ballroom theme. Meredith, you need to change to jazz sneakers.”

The girl with the ballet pumps looked terrified.

“I don’t . . .”

“You have character shoes?”

“Yes, MJ.”

“And please make sure your mobile phones are switched off. Arlene won’t tolerate interruptions.”

I wondered what the punishment for that would be.

She took us through upper leg and hamstring stretches, shoulder rolls, pliés, lunges, and made the guys do twice as much abs work as the girls.

Then jazz hip stretches, oversplits and jazz leap straddle jumps.

“Big and graceful,” yelled MJ.

I shed the sweatshirt early on, feeling the stretch in my muscles, but not yet completely loose.

Ten minutes later, I was sweating freely, and had peeled down to sweats and a tank top.

I saw the door open and a woman of about 60 dressed in black entered. I guessed this was Arlene.

She watched critically for several minutes, and I felt the energy level in the room ramp up. They all hated her, but they wanted to impress her, too.

MJ stepped back respectfully, and we all listened carefully as Arlene spewed out a list of instructions for the run—a long and complicated series of steps that got us moving across the whole studio. This was the kind of thing you did in auditions—usually classes weren’t so intense. But I liked this, it suited my style.

Only two of us got everything right on the first run, and Arlene’s eyes narrowed in fury.

“That was terrible! Two out of 15! That is
not
acceptable. You have to pick this up more quickly. Meredith, you’re throwing away your free arm! Rose, that’s a syncopated head snap at the end. Adam, you’re dancing with your mouth open—you’re not a fish! Focus! Come on! Give me some energy! You’re tired after forty minutes? You think your feet hurt now? This is easy! Attitude! Again! Again!”

At the end of a really fucking intense 20 minutes of Arlene drilling us, we were all panting like we’d just run the Kentucky Derby, sweat pouring from us, but it felt good. The endorphin high was amazing—only performance beat it.

MJ took us through the cool-down, and I lay on the hard floor, stretching out slowly, letting my heartrate return to normal. My body knew this, understood it, craved it.

“New boy!”

I turned my head to look. Arlene was pointing at me.

The ballet girl muttered under her breath, “The beast awakes . . .”

I had to hide a smile as I replied.

“Ma’am?”

“My office.”

And she turned and stalked out.

Was Arlene pissed that I hadn’t filled out the forms?
MJ gave me a look that I couldn’t interpret.

“Her office is behind reception. Good luck.”

“Do I need it?”

“You have met Arlene?” she chuckled, shaking her head.

Pulling my sweatshirt over my soaked body so I didn’t cool down too quickly, I headed for Arlene’s office.

I’d enjoyed her workout—she reminded me of a Russian coach I’d had once, drilled in the Soviet style. Nothing was scary after that.

Arlene glanced up from her desk as I walked in, and pointed her pen at a chair opposite. I slid into it and waited as she signed a piece of paper with a flourish.

“I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t been in London very long. I just got off a long tour and . . .”

“What tour?”

“Did you see
Slave
?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes! Very inspiring. Which role were you?”

“Volkov, the wolf.”

“Ah! The boy-on-boy Argentine tango—very nice work.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“It explains why you’re in performance shape. Any injuries?”

I shook my head, wondering where all this was leading.

“And what are your plans now?” she asked, tapping her pen against the desk.

“We tour again in the winter. I’m in London for three months. No plans.”

“Where are you from?”

“Slovenia.”

“Good—no visa necessary. Hmm, well, here’s the pitch. I’m the choreographer for the West End show
The Bodyguard
—have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen the movie,” I admitted.

“Completely different,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m looking for a swing dancer. One of my boys fractured his metatarsal and he’ll be off for eight to ten weeks; another is getting married,” and she rolled her eyes, “and, well, I won’t go on, but I need a replacement. I saw how you handled the runs I gave you today—you could slot in straightaway, dancing three or four times a week, plus understudy rehearsals. Pay is Equity rates plus. You’d take home £1,500 a month—more if you do more shows.”

It wasn’t great money for a West End show that made its backers a good profit, but it would be three or four grand I didn’t have now.

Being a swing dancer was a bit shit, but it might be fun for a while, and nothing I hadn’t done before. It doesn’t mean dancing swing-style either: it’s being an understudy who knows all the roles for your gender, and you can get called on to dance at short notice. You have to know all the parts in case anyone is injured or on vacation.