Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (21 page)

We stayed in our prone position for a few seconds, recovering, just coming up gently, it was like being woken from an amazing sleep.

‘Wow! Lola that was amazing – Oh my God you are a total prostitute!’ he screamed.

‘Thank you,’ I curtseyed, never thinking I would be so pleased to be called that.

‘Lola, you are on fire. You really let go, you were rampant, I almost fancied you myself, but of course that would never happen... no offence.’

‘None taken,’ I smiled, glowing in his praise. He’d just told me I was a prostitute and he could never really fancy me. And I was delighted.

‘I told you all you needed was a hot night of passion with a gorgeous man and it would come flooding...’

‘Yeah, he can take
some
of the credit,’ I smiled, ‘but that girl on the floor was all me, baby,’ I said in my ‘Tony’ voice, shaking my finger from side to side. ‘And ain’t no man taking no credit!’

L
ater I talked
Tony through the basic flamenco steps, blocking them through as I talked about the culture, the history, the whole fabulous stuff around the dance. Then I put on some music on and danced for him. I stomped until my legs reverberated and the room shook, I whipped around and flounced my skirts and raised my arms high. My whole body pulsed with the dance, the emotions of the past few months all simmering inside me, and bubbling through my veins, and when I finished I threw myself onto the floor, holding the pose, my whole body trembling. After what felt like several minutes, I got my breath and looked up from my final position waiting for Tony’s reaction. But he just stared ahead.

‘Is that what you learned in Spain?’ he asked, eventually.

I nodded. ‘Do you like it? Have I improved?’

‘Improved? Oh. My. God. I am in a catsuit of emotions right now... you have bloody transformed yourself, Lola. I have never seen you dance like that, what the fuck have you been doing until now? You’ve been hiding all that talent, all that passion and emotion, and
that
, my love, was a performance. Lola the gypsy girl just landed in the UK and she isn’t leaving any time soon.’

G
oing back
to work was awful. It wasn’t just the ‘post-holiday blues’, it was more than that. I was already growing out of the job before I’d gone away, but this change in me had made it even more difficult to get through a day behind the checkout.

‘I hate Bilton’s so much I think it would be preferable to have stayed in Granada with cheating Juan,’ I said to Tony one night, after another long day at work.

‘Oh no love, I’m glad you came back. I was missing you... I don’t know what I’d do without you. Besides he was a bad un.’

‘Was he? Perhaps I overreacted? I’ve had time this week, sitting on my checkout to wonder if Juan really was “with” that woman.’

‘What? Like the woman he was holding hands with and reading love poetry to was... his sister?’ Tony huffed, sarcastically.

‘Not exactly. But when a man writes a poem for you... that’s special.’

‘Mmmm I suppose so... but I wasn’t going to tell you this. But he didn’t.’

‘He did... I told you “my life, my faith, my...”’

‘Juan Ramón Jiménez.’

‘No his name’s Juan...’

‘No, Juan Ramón Jiménez wrote the poem... I was so bloody furious with him I googled “Amor” the poem, and there it was.’

‘Oh...’ I blushed, feeling a little foolish. I thought the poem was just for me, but it wasn’t even written by my Juan, it was another one...I don’t know who I thought ‘my Juan’ even was. ‘You’d think I’d learn wouldn’t you?’ I sighed.

‘No, you and I will never learn, because we are dreamers, and we always expect the best of a man and we’re usually disappointed. But another Joel or Juan will be along soon and you and I will fall in love all over again – cos that’s what life’s about, falling in love, learning lessons, then boiling a few bunnies. And one day, who knows, we might even fall for someone who doesn’t take us for a ride and live happily ever after with the man of our dreams. We’ve got to hope, if we didn’t, we’d shrivel up.’

I nodded, he was right – whatever happens you have to have hope.

‘Meanwhile we can keep dancing and make do with each other. Just don’t get any ideas about us having sex… eww,’ he joked. ‘The best relationships are left unconsummated.’

I laughed, knowing I could move on without looking backwards and just remember Juan as a lovely summer fling.

O
ver the next
few weeks Tony and I trained every night and every weekend. By day he was a discreet shop assistant dressing footballers’ wives and local businesswomen in cocktail and cruise wear. But by night he was Tony Hernandez, fiery Latin dancer, squiring Lola the gypsy girl around the floor. Meanwhile Lola spent her days as Laura, at the checkout, pushing through the Weetabix, talking about the bloody weather and dreaming of another life.

Most people live quite ordinary lives in ordinary homes doing boring jobs. Like them I’d always accepted my lot – but now I’d changed, I felt special, and l had a dream that might just lift me out of this life into another one day. Meanwhile, I had a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to go to work – to earn the money to dance. For the next couple of years I would put some money away and in the meantime I could dance and dream... like my parents had.

Dad’s letter was filled with sadness, but also with hope, it floated under the text, flew off the page, filling my head with sunshine and Cha Cha. Sadly my dad’s hopes and dreams were meaningless because he’d never pursued them. But dreams won‘t come to you, they have to be chased and nurtured. And it might be next week or next year – but I wasn’t going to let mine die.

I knew it was hard to step out of your comfort zone and all too easy to lose sight of your dreams in the debris of everyday life. Here I was, dressed in green nylon doing just that – wasting every day behind my checkout. I couldn’t tell anyone at Bilton’s I wanted to dance for a living, they’d laugh and think I was foolish. I could hear them now; ‘Who does she think she is?’ So as I rung the till and filled shelves with tampons and tea I made a promise to myself, that I wouldn’t do this forever. And all the time I kept my dreams to myself, like a secret little bud growing inside me, giving me hope and keeping me sane.

B
y October
, Tony and I had decided we would be ready to dance the flamenco in Blackpool the following month.

‘It’s the first time they’ve ever allowed flamenco on the floor there,’ he said, with a catch of excitement in his voice. It was contagious, I felt a shimmer of anticipation as he said it and grabbed his arm. ‘Lola, I can’t wait to get there and show them what we’re made of... your flamenco will floor them.’

‘Oh I am so excited, but I’m nervous and I... oh I’m all over the place. But – bring it on,’ I said.

‘That’s it, girl... what’s that saying, do something every day that scares you?’

‘Ooh yes, I like that.’

‘Yes, but take my advice and don’t apply it to one-night stands... I met up with a scary bald guy in the Red Lion last Wednesday. Cute face, but... let’s put it this way, he
will
kill again.’

I laughed. ‘I’ve told you, stop looking for love in all the wrong places, Tony... and polite request – would you not turn our Blackpool trip into a Grindr special? And DON’T arrange to meet unsuitable men under the pier.’

I was thinking about Blackpool and wondering how I would feel going back there after all these years. After what happened to dad, I never thought I’d have the strength to return, but things were changing for me now. I tried to focus on the positive aspects – the beautiful Winter Gardens where we would dance, the candy floss...

‘I won’t meet anyone under the pier,’ Tony was saying. ‘The sea’s horrendous in November, big, rough and grey... and that’s just how I like my men,’ he smiled.

‘Forget men, Blackpool has the best fish and chips in the world, all salt and vinegary and hot and crispy. And they have to be eaten out of newspaper on the sea front, regardless of the weather,’ I said, pushing away dark thoughts, trying not to think of The Empress Ballrooms, my mother’s screams when the music stopped.

‘Do they still sell Kiss me Quick hats and candy floss?’ I asked, one half of me still there, the other forcing the juggernaut of my feelings into something lighter, more trivial.

‘Of course they still have Kiss me Quick hats... and pink rock with Blackpool written all the way through it. Blackpool’s full of queens not Quakers. We love the seaside like anyone else – riding on donkeys and getting sand in our spandex, as for candy floss, I can’t get enough. Mind you, last time I had some it played havoc with my lip gloss,’ he laughed.

I would need a flamenco dress and a decent pair of dance shoes, so we decided to spend the evening planning our outfits. Within minutes, we were on Tony’s laptop surfing dance shoes and dresses. Tony said the sooner I had my stagewear the better. ‘You have to get used to practising in your outfits – especially the shoes, it’s like an athlete and their trainers,’ he was saying.

Tony and I had gone through Mum’s shoes and dresses together when I’d moved them from Mum’s to his garage a few days previously. He’d kindly offered to store them for me as there was no room at mine. I was convinced he was trying them on late at night – he talked about them often, referring to ‘the pink chiffon waltz’ and ‘the aqua silk foxtrot’ like they were old friends. Tony had discovered Mum’s lovely dance shoes in various shades and though I’d said they were several sizes too small, he insisted they would fit me. But after much painful shouting and pushing, he conceded, ‘Yeah, you’re no Cinderella, love, more Ugly Sister.’ So we’d gone back to the drawing board.

‘For the American Smooth a woman should wear pastel pink and net with matching shoes, hashtag Grace Kelly!’ he was now sighing, clicking the mouse excitedly as he cruised the luscious satins and feathers and fringes.

If there was one thing Tony loved almost as much as ballroom dancing, it was ballroom dresses. He was smiling at the computer screen, lost in sparkle and tulle.

Ballroom porn he called it and whooped every time he saw something ‘orgasmic’.

‘I want long, I don’t want one that will show my cellulite,’ I said anxiously.

‘Darling, what do you think American Tan tights were made for? They were designed for cottage cheese thighs just like yours.’

‘Stop, you’re making me big-headed,’ I said sarcastically.

‘Oooh, ooh. You would look gorgeous doing the Argentine Tango in that little number, Lola,’ he was pointing to a lovely black dress with a hint of glitter and a slash up the thigh.

I sighed, agreeing it would look spectacular under the disco ball, even on my lumpy thighs. But looking at the price just made me want to cry. ‘They are hundreds of pounds, I can’t possibly afford that – if I start entering competitions next year and need a new dress every time, it’s going to be impossible... I can’t.’

But he was like a magpie and soon chasing something else glittery on screen. ‘Ooh come to daddy,’ he sighed, peering at a glamorous pink-feathered jumpsuit.

‘I’m not sure about feathers,’ I said.

‘Who said it’s for you?’ he looked at me. ‘I could carry that off, couldn’t I?’

I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, so I gave him a doubtful look and continued to complain about the prices. ‘I don’t need a tango dress yet, but I need something to wear to dance flamenco,’ I pointed out. ‘I’d love to wear a real flamenco dress, but these are just eye-wateringly expensive.’

‘I know, you’d have to be a trust-fund chick or the wife of a Russian oligarch to own one of those – and sadly, my love, you’re neither.’

‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ Even if I had the money, I couldn’t justify spending so much on one item of clothing. Sophie’s wedding money was still sitting in the bank but I’d already used some to pay my spending money in Spain and I wasn’t taking any more. Besides, the way things seemed to be going with Carl I wondered if we might need that money soon for another wedding.

‘No... we’re not going to be able to buy a flamenco dress,’ Tony was saying. I know it’s only a dancing display, but those East German lesbians are very competitive when it comes to dancing frocks, love. They are ballroom Olympians... big burly girls with a million sequins, fierce ambition and even fiercer eyebrows.’

‘I have my practice skirt... it’s frilly and I could buy a new shawl?’

‘Yeah that sounds good, let’s see if our Rita can add an extra frill here and there – we can work with that.’

It was disappointing not to be able to wear the real thing for the display, but there were other, more important things to worry about – like the dance itself.

Later we practised our flamenco in his garden, it was bloody freezing but the stomping on his wooden floor after 10 p.m. alarmed the neighbours. I practised in my swirling skirt, my shoes and my shawl with roses in my hair and hoops in my ears.

‘You look lovely, Lola... let me do your make-up,’ he said.

He drew sweeping black eyeliner on my eyes and brows, pulled down my hair and applied a scarlet lipstick he found in my bag that I hadn’t worn in years.

‘Is that a bit young for me?’ I asked.

‘No... you look like a dark and glamorous gypsy, only a little bit drag queen with those earrings...’

‘Oh!’

‘I’m teasing you – you stupid mare, you look bloody fabulous... even
with
the earrings.’