Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (23 page)

B
y early November
we were ready. Our flamenco was passionate and fiery and our Argentine Tango was fast, exciting and sensual – according to Mandy it was like ‘shagging, standing up... in a posh frock,’ which I took as a compliment. We were training so hard I worried Tony had put too much strain on his injured leg, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. After the assault, Tony had called up all the local and regional newspapers and did several interviews on local radio about his ordeal. As awful as it all had been for him, he was certainly enjoying his new-found fame – and milking it. He was such a funny, colourful character the radio stations had asked him back and his recovery had become a regular feature in the local paper. So for the Blackpool festival he’d even managed to drum up some national coverage about how ‘Tony WILL Dance Again.’ A local college had offered to film our performance and put it on the internet too which was all good news for Tony’s dream of building his classes so one day he could leave the day job. He’d talked of ‘Tony’s Dance School’ and had even suggested I go in with him as a partner, but it felt like a big leap too soon.

‘One day perhaps, but I’m not good enough to teach yet,’ I’d said.

‘I told you... even if Laura can’t... Lola can.’

I
t was just
a week before the Blackpool Festival and Tony had been keen to take ‘full creative control, darling’ where our ‘dancing look’ was concerned. Rita had taken my measurements but hadn’t been able to make any frilly additions to my practice skirt because one of her kids was sick and her dog had puppies and... well the last thing on the poor woman’s mind was my skirt. So I had bought a black T shirt and would wear my flamenco practice skirt and a shawl, which wasn’t ideal, but would have to do.

I wasn’t just worried about my outfit – I was also nervous because Tony had asked Mandy to come to the festival as ‘chief brow manager’. She was delighted and had also offered (threatened?) to do my hair and make-up. I felt like I was losing control and was at the mercy of a crazed beauty therapist and a mad queen.

‘Sorry the skirt enhancement didn’t work out, our Rita’s up to her neck in puppies and sick kids,’ Tony said as we watched a ‘Joan Retrospective’, - his whole collection of Joan Crawford movies - with a large bowl of popcorn on his sofa.

‘Poor Rita. My practice skirt’s fine and I have a shawl. I
will
be okay in my practice skirt won’t I?’

‘Yeah, great,’ he nodded absently, gripped with the drama on screen.

‘Christ, Tony, you’re supposed to be my gay best friend – it’s like being in a relationship with a straight man sitting here with you half-listening, your eyes glued to the telly.’

He turned it off. ‘Sorry, love, but I adore that bit when Joan says, “There is a name for you, ladies, but it isn't used in high society... outside of a kennel.” Classic Joan!’ he was smiling and shaking his head in awe.

‘I love Joan too, but Tony, we need to talk about our outfits and our hair... are you sure Mandy’s the right person to do our styling?’

‘Er hello? A beauty therapist who does hair? She’s a one-stop shop.’

‘Mmm, I believe that’s what they call her in Kavos,’ I smiled.

He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t let anyone else near this hair or these brows. It has been said that a brow shape from Mandy Johnson is more painful than childbirth, but darling, it’s brow art and we have to suffer for it. What that girl can do with a Brazilian blow-dry beggars belief,’ he said.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘I’ve told her that if I died... she would have to do my hair for the funeral. Oh God, touch wood I don’t, but that poor grieving girl has promised to do a Brazilian blow-dry on my corpse.’

It conjured up quite a disturbing image. Tony reminded me of my mum when she was younger, all about the clothes, the make-up and the drama. I think that’s why I took to him so quickly, it was like I’d known him all my life.

‘You and my mother both think you’re forties film stars, sipping on your gin cocktails and bitching through tight lips about everyone.’

Tony laughed. ‘Yes but Margaret’s more Bette Davis with her delusions of grandeur and intolerance of anyone less than perfect. I’m more Joan Crawford... a clairvoyant once told me I was Joanie in a previous life.’

‘Well you’ve got the walk, and the eyebrows,’ I said. He took this as a compliment and was curtseying when the doorbell went.

‘I know who that will be,’ he said, mysteriously but all excited and ran to get it. I heard some talking then Rita came in carrying a large plastic bag on a clothes hanger.

‘Hope it’s okay,’ she said, laying the plastic across the dining table.

Tony clapped his hands together.

‘Thanks so much, Rita,’ he said. ‘Now you stroppy old cow, we have a little surprise for you.’

I was intrigued and a little excited, suddenly felt like I was nine years old and it was my birthday.

Tony clutched my arm. ‘I can’t look, you open it, Rita, I’ll just faint... brace yourself, Lola,’ he turned away theatrically with the back of his hand on his forehead as Rita slowly, carefully opened the plastic. I saw scarlet fabric and tears sprang to my eyes as a million scarlet satin ruffles were unleashed.

I looked from brother to sister. ‘It’s a flamenco dress?’

‘Yes love, that’s right...

‘It’s red...’

‘It is, love... and the sofa’s blue, aren’t you good with your colours?’ Tony was talking to me like a nursery school teacher.

‘But how did you get this? I can’t afford a real one... and this is real,’ I said, holding the weighty dress, still on the verge of tears.

‘It’s your mum’s, you daft mare, she wanted you to have it,’ Tony laughed.

‘Oh?’ I was now in tears.

‘I took your measurements so I could do something with your skirt and in the meantime Tony tells me he’s found the dress in the garage. Anyway when I measured your Mum’s dress it turns out you’re now the same size your mum was when she was dancing,’ Rita explained.

‘Yeah, so I said forget about the practice skirt Rita we’ve got the real thing here so let’s just tidy it up... and she worked her magic, made a few minor alterations and it’s even better. We wanted to surprise you - it’s fabulous isn’t it?’ Tony sighed, gazing at it.

‘Oh thank you, thank you so much. But Mum was a size ten.’

‘A small size 12, love, and don’t let Margaret tell you any different,’ Tony laughed. ‘That woman lies about her age and her dress size – talk about giving her daughter impossible standards,’ he huffed, ‘but she loves you to bits, make no mistake about that.’

‘I know,’ I smiled.

‘And, you’ve lost a lot of weight in the last twelve months, babe. As Margaret said when I told her, “She’s not as fat as we thought,”’ he roared laughing at this and I had to join in.

‘Classic Mum,’ I laughed, caressing the smooth satin bodice. ‘I’ve only ever seen it in a photo,’ I sighed. ‘When Mum mentioned it to me, and neither you nor I had come across it, I assumed it had been lost.’

‘It was in the bottom of one of the bags. I almost died of excitement that night when you phoned and asked if I’d seen it... I rushed out to the garage and after about two hours I found it. Then the next day I popped over to see Margaret and asked her if she’d mind if we gave it a bit of a refresh and an iron and she was almost as excited as me. It was a bit crumpled but now Rita’s done her bit it’s as beautiful as the day your dad bought it for her,’ Tony said.

‘Oh Rita, and you had all those puppies and sick children...’

She looked at me blankly.

‘Oh you silly mare I just told you that so you wouldn’t wonder why she wasn’t tarting up your practice skirt.’

I stood there, clutching the dress, my chin wobbling.

‘Now try it on, you daft cow.’

I looked at Rita and smiled a thank you then lifted the dress, which was heavy with frills, and tried it on in Tony’s little pink bathroom. My only slight concern was that the dress might be a little tight – I wasn’t convinced I was the same size as Mum had been, she always seemed so slim. I watched myself in the mirror as I stepped into the scarlet flamenco dress and, pulling it gently up past my hips, my breasts filled the cups and my body fit into it like a glove, the ruffles, like a scarlet waterfall began at the thigh and swished to the floor. I couldn’t believe how good I looked. And for the first time in my life, at the age of forty-four, I felt beautiful. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my mother – my lovely slim, attractive mother, something I’d never thought possible. I believed it was life’s cruel joke that I was made clumsy and plain next to my beautiful mother. But with confidence, a little make-up and the right clothes anyone can be beautiful. It had been up to me all the time. I had to believe in myself, surround myself with the people and things that made me happy and everything now fit into place. Happiness doesn’t land on your doorstep, sometimes you have to fight for it. My Mum’s happiness had been drowned and she was never strong enough to fight her way to the surface. But here I was wearing her dress and walking in her footsteps, with everything my father had wanted for me. Dancing had saved me from my little life and I was now ready to take on anything. Walking downstairs, I felt like a bride, gliding carefully down each step, anticipating the reaction of my friends. I couldn’t wait for my mum to see me, to see her beautiful dress resurrected and brought to life, by her own flesh and blood.

I entered the room and as soon as he saw me Tony burst into tears. Rita and I were laughing at him, but I had tears in my eyes too because the dress symbolised so much. It wasn’t just about the way I looked and the way my body had changed, but how far I’d moved forward with my life. I’d also made peace with the past, my Mum and all my parent’s dreams.

Tony held out his hand and I took it and we danced across the carpet.

‘I have a little something else for you,’ he said, letting me go for a moment and wiping his tears on a lavender-scented hankie.

Rita was smiling, and when he came back in the room she had her hands clasped together expectantly.

Tony handed me a beautiful oblong box, it was black with a huge silk bow tied around it. I stood in the middle of the room holding it. ‘Oh it’s too pretty to open,’ I sighed.

‘Open it, you daft cow, or I’ll have a coronary,’ Tony hissed. He always got overexcited about presents, especially if he was the one giving them.

I untied the bow, carefully opened the lid and delved gently into the tissue paper, where my hands alighted on something leather. I lifted up a pair of perfect flamenco shoes, the exact scarlet of my dress and I just stood holding them, speechless.

‘Go on, Lola, put them on, I felt so sorry for you when you couldn’t get into your mum’s size fours. I thought, “She might look like an ugly sister but that poor cow has to have her Cinderella moment.”’

And I did – as they slipped on easily. ‘They are so, so beautiful,’ I sighed, my eyes filling with tears again. I was sitting on the edge of the sofa with my feet out, just admiring them like a little girl.

‘From me to you, Lola.’

I hugged him and Rita, unable to find the words to truly thank them.

‘And guess what? They have a name – you’ll love it - they are called ‘Leona Freed.’ It made me think of you. You’re freed now, aren’t you, Lola?’

I nodded. I was.

T
he following day
I went straight to Wisteria Lodge to see Mum. Tony had taken some pictures of me on his phone so I could show her how I looked. I would have tried the dress on there and then for her, but the residents were all so theatrically rampant I was worried they might make me part of a Wisteria Lodge show. There had been vague talk about an ‘Our Kids Have Got Talent’ show and I knew mother was dropping hints for me to do a reprieve of my Celine Dion Titanic number. I’d received a standing ovation the previous year, but there wasn’t much competition, just Doris’s sixty-two-year-old daughter, dressed as a Pussycat Doll demanding to know if everyone wished their girlfriend was hot like her. I’m the last person to stop an older woman doing her thing... but as Mum had loudly observed, ‘Ripped stockings, and a mini skirt are just not right on a woman in her sixties.’

So instead of trying the dress on and risking an impromptu audition for ‘Our Kids Have Got Talent’, I decided to just tell Mum about the dress. ‘Mum, thank you, it actually fits,’ I said, hugging her as I walked in. She was in the communal area with ‘the girls’ and they all smiled and nodded.

‘Your mum’s been showing off all morning about you,’ one of the ladies said.

I looked puzzled.

‘Yes... I thought it was an alarm when my phone went off, but Mrs Rawlins got these photos up,’ Mum said, like it was magic.

I took her phone off her and smiled. Tony had already sent the pictures over.

‘Ah, do you like it, Mum, the dress?’

‘I was never sure of that dress,’ Mum started, addressing the assembled throng. My heart sank, I thought it had been too good to be true, Mum ‘showing off’ about me. ‘Yes I never really suited red... but our Laura looks smashing.’

‘She’s got that lovely Mediterranean colouring,’ Mrs Rawlins piped up.

‘Yes, she’s like her father,’ Mum smiled, looking fondly at the photos. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’

I almost choked on tears, Mum had never said anything so lovely about me.

‘Will you excuse me ladies, Laura and I are just going to pop to my room. She’s very busy with her dancing career and I don’t want to keep her too long.’

I had to smile as I walked back to her room with her. ‘Mum I don’t have a career as such. I’m still at Bilton’s.’

‘Oh I know, but you’re not a checkout girl – you’re a dancer, it’s in your blood. Besides, it shut those shady bitches up.’

‘Mum... you can’t say that.’

‘I can, the girl that comes to do my nails is always saying it.’

‘Really? Her name isn’t Mandy by any chance is it?’

‘That’s right... lovely looking girl. You want to get yourself some eyebrows like hers.’

‘Mmmm,’ I said, still smiling to myself and wondering just how hilarious it would be to watch Mandy’s encounter with my mother, who probably didn’t understand half of what she was saying – but repeated it loudly.

‘Here, I’ve got something for you,’ she said. ‘I got it on that day trip to Birmingham last week... it’s from Selfridges, I hope you like it.’ She handed me a gift bag stuffed with tissue and when I put my hand inside, I brought out the most beautiful silk rose in scarlet.

‘Mum it’s gorgeous, but you shouldn’t...’

‘Nonsense. I haven’t given you enough pretty things in your life. Sometimes I think I’ve only given you sadness and worry.’

I didn’t answer, I couldn’t because I might cry and I wanted this to be a happy visit. I just studied the lovely rose and realising it had a clip put it in my hair.

‘Every flamenco dancer needs a rose in her hair,’ she smiled, hugging me. ‘It looks beautiful on you – especially now you don’t wear those glasses any more and we can see your lovely eyes.’

I glowed, my Mum had always been proud of me, always loved me, but through the years life and heartache had got in the way. I stayed for longer than usual that day. We talked about the dancing and the dresses and I suggested next time we go out for lunch together. We’d never ever done anything like that – mother-and-daughter shopping trips and meals out had never been on the agenda for us.

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’d really like that.’

‘Me too,’ I said, hugging her before I left. ‘There’s a new restaurant in town, they do tapas – we could practice for our trip to Spain.’

‘Yes... and Laura?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘There’s a new drink they have now – supposed to be delicious. We could have one of those. I think it’s called a Porn Star Martini.’

‘
O
ne day
, when I’m starring in my own TV dance show I think I’ll write a book,’ Tony was saying. We were finally heading for Blackpool and the Dance festival. I was driving so I could take my mind off what was to come. I was really nervous about the dancing – it was the first time I’d ever performed in public and I felt sick every time I thought about it. But for me there was the added dread of returning to the place my father died, and all the horrific memories associated with that.

‘Yep, I’m going to write my own self-help book: “Tony Hernandez Sez”, see what I did there with the Z?’

‘Yes, I’m sure it will be a bestseller,’ I said sarcastically. I didn’t mind him going on, I knew he was only doing it to take my mind off everything. And I knew he was nervous too, he’d organised a lot of publicity and if we did well he might be able to start thinking about opening his own dance business and teaching full-time. So Blackpool was a big deal for both of us.

‘I want to inspire people everywhere with my thoughts, like lip balm and tea bags are all one needs in life.’

‘Oh the world will be waiting for that one.’

He laughed. ‘You’ve inspired me you know, Lola.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Believe it or not, when we met on that cold dark night after you’d shown yourself up in the Zumba class I was about to give up.’

‘Give up dancing?’ I was shocked.

‘Well, teaching. I will always dance, darling – but I was about to give up the teaching and the dream to dance professionally one day. I know it will surprise you because I never tell my age because I look twenty-two...’

‘Forty-two.’

’Twenty-two... but I am in fact almost thirty-five.’

‘You are at least forty, Tony,’ I laughed.

‘Okay, but I felt like I’d left it too late and didn’t feel like it was leading anywhere. Then when I saw you dance I just knew you had it in you, and I don’t know why, but I liked you straightaway. I felt we were going through the same stuff – we both needed to road-test our emerging inner butterflies,’ he pushed in a travel sweet with a puff of icing sugar.

‘Ooh I like that, did you read it somewhere?’

‘Yeah... in one of our Rita’s magazines. I knew it would be useful for something. I’ll put it in my book,’ he said as we pulled up at the Blackpool guest house which was pink and owned by lovely Robin and Gary, Tony and I dumped our bags in our shared room and headed out to the promenade. The wind was whipping up the sea but that didn’t stop us heading out to see the sights.

Walking along the windy promenade was like walking back into my childhood. The little girl inside me was skipping along holding Dad’s hand, anticipating the chips and the dancing later.

The salty sea air took my breath away with its sheer vigour, and the cold was laced with memories. Mum would walk on one side, Dad on the other – and I’d be holding both their hands as they swung me in the air. I looked at Tony – and even though I’d lost weight, I doubted he’d be up for swinging me around the promenade.

‘I’ll beat you to that lamp post,’ I called after him, running along the front, the wind in my hair, my strong legs taking me further and faster than ever before.

He was soon grabbing me by the waist, pulling me back, the sibling I never had trying to beat me to the winning post. I didn’t stand a chance – he was over six feet with long legs, and apart from cheating by trying to push me out of the way – he won.

I ‘landed’ at his side, panting, holding onto him after my sprint.

‘As your partner and mentor, I should have said, there will be no running, no jumping and no sex before the performance,’ he announced, arms folded at the lamp post pretending it hadn’t been an effort to run.

‘You mean like footballers before a match,’ I was still trying to get my breath.

‘Yeah. And I don’t care how much you pester me, Lola, I am not finding you a toyboy on the pier to satisfy your lust.’

‘One wouldn’t be enough – what’s the collective term for toyboys.’

‘A warehouse,’ he giggled.

We laughed and then he took my hand and we ran together, me skipping alongside him like a little girl as we crossed the road from the seafront to the shops.

Despite it being the middle of winter, there was a flavour of Blackpool summers hanging in the air. It was early evening, the sea was a vast expanse of sequinned blackness.

In the distance was The Pleasure Beach, the rides were lit and moving, the screams carried on the wind – pure fear and exhilaration for just a couple of quid. I could see the lights on the little trains swirling through the air, the slow, trundling ride upwards, followed by the whoosh and the accompanying screams as the roller coaster plunged to its depths. I could taste the candy floss, feel the remembered thrill of my tummy rising and falling as we swept through the air.

When I was a kid it was just the Big Dipper, but now it was ‘The Big One’, over two hundred feet of metal that dwarfed all the other rides. Even The Pleasure Beach isn’t immune to change, I thought, everything moves on. I’d held on to my dad’s arm and screamed on the Big Dipper as we lurched from sky to ground in seconds. I remember Dad laughing loudly. ‘Wave to Mum,’ he’d shout and we’d both wave frantically at the tiny figure down below waiting for us.

‘I’m starving, we have to have fish and chips,’ I demanded, so we bought takeaway fish and chips from a cafe and walked along the road eating them straight out of the paper. The wooden fork was reassuringly rough on my tongue, the chips hot and vinegary, and the gold battered fish tasted just like the sea. We tried on hats and scarves and fell into each other laughing at the sight while holding each other up.

Later, we sat with a couple of beers outside a gay bar and took in the sights – and I don’t mean the seascape. It was chilly, but we were wrapped up in the warm, both enjoying the handsome young men coming and going in the pink paradise. I looked over at Tony as two drag queens walked by dressed from head to toe in glitz and feathers. He caught my eye and we smiled at the madness and colour of it all, both enjoying the spectacle. ‘You know, it’s funny – because you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. You’re handsome, funny... caring...’ I started.

‘I am, aren’t I? I’d make a lovely husband but I just don’t think it’s ever going to happen. We’ll both be in our sixties, still single, sitting outside bars in the dark drinking pink cocktails and lusting after young men.’

‘Oh,
dahling
, I do hope so,’ I said, in my best Bette Davis voice.

T
he following morning
at dawn we awoke and I prepared myself for the day ahead. The dancing itself was a huge challenge, but going back there, to the place it happened was terrifying.

My dress was hanging on the back of the door, a reminder of what was to come, I looked at it and a thrill of fear danced through me. I packed some toiletries and make-up into a big bag with Dad’s letter. I also had with me some old photos of Mum and Dad dancing, posing, laughing. I took them out and looked at them again, remembering how things had been before that terrible night and the last time they ever danced together. I was doing this for them too.