Moved (7 page)

“Hi...”

“Sorry I took a while,
I had a queue...”

“So, you scored I
hear.”

“What's he been
saying?” There was a strange tone to her voice.

“Nothing, his lips are
sealed tighter than Scrooge's safe. He did suggest it was more than
once. That was all I could drag out of him.”

She laughed. A brittle
kind of laugh.

“What's up? Didn't he
set you on fire after all?” I ask, confused, but at the same time
growing hopeful it might already be the end, before it really
started.

“It's not that he
didn't... but the whole thing wasn't how I imagined it would be. I
took him upstairs with a bottle of scotch. He was kinda down.
Talking about you two, and really pissed off. We sat on the bed and
talked and drank, just a couple of sips each. Then I pushed it, I
sat on his lap and kissed him. He wasn't responding wildly until I
took my top off, and that finally got him going. I seduced him,”
she snorts down the phone...

“Well, never mind how
it happened. You've had your wicked way now, haven't you?”

I'm going past
tense... suggestively.

“I know I have, but it
went downhill after that. I wanted a second helping... but again...
I did the leg work... and he was kinda morose... thoughtful,
swigging from that bottle of scotch like it was water. I took it
off him in the end and shoved it under the bed.”

“Oh, so not so
memorable an occasion then?” I'm trying to feel sympathy for her,
but I'm also feeling happy for me. My voice doesn't know where to
pitch its tone.

“It wasn't all that...
but the worse thing was, he called me by your name. I know he lives
with you and dances with you, and it's natural to make a mistake
like that, but I found it more than upsetting, to be honest.” Her
voice breaks, and she snivels down the phone.

“Oh Sand, I'm sorry.
Look, he was obviously a little trashed. See how it goes later.
When are you seeing him again?”

“I don't know, he
hasn't suggested anything yet. In fact he hasn't even called.”

“Well you know what
he's like. I've warned you enough times. He's not into
relationships.”

“I guess. But I
thought, you know...that he might just like me a little bit more
than the others.” Her voice cracks with emotion.

“I'm sure he does,” I
console her. I look at him packing, tight-mouthed and flicking his
eyes up to where I'm sitting questioningly. I turn my back. “I'll
let you go now, I'm out shopping. Call you later, okay?”

“Sure, after four, it
gets quieter then.”

“Bye...” I tap off and
bag my phone.

He's finishing up,
paying with his card, and that done, we leave and wheel our stuff
out to the car, silently.

The car loaded, we get
in and he turns to face me.

“Well? Had a laugh at
my expense, did you?” he scowls.

“Not at all. Should we
have?”

I don't remember
laughing much, no...

“I can't remember all
the details, but I don't think it was all that great,” he
admits.

“Mase, don't worry.
She's fine. But a little bit put out you weren't more enthusiastic,
that's all, and you didn't even call her today. Doesn't she deserve
a call? This is Sandy were talking about here, not a complete
stranger.”

“I know. You sure
she's fine about me?”

“Absolutely. The
situation needs some TLC. A quick phone call. Why don't you offer
to take her out for lunch? It's her day off tomorrow.”

Why I'm suggesting
this I don't know. To appear comfortable with them? To force them
forward to their natural conclusion faster, or perhaps I'm simply
masochistic and want to rub my own face in it?

“I'll call her after
lunch.”

He brightens, starts
the car engine up, and we set off home, through the noisy, busy
world that's inner London, back to Clapham.

We've finished our
amazing salad, which damn near sets my taste buds alight, and I'm
in the process of tidying up the kitchen.

“Fancy going to the
studio for a couple of hours?” he suggests as he stands watching me
from the doorway.

“But we're doing heavy
rehearsals tomorrow. Do we really need to?”

I was hoping I could
flop all afternoon. Snooze and chill. Just in case I don't get much
shut eye later.

“I want to focus on
our solo parts, no distractions. You know what it's like when the
others are around.”

“Well okay, let's make
it a quick session though. I want to be back in time to get a bath
in before I go out,” I agree reluctantly. I'm not sure I want to be
lying all over him when we're on our own. Just in case I lose
it.

“You're going out with
Jackson tonight?” He sounds very disappointed at this news. But
then again, of course he would.

“Yeah... for dinner,
somewhere nice I hope.”

“So tonight's the big
night of passion is it?”

I take a couple of
steps forward and look at him, full eye contact.

“It could be... I
don't know yet. Why?”

“I really don't want
to see you get involved with him and hurt.”

“I don't want to be
hurt either. But Jackson seems nice enough. Genuine, kind and
honest.”

“He isn't in it for
the long run Kay. Admittedly he's more invested than I am in his
women, but I know him. He's a top class player. He'll tell you
exactly what you want to hear while he's looking over your shoulder
for the next conquest. That's why I've kept you apart.”

“Well maybe I won't
listen to what he tells me, huh? Look, I need something... someone?
You must understand that? I haven't had a boyfriend for a year. But
I promise I won’t hold my breath, okay?”

He holds his arms out.
He doesn't do this type of thing normally. This'll be two hugs in
one day.

I step into his arms
and he hugs me tight and drops a kiss on my head.

“When it all goes pear
shaped, which it will, I'm here...'K?”

“Oh cheer me up, why
don't you?” I snort, pushing him away, my palms against his chest.
I'm kind of smiling as I go back to my tidying and wiping up the
dishes.

“We'll go by car for a
change shall we? Will 30 mins be okay?”

“Yep, fine. You go
chat to Sand.”

I stand at the sink,
looking outside, but not really seeing anything out there. I'm deep
in thought. In two minds about Jackson. I need the distraction, but
obviously, now I'm wary.

Why can't life be
simple? Meet nice guy... Live happily ever after... blah...blah...
blah?

I stand in the musty
smelling, windowless dressing room and open my bag to choose my
dance gear. Normally we wear full dress for our rehearsals. You've
got to be able to move properly in the stage clothes, so it's
essential to rehearse in them.

But today, I'm
not.

I don't know what
possesses me to do it, but I put on my high leg Lycra black
leotard. No leggings, no knickers, no bra. It's very revealing. My
ass hangs out of this a little too much. I'm feeling almost naked
in my jazz pumps and brief ensemble. On a whim I decide to leave my
hair down, flowing around my shoulders. I feel even more naked with
it tied up.

As I leave the
changing room, I know I'm doing this to push him. It's a test, to
see what happens.

He's scrolling through
my iPod, with his back to me, and finally finding the track, he
puts it in the dock and turns the volume up. The Temptations, My
Girl, blares out.

I'm standing in the
middle of the floor, arms crossed, when he turns and catches sight
of me.

“Fuck Kaydee, did you
forget to wear something?” he asks with wide eyes, having a very
thorough sweep up and down me.

“Ah well, as it's only
me and you here, just us old buddies.” I challenge, walking to his
side and taking his hand. I twirl round, wrapping myself in his
arm, pressing my back to his front. I look upwards, over my
shoulder, and our faces are close, just inches apart. “So, shall we
begin?” I ask, bracing my feet against his, and staring at his
mouth. I'm remembering how it felt, the touch of his tongue on
mine. I feel a flush of heat inside me.

I'm struggling
already.

Not good
.

He takes a deep
breath, his professional mask in place, and we're off. I roll out
and stand facing him in second position. We begin our rehearsed
steps. It's basically a slow dance with some wraps, half lifts, and
floor drops. Lots of contact and sweeping side to side. This is the
first part of the Bonnie & Clyde couple get together, after the
full cast piece depicting the robbery at the bank.

I'm thinking it's
going pretty well, considering my current state of arousal, when he
stops, pulls away, and runs his fingers though his hair.

“I don't know. It's
just not right.. There's too much contra-lateral opposition
―
one arm, the other leg
―
it's repetitive. Let’s take it back to basics. Slow
dance and I'll work out from that. Start the track again, and put
it on loop.”

“I like it as it is,
Mase,” I offer up my humble opinion, walking over to the iPod,
situated on the floor in the corner. I bend down and flick back and
on repeat.

“Mm mm, what a
beautiful naked view.”

I stand up, turn and
grin at him as I return.

“I've seen your naked
butt often enough,” I joke.

“I don't think my ass
is in the same league as yours, honey.”

“Oh, I don't know...
It kinda does it for me.” My heart is fluttering, at this flirty
'ass' talk.

He grabs me by the
forearm and pulls me in and slaps my almost bare cheek
playfully.

“Oh yeah.... I'm all
ears. So it does it for you, does it?”

I slap his ass back,
grabbing a toned handful.

“Mm mm, it's damn
grabbable...”

And suddenly he's
pulling me down on the floor and tickling me.

“I'll give you
grabbable. Yours is edible.”

“Oh no, get off me..!
You beast... I hate you... please don't,” I beg.

Now one thing I hate
is being tickled. And he knows it. It's the worst form of
punishment. I go into one. A shrieking, swearing, wild writhing
spasm. Then he flips me across his knees and bites my backside,
rubbing me with his bristly chin in between mouthfuls, and tickling
my sides incessantly.

“Don't... Oh hell!
Stop it... Fuck off, you bastard,” I squeal, desperately trying to
wriggle away.

He finally stops,
sensing I've had enough, and I'm reaching that unpleasant stage
where I begin to get upset
―
about to
really blast him. He gets up and offers me his hand and pulls me
up. And what happens next almost blows my mind.

He slips his hands
under my leotard and holds my bare ass in his palms.

I gasp and hold my
breath as he pulls me close. His hands rub gently up and down, and
round and round and he whispers in my ear.

“You wore this
deliberately, to get me going, didn't you?”

“What do you mean?
It's just my old leotard,” I reply innocently. “By the way, would
you mind getting your hands out of it?” It's pure heaven to be held
in his hands, but feel I ought to make some kind of protest.

“Not yet, I'm enjoying
it.”

“Yeah, and I can feel
just how much as well.”

I brush his erection
with my hand as I pull away and walk off, to pick up my Lucozade
lemon drink. I keep my back to him so he can't see my chest heaving
up and down and the bright flush I feel I'm sporting all over my
face and neck.

After a quick sip, I
take a deep breath and turn back.

“Right, lets do the
dance again, shall we?” I pull myself together and get on with the
dancing.

I get into the
starting position and move into his arms.

“Relax into me and
let's see what else we can do with this,” he suggests.

I know what I want to
do, and it's not dancing slowly. But ever the professional, I
resist the urge to rip his clothes off.

I nestle against him,
our legs and arms positioned around each other, he holds one hand
tight, and I rest my head on his chest. This is a normal state of
affairs for us, but at this moment it feels very different. I'm
floating in his arms. Blissfully safe and warm, and so in tune with
him, we're almost one.

I don't know how many
times the track played on loop, but it was at least three, before
we moved from that shuffling, tightly wrapped position.

“We don't seem to be
doing much work here, Mase.”

“I'm thinking of
potential moves,” he says, smoothing the back of my head with his
hand.

I laugh.

“No you're not. We’re
having a real sweet hug here, aren't we?”

“Nothing wrong with a
hug while I think, is there?”

“It's a little bit too
intimate, in my opinion.”

He looks down at me,
so serious, his eyes glittering brightly.

“I wish I could
remember it. Last night.”

“I'm trying to forget
it.”

“It can't have been
that bad?” His eyes look hurt.

“You want me to answer
that do you?”

I know why I'm saying
this. It's self preservation. By denying my feelings out loud, I'm
less likely to shout out, ‘I love you. Please fuck me,’ which is on
the tip of my tongue and dying to escape.

“I was drunk. It
wasn't ever going to be good.”

“That's probably for
the best, I feel.”

“I'd love another go.
Sober.”

“
Another 'GO'?
I'm not a fucking fairground ride...” I kick him hard in the shin,
which kills my toes, encased only in their soft leather jazz
shoes.

I storm off.

I hear him complaining
with pain as I stomp off to the ladies’ changing room, slam the
door, and sit there fuming in the chair.

If he'd said almost
anything else, such as he wanted me or he found me irresistible,
I'd probably have succumbed. Removed the leotard, there and then,
and offered myself to him, in the studio.