Page 3 of Slow Burn

Upsetting the locals was not advisable in a town as small as this.

James Jive was an integral part of the community, and the businesses on the high street supported each other whenever we could.

Personally, I wanted to keep it that way, and I wasn’t sure having fifty girls blocking the pavement was going to ingratiate us with the majority of residents.

On the other hand, I imagined some of them might love it – it would be the most excitement Castlebury had seen in months.

‘Yes, fine,’ said Emily, snippily, tossing her perfect, expensive-looking hair over her shoulder. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing the door myself, but the girl who was supposed to be here missed her train and there wasn’t another one for thirty minutes ! I told her not to bother.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy…?’ said Emily, eyeing me hopefully.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some paperwork to do,’ I said, apologetically.

It was true, there was always some admin to fill my time with, but really I just didn’t want to give Emily the satisfaction of being able to boss me around all day.

At five minutes to two, we were ready to open the doors.

Emily was clip-boarded up and looking formidable, which, for reasons I didn’t quite understand, the people on the door always seemed to be at auditions.

Did they purposely choose the most intimidating members of the team to work front of house, ticking off names so ferociously that the dancers who weren’t robust or confident enough would crumble under the pressure and could be weeded out before they’d even begun?

The rest of the casting team had arrived a few minutes ago – two producers and Carlos’s assistant choreographer, who, along with Carlos himself, would make up the judging panel.

I’d set them up behind the trestle table we used for internal exams, and had made sure they had jugs of water, glasses and little bowls of healthy snacks pilfered from the bar.

After getting the nod from Emily, I let the dancers file in.

Pangs of envy curled in my belly, taking me by surprise.

I missed dancing – there, I’d said it – properly dancing; dancing like my life depended on it.

Sure, I got to teach now, so I was still moving my body, coming up with steps, and, of course, when I had the studio to myself, I let loose and danced to my heart’s content.

But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t like dancing with a partner, and it didn’t come with any of the buzz you got from performing for an audience.

There wasn’t the tension of competition, of pushing your skills to the absolute limit.

There was no waiting for scores to come in, or being crowned world champion – the best in the world at something.

I’d been nineteen the last time I’d experienced that feeling, and I was thirty-two now. Where had the years gone, and what exactly had I done with them?

Out of nowhere, lately, I’d had a relentless ache inside me; a nagging feeling that something was missing.

Ultimately, it had been my decision to help Mum and Dad with the studio while they travelled the world; to live at home and be the dutiful daughter I’d always been.

I’d understood when my mum said she wanted the best for me, a more settled life, not the unpredictable life of a dancer, not knowing where my next pay cheque was coming from.

She’d thought I wasn’t suited to a life of uncertainty, she’d wanted me to be happy , and I was, for a while.

But suddenly I couldn’t shake the feeling there might be more to life than teaching wedding dances to nice people in a not very exciting town.

Contrary to Emily’s predictions, there was quite a queue, and I watched the women file in, their toned bodies exquisite, clattering across the floor of the reception area on a wave of chatter and excitement.

The bar wasn’t big enough to accommodate more than about fifteen dancers at any one time, so I’d subtly suggested to Emily that she let them enter in groups – when one set of fifteen went in to perform, the next group could be ticked off and waiting in the bar for their turn.

My organizational skills had always been second-to-none, which was probably how I’d found myself being manager here in the first place.

My former dancer of a mother, a three-time South African Latin world champion, no less, knew I could be trusted to keep on top of things, and I’d never given them any reason to think otherwise.

After helping Carlos’s assistant choreographer with the stereo system – a slight tech issue had ensued, but I’d soon sorted it out – the auditions began in earnest. I took my place at the reception desk, using the handily located porthole window to keep an eye on what was happening in the studio, while pretending to be heavily engaged in my ‘paperwork’.

Carlos’s assistant was teaching a set of exquisite steps that I couldn’t help mapping out with my feet as I watched – the Argentine tango had always been my favourite.

For one brief moment, I let my mind wander back to a moment in the deliciously decadent Hotel Paris.

It had been midnight, or thereabouts. A male dancer with slim hips, dark, intense eyes and the most beautifully sculpted cheekbones I’d ever seen had led me onto the makeshift dance floor in the hotel bar.

I let myself remember how his hips had moved against mine, the way our legs had effortlessly kicked and flicked between each other’s as we did a set of the fastest boleos known to man.

It had felt like we’d danced together a million times before, and yet it was our first and only time.

I’d thought of him often over the years, and desperately wished I could stop.

I knew I’d romanticized it all in my mind, so much so that nothing had ever quite lived up to that night.

Or to him. And the idea that one single night, thirteen years ago, was going to be the best thing that had ever happened to me was too awful to contemplate.

As ever, the auditions ran over – by two and a half hours!

They’d only hired the studio until six, but it was eight-thirty before we knew it and the last group of dancers had only just left the building.

Emily was looking even more annoyed than she had been when she’d first arrived – if that was even possible – and Carlos and his team were huddled together, no doubt deciding who they wanted to call back for a second audition.

I stifled a yawn as I put the dishwasher on in the bar and swept the floor in the reception area.

I was half-tempted to leave the rest of the clearing up until morning, but I knew I’d regret it when I arrived at 8am to get ready for a day of lessons.

Fridays were always busy now that people could work from home – it made it easier for them to slope away from their desks for a sneaky dance lesson.

Then there was the kids contemporary class at four, street dance at five and beginners waltz at six-thirty.

Carlos thanked me on his way out, calling me by the wrong name, which I tried not to be insulted by.

‘Thank you, Lena, darling. It is a shame your studio is not in London; I would use it again if it was not so difficult to get to.’

I nodded, grateful for the backhanded compliment and resisting the urge to remind him that the studio was only about five miles outside of south London.

And did he know how much the council charged to rent a space in central London?

Mum would have loved to have had a studio there.

She’d never quite taken to suburban life either, having spent her childhood in bustling Cape Town.

As my dad had constantly reminded us, Castlebury might not be the most vibrant place on earth, but at least we weren’t going bankrupt.

I thought about the day as I finished tidying the studio, running dirty plates and glasses back and forth to the bar, putting the tables and chairs away and emptying the bins, which seemed to be overflowing with protein bar wrappers and empty cans of Coke Zero.

It was taking longer than I’d hoped, so I put some Argentine tango music on.

Every so often I stopped to replicate the steps I’d seen Carlos and his assistant teach the auditionees earlier.

Having spent most of the last six hours surreptitiously watching the dancers perform the routine, I had pretty much memorized the whole thing.

I’d even had the sense that I could do that, too.

In fact, with only one or two exceptions, I knew for sure I could do it better.

They’d all picked up the steps easily enough – they were professional dancers, after all, and these things came naturally as long as you kept practising and attending classes and castings.

But the Argentine tango was special, and they hadn’t been dancing it with their soul , the way I knew it needed to be danced.

I turned the music up, performing the steps as though it had been me in front of a panel.

I had a vivid imagination and could picture myself there, letting the music course through my blood, moving effortlessly to the beat, bringing alive the story of the tango, the passion I imagined my character was feeling as she tried to lure the object of her affection into bed using just music and dance.

I got so into it that, when the music stopped and I looked up, I was almost surprised to see the studio mirror in front of me, rather than the line of judges I’d imagined were watching, enraptured.

I ran over to turn off the sound system. That had been fun, but I had to remember who I was now: Lira James, studio manager, not Lira James, world champion in Argentine tango.

My whole body jerked in shock when I heard a slow clap coming from the reception area. I turned around, dreading what – or rather, who – I was going to see there.