Page 46 of Slow Burn

The opening bars of an evocative rumba emanated from the speakers. Our eyes locked together.

‘I miss dancing with you,’ I said. ‘It’s not the same with anyone else.’

He stood up, holding out his hand. ‘Then shall we?’

I joined him on the lawn-cum-dance-floor, letting our bodies rock together, finding the beat.

Naturally, we fell into the steps from Slow Burn , and this time, I let myself give in to the passion I felt for this man as he ran his hands over my hips, holding me as I fell into a backbend, my body so close to the ground that my hair tickled the grass.

I came back up to meet him, eye to eye, our hips swaying in time to the music.

When I kicked my leg into the air, Gabriele caught my ankle gently in his hand, supporting me as I let my body lunge to one side, knowing that he would never let me fall.

Suspended in motion like that, I acknowledged how safe he made me feel, and not just while we were dancing.

And it was a new feeling, because he’d always felt very unsafe , in that I suspected he was perfectly capable of breaking my heart.

And he still might be, but I had to change my life. Do something with it. And that meant taking risks. And being with Gabriele, for however long that might turn out to be, was one risk I was determined to let myself take.

The next morning, I was up earlier than Gabriele, and went down to the kitchen to make us both a coffee. I kept opening and shutting cupboards, looking for the potent Italian coffee I was sure Sofia must keep somewhere.

‘Bottom cupboard on the right,’ said Sofia, appearing in the doorway. ‘It is coffee you are looking for, yes? I know Gabriele likes a cup in the morning, he has always been that way.’

I nodded. ‘I’m exactly the same. Can’t quite get going without it.’

I bent down to open the cupboard. I’d already looked in here, but had somehow missed it.

Sofia took a seat at the dining table, watching me as I set about making the coffee.

‘Can I pour one for you?’ I asked.

‘That would be lovely,’ said Sofia.

I tried not to show my surprise at how nice she was being. It was like the guarded, defensive, accusative woman from the night before had morphed into someone altogether less spiky overnight.

‘I saw you and Gabriele out in the garden last night,’ said Sofia, casually, sending me into a tailspin.

I’d thought we were alone, chatting and dancing out there.

Our rumba had turned into a series of kisses interspersed with dance steps, culminating in us stumbling inside and spending all night in bed, leaving our glasses of wine undrunk and the music still on.

I’d snuck out there this morning to tidy up, but what had Sofia seen?

If the passion between us had looked as good as it felt, there was no way she was going to believe that there was nothing serious going on between the two of us.

‘You move beautifully together,’ said Sofia.

‘I love dancing with him,’ I admitted, bringing a pot of coffee over to the table and going back for the mugs. ‘He’s got a real gift. Don’t you think?’

‘Of course,’ said Sofia. ‘He’s been a wonderful dancer all his life, from the moment he took his very first class aged two and a half. Enzo wasn’t keen on him pursuing it at first, I’m not sure if Gabi told you.’

‘A little,’ I said, not wanting her to think he’d been criticizing his father.

‘He was a traditional man. A career in dance wasn’t – isn’t – the usual thing out here in rural Italy.

He had his opinions, and they weren’t always right, but he loved Gabriele dearly.

And he was proud of him, too. I once caught him watching a video of Gabriele dancing on stage, and when he looked up he had tears in his eyes.

He said to me: I didn’t know he was this good . ’

I took a seat next to Sofia, pouring us each a mug of strong, black coffee.

‘I bet Gabriele would love to hear that story.’

Sofia pulled her cardigan tightly around herself as though she was cold, although when I’d popped outside to clear our things from the night before, the summer sun had already been rising in the clear blue sky.

‘I owe you an apology,’ said Sofia.

‘Sofia. You don’t,’ I said.

And I meant it – I’d come into her home expecting… what, exactly? That she was going to welcome me with open arms when her beloved husband had died weeks before?

‘I do. I was… difficult yesterday. I was thinking only of myself. Perhaps we do that when we are grieving,’ she said, with a wry smile.

‘I think we probably do,’ I said.

‘When I saw you and Gabriele dancing out in the garden, I couldn’t look away.

I know it was strange of me to keep watching.

You are probably thinking what a weird woman I am, watching two young people sharing a passionate moment meant only for them.

But it reminded me so much of the night I met Enzo.

Three decades ago now, back in Argentina. ’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘About him.’

Sofia rubbed her arms, as though the memory of him was making her shiver.

‘He was in Buenos Aires for meetings. I was twenty-two and had just left university, unsure what to do with my life. He was older – nearly thirty – and to me he had it all together. He knew how to talk to women, how to treat them, how to dress. How to be charming . He had come with his colleagues to watch an Argentine tango show at the bar at the end of my street. I was working there as a waitress, just to make some money while I decided what I actually wanted to do with my life.’

‘Who does know, at twenty-two?’ I said.

‘Gabriele,’ said Sofia, laughing softly. ‘He always knew.’

‘So that night, in Buenos Aires. How did the two of you get talking?’

Sofia’s eyes misted over as she thought back to that night, to the moment she first set eyes on Enzo.

‘He was so handsome, easily the best-looking man in the room. I could tell immediately that he was not a local – he was dressed too well, in his fancy shirt and expensive jeans and smart shoes. I was clearing his table when he struck up conversation with me in broken Spanish. His was so bad that eventually we swapped to English, which neither of us was perfect at, but my Italian was non-existent then, so we had little choice.’

I laughed, totally caught up in the story.

‘What did he say to you?’ I asked.

‘He wanted to know if I could dance the Argentine tango. If all Argentinian girls knew how to dance it. I said that, yes, it was in our blood. He asked me to show him a step or two.’

I rested my chin in the palm of my hand, totally enraptured by the romance of it all. What a place to meet: hot, sultry Argentina, tango music everywhere.

‘Could he dance?’ I asked.

Sofia threw her head back, letting out an infectious roar. It was the first time I’d seen her properly laugh.

‘He was terrible!’ she declared. ‘He wanted to learn the boleo , but he kept getting his legs all tangled up in mine. Eventually, I gave up teaching him the steps and simply tried to get him to connect to the rhythm of the music. Slowly, he began to understand the beat. Our hips were swaying together, we were looking into each other’s eyes as though nobody else could see us, not even my boss who wanted me to clear more tables. ’

‘That’s so romantic,’ I said.

‘We have barely been apart since,’ said Sofia, her face falling again. ‘I went back to his hotel room that night and by morning we had declared that we never wanted to be separated again.’

Tears began to slide down her cheeks and I instantly regretted asking her so many questions when it was clearly still too upsetting for her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have—’

‘Don’t be sorry. I want to talk about him. It makes me feel that he is still here with me. I wish that you could have met him, and since you can’t, I want to be able to tell you about him. Don’t mind me if I cry. We Argentinian women are very emotional.’

‘And the men?’ I asked, thinking of Gabriele, who was a mixture of Argentinian and Italian.

‘Not so much, as I’m sure you have noticed,’ said Sofia.

Gabriele chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He looked nervous at first, probably wondering what I’d done to his poor mother to make tears course down her cheeks and her face flush.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked, looking from one of us to the other.

Sofia patted the chair next to her.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘I have just been telling Lira about your father. And about how I saw the two of you dance together and was blown away by what I saw.’

‘Really?’ said Gabriele, reluctantly taking a seat. ‘Were you watching us, Mama?’

‘A little,’ she admitted breezily.

Then she turned to me, taking both of my hands in hers.

‘I think you and I are going to be very good friends,’ she said. ‘I know you have your big dance career to pursue, and after seeing how perfectly you danced that rumba, I can understand that you have a talent that deserves to be nurtured and shown to other people for them to enjoy.’

I was so surprised I couldn’t find a way to answer.

‘You like Italy?’ said Sofia.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very much.’

‘And you like my son, yes?’

I glanced at Gabriele, who was looking utterly confused at the scene unfolding in front of him.

‘Very much, also,’ I said.

‘Then I hope that you will come to visit us again. It will be nice for me to have some female company around the place.’

Gabriele looked at Sofia.

‘Mama, are you feeling all right?’

He jokingly placed his hand on her forehead as though she might have a fever, and she playfully batted his hand away.

‘The only thing that would make this even better would be for Enzo to be here to see how happy you have made my son, Lira.’

Gabriele groaned with embarrassment. ‘Enough! Please, you two!’

All three of us cracked up. As I watched Sofia cry tears of laughter rather than pain, I thought how grief was a funny thing. How sparks of happiness could be found in even the darkest moments. And I had a thought. And I didn’t know why it hadn’t come to me sooner.

‘Gabriele, would you feel up to dancing the final performance of Slow Burn ? I’ll do two nights in Florence with Tomas, but then you perform on our last night. It’s your show. You should be there, up on stage, bringing it to its rightful end.’

‘What a wonderful idea!’ said Sofia.

‘You’d come, wouldn’t you, Sofia? You would come and watch Gabriele perform?’

She nodded. ‘Of course I would. Sad as it would be without Enzo – because he was very proud of you, Gabi, you know. All he wanted was for you to be happy.’

‘I do not know what to say,’ said Gabriele.

‘Say yes,’ I said. ‘And then let’s call Carlos to tell him.’