The Director's Cut by Js Taylor (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt) 📕

My eyes sink back to the whirling dress, and the relentless rhythm of the music. The dancer’s footwork matches every beat, whilst her upper body keeps its rigid twirling shapes.

Following her movements, I feel my body respond. I want to dance.

Flamenco is not choreographed, and I feel my mind spin around the possibilities of how I would move.

Then, in a final dramatic beat, the dance is over, and the dancer stands rigid and upright.

The audience breaks into stunned applause.

James rises to his feet, clapping, and I join him. Soon, all the seated diners are standing and applauding.

The dancer’s face flushes with delight, and she nods to her audience.

Then with a quiet grace, she exits the stage.

I sit back down, stunned with what I’ve just seen.

“Thank you,” I say to James as he sits next to me. “That was incredible.”

James is assessing my face.

“Are you sure?” he asks, “I was worried it might be a step too far. I almost didn’t bring you.”

I sigh out, thinking about this. “I loved it,” I admit. “I haven’t seen flamenco like that for a long, long time.”

“Good,” says James. He looks relieved.

“I have no idea why that dancer is in Barcelona, rather than Madrid,” I add, with a laugh. “She could have her pick of where to perform.”

“I’m glad you liked her,” smiles James.

I give him an uncertain smile in return. I’m still confused. The raft of memories and long forgotten feelings. It’s as though I’ve been in the eye of a storm, which has suddenly dispersed. And I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.

“Shall I order us a few dishes?” asks James.

“Sure.” I haven’t touched my beer, and I pick up the bottle and take a long sip. The cold liquid feels good.

“It’s not table service now,” says James. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And he heads to the bar.

I let my thoughts drift around the flamenco act, and my gaze settles on the empty stage.

Part of me misses the dance, I realise. Part of me would have liked to be the dancer, whirling to the crowd.

James is back at the table, suddenly, and his face is uncharacteristically surprised.

“Isabella,” he says as he sits. “Did you know that flamenco dancer?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Well, she knows you,” says James. “She says she remembers you.”

“She does?” I blink up at him in confusion. To my knowledge, I have never seen her before in my life.

“Yes,” says James. “She’s asked to come over to our table.”

Chapter 27

The dancer approaches our table with a cautious smile. She’s lost the elaborate flowers in her hair and taken off some of the flowing train from her dress.

I smile politely as she nears, hardly knowing what to make of the situation.

“Isabella?” she says, pronouncing my name with the Spanish emphasis on bella.

“Si?” I answer as a question.

“I’m sorry,” says the dancer, speaking in Spanish. “I know you won’t know who I am. But I remember you. You are the child dancer. Aren’t you?”

I am stunned into silence.

“I watched you perform,” she continues, “when you were very young. It was magnificent. We all assumed you would be one of the greats.”

I feel myself blushing at the unexpected praise.

“I don’t dance anymore,” I say, not sure how to take the compliment. “You were incredible,” I add. “The depth of emotion. It was stunning.”

The dancer blows out her cheeks and taps my arm in remonstrance.

“You talk to me about emotion.” She turns to James. ”In Spain, the best flamenco dancers are not young,” she explains. “They do not have the depth of feeling. But this one.” She taps my arm again. “This one, as a child could command feeling in her face like an adult.”

She shakes her head.

“Why did you not stay in Madrid and train?”

“I went to London,” I say. “My mother thought my dancing would get me into drama school there.”

“It’s a shame for Spain to lose you,” says the dancer, with feeling. “For one so young to have that compas…”

“What is compas?” asks James, questioning the unfamiliar Spanish word.

“It’s a bit like rhythm,” I say.

“No, no,” says the dancer, shaking her head. “It is not rhythm. Rhythm is da da da,” she waves her hand disparagingly. “Compos is Bom. Bom. Bom.” She strikes one hand hard into the other with each word.

“There is no translation. It is much more precise. Very difficult,” she adds.

“Where did you see Isabella dance?” asks James.

I feel my face flush with embarrassment. Don’t ask her that!

The dancer’s eyes widen in surprise.

“In the main square, in Madrid, of course. Her mother used to take her to dance there. They used to make a lot of money. People would come from all over town to see.”

Argh! I hate that he knows we had to busk for money.

I see James’s face register this revelation, whilst I am cringing with embarrassment.

“We didn’t have much money,” I say, feeling my cheeks burning. “So sometimes we would busk. But not very often. Only when we were in Spain.”

“Has he seen you dance?” the dancer is asking me, glancing at James.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t dance anymore.”

The dancer shakes her head. “A woman never stops dancing when she has learned flamenco. You should dance for him. Let him see. There is a stage and music here. Many of the women here will dance tonight.”

I’m shaking my head. Although the idea is far less awful than it would have been a half hour ago.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” says the dancer, standing up. “You have grown up to be very beautiful. I always wondered what happened to the little girl with the sad face.”

Chapter 28

The evening draws on, and James and I enjoy drinks and tapas plates in the heady atmosphere of the bar.

At regular intervals, music strikes up, and several of the local women dance their own improvised flamenco to the crowd.

Several are very good, and I enjoy watching their performances. But