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

none are so technically accomplished or emotionally beguiling as the first dancer.

“Does it make you want to dance?” asks James as a woman drifts away from the floor to rounds measured applause.

“A little,” I admit. “But mostly, I just like to watch.”

James’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me, but we continue to enjoy our evening without further mention of my dancing.

Eventually, the bar has all but emptied out, and we’re almost the only people remaining.

Since watching the flamenco, I feel as though something inside me has shifted. It’s almost a physical sensation. As though I’ve developed some new muscles and am carrying old wounds a little better.

Mostly, I realise, I feel safe around James. As though he could carry me through anything. I remember what he said to me in the Paris restaurant.

That he’d catch me, if I fell.

Am I starting to believe him?

I let myself sink against his body with a little sigh. James moves his mouth to kiss my hair. His next words come out so quietly, I am hardly sure I’ve heard them.

“I want to watch you dance,” he says.

My body tenses. I stay silent, not knowing how to reply.

“You’ve been so brave, Issy,” he says, murmuring into my hair. “You’ve given me so much. And you’ve been willing to try things, to make me happy.”

I swallow and nod. It’s true. I have been brave. Sexually. But this is something completely different.

I feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“What good do you think it would do?” I manage. “For you to see me dancing?”

“It’s not only for me,” says James. “It’s for you. I think it’s a part of you which needs to come out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Issy. There’s a sad part of you which is locked tight. I know you can’t tell me easily. But I think you could show me. In your dance. And I think… I think it would help you. To share that.”

I feel my heart turn to ice. My memories of dancing are hazy. But I remember the audition clear enough.

“There’s no music,” I hedge.

I feel James smile into my hair. “They’ll start it, as soon as you get on the floor. That’s what they did for all the other dancers tonight.”

“I don’t know,” I reply. Something in me is stirring. But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to revisit that place.

“Do you remember what I said, back at the hotel?” asks James. “I want you to share everything with me. Every little bit. That includes the sadness.”

The sadness. The way he says it makes it sound so real.

I feel myself waver.

I pull away from him, so I can look into his eyes. “If I do this for you,” I say, “will that be the end of it? No more talking about my childhood?”

James gives a faint smile.

“If that’s what you decide.”

“But you’re hoping I’ll change my mind? Afterwards?”

“I am hoping that, yes,” he admits.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “I won’t change my mind.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

Stubbornly, I rise from the little table, flashing him a defiant look.

Fine, Mr Berkeley. If that’s what you want.

I assess my outfit. My skirt is not quite long enough, but it will do. I don’t have the right shoes. But I always preferred to dance bare foot anyway. Silently, I lever my footwear off.

“You really want me to do this?” I demand, trying for a last minute reprieve.

James nods. “I really want you to do this.” His eyes are fixed on mine.

With my heart pounding, I turn and approach the floor.

The barman catches my approach and raises his eyebrows as a question. I nod to him.

Start the music.

And then the first strains start. The music sounds completely different, now I’m on the dance floor.

It’s so real. Like a heartbeat thudding through me.

I haven’t felt this in so long.

Automatically, my body reacts to the music. I stiffen and arch my back.

Memories are flashing. The audition. The stern faces.

I let my arms stretch upwards, winding my wrists slowly as they ascend. And as they reach their graceful apex, I strike my foot strongly on the ground.

With the movement, the dance comes flooding back. And I feel my face load with sadness.

How could I ever feel this much grief?

The memories of that sadness are so acute, that they momentarily take my breath away. But my body turns, automatically, in the rhythm of the dance. My wrists, flex and turn fluidly. My hips twists fast, and then stop. My bare feet stamp out the rhythm.

This is what it was like. Your body helped your mind forget.

The sudden realisation seems to root me deeper in the music. How could I have forgotten this? This close attention to the minute movements of every part of me. Pain was lodged in every movement. No wonder my Spanish dancing was so accomplished. The concentration helped me blot out what was happening in my life.

Papa.

I feel a physical surge, as though a part of me is rushing open, flooding me with grief.

My feet whirl, and the moving air catches my face. My cheeks are wet with tears, but I hardly notice.

I let my soul sink into the music and the sad strains threaten to overtake me entirely.

I am falling, but my body holds rigid as I hold the next posture.

Like a stone statue. Stone doesn’t feel anything.

The sentences from my childhood take me by surprise. Did I say those words to myself? Did my mother?

Then my torso turns again, and my hand scoops the hem of my skirt into a perfect figure of eight.

Another memory rears up. I try and fight it, but this time I can’t.

It feels like I’m falling… falling…

I suddenly realise that I’m sobbing. And then James is at my side.

“Issy.” He takes me into his arms, and I sink into him.

“James. I…”

“It’s alright, Issy. Shhh. You don’t have to say anything. It’s alright.”

I look into his face. There are tears in his eyes.

“Issy,” he whispers, “I had no idea you were hiding so much.”

James looks so sad.

“You’re coming back to the