The Flame Of The Rumba

dance classes are just what neglected Izzy needs to make her feel alive again… but what will happen in the rest of her life?

“FEEL the music. Let it STROKE your senses, BECOME YOUR heartbeat”

What happened on her birthday – or to be more accurate, what didn’t happen – made Izzy think. She took a step back to admire the shades of the new merino wool that had just come into the shop. Indigos and purples, ochre and forest green… she had a few customers who she knew wouldn’t be able to resist.

She was fifty-five, and while this was not officially a big deal, it felt like it. Perhaps it was because they’d spent the last few years economising, saving up for a dream holiday. She had rather hoped it might coincide with her special day.

A holiday to remember – to Cuba, perhaps? That was her dream. Even David was keen to see the classic American cars.

Izzy closed her eyes. White sands, a blue Caribbean sea, the crumbling splendour of downtown Havana, music and mojitos on every street corner…

“I was looking for a pattern for a baby’s bonnet.” A disapproving voice broke into her reverie. Izzy blinked.

“Of course,” she said. “Come and sit down and I’ll fetch the pattern book.”

On her fifty-fifth birthday there had been no surprise tickets for Cuba. There had been no night out at a fancy restaurant. Izzy had left the menu for the new seafood place in Lyme on the table for days, but David had failed to notice. Instead, he came in fromwork late, armed only with a bunch of flowers that looked suspiciously like the garage variety.

There was a card, hastily scribbled on and nothing like the cards he had bought her in the early days. They had been married for over thirty years. How had they so easily lost them, those early days?

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. She noticed he looked tired and drawn. “I’ll make it up to you. There’s somuch on at work…”

Izzy had shrugged. So much on at work. That had become David’s mantra. And she’d had enough.

The following weekend David took her out and bought her “something she wanted”. She chose an unsuitable red dress and ignored his raised eyebrows. The damage was done.

Their children Nick and Stella were grown up now and leading their own lives – albeit in that half independent state involving trips home with bags of washing and requests for loans from the Bank of Mum and Dad.

For years Izzy had loved and nurtured them, put herself second to the needs of the rest of the family. But from now on it would be different. She was fifty-five years old. She wanted something for herself.

The next day, she booked the holiday to Cuba.

“But we didn’t even discuss it!” David was aghast when she told him.

“If we’d discussed it,” Izzy said, “we’d never go.”

“It’s a bad time,” David grumbled, checking his diary.

“Why?” But she didn’t need him to reply. There’s so much on at work…

Two days later, she enrolled for salsa lessons at the local arts centre. Cuba was about music and dancing. She needed to be prepared.

The class was run by Roberto. Of Spanish and Caribbean descent, he was tall, slim-hipped, in his early forties, with dark olive skin and chocolate-coloured eyes. It seemed to Izzy that he favoured her with a special smile.

“To dance the salsa,” he said, “you must feel the music. Listen. Let it stroke your senses. Let it become your heartbeat. The pulse that drives you.”

Let it become your heartbeat… It was heady stuff. Izzy closed her eyes

and listened. It was stroking her senses alright. When she opened them again, it was to see Roberto staring straight at her, a small smile playing around his full and sensuous lips. Goodness. She flushed. The pulse that drives you.

Every week she attended the class. Every week she learned a new step or two. Every week she watched Roberto demonstrate his expertise and she felt a small shiver deep inside. Everyone danced with everyone else. But the moments of magic came when Izzy danced with Roberto. She could feel his hand resting on the small of her back as if it were branding her. The pulse that drives you. Indeed.

One night there was a social event and people were encouraged to bring friends and partners. Izzy asked David.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I have to stay late on Tuesday for a meeting. There’s so much –” “OK,” she said breezily. “That’s fine.” He glanced across at her, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You don’t mind?” he asked. “Oh, no,” she said. “It wouldn’t be your sort of thing anyway.”

Because let’s face it, David had no sense of rhythm – he couldn’t dance to save his life – and if he wasn’t there, well, she’d just have to dance with Roberto.

During the following weeks, Izzy forgot to re-order some chenille and sold some baby alpaca she was supposed to be keeping to one side for one of her regular customers. She lost the thread of the conversation during her weekly “knit and bitch” session and she knitted three sleeves for the sweater she was making for Nick. “You don’t seem quite yourself these days, hon,” one of her friends remarked. “Are you still getting those hot flushes?” “Actually, no.” Izzy stood up straighter – in the posture demanded for the salsa. “What’s wrong with you, Mum?” Nick asked her, as he examined a bag of washing that had turned a delicate and unexpected shade of pink. “You’re all over the place.” Izzy attempted the same regal look that Roberto used on the dance floor. “Actually, Nick, I’ve never felt better.” She couldn’t stop thinking about Roberto. She thought of him in the mornings when she woke up, and in the evenings as she and David sat together watching TV. Thoughts of Roberto even crept into the middle of the night when she awoke to watch David, gently snoring, blissfully unaware of the visions in his wife’s head. Of high cheekbones, white teeth and hypnotic dark eyes. Of shoulders pushed back like a matador’s, of slim hips and a

strong chest. Hands that could take you wherever they wanted you to go. Let it become your heartbeat. Let the pulse drive you.

You have something special, Izzy,” Roberto said to her one night when everyone was leaving after the session.

“Something special?” she echoed weakly. She couldn’t admit to herself how she ached for praise from Roberto.

“Very special,” he confirmed. “You are going to Cuba, yes?” “Yes. In two months’ time.” Dancing the salsa had changed her life, made her come alive. But how would she feel in Cuba – with David? Would it be the holiday she had dreamed of ?

“In two months,” Roberto said solemnly, “I can teach you the rumba.”

Izzy couldn’t believe her luck, to be singled out in this way. They agreed on one-to-one lessons and Izzy could hardly contain her excitement. The rumba, a dance of sensuality and desire.

Over the following weeks, Roberto showed her how to shake and how to shimmy, how to swish her skirts, how to dance the rumba. It was intoxicating. Izzy felt young again, beautiful even. She was lit up by the flame of the rumba and she didn’t want it ever to end.

Although her home life with David seemed to have edged into the background lately, Izzy couldn’t help noticing that he was working late more and more often – particularly on Thursday which used to be their “movie night”.

One night when he came home late she smelled beer on his breath.

“Have you been drinking, David?” she asked. “I thought you were at work.”

He looked embarrassed. “Just a quick one on the way home, love.”

Another Thursday she caught him humming. Humming? She’d never known David to hum. Then she noticed a smear of red lipstick on his cheek.

Izzy felt fear in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Middle-aged man stops paying attention to his wife and has an affair – probably with someone from the office. She could hardly bear to think about it.

The following Thursday he was late again. Izzy was distraught. She couldn’t just sit around waiting for him. She left the house and drove to the Arts Centre where she knew Roberto was holding an intermediate salsa class.

She didn’t stop to think what she wanted from him. She only knew that when he held her in his arms, all her problems seemed to disappear.

In the hall, Roberto was talking to a young woman with blonde hair and eager eyes. He didn’t even see Izzy approaching in her tired old jeans and trainers, with not a scrap of make-up on.

“You have something very special, Karen,” he was saying.

“Really?” The girl smiled up at him adoringly.

“So Iwondered,” said Roberto. “Would you like to learn to dance the rumba?”

Despite Izzy’s sadness – about David, about Roberto, about her own stupid gullibility – Havana was wonderful. They explored the piazzas, the markets and the museums and walked along the Malecon, the sweeping promenade where the Classic American cars lined up to take tourists for a ride. They drank mojitos in the same bars as Ernest Hemingway, and walked up glamorous boulevards lined with restored baroque villas and glitzy hotels. They would spend three days in Havana before being driven to Cayo Levisa, a tiny island where they could relax, snorkel, read and… Dance the night away? Izzy found herself thinking. She doubted that.

The first night in the club, David insisted she wear the red dress he had bought for her birthday. People were drinking cocktails, dancing, having a good time. And then there was a lull, a drumbeat, a plaintive melody…

It was a rumba. Izzy recognised the rhythm only too well. She sighed. She’d had such huge hopes, but now she simply didn’t have the heart for it.

“Come on,” said David. He pulled her to her feet. There was a new kind of determination in his eyes.

“You don’t even like dancing,” she said. But at least he was making an effort. Perhaps he was being nice to soften the blow of what he was going to tell her. Perhaps he’d decided this would be their last fling –

Izzy stared at David. He was moving on the dance floor as if he knew what he was doing. He clasped her hand and drew it down like a wave. He kicked, he flicked, he shimmied and he twirled her around. OK, he was frowning in concentration but he was doing it. He was dancing the rumba.

“David!” Izzy was breathless at the end of the dance. “How did you…?”

“Thursday nights,” he said. “A young woman called Juanita.”

“Juanita? But what about –?” Your affair, she was going to say. And then she realised. There was no affair. Her husband was beaming at her. With love. Rather like he had in their early days.

“I thought it was about time I took a leaf out of your book,” he said. “Work’s not everything. And it’s great, isn’t it – the rumba – when you know how?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. Let it become your heartbeat. Let the pulse drive you.

Izzy had the feeling that this would be a holiday to remember after all.

Therewas a DRUMBEAT, a plaintive MELODY. Izzy recognised arumba