Researching for my books: HOW FAR WOULD I GO? I’d
never cause anyone any harm or embarrassment – anyone, that is, other than
myself. I’ve had painful feet on an intensive Granada flamenco course, a
shoulder problem with salsa, and spent hours plodding around Islington and the
Brighton seafront in all weathers. But the worst thing I’ve had to do in the
name of research was… stalking. I spent a scary, demeaning but ultimately
worthwhile forty minutes waiting for a famous ballet dancer to come out of his
house. How else could I have written this scene from Men Dancing?
It
was nearly nine o’clock; according to the day-in-the-life interview, Alejandro
should have just finished his breakfast – porridge, eggs, toast and coffee –
and be getting ready to leave for his 10.30 class at the Royal Opera House.
Clutching
my map, I walked the route I’d already committed to memory, slowing as I neared
the road and feeling rather queasy. I walked down the odd-number side until I
was opposite 214: a Victorian terrace with a red painted door – his favourite
colour. In films there’s always a large-windowed cafe opposite the building
that’s being watched, but only a post box was on offer here. Or houses are
observed from a slouched-down position in a car, but it would have been very
hard to explain to Jez why I was driving to work for the first time in
seventeen years.
Nine
twenty. My heart was beginning to race; what if Alejandro came out and
recognised me? Or worse, spotted me through his net curtains and worried for my
sanity? I cursed myself for forgetting my sunglasses, but then they would have
looked a bit silly with the spitting rain and darkening sky. I let my hair flop
over my face and pretended to be consulting my map, while trying to keep watch
out of the corner of my eye.
‘Lost?
Where you looking for?’ said a voice next to me.
My
heart felt like it had jumped right out of my chest. My only chance was to keep
looking down, as if mesmerised by the intricate lacework of yellow and white
roads.
‘Oh.
It’s okay, I think I’ve got it.’
‘O-kay,’
he said with a chuckle, and crossed the road. A tall, dark pony-tailed man, I
now saw, in a paint-splattered t-shirt and track suit bottoms. He disappeared
into the propped open door of number 212.
I
wanted to just keep walking, but my new working hours meant that if I didn’t
see this out I’d probably have it hanging over me until the following week. It
was a mission that had to be accomplished; a fact-finding one, like finding
references in the hospital library, but rather more scary – and as the dark
clouds started to give up their wares, a lot more uncomfortable.
Nine
thirty. Surely he had to leave before too much longer. I imagined him coming
out of the shower, vigorously rubbing himself dry, putting on his dance belt,
asking Jessie if his favourite practice clothes were dry. The wave of misery
washed over me, followed by the usual irritation; I was becoming familiar with
my symptoms. What was the point of this? I had the method, and possibly the
participants, but no objectives.
Nine
thirty-five. Perhaps he ran on Cuban time. Perhaps he’d leave at the last
minute in a contracted cab, the day-in-the-life bit about the bus travel being
put in just to make him sound more grounded. In which case he could probably
leave at about ten and still make it. I put the map book in my pocket and
leaned against a gate post, periodically looking at my watch, taking out my
phone and texting, as if the person I was visiting was unexpectedly out. I was
getting very wet, my hair slicking down on my head. Come on Alejandro, I
thought, I’ve had enough of this.
And
then the red door opened. Out came a woman wrestling with an umbrella, followed
by another in a hooded mac. They exchanged a few words and went off in
different directions. Either could have been Jessie. Seeing the mac I suddenly
remembered that my jacket had a hood, but you had to unzip the collar and
unfurl it, and later reverse the procedure, so I’d never bothered. But then I
hadn’t stood for ages in the rain since I used to watch an 11-year-old Seb in
school football matches. I felt for the zip and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge.
So I yanked the sodden jacket half off my shoulder and craned my neck to see
the damn thing, which had stuck its mouth into some of the lining. I wiggled it
about to free it, opened the collar and let the flimsy hood fall over my head
and face. Cursing myself for my
inattention, I glanced back at number 214.
This
time the door was closing, as if someone had arrived, or gone back in because
they’d forgotten something. Then a large blue and white CarpetClean van parked
in front of me, disgorging two matching blue and white men, and I couldn’t see
a thing. I stepped out of the way of a couple of miserable women with buggies
and a plump girl posting a bundle of letters. I repeated my act – looking at my
watch, pretending to make a call and then a text on my mobile, peering along
the street. I was going to have to move down a bit to get a view of 214, but
not in the direction I was facing because there was another white van
manoeuvring into the space next to CarpetClean. So I turned on my heel to walk
the other way – and whacked my shoulder into an elbow.
‘Ay – perdón,’
I heard him say as he strode on, mobile pressed to his ear and a holdall
hanging from his shoulder. And I watched him go down the rest of the road,
heard him laughing, chatting in Spanish, even his walk looking like it was set
to music, and wondered at how all these people in the street could be so
unaware of him, who he was, how he
was. I put my hand to my shoulder and smiled. He was worth the wait.
