RESEARCH - HOW FAR WOULD I GO?

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.

A CHANCE MEETING...

In April I celebrate the month I started writing Men Dancing, a novel born from the moment I realised that ballet dancer Carlos Acosta must get my train every time he goes to Gatwick…

 April is also the month in which the Men Dancing story begins, so it’s a good time to start reading it! My publisher is happy to help some of you do that – by giving away five signed copies. All you have to do is write a few lines telling us which performer you’d like to meet on a train and how you think it would go! Send them to my website www.cherryradford.co.uk or Facebook Cherry Radford Author Page. It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, and multiple entries are permitted. The winners will be announced on Sunday 15^th April.  

Meanwhile, here’s what happened in Men Dancing:

I shouldn’t have been on that train. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of those annoying men with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my seat to minimise contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.

 I took out my research papers but thought, sod it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn biography. And then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’

The boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough: my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely him. I’d seen him twice that season alone from the front row of the Royal Opera House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the after-show dinners with Emma.

‘Sugar?’

‘No, no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned form, there was no evidence of it.

I considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to say.

But then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the coffee, he prodded Margot’s face.

‘Is good?’

‘Fascinating.’

A lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’

‘Er... It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners, so why on earth wouldn’t she?’

‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed, clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.

The boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and rocking from his mate.

Then I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book to read. Or pretend to. But his book was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.

‘Are you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ This was probably alright: the documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.

There was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was. ‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’

‘Yes, but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’

‘Mine?’ he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.

‘No. But I saw you in it last year.’

‘So why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’

This was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?

‘No... I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling, I really liked you in that.’ Liked you: rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.

We were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research papers.

‘Why you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.

‘I didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, ‘He just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice costume though.’

‘I dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’

‘I think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’

‘At a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’

‘You are doctor?’

‘A vision scientist.’

‘Contact lenses are dangerous?’

‘Not very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them safer.’

‘And after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots of crazy ladies.’

‘Don’t say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’

‘No, no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a loud clap.

‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against my knee with pinprick intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish, that I wanted to touch him there. And then he was up again, putting the book into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.

‘So... you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’

‘Oh,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket; in my stupefied state I thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same coin and collided.

‘Ow!’ We clutched our heads.

‘Aren’t you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Is bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’

‘Or maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’

‘Well...’ started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly in front of us.

I opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers before finding my pass and letting the man move on.

‘Ah! Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said, pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’

I looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your soft curly hair.

‘Why not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for f…!’ Chocolate balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly all over the place.

‘Sorry,’ I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, and watched as they carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Then he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’

‘I don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’

‘Yes, I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half each.’

He turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and murmured our pleasure.

‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he asked.

‘I think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else. Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.

But he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.

‘What?’

‘Is skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’

‘It’s okay, you—’

‘No. I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.

But then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’. And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding swiftly away down the platform.

It was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his warmth on my thighs, smiled at the Maltesers still comically rolling around the floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.

WRITING’S JUST DAYDREAMS AND SELLOTAPE; AUTHORING’S ANOTHER MATTER

(Adapted from an interview for Hampton Reviews at http://hampton-networks.com)

Where are you from?

Cobham in Surrey, UK – but the bungalows in our tidy little cul-de-sac have now been replaced by footballer mansions. Brighton is my home town now; I love the pier and find my characters turn up there for important scenes. 

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

An author, of course! I was making sellotaped books at six years old. But when I was about ten my mother sent a story I’d written to Pony Weekly and I got my first rejection; it rather put me off. I switched to music and composing, and then, much later – don’t ask me why – to science… I’m now back where I started, but with someone else sticking the books together.

Tell us about MEN DANCING. And do you have anything new in the works?

MEN DANCING is the story of a married, mother-of-two scientist whose world tilts after a chance meeting with a charismatic male Royal Ballet dancer. I’d call it a darkly humorous romance.

My next novel, FLAMENCO BABY, is still at the tinkering stage. It follows a bodyclock-deafened musician who asks her gay best friend to donate sperm. When he unexpectedly declines and offers a flamenco course instead, his consolation prize changes both their lives… 

Why did you write MEN DANCING?

Like the main character Rosie, I was feverishly in love with ballet and looking for a more creative existence.

How did you come up with the title?

It was originally called The Dancer, as he’s the catalyst for everything that happens. But then I realized it was about her relationships with all of the men in her life, including her sons. In her ballet-obsessed mind she sees them as dance partners.

How did you choose your genre?

I didn’t, it chose me. I always aspired to be quite literary, given my reading tastes, but as soon as I started writing there was this flippancy that wouldn’t go away. I’ve learnt to work with it.

What inspired you to be a writer?

My daydreams; I’ve spent half my life in them. I’ve probably got ‘Maladaptive Daydreaming’, according to the net, but it’s damn useful for writing dialogue.

Who is your favourite character in your books?

I should say Emma, since I took her with me into the second novel; she’s the girlfriend that tells you when you’re talking complete crap. But I also recall being all aflutter before some of the scenes with sexy boy-man ballet dancer Alejandro…

Have you ever used contemporary events or stories “ripped from the headlines” in your work?

Headlines – no, and I’m not likely to as I never know what’s going on. But contemporary events – yes, if you count the programming at Sadler’s Wells Theatre and the Royal Opera House. Oh, and the Spanish World Cup matches that I had on the telly in FLAMENCO BABY. For both novels I put all these dates in a diary – along with school and public holidays, Spanish fiestas, music / literary festivals and any other real dates that may affect my characters’ lives. I seldom change these things; they act as a comforting constraint – stopping me sitting there staring at a blank page of countless possibilities. 

What's the weirdest thing you've ever done in the name of research?

I stalked a famous dancer’s London home for what felt like all morning but was in fact less than an hour. It was awful: scary and demeaning. And of course it rained and there was no café opposite like in the films…

Do you ever suffer from writer's block?

No. I have periods where I mull rather than actually scribble or type, but that’s part of the process.

Who is your favorite author? What books have most influenced your life?

Penelope Lively. I find her writing deliciously elegant, insightful, humorous, moving… Uh, I have one massive crush on this lady! Can’t wait to read her new novel HOW IT ALL BEGAN, out this month. But as for books that have most influenced my life… well, my own humble produce I suppose.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging about writing?

No, writing is all pleasure for me. But authoring is another matter, lots of challenges there – mastering social media, bookshop events (I’m more shy than I let on). But the worst? I can’t stand it when people ask who my characters ‘are’, and the way they assume that everything my female protagonist does is something I’ve actually done or (worse) want to do. Listen once and for all, people: it’s made up! Obviously I write about things I need to explore, but it’s like dreaming — you shouldn’t take it literally.

What tools do you feel are must-haves for writers?

A computer obviously. But also a tactile elasticated notebook you can stick a (preferably coordinating colour) pen in, with a pocket in the inside back cover for keeping a print out of your diary and last chapter. I never go anywhere without it.

What advice would you give to writers just starting out?

Skim read about five books on how to write novels, then find something you really have to write about. Mull over a plot for a few months, but don’t get too bogged down with the details – and particularly the ending – as once your characters come to life they’ll do what the hell they like with it. Then just start; there’ll never be a perfect time, so why put it off?

How did you deal with rejection letters?

Badly. Still traumatized by Pony Weekly…