Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

She shrugged. “Elaine told me you were auditioning.”


I was worried. I’d spent a lot of money on my flight here—no one had said anything about an audition.

I dropped my suitcase on the spare bed and dug out a pair of Latin shoes and dance pants. Trixie watched the whole time while I dropped my jeans and changed. She didn’t even bother to look away. I’m not shy about my body, it was just off-putting.

I took one last look at the room, then followed Trixie as the door closed behind me with a soft click.

She led me to the wings of a large stage and I could smell sweat and greasepaint, hear the sounds of rehearsals as we drew closer.

“Not too shabby, eh?” said Trixie proudly.

I had to agree. It would be the largest stage that I’d ever danced on. I could tell that it was professionally designed and had a sprung floor that looked new.

This was what I’d come for.

“Ash!”

A woman in towering heels and a clinging leotard strode toward me, her breasts bouncing, and an enormous set of ostrich feathers fixed to her hair.

“Yveta?”

I smiled as she kissed me on both cheeks.

Trixie interrupted, frowning, and shooed Yveta back to the stage.

“Friend of yours?”

I shrugged. “We’ve met.”

“And?”

“We arrived at the same time.”

Trixie pressed her lips together but I wasn’t sure what was bothering her.

“Hmm. Come and meet Elaine—she’s the Artistic Director. She’ll be pleased to see you. She’s one man down since Erik left . . .”

I glanced at her, but Trixie didn’t finish her sentence.

“Elaine! I’ve got your new boy at last!”

The Artistic Director was a tall, thin woman with the hard body of a dancer and a face that could chisel granite.

Her eyes were raking up and down the rest of my body, professionally assessing me.

“What’s your experience?”

“Two time finalist in Slovenian All-Stars International Ten Dance,” I spoke clearly, proud of my achievements.

“Anything else?”

I blinked, nonplussed by her lack of interest—I’d already given her my best result in a prestigious national competition.

“I can dance anything—whatever you need. I’ve been dancing since I was five.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-three.”

Elaine sighed. “Right, let’s see what you can do.”

I wanted to laugh. I was jetlagged, I’d hardly eaten for 12 hours, hadn’t slept for 24, and I was stiff from sitting for the best part of a day. I had nothing prepared and had no idea what sort of routine she wanted to see. And from the look on her face, I was already pissing her off. I’d never been less ready for an audition.

Elaine shouted to a technician standing by the mixing board.

“Joe, set him up with something.” Then she looked at me impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Go do your warm up.”

I knew she wasn’t going to give me a second chance. I had to nail this audition or I was out of chances, and I didn’t know what that would mean. Would they just put me on the first flight back?

I talked to the technician quickly, Elaine’s impatience filling the room while I jogged on the spot, then did some arm swings, sways, trunk rotation, rumba walks and spot turns, stretching my muscles then finishing with some balance exercises. A full warm-up took 15 minutes minimum: Elaine gave me less than ten.

I should be far more prepared than this to dance—Elaine knew it. Which probably meant she didn’t want me in her troupe.

I rubbed my throbbing temples—I had to nail this audition.

I nodded at the technician, then pulled off my t-shirt, holding it out like a matador’s cape, and strode onto the stage with the sultry, dragging steps of the Paso Doble.

Florence and the Machine poured from the speakers, filling the empty cavern of the theater.

And I became the dance. I was a matador, facing a pitiless enemy.



‘But I’m not giving up . . .



I stepped forward with my heels, strong and proud, arms sweeping up from my sides, the t-shirt whirling around my head and tossed away.



‘I can’t count on anyone but myself . . .



Apel: the Flamenco stamp.

The movements were quick and sharp, staccato, chest and head held high, feet directly underneath my body.

I felt it. I felt it all. Anger and frustration, the drama of the music: sur place, separation, attack, the open promenade, the Spanish line—the formal steps flowed through me, but it was emotion, owning the music, feeling the music, living it. I danced and the world stopped. All the pain, all the bitterness, lost in the music.