âIs that okay with you?'
âCool. No problem.'
She gave her the address of the studio, tucked away on a side street off King, past the Roy Thomson Hall complex. âIt's a bit of a stretch, but it's not worth waiting for a bus. The studio is on the first floor, at the back. Go past the office and you'll see the stairs on your left.'
Tenille was writing this down.
âWendy is usually there early. She works at First Canadian Place on King, so she sees to payment and then we reimburse her. Okay, see you tomorrow.'
âSure thing. I'm looking forward to it.'
Although this part of Toronto was unknown to her, Tenille found the studio easily. Closer to the waterfront, the derelict buildings made Roy Thomson Hall an outstanding edifice. Many old warehouses abounded, now sadly neglected. The central business district however, growing at such a rate, small enterprises found it advantageous to relocate here; the effect rejuvenating.
The studio itself wasn't large. These old buildings could be rabbit warrens of small rooms, but because of the thickness of the walls, only muffled sounds penetrated to the outside. Musicians and small combos used them too. Tenille could faintly hear a clarinettist.
She was early, but still Wendy was there before her. Mirrors had been installed and the floor was perfect. It was old tongue in groove from days gone by, before the extensive use of composition flooring over concrete. Marked and badly scuffed in places, no matter, it was beautifully sprung.
The others arrived and quickly changed. Tenille felt good in her new outfit. The black leotard with the low, round neck and three-quarter length sleeves; the skirt, calf length, apple-green shot taffeta, with black lining to the flounce at the hem. Devon had said she liked the look of her in this one. The skirt was cleverly cut on the bias to hang off her hips, then flare into a full circle around the legs. She wouldn't normally choose green, but Devon with her coloring, wore it all the time.
Marissa also admired the new outfit. Tenille looked breathtaking. She had tied her hair into a knot on top of her head, using a green silk ribbon, making her neck looked slender and fragile. Kissable too, she thought. Wispy tendrils had escaped and lay against her amber skin in captivating curls.
âYou found your way all right?' she asked in a soft voice, with a hint of a smile. The sight of Tenille filled her with gladness and she shivered with the force of her erotic response. She looked so beautiful this evening. She had the most perfect body. A plan to spend more time with this woman was forming.
âThanks to your directions, no worries,' she responded brightly. The practise got under way. It seemed Ingrid was the leader here, but the others contributed their share when needed. The hour flew, Tenille fitting in well, not minding how many times they went over sequences. When it came to dancing, her patience was endless.
After the session it was not long and Wendy, Daphne and Ingrid were saying their farewells. Marissa hung back then asked hesitantly if she had further plans for the evening. Surprised, Tenille scanned her face. âJust going home.'
Marissa felt the full impact of those black, lustrous eyes and momentarily lost her composure, being replaced by a nervousness which seemed to shiver through her. âI ⦠I don't ⦠have any plans ⦠either.' A deep breath. âWould you like a bite to eat at Ed's Warehouse? It's close by.' Was that casual enough? âHave you been there? It's next to the Royal Alexandra Theatre?'
Pleased to have company and not to end the evening too soon, Tenille said she thought it sounded fun and no, she hadn't eaten there.
Being a Tuesday they were seated immediately. On the weekend, or after the theatre spill, there would have been a long line up, Marissa told her. The restaurant had character, the walls covered with signed photos of personalities from stage and screen who had been hosted by the restaurant's famous owner, Ed Sniderman. She could have spent more time looking round, but their waiter was quick to take the orders. Talking to Marissa was enjoyable; so easy to get along with, but she looked tired tonight. Her short hair was pushed back by two combs, one on each side, the result making her face look pointy. She was wearing one of her grandmother's cable knit sweaters, this time a bright orange. The color did her no favors, adding as it did to her already sallow complexion.
âWhat sort of work do you do, Marissa?'
âI keep the books for my parents. They own a family business, Sevese Fruit and Vegetables, and have a permanent stall at the market. Our day starts very early, but I'm usually finished by three.'
âDo you think you will stay with this?'
âI'm planning to return to studies. I'd like to become an auditor. I can't see me working at the markets forever. Of course, Mama expects me to find a nice young man. She would like to see me married with babies. I'm not sure that here in Canada, I have to follow so closely to that restrictive, Italian tradition.'
âDo you mean you don't want to marry and have children?' taken by surprise. When she had been her age, she had thought that was the only way to go.
âWell, not exactly. I don't know.' She felt herself trapped. âWe'll see. What about you?'
She filled her in on her background. Marissa was disconcerted to learn of the marriage. She would have to tread carefully. The conversation moved onto dancing. Tenille took the opportunity to voice her concern over the castanets.
âI need to practise more, but they're so noisy, I feel I can't go disturbing the Sandrelli household.
âYes, I know what you mean, but there is a way around the problem.'
She looked across with interest. They had moved to the coffee stage; Marissa drinking a Macchiato, Tenille nursing a Mello Mochacino in a large glass, a napkin round its middle.
âCut some strips of Elastoplast tape and stick them to the insides of your castanets. It effectively deadens the sound; makes them a bit heavy, but you can still play.'
âExcellent, Marissa. I can do that.'
âThey won't be so easy to play,' she warned.
âThat's all right,' confident of mastery. Her dedication to dance was complete. She would practise and she would be proficient.
It was almost nine o'clock and Marissa had said she had to make an early start. They walked together to St. Andrew's station. She would change at St. George to catch her train to Dufferin, but Tenille continued north to Dupont. She was thinking how nice it would be to have Marissa as a special friend. Not like Devon, of course: Devon's place in her heart was unassailable. No, but she could relax with Marissa. The dancing had been good, too. She had begun to feel comfortable with the Fandango and was ready for more.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Devon had hoped to speak to Tenille on Thursday at class, now she had to settle for a phone call. Friday was very last minute. When Tenille answered it was gratifying to hear the warmth in her voice.
âDevon. We missed you yesterday.'
âI had to go to a dress rehearsal. We were expecting to open at the Sancho Panza next week, but there's been a change. Everything just happened so fast. Now it's tomorrow and we're on. A late cancellation and we've been asked to step into the breach.'
âThat's wonderful.' Tenille was happy for her.
âWould you like to come along? See the show?' she invited.
âWould I just.'
âOh, cool. I'll introduce you to Raoul and the others.' She was very excited. âListen, I can't pick you up. We still have some last minute things to attend to, but I'll bring you home.'
âDevon, I can make it on my own. Just give me the address. What time should I be there?'
âWe have two shows. First at 10:30pm. The next at midnight.'
âI'll be there for ten. Devon ⦠if I just want to see the show ⦠do I have to eat?'
âNo, that's okay, but there is a cover charge.'
âI can handle that. It's just ⦠I will have eaten already,' she explained.
âI understand. Tomorrow night then.'
âYes ⦠and Devon â¦'
âYes?'
âBreak a leg, eh?'
âThanks. See you.'
Working Saturday, Tenille only had her lunch break in which to make a quick dash to Eaton's to look for something. Ladies' apparel had nothing suitable. She wanted to be dressy, not staid, now she would return empty handed and disappointed. Deciding there was time to check the trendy stores on Bloor, she got lucky, spotting an Indian Emporium where she was especially taken by a heavily beaded, cap sleeved top. There were several colors, but the black with a silver motif running through pleased her. She tried it on. The sales assistant was fulsome in her praise. The beads, some drop shaped, some round, draped revealingly over her breasts and the length came to her hips, in a fringe of beading. She would wear it outside her black pants. The assistant suggested a black beaded tie for her hair if she wanted to dress it up. Yes, that would complement the look very well. Before leaving, she bought an essential oil, Kama Sutra, quite different from anything she had worn before. This in itself made a special appeal; heavy and musky with only a faint note of sweetness.
At the apartment she gave herself a run-through of the steps learned last night and a good session on the castanets, not stopping 'til her hands and feet were truly tired. A soak in the tub put that right. After the bath she blanketed herself in her robe and did some experimenting. Her hair was past her shoulders and having a natural curl, she could get away with simple styling and still look vivid. It took some time, but in the end she had a coil, the tie winding through, the ends tired off to one side. The effect was severe, yet somehow tender.
Next, she moved on to the face, paying careful attention to the eyes and this time giving her cheeks a hint of blush. Since it was evening she chose a dark lip gloss, almost brown. No earrings, not to compete with the dancers and anyway, the beads should speak for themselves. She put the ensemble together. Soft rayon and silk-blend pants, purchased on her honeymoon; the look of silk, but non-creasing. The shoes weren't right, but two years ago, delicate high-heels, little more than straps really, had been all the go in Antigua. Into her shoe bag for later. She also dug out an evening purse from the same period; fine, silver mesh with an old fashioned clasp. It would do very well for tokens, a few bills and tissues.
Pressed for time now, it would have to be a smart walk to the station. She shrugged into her winter coat. It wouldn't do, she really must get a new one.
“You have to start saving Ten,”
she chided herself. At this rate there would be nothing in the bank.
The Sancho Panza Restaurant was located on Bathurst just south of Annette. She got there in good time, but felt very self-conscious. She was alone at her table, but all around were couples and small groups. Fortunately, since she didn't have a reservation, she was tucked way at the back. The young waiter had given her the once over when he came to take her order, wondering what a knock-out stunner was doing, arriving so late to the bar ⦠alone. She sort of had a Spanish look, but no Spanish family would let this one out, unchaperoned.
âA glass of sangria, Senorita. Certainly.'
She glanced at her watch, still twenty minutes to wait.
The restaurant had a pleasant ambience. She didn't know enough to judge if the decor was authentically Spanish, but she had the feeling of being in a little corner of Spain. The color scheme was basically black and red, with large, colorful bull fighting posters on the walls and a varied assortment of Spanish memorabilia. Subdued light from small candles in colored glass bowls on each table, created mysterious alcoves. She checked out the stage. Not big enough. One swirling skirt would just about fill it. She turned her gaze to the other side and was in time to catch a man staring at her intently. Hastily she looked away. He was seated with a few others who were laughing and joking in what sounded like Spanish. Suddenly, he was there at her table. She was sure she didn't know him so what did he think he was doing?
âAre you waiting for someone?' he asked, smiling down at her. Surprised and confused by his unexpected presence, she blurted out: âNo.'
âHere to see the show?'
âYes.'
Well dressed, in his middle forties, although not overly repellent, he was making her feel uncomfortable. People were beginning to look at them. She wished he would go away.
âPerhaps you would like to join us? We're here to see the show too.'
âN..no. No, thank you,' she stammered, clutching her little purse; twisting it nervously between jerky fingers. He was standing too close. Diners at nearby tables stopped talking and were busy eavesdropping. Suddenly the man reached out and grasped her arm, just above the elbow, this was too much.
âTake your hand off me,' she cried out vehemently, jumping up from the table, regarding him with angry eyes.
âIs there a problem here?' The Maitre d' had arrived to deflect any trouble. He didn't like unaccompanied women coming to his restaurant. From his experience they only caused disruptions, but ⦠this was Canada, he couldn't stop them. However, people were arrested in mid-action, all eyes on them, as the man turned toward him saying smoothly: âI thought the young lady wanted company. She smiled at me so I came over, but I guess she's changed her mind.' His look challenged any contradiction, but she faced him defiantly.
âI did no such thing,' she denied, with indignation and turned to the Maitre d' in the hope of rescue.
âIt appears there has been some misunderstanding,' he said soothingly, as he addressed himself to the man. The last thing he wanted was a disagreeable scene. Thank goodness it would soon be time for the show. âAllow me to give you a bottle of our best Mateus, Senor,' steering the man towards his table. âAnd for you, too,' he threw over his shoulder, but his expression was saying it was all her fault.