6. The Salsa Teacher
SIX
The Salsa Teacher
Friday, 1 February, 9.30am
Leaving for Cuba today. And more good news. Emily called and said she loved everything. Phew, got away with that one.
3.30pm UK time (no idea what time zone we’re in)
Ace is sleeping like a baby with his head against the window. So much for a good catch-up. Our flight has been uneventful apart from one incident earlier, about which Ace is blissfully ignorant. When he went to the loo, I took the opportunity to get my carry-on duffle bag for an extra jumper. I couldn’t reach it at the back of the overhead compartment. A man got up to help me and somehow, we ended up both pulling at my bag and the contents poured out onto the aisle, including my bright pink vibrator. The guy went as pink as the said sex toy and sat down. The young mother in the next row tutted and covered her daughter’s eyes.
A steward who was walking towards us picked it up and said, ‘Whose is this?’ in a loud voice, as he held it at the battery end with just two fingers and a look of disgust. I continued refilling my bag, fully intending to deny knowledge of the damned thing, but the woman with the child pointed at me and said, ‘It’s hers,’ with what I thought was a particularly judgemental tone. Snitch.
I grabbed the vibrator from the steward and said, ‘It’s for massaging my neck.’ He inclined his head and raised his incredulous eyebrows. To be fair, I wouldn’t have believed me either.
By the time Ace was back, the commotion had subsided, but he noticed that people in the seats around us were looking and tittering. One actually pointed at Ace, shook his head and whispered into his hand to his companion. The middle-aged woman across the aisle who had earlier been admiring Ace with furtive glances glared at me, then gave him a pitying look before pointedly turning away. Ace looked around, puzzled by the strange atmosphere.
‘Did something happen? Why are people staring at us?’
‘No, nothing,’ I said, not looking up from the on-board magazine. ‘They’re probably just bored.’
P.S. Must make sure people know we’re not a couple, otherwise our chances of finding holiday romance will be scuppered.
Saturday, 2 February, 5.30am Cuba time
Body clock somewhat confused.
When we landed at Havana airport yesterday evening, the arrivals hall was hot and close, and the queues long and slow, but my mood improved at passport control.
‘You’re sixty years old?’ asked the young immigration officer, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded and had a full-on menopausal hot flush.
‘You don’t look it,’ he said, winking and handing back my passport.
‘Thank you,’ I said, doing Lady Di shy eyes from below my eyebrows. I love this country already.
I consider myself to be age positive and I don’t let being sixty get in the way of having a great life, but it still feels good when I’m told I look young – #HypocrisyAlert – but then I’m not claiming to be perfect. I’m a normal woman full of contradictions, constantly fighting against ingrained ideals of beauty and youth, despite being more comfortable in my body than I’ve ever been. I hope the next generation of women can break free from the pressure to look youthful but the current obsession with plastic surgery and cosmetic enhancements do not bode well for them.
‘You look perky,’ Ace said. I told him about the passport officer.
‘I guess you’ll be continuing with your dating escapades while we’re here, will you?’
‘Maybe, but we’re going to enjoy this holiday together. Anyway, you might meet a beautiful senora and leave me in the hotel with only a margarita for company.’
Then I could find myself a senor.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said, as if the idea was absurd. I can’t work out what’s going on with him. Is he fully single now or still seeing ponytail woman? He’s an attractive man and he plays the trumpet with the English Symphonic, for God’s sake. Women would swoon over him if he let them. Maybe he’s feeling guilty and regretful.
It was late when we arrived at Hotel Cubana in Havana Old Town. We ordered some Cuban sausages and a couple of margaritas at the bar to get into the spirit of things. Our waiter winked at me when he brought the sausages garnished with curly parsley. They were artfully arranged into what could only be described as a parade of puberal penises. We stared at the plate between us for a second then howled.
The hotel reception is colonial in style with lots of large planters and high-backed wicker chairs, but the bedrooms’ wing has a bare utilitarian feel with a concrete central courtyard where one imagines desperate inmates may have been tempted to throw themselves from a height in earlier times. It’s not plush like I’d hoped but the view from my top floor window is a-maz-ing! I can see beautiful ornate buildings covered in a blanket of soot which makes for an eerie feel. Can’t wait to venture into the city today. Two hours to go till the restaurant opens for breakfast. Will there be a sausage and two fried eggs display?
Sunday, 3 February, 5.30am
Yesterday, we had a chilled day of falling into a natural holiday groove, ambling through the charming streets of colonial buildings with their peeling pastel-hued paint, and inhaling the intoxicating atmosphere of Havana. Music came bursting out of house windows and cafés alike, along with the smell of local coffee and the faint hint of ocean salt. Colourful 1950s cars gleamed under the Caribbean sun, hinting at a bygone era. The whole place pulsed with a vibrant energy that was utterly enchanting.
Back at our hotel early in the evening, I decided to have a nap before going out for dinner, but I woke up half an hour ago! Some nap.
9.30am
Apparently, while I was in a coma yesterday evening, Ace had gone for a 5K run then come back and made a sightseeing itinerary for today. What a great travel companion.
Monday, 4 February, 5.30am
Yesterday, we had an exhausting day of sightseeing. The Plaza de la Revolución, a sprawling concrete expanse, is guarded by a towering obelisk, and giant steel memorials of the revolutionaries Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos. You can almost hear the echoes of speeches and feel the excitement of the huge parades of the past. The scale and symbolism of it left me dewy-eyed.
More tears were shed at the Cristóbal Colón cemetery, which is breathtaking in a quiet, eerie way. The cemetery is vast like a city of the dead, filled with everything from simple graves to extravagant marble monuments and intricately carved mausoleums. Poor Ace was on tissue duty the whole day.
When we went back to the hotel, I decided I’d have a short nap before going out for dinner. Just woken up. Again! We’ll never experience Havana’s nightlife at this rate.
I sent Leila a picture of the Camilo Cienfuegos monument, pointing out his resemblance to Ayatollah Khomeini, followed by laughing emojis. She wasn’t amused. She can’t bear the thought of what that man did to her country. Damn. I am the CEO of Insensitive Friends PLC. Sent her grovelling emojis.
For lunch we were lured into a restaurant by the mellow sound of live music seeping out of its open windows. We ate a simple delicious Cuban meal of slow-cooked beef stew and fluffy rice. The band struck up a dance tune when a man and a woman came onto the dance floor. It was such a joy to see proper Cuban salsa dancing. I noticed that if you put a few pesos in their basket, you got to dance with one of them.
‘Come on, Ace. Dance with the lady,’ I said.
‘Oh no, no, no.’
I kept teasing him, but he escaped to the loo to put an end to my persistence. I called the woman over, put some money in her basket and hatched a plan. She consulted the band and gave me the thumbs up from across the dance floor. When Ace was back, one of the trumpet players came over, handed him his instrument, and gently led him towards the band.
‘What’s happening, Phia?’ He furrowed his brow as he was ushered away. The trumpet player had a word with him, and they both nodded. And just like that, they started playing ‘Vivir Mi Vida’, and it sounded perfect. I’ve seen him play classical concerts before but how could he play like that spontaneously with a band he’d met two seconds ago? The other diners applauded while I stood up and clapped vigorously, then felt self-conscious and sat down but continued clapping. I was itching to dance, so when the male dancer came over, I was up and on the dance floor like a firecracker. I was indeed in salsa heaven, but was finding it hard to keep up, let alone look good. As the music built to a crescendo, he tried to lead a double turn, but I misread his intention, pulled in the wrong direction, and fell on my backside.
‘Very elegant dancing, Phia,’ Ace said when I sat down.
‘OK, OK, you win the prize for the best performance.’
He grinned triumphantly.
11.30pm
More sightseeing today, including afternoon tea at the iconic Hotel Nacional De Cuba, full of marble, chandeliers, Grecian-style statues, and old-fashioned faded glamour. The ping from my phone broke the silence in the formal dining room. Not bothering to check the volume, I played the voice message.
‘Sophia, washing machine broken. Two G-strings stuck in pipes,’ Joy said, as I fumbled to turn the sound down, ‘No worry. They not yours. Too small for your ass. Happy holiday.’
Shut. Up.
Old men dropped their sandwiches, genteel ladies gasped, children giggled into their hands, and their mothers tutted.
Later, the atmosphere was more chilled when I finally stayed awake long enough to go for a night out. The club was steamy, dark, and pulsating with rhythm. The heady mix of live music, energetic dancers in sexy form-fitting outfits, and the aroma of Cuban rum was as joyful as I’d imagined. At first, every time a guy took my hand and led me to the dance floor, Ace watched like a hawk as though they were about to abduct me, but he relaxed when he saw my beaming face. Of course, the local women were all over him, but really, dancing is not his forte, and he certainly didn’t inherit the dancing gene from his dad. He was embarrassed when a woman grabbed his hips to make them gyrate while the others pointed and giggled. He got annoyed with me when I joined in to laugh at his wooden rumba. Baaad Sophia.
Tuesday, 5 February, 10.30am
At breakfast today, we had a string trio of young music students playing Bach. How lovely is that? I didn’t get Ace involved.
After three days (and only one evening out), our time in Havana is over and we’re waiting for a car to take us on our three-hour journey to Varadero. It’s going to be touristy, but I don’t care.
11.30pm
From a distance, our hotel looks like a prison. It’s a dull expanse of a square building with lots of small square windows, redeemed only by its peachy colour. I imagined desperate tourists clawing at the windows, pleading to be liberated. But inside it’s a different experience. The receptionists are smiley and welcoming, the main bar glows with a warm amber backlight, squishy sofas invite you to lounge, and the lush gardens lead to shimmering swimming pools and the turquoise sea.
We appear to be staying at Cuba’s answer to Butlin’s. No red or yellow jackets here though. The female entertainers wear tight flirty floral dresses, and the men strut in snug-fitting black tailored trousers – Ooh La La – and colourful drapey shirts. Infinitely sexier than the Hi-de-Hi! crew. The whole team – and there are a lot of them – is led by a character called El Presidente, who is Cuba’s answer to RuPaul.
P.S. One of the Ooh La Las is rather gorge.
Wednesday, 6 February, 6.30pm
Earlier, we were relaxing by the sparkling pool, surrounded by palm trees and colourful luscious vegetation, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and sipping Cuba Libres. Ace was dozing in his sun lounger. That man can sleep for England AND Jamaica. It reminded me of one year in Bournemouth when we were playing on the beach, but he kept trying to lie down and sleep, so I took him to our beach hut and, feeling bored, decided to give him a haircut.
He was about three years old and had a long light brown afro which often attracted admiration in the street. His mum couldn’t bear to cut it even though people often mistook him for a girl. I searched in my mum’s bag for her Swiss army knife – she always had one in case she needed to cut an apple or open a bottle. I pulled out the scissors and set to work on Ace’s hair as he slept. By the time I finished, he was like an incompetently sheered sheep with a mullet at the back where I couldn’t reach. An hour later, he woke up and wandered over to his mum, who screamed so loudly, a crowd gathered and witnessed me being chastised.
‘How could you do that to his beautiful hair?’ Mum fumed.
‘I was helping him cool down,’ I said, weeping and looking sheepish, but not shorn like Ace. She punished me by banning ice cream for the rest of the holiday. No wonder I have a complicated relationship with ice cream. It featured heavily in Mum’s reward and punishment regime.
I was woken from my daydream when Ace stirred and noticed I was staring.
‘What?’
‘I just remembered that time I cut off your hair.’ I laughed.
‘Ah yes. The hair-cutting incident. Thanks for that. They had to shave my head, and everyone thought I had nits. Mum said she was wary of leaving me alone with you after that in case you decided to inflict some other unwanted favour on me.’ He laughed.
‘I thought I was being helpful. At least I think I did, or was I just naughty?’
‘Erm … yeah, you were always luring me into mischief.’
‘But you wanted to be led astray. That’s why you followed me to London.’
‘Oy!’ he said, laughing, and threw his towel at me. I threw it back and we play-fought for a bit until we realised everyone was watching. I’m glad it’s not awkward between us. I’ve forgotten about his cheating. Almost.
P.S. A beautiful new Swedish family came to the pool this morning. Mum and Dad with their teenage son and daughter who were all limbs and blonde hair. They had that uber-pale ‘haven’t seen the sun for ages’ look about them. They slathered themselves in oil and roasted under the sun all day.
11.30pm
El Presidente wore fuchsia pink trousers and a matching satin shirt with giant rainbow-coloured Barry Manilow-esque frilly sleeves, topped with a jaunty gold Stetson hat.
In other The Swedish Family news, when Ace went back to the pool earlier to find his book, he found it balancing on Mummy Swedish’s stomach. She suggested with a wave of her hand that Ace should help himself. Then she laughed and called him ‘naughty’ when he did.
In potential dating news, Gorge Ooh La La Trousers asked me to dance after dinner tonight. His English isn’t great, but I think he speaks the international language of looove.
In other nasty sister news, I sent Sara a picture of me and Ace by the pool, captioned ‘Wish you were here?’ and she replied, ‘That bikini’s on the small side for someone your age, isn’t it?’ Her holier than thou attitude makes me want to scream, especially as she’s in no position to preach after what she did.
11.55pm
Is Sara right? Should I give up wearing bikinis and opt for more modest one-pieces? I swing from being self-conscious and wanting to cover up to who gives a fuck, I’ll wear what I like. I’m mostly at peace with my body now, though it’s taken me decades to get to where I can look at myself in the mirror without scowling, pulling in my stomach or contorting my body into unnatural positions to look good. When I was younger, my own self-judgement was worse than any criticism by my mother or sister. I yearned to luxuriate in the sun like other women and display my body without shame, but a lifetime of conditioning would scream at me to zero-in on every new sag, dimple and wrinkle. It was exhausting.
At sixty, I don’t care so much now, and despite all those years of conditioning by Mum – that thin is always best – I’ve won the war with my body. Mum probably doesn’t even realise she started it on a summer holiday in Italy, but I haven’t forgotten. I remember being awkward, spotty and with enough puppy fat to … cover a Saint Bernard puppy. She was beautiful, glamorous, slim, and a fanatic fatphobe (still is). The other kids splashed around in the pool, but I was deemed too fat to wear a swimsuit.
‘No, darling, you can’t possibly bare all that flesh. Perhaps next year if you lose weight,’ she’d said to me before diving into the pool in her skimpy bikini. When I cried, she bought me ice cream to console me – I still don’t get that logic. I gobbled it up and got fatter while I read the Slimming Today magazine she’d left on my sun lounger. When we got home, I went on a diet. For about forty years.
I can’t imagine putting so much pressure on myself now. I’ve managed to stop the constant dieting – yo-yoing from an ideal size 8 to what I thought was an enormous size 12. I’ve accepted that my identity doesn’t depend on the size of my arse. Nor indeed on how I look without makeup. There are enough women in my family judging how I look and dress without me joining them.
And yet, as I re-read Sara’s cruel jab about my bikini, I couldn’t help but well up with pain and frustration. No matter how hard I try, she finds new ways to make me feel like an inadequate older sister. Doesn’t she know I still carry the scars of all the childhood taunts about my body? I long to make her understand how much her judgement hurts, but she twists my words against me. The sister I once adored has gone missing, replaced by this cold stranger who knows just where to plunge the dagger, and how to slap me down for daring to be myself. Some of my old wounds are still itchy, but I refuse to let her scorn steal my spirit. I’ll wear what I like, sixty-year-old belly and all, though as old bellies go, it’s pretty tight. Sara is so out of order to say my bikini is on the small side for my age. I texted her.
Your mind is on the small side for someone your age isn’t it?
Your capacity to take constructive criticism is on the small side for your age, isn’t it?
Stop being so judgemental
Stop being so judgemental
You’re infuriating
Blah blah blah
Aargh!!
Thursday, 7 February, 6.00pm
I started my salsa lessons in town today. I booked six hours of tuition, and the rep threw in two tickets to see the Buena Vista Social Club, who are playing locally. Ace came with me to check that the dance school was legit. We flagged down a pink open-top 1950s Cadillac with chrome bumpers and cream leather seats and breezed into town. The woman at the school reception perked up when she saw Ace and tried but failed to drag him into the studio for a lesson.
WELL! My teacher turned out to be every bit as sexy as I’d hoped with a tight body, and plenty of Latin swagger. He wore a blue beanie, white sporty trousers, and a white T-shirt, which was striking against his dark skin. I was grateful for the fierce aircon in the studio to help me stay cool from dancing, hot flushes, and the hotness of the teacher. I found it hard to concentrate as his raspy voice and expert hands led me around the dance floor. No wonder the contestants on Strictly Come Dancing end up becoming lovers.
Afterwards, I joined Ace by the pool, where a young couple I hadn’t seen before strolled past us. She walked slowly and consciously, highly aware of her beautiful body. He followed her, never taking his eyes off her bikinied back. You could almost touch the electricity between them, and the air was thick with lust. I glanced at Ace, who was watching too.
‘Bet you wish you were here with a sexy woman like her instead of a middle-aged pal.’
‘No.’
‘No? Don’t you wish you could fall in love and feel that sweet desire again? Those first few months of total obsession? Sex at every opportunity?’
‘It sounds great when you put it like that, but it has to be with the right person,’ Ace said.
‘Didn’t it work out with the woman you had an affair with then?’ I fished, my heart pounding.
He froze. His nostrils flared and he huffed a long breath.
‘I told you I didn’t have an affair. And you promised you wouldn’t ask questions.’ He shook his head, picked up his stuff and went to his room. I am the CEO of Broken Promises Ltd.
I don’t want to be in a relationship either but seeing that couple made me yearn for what they had. How divine to be in lust and have beautiful sex before dinner. Oh, to be that young and sexy again. Go away, insecure Sophia. You’re not twenty anymore. You’re a confident mature woman who’s proud of her body.
Latest from The Swedish Family is that after a day of roasting in oil, they are now The Lobster Family.
P.S. Ace was wearing a Speedo today. Not so much a budgie smuggler as a cockatoo hammock. It could have taken centre stage on a Havanan sausage plate. I kept my eyes above the waist, except when I peeked.
11.30pm
I sent Ace a grovelling text, promising no more questions and asked him to join me for dinner. At the buffet, I met a Beyonce? lookalike on her own and invited her to our table. She told us she was a superfan and demonstrated a few poses she’d been rehearsing for the talent show tonight. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it got Ace out of his bad mood.
After dinner, El Presidente asked us if we wanted to be on the X Factor judging panel for the talent competition. It was random, but hell yeah! So we spent the evening sitting at a desk with two other judges, and scored the acts with numbered paddles. Some guests had entered themselves or their children and were mostly dreadful. Dads who couldn’t sing, kids who couldn’t juggle two oranges, etc. The Junior Lobsters did a dancing double act that reminded me of Ross and Monica’s hilarious over-choreographed routine in Friends . Ace was turning into Simon Cowell and wanted to be honest. I had to remind him it wasn’t the real X Factor .
The last act was Beyonce?, and she killed it. I was transported to 2009, the O2 Arena, and Beyonce? singing ‘Baby Boy’ while hanging from a harness high above the audience. I don’t need to say who got the top score, and the audience gave her a standing ovation.
Friday, 8 February, 10.30am
Over breakfast, we talked about how much we were enjoying our Cuban Butlin’s, and I teased Ace about his Simon Cowell act last night.
‘Maybe I should enter the talent competition and see how I get scored,’ he said.
‘That wouldn’t be fair. You’re a professional.’
‘Who said anything about playing the trumpet? I could rap.’
‘You? Mr Classical Musician, rapping?’
He thought for a few seconds then started rapping about the holiday, last night’s X Factor contestants, our performance as judges, and ended with a whispered ‘What happens in Cuba, stays in Cuba.’ OMG. He was brilliant and so clever. When he finished, people around us clapped and he was embarrassed but thrilled.
‘When were you going to tell me you can rap?’ I asked, open-mouthed.
He picked up his apple and took a satisfied crunchy bite.
6.00pm
Second salsa lesson this morning. Hot, hot, hot, and steamy. For me anyway. We took a video of us doing the routine and when I showed it to Ace, he said the guy obviously fancied me because he kicked his leg back at the end when we hugged. I hope he’s right.
Sent the video to Mum and Dad.
‘Lovely looking young man. He likes you. Are you going to have hot Latin sex with him?’ Mum said.
‘Muuuum.’
‘The doctor on This Morning said an orgasm a day is good for the heart.’
‘Sorry, call coming in. Bye Mum.’
11.30pm
I resisted the urge to matchmake between the waitress and Ace at dinner tonight. I know I should stop projecting what I want onto him, but she so obviously fancies him. We’re in quite different places at the moment. I want to have fun and amazing sex and he’s given up completely, which I don’t understand. If he could have an affair when he was married, why doesn’t he want to meet anyone now he’s getting divorced? Or is he still with her and that’s why he doesn’t want to meet anyone else?
Saturday, 9 February, 6.30pm
We played table tennis before coming up to get changed for dinner tonight. I haven’t played for a few years, so Mr Super Competitive Ace completely thrashed me. Then he felt guilty and let me win the last game.
In other Lobster Family news, every time I missed a shot and had to collect the ball from near their sunbeds, Daddy Lobster winked at me over the top of his Fifty Shades of Grey . Mummy Lobster caught the ball a few times and she caressed Ace’s hand suggestively when she handed it back. The Senior Lobsters are now The Swedish Swingers.
11.30pm
Last salsa lesson today. I think my dancing has improved despite having trouble concentrating on his instruction. I can’t tell if he likes me or if he’s just exuding natural Cuban warmth. I’m looking forward to finding out at the concert on Monday.
In the very exciting meantime, I practised my newly acquired moves with Gorge Ooh La La Trousers after dinner. Ooh La La, Ooh La La. After a couple of dances, he suggested a cooling walk in the hotel gardens where we had a few hot kisses, which did not cool me down at all. Luckily, our waitress was chatting up Ace, so he didn’t notice I’d been whisked away. Hot kissing was rudely interrupted by one of the other dancers who called him back to his duties. Sigh.
Sunday, 10 February, 11.30pm
Day trip to Matanzas today. Highlight was the Pharmaceutical Museum, full of porcelain and stained-glass jars. Who knew medicine bottles could be works of art?
Checked work emails and this was waiting for me from Nick and Brittany. They were so sweet during the whole project, and I pulled out all the stops to make sure the refurbishment of their house was finished before the baby arrived at Christmas.
Dear Sophia,
Thank you for making our house so beautiful. You have given us something beyond our dreams. We are so happy and look forward to coming home every day.
N&B
Sara might think interior design is a frivolous occupation, but I feel proud to evoke such emotions in my clients. I shed a few happy tears.
P.S. No sign of Gorge Ooh La La Trousers. I think it’s his night off.
Monday, 11 February, 7.00pm
So excited I’m almost hyperventilating. Waiting for the coach to take us to the Buena Vista Social Club concert. I’m wearing a silk fishtail neon pink dress that should look great on the dance floor. Not that I want attention or anything.
11.50pm
Wow, wow, wow. When The Salsa Teacher told me there’d be dancing, I assumed it would be after the concert. I was looking forward to being with him in a social situation where we could get closer. My sexual frustration levels are at an all-time high.
Little did I know that he was providing dancing FOR the show. Halfway through the concert, he came over and called me out from my seat in the audience. Unsuspectingly, I let him lead me towards the stage and before I knew it, we were doing a bolero alongside the band. Me, a dancer for the iconic Buena Vista Social Club. How did that happen? It was all a blur and finished in what felt like a few seconds. Afterwards, he led me back to my seat. I think I floated back.
Ace sat next to me open-mouthed. ‘Did you know that was going to happen?’
‘No, but now you know you’re not the only one who can perform with a band.’
My cheeks were flushed, and I had rivers of adrenalin running through my body. I don’t think I took in the rest of the show. When the concert finished, I searched for The Salsa Teacher, wondering if there was a chance for a last night together. When I found him, I thought he was even more delicious dressed up for the occasion with a light blue suit and a jaunty white trilby. I thanked him for the teaching and for tonight’s experience. Cue lots of thank you hugs. Not entirely necessary, but a girl’s gotta get her kicks somehow.
‘When will I see you again?’ he asked in his raspy voice.
‘I’m going home tomorrow.’
His mouth drooped. More hugging. ‘I’ll give you my number and you can text me,’ he said. Wahey, result. It was great to get his number, but I was hoping he’d ask me to go for a drink or to a club, though he probably wasn’t allowed to fraternise with the dance school students. I could see Ace across the foyer, pacing by the entrance. He pointed at his watch, not wanting to miss the coach back to the hotel. I said a reluctant goodbye, wishing I could stay.
Feeling high as a kite on adrenalin and lust – and turned on with no prospect of anyone helping me with it – I caught up with Ace. The coach driver greeted me with a big smile and as I stepped into the aisle, the other hotel guests who were already in their seats clapped and whooped. I took a shy bow and we walked to the back seats as people congratulated me on the performance. The Swedish Swingers slapped our bums boldly as we went past.
My desires may have been unrequited, but it was an unforgettable night. Back at the hotel, I was too pumped to go to bed and suggested a drink at the bar.
‘I wish I’d been braver and asked my teacher out,’ I told Ace wistfully.
‘But we’re going home tomorrow so nothing would have come of it.’
‘I know, but sometimes it’s not about anything coming of it. It’s about seizing the moment and going for it. To have experiences to remember and to feel alive.’
I told him I was going to have another drink and he should go to bed, then went up to the bar and ordered a cocktail. The bartender kept looking at me and smiling. He was so cute but way too young for me.
‘Everyone is talking about your dancing tonight. They say you dance like a Cuban,’ he said.
‘Wow, news travels fast.’ I thanked him and went back to my seat to savour my last margarita and tonight’s incredible experience. I came up to bed feeling contented with a dash of longing.