Chapter 11 Adventure, Fuko
Adventure, Fuko
Several news channels are covering the recent cyberattacks that left most of Cardiff with no electricity for three hours, leaving people stranded in lifts; hospitals running on generators; and with Cardiff City playing at home, left thousands completely disgruntled and disappointed.
I’m keeping my mouth shut though; if I allow the thought Better them than me, it will find a way to bite me in my arse.
Dad serves Hanako and me our usual Japanese breakfast—rice, fish, and miso soup—not the band that white boys seem to be fascinated by.
‘Itadakimasu.’ He enforces gratitude before food with chopsticks between his thumbs.
‘Itadakimasu,’ we hum back and dig in.
Dad keeps the Japanese culture alive in our British home in several ways (despite not having perfect Japanese).
All of us have house slippers, and there is a pair of toilet slippers in the bathroom.
Food is another big thing. On New Year’s Day he feeds us noppe mochi (Mum’s parents were from Niigata) with some stew.
And we have a small altar for Mum—always dusted with a flower next to it.
Dad never recovered from losing her. He jokes he has enough on his plate with the two of us being rowdy teenagers.
Hanako would shake her head and say, ‘I am 18, Father. You have only one more year of this excuse. You need to go out more.’
There are grey hairs all over his head; his hairline has shifted up over the last few years.
‘You could do with leaving the house more.’ I join in.
‘Pot, kettle,’ Hanako mumbles under her breath.
‘Huh?’
‘You don’t leave the house either. Whenever I come home, you and Dad are on the sofa watching The-bloody-Chase, which is one of two things you watch on TV, weirdo.’
Both he and I get really defensive, letting Hanako know how close the contestants were to winning against the Beast, but she just shuts her ears and sings la-la-la to us.
Amid the chaos, a message from Leon comes through, with an address and instructions to wear something short but flowy.
‘And see, I have plans!’
She looks at the message and sighs. ‘Do you want to borrow my clothes?’
‘Yes, please.’
Another message comes through, this time from Sashka. Her date is tonight.
I don’t open it.
Despite doing ballet for most of my childhood, I remain an unskilled and ungraceful dancer. Which is why I freeze by the door and pull Leon back like a stubborn fat bulldog that doesn’t want to go on a walk when I see a neon Salsa sign above.
‘C’mon, you will love it.’ Leon laughs, knowing fully well that I will not love it.
‘I am awful at dancing, and I know nothing about salsa.’
‘You will learn. Didn’t you want to prove to Mr. Naked Man that you can live a little?’
Does that make me a bad feminist if I do things to spite a man? There are two schools of thought, and both of them say that yes, I am a bad feminist. Great.
‘Let’s get it over with.’ I cave.
If smoking indoors weren’t banned, I imagine patrons of this establishment would fog up the room.
And the off-white, yellowing walls tell me that, back in the day, they were doing exactly that.
The brown carpeted stairs lead to the polished wooden floors that are easy to glide across.
Men of different complexions but all in flowy shirts grab women dressed in a variety of clothing, from ballroom to club to casual, and lead them to the dance floor.
They teach women simple steps but then let their hands linger around their bodies.
‘Leon,’ I mewl with a quivering lip. ‘Will a man whisk me away?’
‘Yes, that’s the point of salsa.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘That would not be brave now, would it?’ He places his hand on me as if I were his child and he is about to call me buddy.
The women who dance in the centre are swaying their hips in a rhythmic motion, their feet gracefully stepping backwards and forwards and their arms anchored securely around men’s shoulders. They look beautiful.
Fine. I can make a fool of myself once. I go behind a woman in a sparkly noodle dress (there is a more technical term for it, but its frills are straight like freshly cut soba).
The room’s dim and sensual lighting is at odds with loud Latin music that feels like a celebration in the streets of Puerto Rico or Cuba.
A man finishes his dance with another woman, who also looks like a new dancer, kisses her hands, and sends her away.
His back was turned to me, so when he reaches for my hand, I am slightly surprised to see the handsome man from CM Shot that I ogled at the last meeting.
‘Hey, I know you.’ He pulls me in, miraculously avoiding being stepped on by my confused feet.
‘Oh, ha ha, hey.’ I try hard not to bite my lip from embarrassment and shyness. ‘Malik, is it?’
‘Yes, good memory, Fuko.’
He remembers my name and knows how to say it correctly. Luckily, he spins me onto the dance floor, stopping any possibility of a girlish squeal coming from me. His head lowers to my ear. ‘Have you done this before?’
‘No, never. I am a terrible dancer.’
‘Just means you never had someone to lead you properly.’
Oh, Malik, you can lead me anywh— Oh, shit, these steps are a lot quicker than anticipated. The music has increased in both tempo and volume, letting the double bassline pulse through the air.
‘I am going to put my hand on your hip. This will help with directing the steps.’
He commands me not to look at the floor and just concentrate on the movements, counting aloud for me to follow instead of the music.
He says it in such a matter-of-fact manner that the procedure is more clinical, like relocation of a shoulder rather than fiery, sexy dancing.
It doesn’t feel like what I expected salsa to be.
But also, I don’t feel as self-conscious—my steps are untrained but not stiff.
‘What got you into dancing?’ I ask, bravely looking up from the floor.
‘I was actually a dancer before going into filming. Was doing a talent reel, paid ￡400, didn’t like how it turned out, ended up filming a better reel myself. Met John years later.’
‘And here you are.’
‘And here I am, dancing with a pretty girl.’
I think I just snorted. I did, didn’t I? I laughed, and a snort came out without consulting me first. Might end it all and jump into oncoming traffic after this is over.
Malik doesn’t seem too bothered by my horrendous display, but a slight chuckle escapes him before going back to ‘one-and-two-and’.
‘Are you here on a work outing?’ Malik asks, interrupting his counting.
‘No, just with a friend.’ I glance back at the floor when he’s distracted.
‘Huh, I thought that was your marketing officer.’
Fuck off. No way. I snap my head.
‘Go, Fuko!’ Sashka shouts gleefully, standing next to Toby and Leon.
‘Let’s go say hi!’ Malik says without waiting for my response and drags me off the dance floor when the song finishes. Who knew that I would be the one desperate to stay dancing?
‘Oh, hi, guys,’ I flash a smile instead of what I want to do, which is scream and throw dirty looks at Leon. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘We weren’t going to, but we were in the area. You were doing so well, Fuko! Wasn’t she?’ she asks Toby.
Toby Lewis stands with an unreadable expression that changes into a cheeky smirk. ‘I’m impressed, not a single stepped toe.’
His condescending tone raises the heat in my cheeks. Hopefully, the soft lighting is hiding it from everyone here.
‘Are you two dancing?’ Malik asks them.
‘No, look what I have done.’ Sashka lifts her pressed trouser leg and reveals an ankle wrapped up in kinesiology tape.
‘What happened?’ I bend over to have a better look.
‘There was a hole in the ground.’ Is all she says and accepts my hug. ‘So we had to abandon our walk and stop by a pharmacy. But Toby can dance.’
‘I don’t—’ he protests.
‘Don’t be shy. I can teach you too.’ Malik encourages him.
‘It’s honestly—’
‘I think he’s just too boring for that.’ I hate being spiteful. I do. But the way Toby Lewis’s mouth and face contort bring me an immeasurable amount of joy.
I don’t know what I expected to happen, but for a second, I swear I felt a gale rush up to the ceiling.
‘Oh, you will regret this.’ He fires an empty threat that makes me roll my eyes.
I reach for his hand, warm and solid under my fingers.
He pulls me in, into the centre of the dance floor.
The motions are like Malik’s; Toby’s hand, however, isn’t anywhere near my hip.
It doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t need to count or to tell me to look up.
I follow his every push and pull, forgetting about the surrounding music, with my heartbeat loud in my ears.
His eyes dig into mine, relishing the complete surprise with a victorious glimmer. Like the helm, he rotates and twists me around as if I am a ship in uneasy waters and he is an experienced captain. His whole body presses against mine, separated by measly layers of clothing,
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does it feel as if my skin is burning from his touch? Act normal, Fuko. Everyone is watching.
The lights flash off and turn back on again, stopping the music. I pull away, Toby’s hands lingering on me for a second too long. Does he look angry with me?
‘Wow, that was impressive.’ Leon claps when we are back and the new song plays.
Sashka smiles and kisses Toby on the cheek when he returns, but for a moment, there was a twinge around the corner of her lip.
I could have imagined it, of course, feeling my guilt rise as my heartbeat and breathing return to normal.
Leon passes my bag back. For a second, I hear the faint jingle of a bell. Maybe I’m imagining it too.
‘You dance beautifully.’ Malik props my hands in his and kisses them, like the rest of the male dancers, and then hands me something from his back pocket. ‘In case you want a dancing partner or a film crew at your disposal.’
His business card. I hold it with both hands until he has gone back to a patient woman in the dance queue.
‘See, you just needed to put yourself out there for a bit of luck.’ Leon winks and bumps me with his hip.
Yeah. Luck. This is what that feeling is—complete and utter luck.