Read Online Eighty Days Amber by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vina Jackson
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didn’t want to appear a nag or a shrew, and I was perfectly capable of surviving without him, but I had been born into a world of straight lines, uniformity and precision and I resented the chaos that his unexplained and unscheduled absences lent to my arrangements. I wanted to impose some kind of order on my existence, cement the feeling that, pitiful though it might be, my life must have some kind of purpose.
I was in a reflective mood when I arrived back at the apartment, and still tired from that evening’s exertions, so I didn’t notice Chey’s blazer hanging over the back of the chair in the second bedroom that he used as his office, thefolded-up newspaper on the kitchen bench or the gentle hum of his space-age washing machine.
I had already begun my post-work ritual – tossing my hold-all costume carry bag onto the sofa in the lounge, to be unpacked when I was awake again, switching on the kettle to pour hot water over a tea bag and add a slice of lemon, reminding myself of the home country, splashing a little cold water on my face in the bathroom to wash away my night-time, dancing self from the regular, everyday person who kept her clothes on, most of the time – when I noticed him in the bedroom. I was by no means unobservant, but Chey moved like a cat, graceful, quiet, always like a coiled spring ready to be released. He could have crept up on a flock of pigeons without sending them skywards.
My initial pleasure at seeing him was quickly replaced by other, stronger emotions when I remembered his abandonment, and how this time I had planned to lay down the law, and tell him that I wouldn’t be treated this way. Then I noticed what he was sitting next to. A colourful pile of chiffon and lace. The outfit that I had hastily tried on and discarded in favour of another as I packed my bag for that night’s shift.
He took one look at the mixture of guilt and defensiveness that spread across my face and his expression hardened.
‘I thought you only danced for me,’ he said. ‘Is this how you now dress at the patisserie? I went there to look for you, but learned you had left . . .’
‘Then you thought wrong,’ I replied haughtily. ‘I dance for me. Not anyone else.’
That much was true enough. Until I had completed that first shift at the Tender Heart, I hadn’t realised how much I missed the rigour of the steps, the flow of the music, thepleasure that I took from the applause of a satisfied audience, how I enjoyed watching all eyes fixated on the rhythm of my body.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did you not think that you could call me, that I would look after you?’
‘I’m not your pet,’ I told him peevishly, ‘not some mail-order bride who just wants to sit at home and wait for you. Spending your money and fucking you in return like a whore.’
‘You know I don’t think of you like that,’ he replied, visibly aggrieved.
I straightened my shoulders and set my jaw, prepared to argue to the bitter end. My independence had always been hard won, and consequently it was something that I valued highly. And if Chey didn’t like it, then I would leave him, and use the money from my dancing to make my own way in life.
‘I enjoy dancing. I missed it. And I won’t be beholden to you, or to anyone.’
‘You know that you’re no prima ballerina in a place like that, Luba.’ He waved a card for Barry’s joint, which he had found crumpled up inside my bag.
I sighed. ‘I’m not there any more. I’ve already moved to a classier joint, more in line with my style. And don’t act like I’m a common stripper,’ I insisted. ‘You haven’t even seen me perform.’
Eventually, we came to an agreement. He would watch one of my sets. If he liked it, he’d let me carry on. If he didn’t, I’d give up dancing for money, though only if I could find another way to keep my mind and body occupied and earn a living of my own.
That night, he made love to me like a man possessed. Asif the ardour and the
I was in a reflective mood when I arrived back at the apartment, and still tired from that evening’s exertions, so I didn’t notice Chey’s blazer hanging over the back of the chair in the second bedroom that he used as his office, thefolded-up newspaper on the kitchen bench or the gentle hum of his space-age washing machine.
I had already begun my post-work ritual – tossing my hold-all costume carry bag onto the sofa in the lounge, to be unpacked when I was awake again, switching on the kettle to pour hot water over a tea bag and add a slice of lemon, reminding myself of the home country, splashing a little cold water on my face in the bathroom to wash away my night-time, dancing self from the regular, everyday person who kept her clothes on, most of the time – when I noticed him in the bedroom. I was by no means unobservant, but Chey moved like a cat, graceful, quiet, always like a coiled spring ready to be released. He could have crept up on a flock of pigeons without sending them skywards.
My initial pleasure at seeing him was quickly replaced by other, stronger emotions when I remembered his abandonment, and how this time I had planned to lay down the law, and tell him that I wouldn’t be treated this way. Then I noticed what he was sitting next to. A colourful pile of chiffon and lace. The outfit that I had hastily tried on and discarded in favour of another as I packed my bag for that night’s shift.
He took one look at the mixture of guilt and defensiveness that spread across my face and his expression hardened.
‘I thought you only danced for me,’ he said. ‘Is this how you now dress at the patisserie? I went there to look for you, but learned you had left . . .’
‘Then you thought wrong,’ I replied haughtily. ‘I dance for me. Not anyone else.’
That much was true enough. Until I had completed that first shift at the Tender Heart, I hadn’t realised how much I missed the rigour of the steps, the flow of the music, thepleasure that I took from the applause of a satisfied audience, how I enjoyed watching all eyes fixated on the rhythm of my body.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did you not think that you could call me, that I would look after you?’
‘I’m not your pet,’ I told him peevishly, ‘not some mail-order bride who just wants to sit at home and wait for you. Spending your money and fucking you in return like a whore.’
‘You know I don’t think of you like that,’ he replied, visibly aggrieved.
I straightened my shoulders and set my jaw, prepared to argue to the bitter end. My independence had always been hard won, and consequently it was something that I valued highly. And if Chey didn’t like it, then I would leave him, and use the money from my dancing to make my own way in life.
‘I enjoy dancing. I missed it. And I won’t be beholden to you, or to anyone.’
‘You know that you’re no prima ballerina in a place like that, Luba.’ He waved a card for Barry’s joint, which he had found crumpled up inside my bag.
I sighed. ‘I’m not there any more. I’ve already moved to a classier joint, more in line with my style. And don’t act like I’m a common stripper,’ I insisted. ‘You haven’t even seen me perform.’
Eventually, we came to an agreement. He would watch one of my sets. If he liked it, he’d let me carry on. If he didn’t, I’d give up dancing for money, though only if I could find another way to keep my mind and body occupied and earn a living of my own.
That night, he made love to me like a man possessed. Asif the ardour and the
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