Some call it dancing, but for me, it's sweet relief.
And knowing what a couple of hours of this weekly routine does makes the name prosaic.
But let me take you back. I didn't always dance. Well, not like this. Sure, I'd done any number of two steps on a dancehall's floor and around the kitchen floor, with a broom. On the other hand, my daughters have taken any number of tap, ballet, Latin, and commercial dance classes from the moment they could. We'd spent enough money on dance lessons and dance costumes and dance competitions to bankroll my own private island, complete with a swim-up bar for 'Flipper'. Spent sufficient cash on petrol and overnight hotel stays to land us in the brand's platinum status, except this brand didn't do tiers. This, so the girls could be at their venue on time and refreshed for those weekend meets. Ran around from one dance lesson to the next, preparing for one exam or the other and all this after working full a week. Then I'd feign some form of conversation with the stay-at-home moms who seem to change upholstery and crockery every changing season. Were either permanently booked into a hair salon or nail salon. And whose holiday destination of choice... 'Oh, just the Indian Ocean,' as if it's the backyard pool.
Between the hustle of the career, running after the girls and keeping house, I'd outdone myself. So much so, that after the second time, in a hospital room, watching life leave David's face as we were told we had lost our second son, I agreed to some assistance. 'Get a nanny', he said and we did. But I wasn't content with third-hand reports of how my girls did. No, I didn't want that assistance. I wanted to be there, to cheer, to sooth, to motivate and congratulate.
After one too many second place positions, after one too many listening to so-and-so winning this, and so-and-so being awarded that, realising that an extra dance lesson here and there would have won us the trophy, I smacked that nail flush. Feigned conversations with the dance moms and their 'luxury finish" this, "elegant sheen" that, and "impeccable detail" the other.
These conversations weren't confined to the dance studio. Oh no, now I found myself having them in the middle of soccer games, while pretending to know the difference between 18 shades of beige in the department store and holding a cucumber in the produce aisle. It was in one such aisle that one mom admitted to David and me that she replaced her entire Le Creuset set because the rosso corsa-coloured pasta bowls clashed with her new kitchen.
Because, god forbid, the marinara sauce doesn't match the backsplash. David whispered after she left.
Dinner's utterly ruined. I chuckled.
But more importantly, I now knew what judges favoured what styles of dance, which ballrooms gave what bounce and I stopped short of which adjudicator could be paid under the table. Because when my girls win their dance competitions, I want it to be on their own merit. Plus, I didn't want that to be brought against me in a court of law.
At Arabella's birthday party, Arabella's mom revealed why the Cherrington kids always got the lead roles in the school's Christmas production. 'A Harrods' Christmas Hamper', is what she said. The gift of choice from the Cherringtons to Mrs Sweeting.
But Arabella was lead in the last Christmas production. I pointed out.
Turns out they'd gifted Mrs Sweeting a Fortnum & Mason Christmas hamper. Now, I don't remember telling Arabella's mom I wanted sugar in my tea but it was sweet. If Harrods' and Fortnum and Mason's Christmas Hampers had now run the gamut, I'd have to be savvy. My oldest Sasha, was in her final year of the school. You bet the next time my girls caricatured their teachers, I listened. Gave a little more than the 'yeah' and the 'ahah' when they mimicked them. The French teacher was mean. When I corrected them to strict, the hammer of justice came down. 'No, Mom, she is mean,' both concluded with fervour and sufficient evidence to support their case. Even I, had to agree. The science teacher, he was fun. So-and-so teacher was lazy.
Mr Bailey, he is so funny.
Yeah, he always makes us laugh. The older parrots the younger. And chilled, not like you mom.
Ohh. Is all I said.
Away from school, the girls had another timetable. Monday, Maths. Tuesdays we did swimming followed by ballet. Wednesdays, it was ballet, followed by piano, followed by speech and drama. On Thursdays, we rushed back home to English from a two-hour round trip of horse riding lessons. You'd think we give ourselves a let-up on Fridays, but even then, someone pencilled in commercial dance at six. So we'd grab some fish and chips after school and head to commercial. Saturday bags at the ready, David and I would pack the girls into the car and go watch them play hockey.
Even after all that running around, David and I brought work home. We'd hold court at the dinner table while the girls slept. Those courts we held at home, we took into the courts of law and won our cases. He, in corporate law, and I weighed in heavily in divorce court. As the girls got older, the youngest took an interest. The oldest labelled us desensitised. Morally corrupt. In some ways, I guess we were.
The weeks, the months, the years, they repeated themselves and dropped away. One win after the other landed David a particularly high-profile client. Daily, the media circus wrote merry-go-rounds on the case. One such reporter even made camp outside our home on a few occasions and once or twice, I'd taken him steaming hot coffee and homemade rum cake. And when he told me he was about to have a son, I gave him all the baby stuff David and I hung on to for the sons we didn't have.
The media circus, that continued, only stopping short of printing that my husband's client was guilty. The consensus of the general public, our client is guilty. Was he guilty? That was the claimant's case. David's job was to defend his client, (biting) tooth and (unyielding) nail. And win.
The case closed and win he did. Grateful too, that the press could finally shut up shop and leave us alone. By then David Ellis was a household name. Monroe and Harper became Monroe, Harper and Ellis with David as a partner. Like 'The Jeffersons,' we moved on up to the East Side. Well, in our case, to a residential suburb, in a regent-style home, with pride. In our new home, the dinner table courts now had an official address, a purpose-built study.
Our first weekend in our new home, we celebrated with a home-cooked meal like any new-age, well-to-do West Indian family would. Spaghetti from the local Waitrose. Organic ground beef and onions from the farmers market, Loyd Grossman's Tomato & Roasted Garlic Sauce and jerk seasoning from the old house.
Except, that night we cried and coughed and spluttered over some overly jerked, spicy spaghetti and meatballs.
Honey, did you miss with the jerk seasoning? He'd asked when we finally gave up.
Dad, that may have been my fault. Our youngest Grace, chimed in.
You... put jerk seasoning in the spagbol?
Not quite. I'd told Mom our dance instructor likes her.
Now, that's enough of that, young lady.
Collecting mine and David's still full pasta bowls of food from the table. (And, Yes I bought us pasta bowls.)
He looks between me and the youngest. She'd caught me on the pour when she said it the first time and I picked up the jerk seasoning instead of picking up dried oregano. Added two or was it three dollops of it to the spagbol.
Which of your dance instructors is this?
Mr Bailey, the one who owns the Dance Studio, Sasha, is quick to add.
The one with the locs. Grace flicks her braids back, mimicking Maxwell Bailey.
My husband still sat at the kitchen table turned to me stood at the kitchen island.
Hang on, are we still talking about spaghetti here, or is there something else I should know about?
He calls her 'Empress'. Grace delights in saying.
Is this the reason we're not paying for extra private tutorials on the weekends? He'd said when he saw all I had was a tease of a smile. Picking up the pot of inedible spagbol and following me into the kitchen.
Maybe if I was ten years younger. I teased and proceeded to collect the remainder of the bowls.
Just in case you are wondering, that night, my husband didn't just remind me, he claimed me. Because, if there's ever a question of what rhythm your other half is panning to, knowledge of the slightest interest of someone from the opposite sex will answer that.
Anyway, now that we'd moved to the Home Counties, horse riding was twenty minutes from our new home. Dance, which was at least three times a week (more if there were competitions), was a two-hour round trip. And I, I did every trip.
I'd been reading a paper, waiting for a dance class to start on one such evening when Maxwell strutted into the waiting area. His upper guns on show under his customary snug white t-shirt.
Ladies. He said.
Hiiii. They all answered
Mrs Ellis. He greeted and I replied my hi with a pleasant smile.
He said what he came to say and left. I watched as one mom's chest heaved when he spoke and another's eyes ate as he walked out and I went back to my paper.
The whispers started. On his lower gun. Substantial is what one said. I stayed with my paper until Scarlett's mom turned to me.
But you must know, she said.
What must I know? I retorted.
You know?
I'm afraid I don't.
Well your husband.. you know... black men... you know?
I'm afraid I wouldn't know what you think I know, unless you say it.
When she realised I wasn't to be forthcoming, she gave up with the fishing.
Autumn rolled in, and with it, the imminent announcement of the participants in the school's Christmas production. It was all Arabella's mom spoke of in the school's car park and dance practice. But I knew I'd stirred that hornet's nest when I arrived at dance lessons with the girls that evening and the talking momentarily ceased. Momentarily, because now Arabella's mom needed to know what we'd gifted Mrs Sweeting to have landed our oldest, assistant director in the production and our youngest the female lead. Of course, I told her.
The usual, is what I said.
Her smile dropped to polite and mine stayed fixed on dazzling. But when David asked and I told him it came from the same place we bought our wedding jewellery, he almost stopped the show.
Jesus, doesn't anyone bake cookies anymore? He blurted out in the middle of the live performance.
The media circus, it returned giving me a high kick to the stomach. David was back in the papers. This time for a story our housekeeper sold. Like everything else, I was prepared to save my marriage. I did what any well-connected wife would do. I called my reporter friend, gave him an exclusive and bought the housekeeper a one-way ticket back to the islands.
The days, the weeks, the months - they repeated. Spring, summer, fall and the youngest went off to university. I'd conjured up this image of how I wanted my life to be... And at best, I'd managed to achieve it. But that image was a screenshot, a still. Unlike life that kept on moving to a rhythm.
That rhythm between David and I changed. Barely noticeable at first and then no longer recognisable. I saw less of my husband and more of the dance instructor volunteering at Bailey Dance Studio, (the same one my daughters attended) as if it were my own. Well actually, it now is. I took tips off the youngest, who'd built up a TikTok following and adapted it to the studio's socials. Instead of one dance studio, we now had two and renamed them Bailey Ellis Dance Studios. Instead of the moms leaving to get coffee elsewhere, they got coffee and conversation from our in-house fully staffed cafes. Dancers now sported our branded dance kits, hoodies, bags, caps and leotards.
David and I, we agreed to a divorce. Though when I'd ask for it, he asked me why and I simply said because 'I love you.' Drag each other through a sludge of a divorce, we did not. I'd seen enough of that in my line of work not to want it for myself, for us, for the girls. But I kept his surname because everything I'd built, I built on that name - Olivia Ellis. He's since remarried, a woman twenty years his junior. Myself, the girls and Maxwell, we attended the wedding. Even holidayed together on our last vacation with their new born son. Now that last bit hurt, knowing he'd always wanted a son.
I'd taken up tennis, yoga, meditation and dance too. He'd set me free on Tuesdays with salsa—wild and untamed. Thursdays, he reeled me in, a deliberate slow seduction through rhumba. But Saturdays? Saturdays were a baptism in desire, dancing the Argentine Tango with him was both a battle and a surrender. His guidance unwavering, his touch firm, our bodies heavy, charged with unspoken promises. We didn't need a match, our fire ignited on its own.
Did David and I love each other? In many ways, very much so. But agreed that rhythm had changed but that we also loved each other enough to set each other free. To let go and give ourselves the chance to chart new rhythms. Him with his new wife and son and I with Maxwell. With every step, every turn, and every shared laugh, I'm reminded that love isn't linear. It isn't always packaged the way we expect it to but when it finds us, be it the first, second or third beat, it will just feel right.
I can say that for sure. Because here, around our Christmas dinner table (all seven of us), eating, chatting and making fun of each other. I can sit and watch and smile.
