Some people may recognize our protagonist from one of my 'Gay Male' stories, Dance of Desire. Even though his part in that story was very small, it turns out there was quite a lot going on in the background.
Please note: If you like to read my stories in order, even though Dance of Desire and Dangerous Liaison are standalones. This story does contain spoilers.
Tess O-Meter Green.
-X
I'm not going to deny, I was a little pissed off.
Having had to stop dancing professionally two years ago, at only thirty-six, it had taken a lot to come to terms with such an abrupt and shocking end to my career.
Unfortunately a human knee is only meant to bend one way, and a badly timed kick during a Jive had ended my dreams. Leaving me with an injury more common in soccer players, and a dance partner who wouldn't even take my calls due to misplaced guilt.
Receiving the unexpected invitation three months ago, to come and interview for a role as a judge on the prestigious Paris Ballroom & Latin Competition, had been totally out of the blue. I was aware that one of the older judges had retired, but less than two years into my career re-build as a teacher and judge (mostly on the UK circuit where I'm based, some back home in the States) I hadn't expected to be on anyone's wish list.
I had travelled to Paris and been welcomed by Manon Alexandre, the current matriarch of the family who privately funded the event, run every five years.
"Are you ready to impress us, Mr Franklin?" she had asked. Before walking me into a room where the remaining five judges were gathered.
I hadn't been expecting that.
I also hadn't been expecting to be interviewed, not for a judging role, but for the head judge role.
Not only was I fifteen years younger than anyone in the room, but there was clearly a lot of unhappiness. In particular from the two older gentleman who both thought they should be offered the role, having sat on the judging panel since the first competition forty years before, and did not approve of an outsider (American, not French) being considered.
"This isn't right, Manon," they had hissed. Completely ignoring my greeting. "We must protest in the strongest terms. Your father would never have-."
"My father is no longer in charge," Mrs Alexandre had interrupted them. "And things cannot stay the same, they must progress. Mr Franklin knows more about current dance trends and developing styles than anyone else in this room."
"He also won the last three competitions." This from Mrs Amelia Bassett, who had been on the panel for the last two competitions. "The first at only twenty-three. And let's not forget the second time he took part and won in our first all-male winning partnership. Mr Franklin is more than qualified to join our team."
"But not to lead the team," the second angry gentleman argued. "Not to have authority over us. I won't have it."
"May I make a suggestion?" I asked quietly.
Everyone turned to look at me. With varying degrees of interest, or disdain.
"Perhaps you would like to interview me before making any decisions. It may be that I interview terribly and you decide unanimously that I'm not suitable at all."
I made this suggestion gently and in fluent French. Mrs Bassett and Manon Alexandre exchanged a small smile before I was waved to a seat.
"What a sensible idea."
I had been appointed, and Manon had lost two more judges, which I suspect she had been rather pleased about, having inherited them from her father. Everybody else had been welcoming.
A wonderful French ballet dancer had joined us, having recently retired after dancing well into her fifties.
And Manon had asked me if I thought my ex-partner would be interested in the final position.
The Paris competition was randomly selected. You could be matched with any other entrant, which is why same-sex partnerships were not uncommon. Although it was rare for them to win.
It was even rarer for someone to be matched with their usual dance partner, but that's what happened to me the last time I took part. And that had undoubtedly given us a massive advantage.
Kirsty was a few years younger than me, but a wonderful talent. I had been devastated when she had stopped dancing after my injury and even more so that she had broken off all contact.
When I explained to Manon about the difficulty she had been dismissive. "I know all about that," she confirmed. "It's time the girl moved on. You don't blame her, do you?"
"Of course not. It was an accident."
"Well then. Let's go and see her."
I had found myself back in the States, walking into a room where my ex-dance partner now coached teenagers for state level competition.
Manon had gone in ahead of me to ask if she was interested in the role. Kirsty was, of course, and I had heard her clearly when she spoke of how much she could bring back to the kids and her classes from such an experience.
"And you won't have a problem working with our new head coach?" Manon had asked, with an inbuilt flair for dramatics.
"I usually get on with everybody," Kirsty had answered. "But I don't know who your new head judge is?"
"Young Armenia, here," Manon had flung out an arm to introduce me. I walked quickly in from where I had been lurking in the corridor, and gathered Kirsty into my arms. Armenia is not a common name and she was halfway to the floor already.
"Hey gorgeous," I whispered into her hair.
"Oh, Armenia!" She clung to me, squeezing hard and crying.
I laughed, so happy to see her, and gave her a swing. "I've missed you. So much."
I didn't know whether I was going to be a good head judge. Today was my first day on the job. But even if I got kicked out, I would always be grateful to Manon for putting me back in touch with Kirsty.
Still only halfway through the first day. This was known as a tough day, as half of the competitors would not make it to the next round. This was where we separated the talent from the wannabes. The people who would put the work in, from those who were here for a lark.
Having Kirsty sat next to me was wonderful, and my fear that I might be overcome with jealousy and regret had been proven unfounded, but now I was pissed off.
Watching one of the most highly anticipated couples make a pigs ear of what should have been an fantastic routine.
I had competed against Cam for nearly a decade, and Frankie had come along about six or seven years ago and had then taken part in the last Paris competition. I had won with Kirsty, but he had come in third, which was astounding as he was only twenty-three at the time and had been dancing with an enthusiastic and well-funded amateur.
I liked Frankie very much, it was impossible not to. He was a little loud and flamboyant at times, and talked like one of the posh characters from Downton Abbey, but he was very supportive and generous with younger dancers, and very approachable.
Cam was not so approachable, but despite having the biggest chip on his shoulder of anyone I had ever met, he was a nice guy.
We had gotten drunk together in Birmingham one time (after losing) and Cam had told me his story. He had basically raised himself like a rogue wolf cub for the first fourteen years of his life, and then been taken in by nuns in Naples.
It was hardly any wonder he was a little edgy. And I had chuckled when he and Frankie had been matched at the Paris draw, imaging the fireworks.
But the fact was, they could dance, I could not. I was pissed that they obviously hadn't put their differences aside and used their talent. The dance was beautiful, and was clearly Cam's work. He was a master with Viennese Waltz, but there was a stiffness.
Then my eyes caught something and Amelia saw it too. A sharp breath beside me and she sat up straight, glancing my way. I looked at her briefly before we turned back to the dance, but we had both seen the same thing.
Francis Vega-Caro was injured.
We convened once the dance was over. Comparing and discussing our marks and views. All six of us had realized the problem, but the question was, what to do about it.
They were looking to me for guidance. I glanced at where Cam stood supporting Frankie against him. Clearly they had put any differences aside, and whatever the problem was it was a shame, but.
"We have to be impartial," I said, not bothering to hide my regret. "Whatever has happened, it's not the fault of the other competitors. We have to mark the dance they danced. Not what might have been, or what we know they are capable of."
"It's a shame," Madam Durand said.
"He'll need to be checked over as well," I added.
Amelia Bassett touched my arm, a clear look of approval on her face. "I agree. We must be fair. But the boy probably has pain medication, we need to know what."
I was grateful for her support. "Amelia, would you mind liaising with the doctor in this case, and finding out what it's all about?"
"Of course," she nodded.
We gave the scores, and I felt bad because we all knew it probably wasn't enough to get them through. Then Amelia requested they attend a medical, and told me she would follow it up in the next break.
The day continued, and we eliminated more couples. Until we were left with the brilliant talent and a few very lucky scrape-throughs who would have to up their game.
We were all surprised and pleased to see that Frankie and Cam had made it through. Amelia updated us that Frankie had been beaten up just a couple of days prior, and had severe bruising and suspected cracked ribs.
"They don't know if the attack was homophobic or racially motivated," she said, clearly upset. "I spoke with his doctor and Dr Chazel."
I was confused. "Wait, two doctors?"
"Ah, Mr Vega-Caro had a friend who is a doctor travel with him. Mr Armstrong's brother."
My hand jumped slightly and I dropped my notepad, bending quickly and grabbing it. "Sorry, um, yes, well I know that Robert Armstrong is a medical doctor."
"Yes. It seems they know Mr Vega-Caro well. Dr Armstrong, David. He came over to help. It looks like they are taking good care of him."
"Amelia, perhaps you would be kind enough to follow this up in a few weeks? Via Dr Chazel of course, we cannot get involved during the competition."
"Yes, I would like to actually. Thank you, Armenia."
"I'll see you tomorrow, for the draw."
"Yes, goodnight."
I let out a long breath as we separated.
Feeling like a fraud and a hypocrite, I strode down the corridor and dragged out my phone.
Shit! Things were getting complicated. And why the fucking, fuck, hadn't he warned me?
Then I saw the text. 'I'm in Paris, at the ballroom. Frankie was hurt. Don't freak if you see me. D.'
Shit, right, well. They were probably long gone, I thought as I turned a corner and crashed straight into Robbie Armstrong, my phone flying out of my hand.
"Shit. Sorry."
"Mr Franklin, I'm so sorry."
I managed to smile. "The scores are in Robbie, I think we're okay now. Well done, you got lucky getting matched with Mia."
"Tell me," he laughed. "Oh, this is my brother, David."
David smiled as handed me my phone, I noticed he had shut the screen down. "Mr Franklin, good to see you. How's the knee?"
