that—not a rerun with a matching set of characters that just happened to have different names.
Was she overreacting? She really hoped so. Men like Rico had always been her downfall: big, powerful men like her ex-husband. Men who oozed testosterone through every pore; men who made her believe she could be desirable and might even find sexual fulfilment with them.
Unconsciously, Zoë made a small sound of despair. She was a sexual oddity—and likely to remain so. She was frightened of sex, it always hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to improve the situation. Her husband had grown tired of her excuses. She had made him hate her. Small wonder they had divorced.
But that was behind her now. She had rebuilt her life. She couldn’t allow anyone, especially Rico Cortes, to fan her past insecurities into flame…
‘Zoë?’ Maria asked softly. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Collecting herself, Zoë spoke firmly and smiled. ‘Now,’ she added quickly, before Maria could probe any deeper, ‘I’d like to discuss my outline plan for the programme in which you’re to appear. I want to be quite sure you’re happy with everything.’
‘Bueno,’ Maria murmured softly, frowning a little as she allowed Zoë to lead her away from Rico.
The two women remained deep in conversation for some time. They were both on the same wavelength, Zoë realised. Maria was only too pleased to have the opportunity to bring genuine Spanish culture to a wider audience, and Zoë liked to present her food in context, rather than offering individual, unconnected recipes. This was her definition of lifestyle TV—a show that was genuine in every single respect—and now she had control over the content of her own programmes it was exactly what she delivered.
It was going to be really good, she realised with a sudden rush of excitement. Maria’s talent would imbue the show with her own special quality. Rico had correctly identified it as something that no amount of money could buy.
Glancing around, Zoë looked for him. But he must have left while she was talking to Maria.
‘Don’t look so sad,’ Maria insisted, chucking her under the chin. ‘I know what we will do,’ she added, getting to her feet.
Once again Zoë was struck by the difference in mobility between the Maria who had been sitting next to her and the Maria who performed on the stage—the one so fluid and graceful, the other showing definite, if gracious, signs of her age. ‘What will we do, Maria?’
‘We will dance together.’
‘Oh, no, I can’t—’
‘You can walk, you can run, and you can jump?’
‘Well, yes, of course—’
‘Then you can dance,’ Maria told her sternly. ‘But first we must find you some clothes. Those will not do,’ she said, eyeing Zoë’s slim-fitting jeans and top. ‘You look like a boy. I want to make you look like a woman.’
Zoë’s eyes widened. She was too polite to argue. And far too curious to see what Maria meant to refuse.
Now she knew the secret of the wooden mountain house around which people congregated. It was packed to the rafters with the most spectacular clothes: rows of shoes, boxes of hair ornaments, cascading fringed shawls, and dresses by the score in every colour under the rainbow.
‘You’re so lucky to take performing under the stars for granted.’ Zoë peered out of one of the small windows at the darkening sky. Someone had lit the campfire, and flames were just beginning to take hold. It was such a romantic scene, like something out of an old musical film. The children were still rehearsing—not because they had to now, but because they wanted to. Their heads were held high, faces rapt, their backs were arched and their hands expressive. ‘The children are a credit to you, Maria.’
Maria paused as she sorted through the dresses packed tight on the rail. ‘They are a credit to themselves and to each other,’ she corrected Zoë gently. ‘And if they can do it, so can you.’
‘Oh, no, really—I can’t—’ Her dancing was confined to her classes.
‘Who said you can’t? Here, try these on.’
Maria brought her an armful of clothes and Zoë’s face broke into a smile. Maria was like a gust of fresh spring air behind a heavy rain cloud. It was impossible to be hooked by the past when she was around.
‘The colour of this dress will look good on you.’
Zoë exclaimed with pleasure as she gazed at the beautiful lilac dress. Maria’s confidence was infectious.
‘You can put the dress on over there.’ Maria pointed across the room. ‘That’s where the children get changed—behind that screen. When you have it on, come out and choose some shoes to fit you from this row here. Don’t worry—I will help you to finish fastening the dress, and then I will do your hair.’
For once it was a pleasure to do as she was told. Zoë knew she would dance, because Maria would give her the confidence to do so. She was excited at the prospect of trying something new, especially now Rico had gone. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a show of herself if he’d still been around.
Maria was right; the low-cut lilac dress did look good against her titian hair. It moulded her figure like a glove down to her hips, where it flared out, and then was longer at one side than the other. She was showing quite a bit of leg, Zoë saw in the mirror, raising the skirt with a flourish. Just wearing the dress made her stand straight and proud, made her want to toss back her hair with the same defiant move she had seen Maria perform on stage.
Dipping her chin, Zoë tried out her expression, staring fiercely into the mirror through a fringe of long lashes. A poster on the wall behind her caught her attention. The dark-haired young woman was incredibly beautiful. Passion blazed from her eyes as she glared straight into the camera. She had the sinuous frame of a top model, though was more striking than any model Zoë had ever seen. Her full lips were slightly parted and a strand of her long ebony hair had caught across them, giving her flamenco pose a sense of movement. There was a single word stretched across the top of the fiery background: Beba.
‘Bueno!’ Maria said with approval when Zoë finally emerged from behind the screen. ‘That dress really suits you. I knew it would. Let me just finish the hooks and eyes at the back for you. They are hard for you to reach.’
‘I feel different. It’s ridiculous, but—’
‘It’s flamenco.’ Maria laughed happily and stood back to look at Zoë. ‘Now you feel proud and confident, like a woman should. Come, I will arrange your hair for you. And then we dance!’
Taka taka taka tak tak tak…taka taka taka tak… She was doing it! They had practised for about an hour on the dusty ground, and now Maria had deemed Zoë ready for the stage where, working together, the heels of their shoes made a crisp, satisfying sound on the hard wooden floor.
Breathing hard, her face fierce with concentration, Zoë thrust her head back as Maria had directed. One arm sweeping behind her back, she raised the other hand stiff, in a defiant pose, as if calling up some invisible energy…
‘Olé!’
‘Rico!’
