My Ballantyne Ch. 01

ONE

When former champion ballroom dancer Isobel Ballantyne was on the eve of closing the Ballantyne School of Ballroom Dancing in December last year, her youngest daughter Sierra returned home, wounded, emerging from her unexpected divorce.

Sierra had fallen on hard times because marriage to an older and wealthy husband had landed her into a sumptuous life-style and there was no way that could continue with the paltry $2 million her incompetent lawyer had managed to extract in the divorce settlement.

"Heavens above, mom, the mansion I lived in cost us almost $4 million to buy but in some shady deal before the divorce, Rafael it sold at auction for just under $2 million and that was with more than a million in furniture and fittings."

"Oh my poor baby," consoled Isobel, staggered at hearing Sierra dismiss the $2 million she received as if it were shopping money.

"What will you do, darling?"

"I'll have to find another provider, of course."

"Of course, but what will you do in the meantime?"

"I don't know, mom," wailed Sierra, clutching her mother and sobbing, "You know I've never worked."

Isobel went to bed that night, and after husband Alex had bumbled around with her body in his usual way and fell asleep, Isobel was left staring into the darkness wondering how she could get some of her daughter's money into her pocket.

Three weeks later Sierra handed her mother a check for $275,000. She had purchased from her mother a single level concrete building on the edge of the commercial district of the city housing the ailing Ballantyne School of Ballroom Dancing. Isobel had convinced her daughter that if she thought she was sinking towards the bottom of life she may as well entertaining herself running the ailing dancing school and then ultimately selling off the building for a profit.

A profit?

Mention of the word profit was like music in Sierra's ears so the deal was settled, the price fixed at book value plus 20% which made Sierra feel she was getting a bargain. The deal confirmed to Isobel that Sierra had no idea of the value of money; the best offer Isobel had received with the business and building being on the market for eight months was $237,000.

Sierra had been a brilliant dancer, winning titles galore including an international title for the Cha Cha at world competitions in Argentina, where she met Rafael, then president of the world organizing body for the competitions.

TWO

Almost six months after purchasing the dance school, Sierra was in a bar, drinking with old girlfriends. Sierra confided with Jennie that she found out why the dance tuition was ailing – it was because very few people wanted to learn to dance; she'd erroneously assumed it was because her mother had run out of energy.

"Why don't you turn it into a brothel," cackled Jennie. The other four women wanted to know what the joke was. When it had been explained they all urged Sierra to open a brothel and they all got gloriously drunk while relating brothel stories.

The next day, nursing an awfully sore head, Sierra had a long talk to her two dance instructors and receptionist; all agreed to consider staying on and began printing out letters to the present 285 students attending day and evening classes advising that the studio would be closing at the end of the current quarter in six weeks' time.

Six week later the building was painted and the new sign writing, 'Ballantyne's School of Seduction' created an immediate stir, with complaints pouring into the offices of the Mayor and the Chief of Police.

City officials, vice-squad police and TV film crews and radio and newspaper teams were waiting at the doors of the remodeled building when Sierra arrived at 9 o'clock; it was she who'd arranged for the media to be alerted.

Camera crews hurled themselves at her black Mercedes as she pulled into her parking space, just as she knew they would. The start of the daily post-breakfast programGood Morning Folk was interrupted to take the filming live which TVAIM08 was sending live feeds round the country.

"Miss Ballantyne, is this a hoax!"

"Are you in business suicide mode?"

"How do you teach seduction, Miss Ballantyne?"

The media was in feeding frenzy.

"Miss Ballantyne, are you in the process of illegally opening a brothel," thundered a uniform policeman, surrounded by grim-faced plainclothes men and women who could only be vice-squad police.

There was silence, the only sound being humming video motors, clicking camera shutters and the nervous shuffling of feet.

"A brothel, what would I know about brothels?" simpered Sierra, dressed in a black diamante gown from Paris that fitted like a glove, with a slit almost up to her left hip. She wore only a diamond choker and brilliant red high heel shoes as adornments and carried a small black handbag of the same material as her gown. Clearly she epitomized the highest-class madam seen on Earth in recent decades.

"Who asked the question how do you teach seduction?"

A pouting female journalist, about Sierra's age of thirty, raised her hand saying, "I'm sorry to ask something that is impossible to answer."

"You teach it like teaching ABD and one and one are two – creating an elementary base, then increasing knowledge and understanding in incremental steps."

"But you can't teach emotions?" fired back the know-all pouter.

"What would you know, you ignorant over-dressed and sell-opinioned woman?"

"I beg your pardon!" squawked the offended journalist, turning fiery red and spluttering.

"I think I have demonstrated how easy it is to trigger emotions," smiled Sierra sweetly, drawing laughter and some handclaps.

"So this is not going to be a brothel?"

"No, sorry officer. I guess you and your fellow officers will have to find what you're looking for elsewhere."

The sergeant had the sense to smile broadly and not retort as the TV cameras turned on to him.

A city official cleared his throat: "Madam..."

"I am not a madam in either sense of the word. Please address me either as Miss Ballantyne or Sierra."

"Miss Ballantyne, I am Withers of city regulations, licensing and inspections. I am here to advise you must keep this business closed until you apply and have approved an operating licensing for the changed used of these premises."

A disappointed sigh swept through the media. All attention swung back to Sierra who was looking into a hand mirror, touching up her lip gloss. She put those aids back into her handbag, squared her shoulders and smiled.

"I beg to differ, Mr Withers, but the usage of these premises remains unchanged. Please consult your records, we are licensed for educational tuition and that's exactly what we shall be doing here. Our first classes commence at 10 o'clock on Wednesday morning and you all are invited to enroll, including you Mr Withers.

"Now, would you all like to come in and inspect our set-up; I'm afraid classrooms are not very sexy to look at."

Four self-contained and sound-proofed classrooms with glass doors were set up inside the large area of the former dance studio, two marked 'Males' and two 'Females' and each had twenty lecturer desk units for students with a pull down screen mounted on the ceiling, video-cam recorders set up and on the stage was a model home lounge set, then a kitchen set then a bedroom set.

"What happens on the bed?" asked the police sergeant.

"The more conventional approach to seduction."

"Is there penetration?"

"Good gracious no, this is a respectable teaching facility."

"What videos will be shown?" asked a newspaper reporter.

"Clips from Health and Sexuality films issued by the Government Health Department."

"And what will be filmed," asked a vice-squad woman.

"A man pouring a drink for a woman, then in the kitchen showing how to gently touch the shoulder of a woman when she slips with dishes."

"No porn stuff?"

"Goodness no – just look at what you see. Isn't it set up exactly like a TV cooking class studio or an educational classroom for expectant mothers?"

Most people present looked around disappointedly. It was then Sierra once again noticed a tall well-built journalist who was still grinning; he'd been like that from the first time she saw him with his female photographer. She'd thought that was unusual – more often than not it was female journalists with male photographers and, besides, they usually scowl, not smile.

As those who'd stayed for morning tea drifted away the tall smiling journalist came over and introduced himself as Mason Littlejohn and his photographer, Macie Jones. They were from the trendy weekly magazineVillage Thinking, currently the darling read for folk trapped in high-rise apartments or feeling lost in suburbia.

"I suspected this was a promotional ploy," smiled Mason, noting that Sierra made no attempt to conceal her blush of embarrassment. "We just took this at face value – a teaching facility on a subject most people prefer to keep to themselves, even from their own adolescent children."

"Very astute of you, Mason," laughed Sierra, "but them journalists are trained to be astute I guess."

"He's not a journalist, really," interjected Macie almost indignantly. "He's our publisher."

"But still a working journalist," said Mason smoothly. "I still write a weekly syndicated column for newspapers and write my monthly article forUtopia 21st Century magazine."

"Oh yes, Mason Littlejohn; that's where I've come across your name. You write on ways of reducing stress in living totally in a high density urban environment – I particularly liked that advice about getting a second part-time job that doesn't really suit to help make you focus on what really matters. A piece of innovative, intelligent writing, I thought at the time."

"Why thank you, Sierra, what an intelligent thing to say."

His smile was mocking but his eyes looked warm; Sierra was wondering whether she should invite him out for lunch, Macie too, but hopefully Macie would have the nous of a knowing woman to decline, allowing Sierra to try her luck.

"Sierra, what a pretty name, though its meaning is a little rocky and jagged, which I'm sure is not you," Mason said, as if launching into a speech. "We would like to interview you for a feature article – but to do it as a working lunch, at Melba I should think unless you have another restaurant you would prefer."

"Your choice is fine," Sierra said.

THREE

They arrived at Melba and it turned into a scene fromHullo Dolly, with the maitre-d' scuttling over and kissing Sierra's hand with so much showmanship that Macie had time to whip up one of her cameras and capture the moment of Miss Ballantyne smilingly acknowledging Gustave who was saying it was so nice to see her back again.

The resident woman pianist, catching sight of who it was, halted midway through playing 'Tea for Two' to slip into a stirring piece of Cha-cha music.

"I gather you've been here before," Mason said dryly.

"She is one of our famous regulars of the past," explained Gustave. "Come with me please, and look at her picture."

"My God," breathed Mason, looking at one of ten large framed photos on the restaurant wall called Celebrity Corner; it was a photo taken almost five years earlier which caught Sierra in a dazzling colored gossamer dress amid a spectacular leap; one breasts was clearly visible but what attracted eyes were her elegantly long legs, exposed right up to her panties.

"You like this, yes, Mr Littlejohn?" asked Gustave proudly, saying it was acknowledged those were the best legs in Latin American dancing.

Macie's reaction was to pass over her card, asking Sierra to get a copy of that print or preferably the negative delivered to her urgently along with a photo of herself receiving dancing instruction from her mother.

After entrée and wine, Macie took some photographs and then excused herself, winking at Sierra as she departed.

"That's one intelligent woman," commented Sierra.

"Who, Macie? Yeah, she does have what it takes," Mason said, looking at the beauty with her classical facial features across the table from him. The beauty with the fabulous legs; he wondered if they were still in great shape.

"How do you maintain fitness?" he asked, beginning the interview.

"At present by worrying," Sierra frowned, explaining that she was reconstructing her life after divorce.

"I mean physical fitness?" coaxed Mason.

"I've just answered that question," she replied. "Worry makes you keep on the move all the time, moving your eyes, your hands and you walk and worry, climb stairs much faster than necessary."

"I mean do you go to the gym?"

"Yes, three times a week."

"Do you still dance?"

"Yes, it is one of my pleasures."

"Will you dance for me?"

Time momentarily stood still for Sierra. Was this the moment of destiny? She couldn't tell, having no feeling about it. It had caught her unprepared, giving no lead-in time. She decided to decline but then in typical fashion went against her own advice.

"Yes, if you insist. But only in my former dance studio – it's still a dancing floor."

"That would be lovely – tonight at eight?"

"Very well."

"Am I permitted to bring a bottle of wine and glasses?" "Bring whatever you wish, even your mother and father and your wife."

"I'm not married, never have been."

Sierra had a feeling flutter through her that was bordering on being an orgasm. But then she thought sadly that a forty year old man who'd never married would be far too set in his ways for her – that no way did she want her spirit to be imprisoned.

Mason smiled, said he'd attend the private recital alone, and then continued with the interview.

More than an hour later they parted, Mason returning by cab to his office, Sierra walking to visit her accountant. She'd expected a goodbye kiss, but Mason just smiled and almost saluted, watching her walking off. With a few drinks under her belt, Sierra ensured a sassy sway was incorporated into her walk.

Sierra arrived at her education centre at 7:30 to change and limber up, and precisely at eight the doorbell went and she admitted Mason, who carried a dozen red roses which he presented with a flourish, kissing her on the cheek after doing so. Dressed in a tuxedo, he also carried a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

"My, you do look handsome," said Sierra, noting a pleased response.

She seated Mason in a director's chair and disappeared, to change into her first costume to begin her prepared program of short excerpts from major dances she'd performed in her past.

Sierra was aware that the flexibility and strength of her youth had diminished but she concealed that to a large extent by the later-life development of passionate flamboyance.

For the next hour Sierra performed very credibly, past her peak of course, but nevertheless it was a delightful performance and Mason watched entranced.

After the final encore he asked, "Do you have a foxtrot on your musical system?"

Sierra said yes, scores of them.

"Beautiful dancer, may I have the next dance?" grinned Mason, walking to her.

They danced, and to her surprise Sierra found he was quite an accomplished dancer of the foxtrot – his timing and balance were good, and the fingers in her back signaled his intentions decisively and early which pleased her and lifted him above the pack of male dancehall grinders. His touch of flamboyance was also well received.

"You're very good – excellent in fact, she said."

"I love having you in my arms," he said, unsmilingly.

That caught Sierra unawares. Not knowing which way to turn away she faced him and let him read her delighted look, colored by a teenager-like blush. He read it but said nothing, sparing her further embarrassment.

They went on stage in one of the classrooms to sit in the lounge segment to drink their champagne, silently choosing to share the sofa rather than sit opposite in the lounge chairs as if both acknowledging something was developing between them.

Pouring the final top-ups, Mason stood up and putting out his hand said, "Come to bed."

TO BE CONTINUED...