So they could do a little act for the cameras, which was always what cameras demanded.
“Shall we, Sister Ambrosia?” he said.
“Shall we, Brother Matt?”
“A little Dylan?” he suggested.
“And a lotta rhythm.”
After he led on the first line, she joined in singing the rollicking, feel-good anthem of “When the Ship Comes In” as if rehearsed, while the other women clapped their hands and tambourines and shook their booties and joined in.
They formed a line to march around the room New Orleans funeral style, Matt turning to waltz Ambrosia in a circle, then do-si-do among a few women of the church choir, borrow a tambourine and do a little arms-raised hip-banging with a three-hundred-pound dynamo, then perform a dip with a tall, skinny woman playing the kazoo.
By then the song had segued into “This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let It Shine” and Matt had circled into the center of the room to sweep Tatyana up into the alternating over-the-hip lifts of the swing dance they’d practiced.
When he let her feet hit floor, she grinned into the camera coming in for a close-up and crowed, “We are gonna be ready to rock with the angels on tonight’s show.”
Wrap and roll.
The cameraman left, happy not to have been steamrolled under, grinning at the great sound and motion he’d recorded.
The churchwomen filed out laughing and gossiping, Ambrosia last.
“Were you surprised to see me?” she asked Matt after he hugged her goodbye at the door.
“I was floored.”
“Did we help?”
He considered. “Sistah, if the church choir can shake it like that, so can I.”
“Right on! Don’t hold back. That’s what you tell our people out there in radioland almost every night, and that’s what we do to show ’em the way.”
“Amen.”
“Now we vork,” came a tight, light voice behind him.
Matt turned around to study his tiny but fierce taskmaster. No one who had heard Ambrosia’s hypnotically soothing voice for years over the airwaves knew she was a woman of size. Now the world would.
If she was willing to “bare all” on TV for him, he guessed he should be willing to reveal a little “rock and roll and rhythm” for her. Besides, he couldn’t let Temple down by looking like a dork.
“Now we work,” he agreed.
Danny Dove regularly dropped by all the rehearsal rooms, being the general overseer as well as chief judge. Matt was glad he came by to help with lifts.
This was Vegas, baby. Dramatic “lifts” might be rarely allowed on
“You two are made for lift training,” Danny diagnosed. “You Tarzan, she Jane and weighs a hundred pounds tops. Perfect. And
“He may be able,” Tatyana said, “but he is
“A ‘partner,’ ” Danny corrected her quickly, taking pity on Matt after having picked on him himself. “And you need
“Whatever this language means. He must lift me with confidence and skill, and look like he likes it. So far, you would think I was a teacup, when I must be a . . . a kettle.”
“A teakettle,” Danny corrected her again, “a hot Russian samovar, maybe, about to blow its top.”
He turned to Matt. “Once you understand that a female dancer is an athlete who’ll be contributing her own strong spring and control to the moves, you won’t worry about dropping or hurting her. She’s like a cat. If something goes wrong, she can torque her torso to compensate in an instant and make a mistake look like an inspired move. That’s what a talented and gutsy partner does.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dove.” Tatyana folded her arms and regarded Matt with satisfaction.
Matt was unconvinced. “For the show I’ll be dancing with the women competitors. Not to be rude, but a couple of them outweigh me considerably.”
Danny shook his head with the halo of curly cherubic blond hair, but grinned like the devil.
“It’s all in having confidence and learning how to balance the weight. Don’t worry about it.”
Tatyana nodded forcefully. “You have the easy job, Mr. Man, and the upper body strength for it. Just show a little courage and I will show you how lifts make the dance world go round.”
With Danny adjusting their poses, Matt soon realized that his role in lifts was either as stabilizing strongman, turning with Tatyana perched on his shoulders, or human stepladder, providing a steady base while she sprung from the floor into some pose in his arms.
Sweat was streaming off them both, making their handholds slip, when Danny called a break. Matt had actually enjoyed mastering the lifts. He had the strength needed and was quickly developing the balance and skill, even in the turns, which put a lot of pressure on the male partner.
What he couldn’t hack was those hokey face-to-face stares and cheekbone-to-hip caresses in the Latin numbers that made him feel like a flea circus Romeo.
“It feels . . . sexist,” he complained after they ran through their pasodoble moves for Danny.