The only member of the company who wasn’t happy about the “coup” was Sophie, the lead female dancer. “He’s handsy,” she had complained to the choreographer, Marcus.

“You must make allowances,” Marcus had replied. “Mediterranean temperament, you know; very hot blooded, passionate.”

“You mean a dirty bastard,” Sophie scoffed.

“Sophie, please!” Marcus appealed to her. “We want this tour to be a success.”

“So do I!” Sophie countered. “But I don’t see that its success depends on him groping me during rehearsals. It’s not just bum and tit, you know, it’s … everywhere.”

Marcus frowned, showing that he found the topic distasteful, and told her she must try to get on with her co-lead. Anyway, they were late for the rehearsal to start. Where was Alfonzo?

“He’s in his dressing room,” Sophie told him. “He spends more time getting tarted up than any woman.”

“That’s enough!” insisted Marcus. “He’s coming now. Okay, I’ll leave you to it, and for God’s sake, remember you’re a professional! I’ll be watching you on screen from the studio.”

Sophie scowled after him, then acknowledged Alfonzo politely before switching the recorded music on for the rehearsal to start. They held hands and went through the opening bars, as if greeting each other. Then, on a pronounced beat, Sophie tiptoed on her left foot, shooting her right let up behind her. Alfonzo “supported” her with his right hand on her right knee, and his left hand a lot lower on her stomach than Marcus had directed.

Other members of the cast had gathered to watch the rehearsal in the studio, and Marcus was surprised to note a rebellious mood among them, directed at their international star.

“There he goes, straight away,” one of the chorus ladies snorted, “have a good old grope, why don’t you?

“Yes, but there SHE goes with a reply,” Gavin, the bassoon player, laughed. “Slap! That’s the warning.”

“All while pirouetting and slapping backwards to catch him with a face stinger,” another girl said admiringly.

It had gone more or less as they described. Sophie had cleverly responded to Alfonzo’s liberty in a way that was in time to the music, while more pushing than slapping his face.

“My God!” croaked Marcus, as Sophie tiptoed daintily on her right foot, while kicking back with her left, within an inch of Alfonzo’s retreating face – still all in time to the music. It was a second warning, as the assembled cast understood.

After that came the “flirty bit”, written in by Marcus, where Sophie stroked Alfonzo under the chin, and he professed feelings of love. Then came the “angry bit”, where she appeared to reject his advances. All part of the act, and Marcus began to feel better. She sprang away from Alfonzo, as he directed, then they pranced (sorry, danced) about, signifying whatever the audience cared to think.

They danced together, in the traditional way, then Sophie leapt at Alfonzo, seeming to change her mind about his advances. She sprang above him, as if in celebration. He was meant to support her at this moment – and he did; but his supporting left hand held her right under her sex. There were howls of indignation from the women in the studio, with demands that Marcus stop the rehearsal. But he said he couldn’t. The opening night was the following week, and they couldn’t spare the time.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Marcus. Sophie had thrust herself free from Alfonzo’s grip, to sit on his shoulders and snap two firm dancer’s legs around his neck in a flying head scissor. There were murmurs of approval from the cast as they could see Alfonzo staggering about, grimacing while he tried unsuccessfully to free himself.

“That’s it, I’m going to stop the rehearsal!” Marcus stated.

“You said you couldn’t a moment ago,” one of the women reminded him.

“Relax mate,” Ian, the musical director, reassured him. They both have sense enough to work with the music. Okay, they might not strictly follow what you’ve directed, but until they break with the rhythm, I say leave them to it. Call it Plan B.”

The dancers themselves obviously hadn’t understood what had been hurriedly “decided” in the studio, but they still tried to fit their moves to the existing music. Sophie wore Alfonzo down to his knees, to conclude the “Conflict” episode; then sprang up again (with Alfonzo still stuck within her thighs) to fit the “Inspiration” passage. There were laughs in the studio when the automatic camera homed in to see him gritting his teeth, with his face engulfed in Sophie’s round, womanly buttocks.

Then she dropped him to the floor for the “Struggle” episode. He showed considerable strength, it has to be said, supporting the two of them on his toes and arms, while Sophie reverse head scissored him, holding him under his backside.

She released her hands and he dropped entirely onto his back. She kept the scissor going, while he vainly tried to prize himself free, matching the “Futility” episode of the music. Eyebrows were raised in the studio as the cameras revealed a growing erection in his tights.

Meanwhile, Sophie crossed her ankles over beyond his head and seemed to squeeze her way to the “Triumph” episode, where Alfonzo conveniently passed out. From there, it was the logical progression to the “Celebration” episode, where Sophie first knelt over Alfonzo, then posed and flexed for the climactic final bars to end the piece. It was a brilliant example of improvisation on both their parts to fit the music.

This marked the end of the rehearsal. However, it wasn’t the end of their performance, as everyone in the studio seemed to realise. While Sophie was still clearly triumphant at her victory, Alfonzo regained consciousness, feeling his painful neck and face. With the music over, the cast could hear what was said.

“You make mockery of me,” complained Alfonzo, getting up to one knee.

“Yes, that’s right,” laughed Sophie.

“NO ONE mocks Alfonzo!” he shouted, standing up and glowering.

“Sorry, I never got that memo,” Sophie answered, still amused.

“For that, I punish!” Alfonzo roared, missing with a left cross.

“Come on then, Alfie!” Sophie answered, ducking under a right cross.

“That’s it, I’m going to stop them!” affirmed Marcus.

“Hang on a minute,” urged Ian, “it’s still being filmed. I can write a humdinger of a piece to match this action – plenty of drum and symbol for when her punches land.”

“How do you know hers are the punches that are going to land?”

“Trust me, they will,” Gavin confirmed. “She’s a local girl, brought up around these streets. She’ll murder him!” He rubbed his hands, seemingly in anticipation.

Even so, not everyone was so sure of the local girl. Some of the women couldn’t even look when Alfonzo struck again with a left – at nothing, it turned out. There was growing optimism as his right fist sailed over Sophie’s face, too low to strike, since she arched her back.

The viewers could sense his growing frustration when a left cross was warded off by Sophie’s right arm. She was concentrating, they could see, biding her time. She stepped nimbly out of the way of an attempted right to the body from the incensed man, who overreached badly this time. There was Sophie’s opportunity, in the form of his exposed left jaw, and she gave it a sound crack with her right fist. Cheers erupted in the studio.

True to her ballet training, Sophie slid into her second punch while Alfonzo was still trying to absorb the blow to the jaw. She got him on the opposite side with her left. Laughter arose in the studio at the strange sound he made as her fist struck, and the way it made his mouth open for some reason.

Ever the dancer, Sophie was getting into the rhythm of the fight. She swung a beauty of a right hook, to catch him again on his damaged jaw. Perfect footwork ensured that her punch met his face with the maximum of force, and he spun half round in unwilling acknowledgement of her skill.

Gasps arose in the studio as the dainty ballerina kicked her erstwhile partner in the stomach. He had made to grab her, but her shiny long boot was the perfect defence. So effective was it, that “the great” Alfonzo staggered backwards, coughing, arms still outstretched to seize her. Instead, all he did seize was her left fist with his mouth. His lips smarted as her knuckles tore into them, and the over-imaginative man was certain he could taste blood.

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for the old ham,” Gavin murmured, as they watched Sophie’s right fist thunder into Alfonzo’s jaw once more. It nearly put him down; but he recovered just in time to receive a left hook on the opposite jaw. Sophie was picking her targets scientifically – you’ve hurt him there once, get him in the same place while it’s still raw.

On the other hand, why not create a new injury? Her right fist ploughed into his left ear. Ears, Sophie knew from growing up around the streets mentioned by Gavin, were a prime target, and not just for the pain a blow to one caused. It affected your opponent’s hearing and balance too. “Make sure you get a few good punches in at his ears,” her mother had advised her several years earlier.

Sophie had always been a good girl and an obedient daughter, so she followed her mother’s advice by banging one into Alfonzo’s right ear next. The noise in his ear was deafening as her fist struck, then his hearing followed that of his other ear and went all woolly. Yes, his balance was now seriously impaired, too.

“You know, sometimes I might forget about a drum or symbol,” Ian mused out loud. “You can’t beat the dramatic sound of her fists’ impact.”

Sophie had her male opponent in disarray. He was cowering with her onslaught, unable to keep up with her speed and innovations. He had fallen into a purely defensive mode – how can I shelter myself from her next punch?

But it wasn’t a punch. Pivoting on her left foot, like the top-class dancer she was, she hooked her right boot into the back of Alfonzo’s head. Only now did he understand how much harder women had to work at their dancing than men. Men didn’t have to do any of that pirouetting stuff – all that dainty tiptoeing that the ladies had to master. Yet what destructive powers it gave them if they got into a fight!

As Sophie’s right foot landed on the floor, her left shot up and zoomed into the side of Alfonzo’s head, catching the ear she had only just struck. When that foot landed, she got him on the chin with a dazzling reverse kick, or super kick, that would have won her an award for dancing as well as fighting.

It was almost a relief for Alfonzo to be facing her fists again after that – almost. She cracked him on the temple with a right and he fell onto his back, destroyed by the accumulated attacks to his head and body. The splendid, manly star, feted by the world’s cultural elites, adored by swooning females who paid hundreds to see him live, lay on his back, menaced by the fists of a humble provincial girl.

And menaced he was. Sophie stood over him, holding his throat with her left hand while making ominous motions with her right fist, a cat playing with its mouse. She bent forward (“Lovely arse she’s got,” whispered Gavin to his neighbour, Richard, the clarinet player), then dropped onto Alfonzo, swinging her right fist in a point-blank hook to his face.

“Half of me thinks poor bastard; the other half thinks lucky bastard,” Richard murmured back, as Sophie sat plumb on Alfonzo’s middle and belted his jaw with her left fist. Gavin nodded in agreement.

Alfonzo’s head rocked to the side; Sophie sent it back to the other side with her right fist. But she wasn’t going for the pendulum effect (at least, not on this occasion), and when Alfonzo’s head moved painfully back to centre position, she landed the hardest punch of the “rehearsal” to his jaw. Alfonzo flopped to unconsciousness, and Sophie stood over him with one foot on his face. She was elated to have punctured the ego of this groper. Then she turned abruptly and left the scene.

“Well, I don’t know about all of you,” Ian said quietly after some moments, “but I could do with a cigarette after that. What a Plan B!”