Daughters of the Bass House

1

ST. ANNABEL

Summer is significant in my family. In more ways than one, our lives revolved around that time of the year.

I was born in the summer– that alone took precedence.

The three stars of the summer triangle represented the logo of my father’s company.

And this summer in particular, I learned of the tumultuous infidelity my father had that led to the ultimate betrayal–a child.

Sometimes, we resided in one of the family homes just outside London.

Summers in Cotswolds were often peaceful because the manor was far too big and our closest neighbours were a ten minute drive away.

Beside the odd visits, we often had only ourselves to entertain, and we did a very good job of that.

My sister, Anastasia, and I had been making fun of a post on social media from a girl from secondary school, in one of the smaller sitting rooms, while our mother sat opposite of us on the sofa, knitting.

Can you believe it? She insisted on these horrendous jumpers each year for Christmas but she had to start in the Summer because they always took her that long to make.

We all wore them with a smile, as we haven’t the heart to tell her (Stassie kind of complains but even she puts it on).

No one liked seeing Eleanor Bass sad, least of all my father, despite the dysfunctional relationship that they made work.

See that’s the thing with William and Eleanor Bass; they fought so often you would wish they would leave each other but they always kiss and make up before the sun sets, as if it never even happened.

It should’ve been a day like every other they’ve had that summer, dolefully quiet and drama free. The family didn’t often get those during the rest of the year, which was why I loved Summer so much.

My father walked in, the uncanny picture of unease. It was a sight to see, considering the man never got nervous about anything– ever. There was so much tension lining his jaw, I thought he’d break it from how tight he kept it clenched. My mother stood up slowly, “Will, what’s wrong?”

He hung his head, “You should sit for this.”

He spun a story for us as we sat there frozen and unable to move. Stassie, being the baby of the house, hated any form of conflict and started to panic first. I had to hold her hand and whisper in ear that things would be alright, reassurances I wasn’t even sure I believed myself.

My mother had walked out and locked herself in her room for seventy-two hours. If it wasn’t for our house manager, Lydia, who was the only one who was eventually allowed in and out of the room; we would have thought she had died.

Once she finally unlocked the bolt behind the door, the tension in the house still pulled taut.

The next thing to come from her was pretense, she acted like nothing had occurred and proceeded to build an image of normalcy.

Maybe, they would get over this like they did every other fight because that’s just how they worked.

Yet, it was telling that something had changed within her.

Many years she’d prided herself as the woman in the ‘perfect marriage’ that others seethed at, and now she was just like everyone else.

Despite what I have said, I had a lot of respect for the man who raised me, but every ounce of it had been shattered to pieces.

The illusion of the man he pretended to be had broken.

This all happened last week. When my only thought earlier that day had been how I was going to drink myself to oblivion at whatever fresher’s party I could crash, despite being in my final year, and whichever random I’d shag while my best friend went around trying to find me.

I promise I wouldn’t have left her on her own, her guard dog of a boyfriend followed her about everywhere.

When news like this broke out she was the first person I would have texted, but for some reason, I kept it to myself.

Either from shame or distress, my wallowing had been unaccompanied, festering within me.

A car honking brings me out of my thoughts, I am back in London driving to uni to clear my head.

We don’t officially open until next week, even though it is always accessible for students when necessary, but dancers usually come in earlier than everyone else.

I also knew it would be free today because judging from what I’d seen over socials, they all went and got pissed last night.

So they are at home curing despicable hangovers; I guess we all needed to tend to matters of the head.

For as long as I can remember, I danced.

Ballet, to be more specific, is my poison of choice.

My father has given me orders disguised as suggestions my entire life, and ballet was one of them.

He figured the rigorous upkeep would teach me discipline and control.

Ironic that the man who insisted on perfection, from the way I lived to the way I breathed, was fathering bastards up and down the country.

The epitome of a lack of control is a man who can’t even fucking wrap it up.

Despite it all, I fell in love. It is my one and only constant; when I dance it is like the whole world falls away, and it is just me in tune with the stage and the music.

I am fucking brilliant. But even this he tried to take from me.

He hadn't expected me to be so taken by it, it was supposed to be a footnote in the story of my life. What he planned for me is to take over his company. It is not a choice, no matter how much I like to pretend otherwise. Which means it doesn’t matter if I am the greatest in the world at my craft, I am not going to become a common ballerina and pursue dance professionally. His words not mine.

He didn't even want me to study it at university, so I did the next best thing. I ran away. Granted, I was hiding at a friend’s house without her parents’ knowledge, but still I was seventeen and supposed to be on the run.

Or at least I thought I was, they knew where I was the whole time until they got fed up about two weeks in and came to get me.

I refused to leave until a compromise was reached and it required some smooth-talking (begging) but I got it.

If I studied Economics and Business, he would convince the school to let me add on dance as a minor of sorts like the Americans do.

Which meant I spent much more time at the university than everyone else.

But it was worth it if it meant I got to have one last go at doing what I loved.

As I drive over Waterloo Bridge, a gentle breeze drifts into the car and I find comfort in it. The slight chill informs me that September is near, English skies are often so unpredictable that it is nice to see them act their season for once. There has been enough upheaval in my life already.

Growing up, my mother advised me never to let the world see me crack, because they are like snakes, they will slither at the first sign of weakness and sink their venomous fangs in.

As I look at myself in my rear-view mirror, with my blonde hair in a perfect bun and make-up on my face, I realise I have internalised her teachings far more than I thought.

Hence, you’d think I would understand her need to disassociate from the situation at hand but I can barely blink back the tears in my eyes every time it comes to mind.

I close my eyes and grip the steering wheel, chanting in my head about never letting the outside look like the inside. Broken and bruised.

I collect and drag myself out of my car to walk the small mile to the athletics building at our Strand campus.

Thorne University London is private and selective, much more than Oxbridge, with its own set of rules that put every other university to shame.

Situated in the centre of London in Westminster, we have two campuses; one in strand and the other across the bridge in Waterloo.

A lot of us who attend have known each other our entire lives, either from social gatherings or attending boarding school–Thorncomb Academy–together for many years.

Being surrounded by the same faces for twenty years can be considered dull, however, it’s all we’ve ever known and we prefer it that way.

We don’t welcome outsiders that aren’t like we are.

Yet, the university entertains five scholarship students per cohort. They don’t have it easy though, because unfortunately everything here was a competition and we are all dreadfully competitive. It isn’t all so serious. Sure, we are posh kids, but we probably knew how to have fun better than most.

My phone buzzes, and with a disgruntled sigh I fish it out of my coat pocket to see it is my father calling for the twentieth time today.

Probably calling to get me to come into the office but I’m not talking to him at the moment.

My mood has now soured and nothing good comes from me starting the day off angry, I am a piss poor person to be around.

But still I smile and wave to the guards in the North Wing building, our athletics one, as I walk past.

The ballet studio is on the lower ground.

When I walk out the lift, I shudder from the uncomfortable silence of a pin drop; the clicking of my heeled brown boots as it meets the floor rippled.

Just as I open the door, a frustrated male voice rings out from the changing rooms next door.

The lower ground is shared with some of the other sports teams but I figured no one would be here; Guess I was wrong.

The person is having a loud conversation with another that I can only assume is over the phone as I can only hear one voice. My curiosity gets the best of me so I gently walk over to get a peek at who is causing all the ruckus.