CHAPTER 10
Vaughn
The Cuckoo Club.
Mayfair, London.
Two o’clock a.m.
We’re in the Garden Room, which has faux grass-covered walls, vine-covered trellises on the ceilings and lavender lights making everyone look dreamy.
(Not like any of us need the help.)
We’re sitting in our favorite corner, which requires we purchase two tables, but it’s worth it because we can see everyone who comes and goes.
P!NK’s new song about broken hearts blasts over the speakers, while Ariana Grande sings along at a table nearby.
The Countess of something or other sits to my left. She’s toothy and horsey, and she’s been telling me about her recent vacation to Tenerife, which sounds boring as fuck. Either that, or I’m not drunk enough to find her interesting.
On my right is Mikhail, who’s trying to get into ClarissaX’s pants. She’s an Instagram food influencer, and he wants her to come to his new restaurant in three weeks for the soft opening.
Rounding out our group are Mikhail’s friends, most of them Russian, and the various women they’re talking to, most of them too young—college-aged girls with tight asses and perky tits. Half of them will end up at Mikhail’s place tonight, fucking these guys like it’s their job and leaving before dawn when Ubers are called to take them back to their dorms.
I reach for the bottle of Gray Goose in the silver cooler and realize it’s cached. More’s the better. It gives me an excuse to escape from Lady Horseface, or whatever the fuck her name is, and order something else.
“Going to the bar!” I yell near her ear, interrupting her monologue on saving Spain’s lizards. “Want anything?”
“I’ll come!”
“Nope!” I say, standing up quickly and sliding into the crowd before she can join me.
I make my way through the sweaty, gyrating bodies on the dance floor, nodding to acquaintances and avoiding the eyes of women who look vaguely familiar. Instead of stopping at the bar, I take the stairs up to Cosmos on the ground floor. Sometimes we get a table up there, but the downstairs Garden is smaller and more exclusive. I don’t stop at the upstairs bar either. I keep walking, past the tables, past the DJ booth to the exit.
The sidewalk is buzzing with patrons waiting to get in, some of whom whisper my name as I leave.
That’s the kidnapped prince.
He’s not a prince, just a rich Russian.
His name’s Ivan, and he’s so hot.
Where’s his crazy brother?
I’m used to all of that. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just noise at this point.
Walking toward the church steeple at the end of the street, I can turn left toward Piccadilly Circus and take the tube home to Marylebone, or right toward Buckingham Palace.
I head toward the tube, then I pass it on purpose. It’s a nice night for a walk, warm for October—still crisp and cool, but without a mean bite in the air.
Even though it’s a little after two in the morning, London feels alive in a way that D.C. never did. D.C. goes to sleep at night. London stays awake. Like Moscow. Like New York.
Here’s something that would shock most people. I’ve never been to New York City.
Once, when asked why, I answered, “Too many bad memories there.”
It may not be the truth, but that’s how it feels.
I can’t think about New York without thinking about her, and—more than anyone else in the world—I try not to think about her. I try to pretend that she, like Vaughn Cigno, never existed. It’s just easier that way.
Down Coventry Street, past a row of shuttered souvenir shops and the Prince of Wales Theater, I keep moving east. Past the Swiss clock and through Leicester Square, to a quiet five-point intersection. I keep walking down Longacre Street and finally realize where I’m going.
Turning onto Bow Street a few minutes later, my feet move faster and faster until I’m standing in front of the NoMad Hotel, across the street from the Royal Ballet and Opera.
I stop walking then. I’m still.
If every being on the face of the earth had their own personal epicenter, where they were lured to return again and again, this would be mine.
When I first started visiting the London flat with my mother, she would take me on tours of the city, showing me the sights, and pointing out places of interest. One such day, we had lunch at the NoMad, followed by a visit to the RBO. She wanted to show me her autographed picture on the wall, and we ended up running into some friends of hers from long ago.
As she caught up with them, I stepped away and closed my eyes. The theater itself—with its smells of hot velvet curtains, deodorized carpet, brass cleaner, and Windex—comforted me in a way I never would have expected. I hadn’t given much thought to my job at the Kennedy Center since leaving it, but apparently, my memories of those years weren’t as dark or desperate as they’d once felt. I had some good memories in that theater, it turns out. With Dom. But mostly, with her.
Later that day, I’d gone out with Mikhail and called her drunkenly from the bathroom of a nightclub. I don’t remember much of what I said, but I know I ended the call calling her a “spoiled princess,” who “took her family for granted,” before hanging up on her.
Our last conversation was self-destruction at its finest.
I was hurt that our fledgling love affair hadn’t been strong enough for our separation.
I was angry that she was living her best life in New York without me.
But more than anything else, I was devastated that I still loved her. I didn’t want to love her anymore and hurting her seemed like the quickest way to make her hate me. And if she hated me long enough and hard enough, maybe I’d stop loving her.
“Oi, mate! Get out of the street!”
I didn’t realize I’d stepped off the curb. I’m standing in the middle of the street.
The red flags on the second-floor balcony of the RBO wave and flutter as the autumn wind picks up.
Despite the chill, my cheeks flare with heat.
From shame. From regret. From failure.
The next time I tried to call her, a message said her phone had been disconnected, but I suspect the truth was that I’d been blocked from calling.
I deserved it after treating her so badly.
We’d been apart for months at that point, and she’d had enough.
I’d gotten what I wanted and had never felt more alone.
I had left her for family—my blood family—with whom, it turned out, I’d lost too much time to ever be a completely organic member. I didn’t understand my siblings’ shared jokes or childhood memories. I realized, over time, that they tiptoed around the things I’d missed, careful not to share stories about the father I couldn’t remember. On one hand, it was kind of them. On the other, it made me feel more left out than ever.
The one person on earth with whom I’d ever completely belonged, who had made me feel accepted and equal, was her. And I’d willfully ruined any chance of ever seeing or speaking to her again. I’d punished her because I loved her. It barely made sense to me, but she was well and truly out of my life from that moment on.
I never called or texted her again.
Turning away from the theater with a heavy sigh, I walk back toward the Picadilly Circus tube stop, turning down Floral Street, to hug the RBO building as I go. There are lights still on in the lobby of the Royal Academy of Ballet, and I cross the empty street to peek inside.
There are certain, specific, touchstone moments in your life, aren’t there?
Before moments.
And after moments.
Looking into the lobby of the RAB, I have no idea I’m about to cross such a line. Everything about my current life—in London, in Europe, over the last five years—is about to be relegated to a time “Before,” and everything to come—the decisions I make, the actions I take, the way I decide to feel—will determine the “After.”
In the ante-lobby of the RAB, there is a large bulletin board on the wall. And on that bulletin board, posted with a thumbtack, is a face I love more than any other on the face of the earth. My eyes widen in recognition. My heart pounds with a love I despise.
Beneath her picture, I read:
The Royal Academy of Ballet
welcomes
SASHA COLLINS, Soloist
(on loan from the MBT)
Creative Artist-in-Residence
October-December
With my hands pressed against the glass door and barely daring to breathe, I read the words over and over again, then slide my eyes back up to her face. The picture blurs as my eyes burn with tears. I blink them back.
I’ve never seen this picture of her.
In black and white, it’s a three-quarter view of her face, her dark hair pulled back in a bun with a tendril or two loose over her ear. Her eyes, deep pools of dark coffee, stare intently at the lens. Her skin is alabaster. Her lips, which I have kissed, offer a tiny, close-lipped smile.
She’s older now, just as I am, and even more beautiful than I remember.
When I exhale, it’s loud and angry, like a growl.
At the skin, my blood calls out to your heart. My whole sky craves an island of tenderness. My rivers tilt toward you.
Sasha is in London.
She is breathing the same air I breathe.
She is sleeping under the same moon and stars.
She’s been here for six days—six days when I might have bumped into her or caught a glimpse of her across the tracks at a tube station—and I had no idea.
How can London be mine if it’s hers?
In the back pocket of my designer jeans, my phone is buzzing. God only knows for how long.
“ Da ?” I answer.
“We’re leaving the club. We’ll be at my flat in twenty minutes,” says Mikhail. “You coming?”
“ Da ,” I answer, hanging up.
I give Sasha’s picture one last look, then turn and walk quickly into the night.
***
I wake up a few hours later with a pounding headache.
I’m naked, and from the bare feet pushed up again my leg, I guess I didn’t sleep alone, although I have no memory of anything or anyone after arriving at Mikhail’s. I took something. I drank something. I blacked out. Blessedly.
I sit up, glancing at the long blonde tresses covering the pillow to my left. Not much to go on. A ripped-open condom wrapper lies on the bedside table beside her. At least we were careful.
As quietly and quickly as possible, I gather my clothes, tiptoe into the bathroom and get dressed. She’s still asleep as I make my escape. I pull the guest room door closed behind me and slip into the hallway.
The living room of my brother’s flat has floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over London and the lavender-orange light tells me the sun will be up soon. It’s almost seven.
Beer, wine, and liquor bottles, some half-finished and some empty, cover every surface of the living room. A woman with her top off sleeps tits-up on one couch, her lipstick badly smeared. Two wingback chairs hold Mikhail’s friends—Dimitriy and Oleg—who snore softly. A glass lamp is shattered on the floor. Ashtrays overflow with cigarette butts and mostly finished marijuana joints. A small hill of unsniffed cocaine sits in the center of the coffee table and under it, a picture book of St. Petersburg. Half-eaten bags of chips and open packages of Russian biscuits crowd the surface of the dining room table. Under the dining room table, a puddle of yellow darkens the snow-white carpeting. Urine? Bile? Hard to tell.
Surveying this familiar scene, I throw up into my mouth. It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be anywhere near it, so I slip out quietly, taking the elevator downstairs.
I’ll walk home , I think, nodding in thanks to the 24-hour doorman who opens the heavy glass door as I step onto the sidewalk. A cool October breeze flutters the flags hanging over the awning of my brother’s building, and that’s when I suddenly remember what I discovered last night.
Sasha Collins, the one and only love of my life, is in London.
***
Sasha
Sunlight pours through the windows of my tiny pied-á-terre on Monmouth Street, warming my face and waking me gently like Prince Désiré’s kiss at the top of Act II, Scene 2 of Sleeping Beauty . And like Princess Aurora, I stretch my arms over my head and open my eyes.
She awoke from one hundred years of spellbound sleep while I battle lingering jet lag after a rigorous week of PT and coaching.
Which is worse? I wonder, smiling at the ornate plaster ceiling.
So far, I love everything—everything and everything again—about London. But I’ve barely had a chance to explore since I arrived. That all changes today! It’s Sunday—my first day off—and I intend to make it count.
This apartment, for example, which would cost about the same in New York, has the sort of to-die-for European details lacking in U.S. apartments. It’s on the third and top floor of a building from the 1700s. At street level, there’s a lovely boutique, and up here, there are two apartments. Mine faces Monmouth Street, with its cobbled stones and gentle foot traffic.
The large main room of my studio, which serves as both bedroom and living room with a half wall between the bank of four windows, is painted a light dove gray. It boasts a (non- working, but charming!) jet black fireplace, built-in bookcases and cabinetry, black, shellacked hardwood floors, and crown molding bordering the perimeter of higher-than-usual ceilings.
In the center of the room, a chandelier drips from the ceiling and whether it’s glass or crystal doesn’t matter. It’s clean, which makes it glimmer.
The bathroom and kitchen, tiny though they are, boast white subway tile from floor to ceiling, and gleaming black fixtures/appliances.
It’s old, yet chic and wonderful, and I snuggle under the down covers for an extra moment, marveling at my good fortune.
Housing, as Phillip promised, is included in my residency.
I’m staying here, in this gorgeous London flat, for free.
Dropping my bare feet to the floor, I pirouette around the small space to the duo of windows in the living room area and throw them open. On the street below, across from where I live, there is a macaroon shop painted a sprightly rose, a pub called The Two Vintners with flowers spilling from twin window boxes on its second floor, a perfumery called La Colline, and a coffee shop called Bean.
Bean calls to me even though I have a perfectly functional Keurig and a plethora of pods in my kitchen. There’s something wonderful about someone else making your coffee on a Sunday morning, isn’t there?
Crossing the room to my bathroom, I put my hair in a bun, splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth before changing into leggings, a sweater, and tennis shoes. Grabbing a black athletic jacket and throwing my little backpack over my shoulder, I glide down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, beelining for Bean and purchasing myself an iced cold brew with a shot of espresso and a dollop of oat milk.
Over the last week, I’ve figured out how to get to the RAB, which is a quick six-minute walk, and how to get to my physical therapist’s office, which is a five-minute walk from the RAB or a good twelve minutes from my flat. Having no cause or reason to go anywhere else over the last six days has made my world quite small, but that changes today.
Today I intend to see the top sights on my list—Buckingham Palace, Kensington Gardens, the Princess Diana Memorial, and the statue of Paddington in Paddington Station. And this evening, just for fun, I’m meeting three of the pre-professional ballet teachers with whom I consulted and coached students this week—Natalia, Igor, and Marshall—at a bar across from the theater for welcome-to-London drinks.
My day set and my coffee in hand, I set out to conquer London.
***
Hours later, after a fruitful day of sightseeing, I stand in front of my closet grimacing.
London is sophisticated, and I don’t know what to wear. I know how people dress for drinks on a Sunday evening in New York, but I have no idea what the dress code is in London. Are we talking about heels, jeans and a top, or a dress and ankle boots? I’m not sure, but I want to fit in.
After surfing the internet for inspiration, I opt for skinny, gray cargo pants with a brown belt and gold statement buckle, brown ankle boots, a simple white blouse, and a jean jacket in denim blue. It’s simple. It’s easy. And it’s on point, as long as we don’t plan to go clubbing or to a high-end restaurant for dinner.
Hoping I’ve nailed it, I sail up Floral Street to Bow, and enter the Side Hustle, pausing in the doorway to look for my friends.
“Sasha! Over here!”
Natalia waves to me from a nearby mahogany booth for four, and I smile back, heading over to join them. I slide into the open seat next to Marshall, across from Natalia and Igor.
“Hey, Sasha,” says Natalia, taking my hands from across the table and squeezing them. “What are you drinking?” I look around the table. Natalia is drinking white wine, Marshall has a low-ball glass of something brown, and Igor, I’m pretty sure, is drinking vodka on the rocks.
“ Это водка ??” I ask him in Russian . Is that vodka?
“Da!” he says, switching to English. “Are you Russian?”
“My maternal grandparents were from Moscow,” I say. “My mother was born in Russia, then they all immigrated to Washington D.C.”
“And you speak it?” he confirms, looking surprised.
“A little,” I say. “My vocabulary isn’t huge, but I can get by.”
“So…” says Natalia, gesturing to a waiter, “I’m assuming you want a vodka on the rocks?”
“With some sparkling water and a lime,” I say. “Thanks!”
She places my order, then grins at me. “We’ll save our welcome toast for when your drink comes. In the meantime, tell us everything, Sasha!”
I glance askance at Marshall, who chuckles at Natalia, then slides his bright blue eyes to me. “You’re in the hotseat now.”
“I love your accent,” I tell him.
“My silly Kiwi accent?”
“Sure!” I say. “New Zealand, Australian, English, Scottish…it’s all more interesting than mid-Atlantic American.”
“I love American accents,” says Igor, winking at me from across the table.
“Americans sound like the movies,” adds Natalia with a sexy shrug of her shoulders. “Hollywood. Glamorous.”
“My life isn’t very glamorous,” I say, grinning at her. “It’s ballet and family, ballet and family, ballet, ballet, ballet.”
“The same for all of us,” says Marshall, who seems shy. He flicks a glance to Natalia from under thick, feathered lashes. “Ballet leaves no room for anything else.”
A waitress pauses at our table to place my drink in front of me.
“ За здоровье !” says Igor, raising his glass.
“Yes! Good health to you all!” I say, clinking glasses with my new friends.
The door to the bar whooshes open, and a bracing bit of fall wind kisses my cheeks. My eyes dart to the entrance, looking for someone to blame for the icy blast.
My breath catches. My heart stutters.
It’s…Wait. Is it?
He stands in the doorway for a fraction of a second before turning right, toward the bar.
No. It couldn’t be.
But, oh my god , for just a second I think—
“Sasha, have you seen a ghost?” asks Natalia.
Yes! I jerk my eyes to her. “N-No. Just someone who looked like…someone.”
“Someone special?” she asks.
“Someone from a long time ago,” I say. I sit up straight and look toward the bar area but don’t see him and feel relieved.
“You’re from Washington, D.C.?” asks Marshall.
“No,” I say, leaning back toward my new friends. “I’m from Maryland, the state next-door. But I danced for the Washington Ballet before moving to the Manhattan Ballet Theater. So, I lived in D.C. for a little while.”
“I’ve never been to New York,” says Igor, leaning forward. “Do you love it there?”
“I love the MBT,” I say, “but…”
I tell them about being promoted to soloist last December, and then, how one week later, an exhausted motorist plowed into a busy Manhattan sidewalk and crushed my hip. I tell them about my surgeries and physical therapy, and how, ultimately, it was decided that I wasn’t ready to dance again this season.
“That’s why you came here?” asks Natalia, her brown eyes wide. “I wondered. You’ve obviously danced Balanchine’s The Nutcracker dozens of times. I wondered how they could spare you this fall.”
“They could spare me, all right.”
“I am so sorry, Sasha,” says Natalia, reaching for my hand. “What you’ve endured…it’s a dancer’s worst nightmare.”
“You dance with such grace and precision,” says Marshall quietly, as though surprised it’s still possible.
My cheeks turn pink at his praise. “Ballet de corps numbers, yes. I know them inside and out. But none of them has the challenges of Dew Drop, the Snow Queen, or the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
“I performed the Cavelier in Auckland,” he says. “My favorite part. Ever.”
Talking about Tchaikovsky turns my mind to Russia. I smile at Igor. “Did you dance at the Bolshoi?”
“No. Kirov.”
“St. Petersburg,” I whisper.
“ Da. You’ve been?”
“ Nyet .” I chuckle. “I’ve never been to Russia.”
“You must go!” he urges me. “There is nowhere like it. Nowhere on earth.”
I shake my head, lifting my glass to my lips. “I have too many bad memories there.”
“Ha!” he chortles. “You’ve never been.”
“And I’m guessing that’s how she wants it,” says Natalia. She looks at me. “So, what’s your plan? Will you dance in London with the company? After December? Will you stay?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” I tell her. “I’m just here to coach and consult for now.” I glance around the table at them, at these relatively young teachers whose lives as professional dancers are over. “Did you all dance here in London? Before becoming instructors?”
“Yes,” says Natalia. “Both Marshall and I danced at the Royal Ballet.”
Marshall looks up at her, his expression tender. “We sure did.”
“ Nyet ,” says Igor. “My last stint as Principale was with the étoile .”
The étoile . The premiere ballet company of Italy.
“No wonder you two became friends,” I say to Natalia, who is Italian.
“And now we have a New Yorker in our clique,” she says, raising her glass again. “To Sasha, our new American friend who will help us achieve Nutcracker greatness!”
“A Russian American,” says Igor, who grins at me just before we drink, “who will help us achieve greatness with a Russian ballet.”
I smile at him before drinking, my eyes drifting back to the door as cold vodka slides down my throat. The man from before has his back to the room, his coat on, about to leave. His dark hair is thick and carefully groomed, falling just to the edge of his coat’s collar.
It’s not him, Sasha. It can’t be.
A chill slides down my spine as I stare at the back of his head, willing him to turn around, desperate for him to show his face and prove to me that I’ve never seen it before.
He hesitates for just a moment before pivoting.
A punch to the stomach. A gasp.
My eyes flutter closed in shock, then flash open insistently to meet his, stormy gray and hard under long, dark lashes.
Your eyelashes—
Are longer than anyone’s.
“ Vaughn ,” I murmur, the whisper pulled from the very depths of my soul.
His face is the very picture of anguish as he stares back at me. Then he tightens his jaw, turns his body, and exits the bar.
I blink my eyes. Again and again. But he’s gone.
“Sasha?” asks Igor. “Are you okay?”
“I’m…I need…I have to go to the—the bathroom,” I say, leaping to my feet.
“I’ll come with you?” offers Natalia.
I stand by the table, my friends confused, my heart pounding, my feet waiting to find out which way to go. One way follows Vaughn Cigno’s doppelg?nger out of a bar in London. The other gives me an opportunity to splash my face with water and compose myself.
“No,” I tell her. “Thank you. I’m…I’m fine.”
I rush to the bathroom, splash my face with cold water and stare at myself in the mirror.
It isn’t him. It isn’t him. It isn’t him, I tell myself. He lives in Moscow. He’s not going to randomly show up in London at the same bar where you happen to be having cocktails with friends. Get a hold of yourself!
“Stop it!” I mutter, shades of PTSD making my voice raspy and thin. “Stop it right now!”
When I first moved to New York City, right around the three-week mark, I started imagining that I saw Vaughn everywhere; that he’d made good on his promise to return to me. But it wasn’t him. It was never him.
Those days took a toll on my heart and my mind. It hurt to miss him. It hurt to hope for our reunion. It took several weeks of therapy to get my head on straight again. Eventually, over time, I stopped imagining his return to me.
It’s jarring to feel that desperation again, but I am, after all, closer to him in distance than I’ve been in years. Maybe it was inevitable that I’d imagine him here in London.
Well, once is enough. Blotting my face with paper towel, I tell myself to get it together.
I march out of the bathroom, ready to rejoin my friends.
Except, at the last second, my adrenaline surges. I grab my purse from the bench where I was sitting, race past their table and sail out the door.
I have to know.
I have to know if it’s him.