Chapter Seven
“So, there are two company classes here,” says Arabella as we walk toward a security desk. “They split us up into a men’s and women’s class sometimes like we’re horny teenagers or something. But we’re going to take the class with the men today. You will stand out more.”
She smiles and cocks her head at the man at the security desk.
“All set,” he says, smiling sheepishly back at her and looking back down at his book.
I follow her to an elevator and we go up to floor two.
“You’ll love Charlie,” she goes on. “Charlie is the director. Charles Haydn-Cole. He’s fabulous and has such a good sense of things. He discovered Victoria Haley, you know.”
“Ah,” I say, finally with some recognition.
Of course I know Charles Haydn-Cole, as he’s the director, but I actually know know Victoria. She is a stunning dancer who rose to principal here and then started acting, which led to movies, especially the dark adaptation of The Red Shoes she did, and now never dances with companies anymore unless it’s some sort of one night only deal. “I’ve met her.”
Arabella leads me out of the elevator and to the principal dressing rooms.
“You didn’t! Ugh, I’ve always wanted to. We’ve been like passing ships, I never get to meet her.”
“She was fine,” I say as we change, not even touching the truth, which is that she was a bitch with a drug problem.
We leave our normal-people things behind and I follow her back to the elevator as a ballerina.
“Yeah, I’ve heard she’s a bit of a diva, but I can’t help but admire her. I love a good bitch, you know?”
I laugh. “Then you’d love her.”
“The studios are on floors five and six, and we’ll be on floor six today.”
She gives a bit of a devilish grin.
“What?” I ask, feeling like I’m about to walk in on a surprise party.
“I think you’re going to like the studio, that’s all. It’s a bit of a flex.”
The elevator doors open up and I can see immediately that she’s right. It’s fucking gorgeous.
Outside and downstairs, the building was gorgeous in the old European way. Hallowed with age, a patina over all the glamorous silk wallpapers and intricate corners of the architecture. But up here, it’s completely different. It’s amazing that it’s even the same building.
The big studio has soft blond wood floors underneath the smooth gray vinyl marley flooring that keeps dancers from slipping. There are soaring mirrors that reach the high ceilings. And on two entire sides of the room, there are massive round windows braced by steel designs. Through the massive windows, golden sunlight spills across the floor, and outside there is what must be the best view in London.
“Wow,” I say.
“Told you so,” she says.
The clean, stark environment doesn’t take away from the cozy, lived-in feel of the floors below. Instead, somehow, it just feels even homier. I could honestly cry. I am so completely certain I am in the right place.
A pang of missing Jordan glints through me as I suppress my first instinct, which is to take a picture of the space and text it to him as an aspiration for our future home.
I still haven’t heard from him. I thought I would. Maybe I still will. I didn’t really want to break up. I was just being crazy. Being me right now, which is completely unhinged. But instead, he’s actually let me go. I must have really been too much.
Okay, okay, enough thinking about Jordan.
I clear my mind as meditatively as possible and follow Arabella across the studio. We come up to one of the girls who was there the night before.
“Hey, guys,” she says, popping up like a tight rubber band as we approach.
She and Arabella kiss briefly right on the lips, and I wonder again if she has a relationship with her, or if this is just how they are.
“Jocelyn, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, and you’re…Cynthia?”
“Yes, good job!” She gives me two air kisses. “The other American.”
This part she says with an eye roll as she looks back to Arabella.
“Hang here a minute,” Arabella says. “I’m going to see if there are any good spots at the barre.”
“You know the guys don’t care as much about spots at the barre as we do,” says Cynthia.
“I know, but I still have to ask!”
Cynthia, who has one leg stretched up on the ballet barre, says, “Fair enough, fair enough,” as Arabella walks away. Then to me, as she lowers her leg, “I’ll keep you company.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“It’s so great you got an opportunity to take class so quickly. Arabella said you were a principal at NAB?”
“Yep,” I say, stretching my own legs.
“That’s a pretty big deal. Why did you leave?”
I search for a short answer. While I do, she watches me and then says, “Ah, for love, then.”
I blush. “Yep.”
“Someone in the company?”
“No. An artist.”
“Ah, very sexy,” she says.
“So you’re taken,” she says. “That’s good, that’s at least one ballerina who won’t sleep with Luca, then.”
“Luca?”
She laughs. “Luca is”—she points—“that.”
Across the studio is a guy who is so ridiculously fucking hot that it almost seems like a joke.
“Jesus,” I say.
“I know. Italian. Luca Salerno. He literally looks like a Roman statue of, like, a…warrior or something, I don’t know.”
“He’s straight?” Guys that good-looking never are.
“Yep,” she says. “And I’m not. But even so, I think that is one of the sexiest guys I’ve ever met. If not the .”
“What’s his deal?” I ask, stretching my calves.
“His deal is that he’s super fucking nice, he’s very, very talented, and every woman loves him. But I mean, rightfully so. He always says he’s looking for love, which is very nice and romantic. That doesn’t stop him from sleeping with any of the many, many girls who throw themselves at him.”
“And he’s not a dick?” I ask.
“Not at all. Somehow, no one has ever gotten mad at him. It’s like he’s such a specimen that we’ve all just accepted that he can belong to none of us. It’s like, oh, you’re new, well, only a matter of time until you go through the initiation of fucking Luca.”
I laugh. “Wow. He’s like a unicorn.”
“He is,” she says. “But we don’t have to worry about that with you, it sounds like you’re in love.”
“Actually, we just broke up.”
“Oh, no. Sorry.”
I shrug, which doesn’t match my genuine feelings on the matter. “It’s okay. But I have no intention of sleeping with anyone right now. I’m kind of off the whole love thing.”
“Sex doesn’t have to be love,” she says.
“I’m off sex, too,” I say. “I think I should just focus on my career right now. You know?”
I feel a set of eyes on me and see that Luca, who’s stretching, is looking at me.
He smiles and gives a charming, neutral wave. Oh, man. I can see how he does it.
I wave back.
Cynthia sees the interaction and rolls her eyes. “God, another one bites the dust.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m really not going to do anything like that.”
There’s a pause, then she says, “If you say so. Anyways, we can definitely take your mind off your breakup. You came here at just the right time. There are so many girls out right now. Two out on maternity leave and five injured.”
“Five injured? Jesus.”
She shrugs. “That’s what happens when you do a run of about a hundred Nutcracker shows and only get a few days off after.”
“Damn. Well, the ones out on maternity leave will surely be back soon, right?”
“Hell no, they get a year leave here. This is Europe, girl. None of that one-month-paid-time-off shit like in America.” She glances across the studio. “Anyway, good luck. Arabella’s waving you over, looks like she found you a good spot.”
“Thanks,” I say, then leave to meet Arabella.
“Did she get you to talk about your life in less than a minute?” she asks as soon as I’m in earshot.
“Wh—yes,” I say. “How did you know?”
“She has a gift. She’s one of those people. Everyone tells her everything.”
As the class starts, I take a deep breath and try to relax. My nerves are out of control, which is crazy because I’ve never been nervous when it comes to dancing. Then again, since I was about seven years old, I never took a break. Now I have taken a break, and it’s like I’m afraid I’ve broken a magic spell that was holding my talent together.
The ballet mistress is named Sarika Khatri, and she’s one of those former ballerinas who have aged into a next-level form of poise that makes their whole presence seem angelic. She doesn’t seem to walk or step so much as glide. Her voice is soft and gentle but bright as glass, as if she did nothing but drink chamomile tea for her entire existence.
I don’t take her temperate presence at face value, though, knowing that all ballerinas have a hard edge inside them. You have to—we go through too much to be soft. We are soft-petaled roses, but we have thorns.
I inhale deeply and place one hand on the barre and feet in first position to begin the ritual that is ballet class. The music begins for pliés and I smile a real smile for the first time in a long time. I feel home.