The Unraveling

Chapter Seventeen

It’s Sunday afternoon. The matinee show of Swan Lake is about to begin.

It’s officially the end of my third week back to work. The first two weeks were brutal, learning a slightly different version of Swan Lake than the one at NAB, back in New York. Not to mention the ego death of not being the Swan Queen. It has been humbling, to say the least.

The loudspeaker comes on in the soloist dressing room I share with six other girls, letting us know it is our fifteen-minute call to places. I look at myself in the mirror and do a final check of my makeup. The fake eyelashes enhance my dark eyes so much they almost look like a doll’s eyes. My lips are perfect little bows. My cheeks a flushed pink.

My mirror in the dressing room looks a bit untidy, but to me it’s an organized mess. I know my hairpins are lying underneath my headpiece and that my MAC concealer is beside the water bottle where I mix them a little together to get the right texture fo r stage. And my lipstick is beside the banana I was munching on as a reminder to touch up my lips after eating it.

My pointe shoes are divided into two piles. Two pairs selected for today’s show and ten pairs as backup for the show and our rehearsal week ahead. Two photos are taped up on my mirror. I put them there after my first show back. One of Sylvie and me when we were eighteen in Paris for the first time, both of us in all black, laughing under the Eiffel Tower. The other is of Mimi and me at my very first recital. I’m wearing the ugliest little bright blue tutu and a tiara on top of my head—I can still remember how it pinched. She is giving me a big hug and beaming with pride.

It’s my favorite photo. I’ve had it up in every dressing room since I became a professional ballerina.

In one of the drawers, I have a picture of my mom and me. I’ve been going back and forth about putting it up. But it just doesn’t feel right. Beneath that picture is a picture of Jordan and me. I know I shouldn’t look at it. It’s like salt on a wound, but I can’t help but take it out every now and then.

As I place my headpiece on my slicked-back hair, Arabella comes waltzing into our dressing room.

“Jocelyn!” she coos. “Come out with Cynthia and me tonight, we’re going to celebrate your first performance week back with some deliciosas tapas .”

“Yeah—um, I’d love to, but are you sure…Cynthia wants to?” I look around just to make sure she’s not in the room. She’s already left for the stage.

“ Claro , of course. Cynthia’s not like that; she knows I love everyone. I’m like the female version of Luca, maybe.” She laughs. “I don’t mean any harm, she knows this.”

I think she’s flattering herself a little bit, but she’s probably not wrong.

“All right,” I say, using hairpins to secure my flower headpiece.

I’m dancing a pas de trois this afternoon as one of Prince Siegfried’s friends.

“By the way, what are you doing here?” I ask. “You must be exhausted from playing the Swan Queen last night.”

Obviously, I’m slightly jealous. Being the principal means you get to focus on only being the principal and not dancing every show. You get to be exhausted.

“I’m here for a massage. It’s Benjamin on today as the massage therapist and I was not going to miss a chance at those magic hands rubbing me down.” She winks. “I must be off. I’ll see you tonight!”

—

Later that evening, Arabella, Cynthia, and I are leaving a Spanish restaurant where we ordered almost everything on the menu. We justified it to our diets by ordering only the proteins and skipping all the carbs. Well, almost all the carbs. We do have a chance to work it off once Swan Lake performances start again Tuesday evening.

Arabella and Cynthia both cheerfully deemed every item as subpar, even though I thought everything was exceptional. And I wouldn’t have cared if it was bad anyway. I’m just glad to be out and about, a ballerina again, back onstage, the first week of shows complete. The Band-Aid ripped off. Cynthia and I are getting along. She seems to have released her anger at me. Arabella might be right.

I do feel a bit guilty about it happening again with Arabella, but I’m keeping that moment to myself. Cynthia doesn’t need to know. It’s not my place to tell her. And it’s definitely not like I have feelings for Arabella.

We went through two pitchers of sangria, deciding that we deserved it after five straight days of Swan Lake performances. It’s been a few weeks now since I joined the company, and my body is feeling the pain. Every muscle is tender. Even my fingers are sore from sewing my pointe shoes. When I get up in the mornings and first put weight on my feet, I feel like my metatarsals are going to snap. But honestly, I fucking love it. It’s like I forgot how much my body used to work and I missed it.

My mind missed the push.

And I’m pushing myself hard . Since I don’t have a confirmed donor, I’m desperate to ensure that I am indispensable to the company. Too good to fire.

As a soloist, I’m dancing roles I haven’t danced in years, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to be out there breathing again. And, incredibly, my body remembers every little movement like it was yesterday. I’ve pretty much lost all the weight I gained on my hiatus.

We’ve left the restaurant now and are walking down the sidewalk to the next place, cracking up about the absurdity of most ballet plots.

“I mean, come on,” I’m saying, “an evil sorcerer turning princesses into animals. This is high art.”

The girls laugh. My phone rings and I take it out of my purse, looking at the unknown number.

Usually when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize, I just ignore it. Like everyone, I’ve had enough spam calls to last a lifetime. But with Mimi’s health, I can’t help but pick up.

I peel off from the girls and plug one ear as I answer.

“Hello?”

“Jocelyn Banks,” says the voice.

I recognize his voice right away. Alistair Cavendish.

I look up to see Arabella is watching me, her gaze over the shoulder of her fur coat.

I hide the expression on my face and turn away from her.

I know I shouldn’t have been, but I’ve been thinking of him constantly. I can’t figure out why. I haven’t had contact with him and I’ve been on pins and needles for a couple of weeks wondering if he’s going to sponsor me. Yet my mind often wanders to other parts of him.

My unconscious mind has memorized his every mannerism and feature and quirk. Like how his smile’s a little crooked in this wry, constantly clever way. And how his blue eyes are more like turquoise and how they have little rings of hazel around the pupil. And how serious his voice sounds. How noticeably well his clothes hang on him, and how clear it is that every stitch has been measured to fit him perfectly. But most of all, I’m fascinated by the way his looks don’t match his spirit. One moment, he looks like a villain, the next, he seems gentle and sweet.

And I cannot help but remember how that spectrum of intensity translates in the bedroom.

Look, I get it, I sound straight-up obsessed. And I’m not.

I mean. Not only are there extreme rules about donor-dancer relationships, with consequences such as losing your job, that I can’t afford to break, but also he’s married, and also I’m not over Jordan, and a million other things. And yet, did I have not one but two super-hot sex dreams about him? Yes, I did.

“This is Alistair Cavendish.”

“Oh, hi, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking. I just had dinner with Charlie. We signed the papers. Clementine and I will officially be sponsoring you.”

“Officially…”

“We’re sponsoring you. You can breathe easy.”

“Oh my god,” I say, actually doing as he says, and breathing deeply. “That’s a huge relief. Thank you!”

I say that last part unsure if that’s the appropriate response.

Someone zooms past, laying their hand on the horn, and I hear it on the other end of the phone line.

“I’m out in Soho right now, where are you?” I ask because it sounds like he’s literally on the same street as me, but it sounds forward. “I just heard the car horn and—”

He hangs up.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck . I’m an idiot. He just said he’d sign me and—

There’s a tap on my shoulder.

I turn and slip a little in my stiletto. It’s Alistair.

I glance back at Arabella and Cynthia, who are now both staring on with looks of shock.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says back. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who uses that word a lot, so it sounds a little funny on his tongue.

“What are you doing here?”

“I just left Berenjak. Where have you been?”

“We just had tapas.” My heart is pounding. Standing with him on the chilly street is very different from sitting across a table from him in a warm restaurant. “I’m sorry, I’m really surprised to see you. It’s nice—it’s nice to see you.”

He looks at the girls staring on. “Let me take you all for a drink.”

I look at Arabella again. They’re sitting on the low wall behind them and talking, never taking their eyes off of us.

I weigh the professional benefits of accommodating my donor’s request versus having a drink with a married man when I’m a little bit buzzed and have been fantasizing about him for days. We had a one-night stand, but I will not repeat that.

Also I’m not alone. I’ve got Arabella and Cynthia. They can serve as my chaperones.

“I think there’s a place around here…”

He wets his lips as he furrows his brow and looks around at the nearby restaurants.

It’s definitely a bad idea.

“Sure,” I say, ignoring that voice in my head.

“Ah, yes, it’s right down there. Get your friends. We can walk there. I’ll just text my wife to tell her I’ll be a little late.”

I want to ask him about the divorce. Why is he suddenly acting like he’s just…happily married?

I don’t ask. Instead I just say, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He gives me an intense look that makes me back down.

I go over to Cynthia and Arabella.

“So…Alistair wants to take us for drinks.”

“Don’t you mean Mr.Cavendish?” asks Arabella.

I give a self-conscious laugh, and then say, wryly, “Right, well, whoever that guy is.” Then, after checking over my shoulder, I lean into them and excitedly whisper, “He said he and Clementine are going to sponsor me! They just signed the papers!”

Arabella stares at me, her face unchanging. Cynthia looks at her, then to me, then back to Alistair.

She then clears her throat and gives me a look that means He’s coming .

“So what do you ladies say? I feel it would be impolite not to buy you at least a glass of champagne in celebration. Three of the world’s best dancers. I’d be a fool not to.”

“Sure, we’ll come,” says Arabella.

Alistair briefly puts a guiding hand on my lower back, and even through my down coat it gives me chills.

We start down the busy road, Arabella talking to Alistair about some bureaucratic thing that happened at the company last year that only just got resolved.

“This place used to be a tube station,” he says as he opens the door for us.

Walking in, I revel in the bizarre juxtaposition of the gleaming, familiar tiles set against the sound of lively chatter and the glow of orange, hot pink, and green lights.

“It’s packed !” I yell to Arabella, who is standing right next to me.

“What?” she yells back.

I shake my head and do a never mind hand gesture.

Alistair leans in to speak close to my ear to be heard, but instead I turn the wrong way and my lips graze his. It’s like an electric current. When his lips find my ear, he doesn’t even seem to raise his voice, but its deep hum resonates through me so that I feel it more than I hear it. “I’ll be right back.”

He holds up a finger to tell me to wait a second, and he walks away and speaks to a woman with 1940s-styled hair who immediately nods and takes us to a small, intimate table with a Reserved sign on it. She removes it.

On the wall beside it there is an old poster of a foot on the back of a shovel with the quote, Grow your own vegetables for their sake! beneath it.

I sit down, Alistair sits beside me, and the girls sit across from us, Arabella across from me and Cynthia across from him.

A server comes immediately over. He’s definitely getting the star treatment.

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?” he asks, and I can hear him better now, but we still have to speak loudly and lean close.

“Uh—champagne?” I ask the server. It’s what he said he wanted to get us, so it feels like the best choice.

“We’ll just have a bottle,” he says. “Dom is fine if you don’t have Krug.”

The server nods, looking excited about her upcoming tip, and then goes off to retrieve it.

“You’re lucky I still like champagne,” says Arabella.

He gives a polite smile.

Understanding starts to creep in. They know each other. There’s something to their relationship that is more than passing ships at the company.

Who doesn’t Alistair know?

He looks good tonight in a black sweater with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of burgundy jeans. He doesn’t look stodgy and old-school. It’s clear that he’s wearing expensive things that are made to look basic, simple, and clean.

He smells like tobacco and red wine in a way that seems curated. I find him intoxicating. As he looks around the room, I study his profile. His jaw is sharp and cutting and I see stubble from a couple of days without shaving. I love stubble. I imagine the stubble grazing and tickling my tits and then I realize I need some water.

As if she reads my mind, the server comes back over with a glass bottle of Evian water and four glasses. She takes them off her tray and sets them down. A moment later, someone else follows with a bottle of Krug and four glasses.

She sets them down, and he asks her, “Do you have the Zalto glasses? Thanks.”

She nods, takes away the champagne flutes, and returns with four angular glasses with narrow stems.

Arabella does an exaggerated roll of the eyes and I kick her under the table.

Once it’s poured, I take a sip. It’s the best champagne I’ve ever had.

“Jesus, that’s delicious,” I say.

“I know Arabella thinks I’m a dick for asking for the nice glasses, but it makes a difference. No matter how rich you are, no one wants to spend four hundred quid on a bottle of champagne and then have it taste like piss.”

I’m so surprised by his tone, by his colloquial nature, thinking it’s so different from how it was a couple weeks ago. Then I realize—he’s already had a few drinks. It’s him loosened up. We didn’t even finish the bottle at dinner the other night.

“So do you all know each other, then?” I ask, when I see Arabella’s intense gaze staying on Alistair.

She lights up then.

“ Claro! Of course we do! His wife is on the board, and I’m close with Clementine. I must have told you that, no?”

“No,” I say.

Cynthia looks uncomfortable.

“He tags along with her to all the parties to meet the beautiful women.” She winks at him. “He’s like a puppy.”

He doesn’t get defensive, but he narrows his eyes ever so slightly.

I can’t help but think he looks even more handsome when he’s brooding.

Arabella then picks up her glass and slams the rest of her champagne. It actually hurts to watch her waste it like that.

She slams her hands on the table.

“Well, we’ve decided to go somewhere else.” Her words are neutral, but something about her tone isn’t. “And it looks like you’re quite cozy here. You two. You’d make a cute couple, you know.”

I’m mortified. It’s such a weird thing to say. Such a strange power move.

I give her a look that means What the fuck is wrong with you . She ignores me.

“I’ll be just fine. Thanks,” I say, coolly.

“Be careful with that one,” she says to me. “He bites.”

He leans back, staring daggers at her. If she were a man, I would think Alistair was about two seconds from knocking him out.

I am extremely grateful that I didn’t tell her the one-night stand with Max was actually Alistair.

“Bye-bye,” Arabella says, grabbing Cynthia’s arm as she struggles to get down the rest of her own champagne. She chokes on it and sets it down.

“Thank you,” she says.

They turn to leave, but then Arabella turns back and says, “Alistair, this one is going to be a lot of work.” She points at me. “She’s into girls. But trust me, she’s worth it.” She glances at me. “Her pussy tastes amazing.”

The smile has faded from Cynthia’s face and she pulls Arabella away from us, and the two vanish into the crowd.

I have no idea what to say. I am absolutely mortified.

I knew Arabella had something fiery in her. I knew she couldn’t be as nice as she seemed. I know she’s drunk. But there was something dark in everything that just happened.

I have no words.

I turn to Alistair when I finally get up the guts to look at him. I’m humiliated.

When he finally looks back at me, he says, “I know we’re not supposed to say women are psycho anymore. But Arabella…”

“She’s a fucking psycho. There, I said it for you.”

I feel like if I was made to stand up right now, I’d collapse.

But then he smiles, and then he starts to laugh. After a moment, I can’t help but start laughing, too.

“So,” he says then, “what are you working on at the ballet now?”

“Are we pretending we don’t know each other still?” I ask.

“We are in public.” He drops his voice.

“Ha, right, well, uh…we’re performing Swan Lake right now. Rehearsals are about to start for Manon . Which is a completely new ballet for me. I’ve watched it a thousand times, but never performed it, so I’m really excited. It’s such a gorgeous ballet,” I say.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard of this one. It’s about the prostitute?”

“Well, almost, but not quite.” I laugh, nervous. “It’s more complex and beautiful than that. It’s about a young girl who was supposed to go to a convent, falls in love with a handsome student, then gets persuaded by her brother to become the companion of this older guy.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah. So instead of being with her true love, she goes with the older guy who has promised to take care of her and her brother.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, he’ll support her, but…in return for her companionship.”

“Ah. I see. I assume that’s not the happy ending.”

“Well. No. She tries to leave the older guy, to go be with the one she loves. When she does, the older man kills her brother and has her arrested as a prostitute.”

“Not very good manners.”

“No. So she’s sent to perish in an American jail, but her true love goes with her and kills the jailer when he forces himself on Manon.”

“There’s the happy ending.”

“Well, no, then Manon dies in her love’s arms in the swamps of Louisiana. It’s all very tragic.”

“That’s a much more romantic way of laying out the story,” he says.

“I hope you make it to a show.” I blush at my own words.

He notices.

“What can I do for you, Jocelyn?”

“Do for me? I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re my dancer now. You’re my Renoir, and I need to give you the right climate. Wrap you in the right materials. Preserve you. So I want you to tell me how to do it. I’m supposed to help you be the best dancer and in return I guess you give me bragging rights. And backstage access.”

My insides swirl. “Well, these drinks are a good start.”

I meant it to deflate the double-entendre vibe of the conversation, but after saying it, it was obvious I’d made it worse.

I see the slightest, almost invisible flick of his left eyebrow.

“I’m happy to buy you some champagne, but we should talk soon about this sort of behavior. If you’re my dancer, I’ll want you to stay in peak physical condition. I’m not a dictator, but I don’t want you running around London getting trashed like Arabella does.”

I feel embarrassed. Too embarrassed to revert to what my normal reaction to something like this would be, where I’d buck at his implication that he can or should control me.

The truth is…he can.

Why does that actually feel like such a relief right now?

“I’m not telling you I’ll suck all the fun out of life. If you want biweekly massages—from a qualified professional, of course—we can do that. Or cryotherapy. Or normal therapy. Or orchids flown in from Hawaii every four days. Whatever you need.”

“Oh…I don’t…”

“Just say the word. I want you to be able to perform at your absolute best. So, whatever that means to you.”

My mind starts to reel as I imagine what I could ask for if I were willing to take full advantage.

And…am I not?

I always hate movies where the main character rejects help. Where they tear up checks. Where they turn down the great promotion just because of some ethical dilemma. It’s not very human. I went from living in a shithole town to living in a shoebox in New York to this. Why wouldn’t I let this rich, incredibly sexy guy—no, no, just this platonic donor—treat me.

I think of Mimi. Mimi, who needs care, who is about to be out on the streets. I open my mouth, trying to get up the nerve to tell him the truth—I need help paying for my grandmother’s care.

But at the last second, I can’t do it.

“This isn’t what it was like for me in the States,” I say. “My donor was sort of invisible.”

“Not me. I want to be involved. I want to take care of you.”

There’s something soft in his features then. I crumble under his gaze.

“No one’s ever taken care of me,” I say, and then regret it so instantly I actually slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, sorry, what a weird thing to say. Maybe I’ll take you up on the therapy.”

His knee touches mine under the table as he moves it, saying, “So sorry,” touching my thigh briefly in apology and ironically doubling down on the mistake.

“Where are you living?”

“Oh, um. I guess with Arabella. I just left my old flat where I lived with my boyfriend.”

“Christ, in that lesbian brothel?” he asks.

He’s not wrong. There are constantly girls over and they’re constantly hooking up. I mean…myself included.

“No offense,” he adds.

“I’m not actually a lesbian,” I say, remembering what Arabella said to him. “I’m just open. When an opportunity arises and I want it, I usually don’t stop myself.”

“That’s none of my business.” He drops to a whisper. “And, anyway, I kind of knew that.”

“God. You’re killing me.”

I push away my glass of champagne.

“What are your conditions like? Do you have a good mattress? Can you afford to eat well? These things matter, Jocelyn.”

I pause, again thinking of being in bed with him. “I’m sleeping on an air bed at the moment. But I will get a bed soon, I just haven’t had time and I’ve been settling in and—”

“Your body is too important,” he says, looking deadly serious. “Do you think Rembrandt was just leaving his paintbrushes in a dirty bucket every night? No.”

There’s a sternness to his tone that makes me shy away. “No.”

“You deserve better.” His eyes briefly seem to glance at my lips. It’s so quick that I become certain it was my imagination.

“To be honest,” I say, my chest heaving with this low rumble of desire. I look up through my lashes. “I am questioning living with her after her little display tonight. I’ve never seen her do that before.”

“I’ve got a flat near the theater in Bloomsbury. You can stay there. It’s got everything you need. Including a doorman, which I doubt you have right now.”

“No doorman, no,” I say, understating. “I can’t—”

“I bought the place a few years ago. Clem and I were—” His eyes cast downward, and I shrink a little at the nickname for his wife, who has hardly come up yet tonight. “Clem and I were going through a rough patch. The housing market was up and down and I bought the place just to have a place to go if I needed it.”

“Did you?”

“Sometimes, but she was always the one to storm out, so. It’s pretty much been sitting there empty this whole time.”

Somehow, knowing that I am part of his fucked-up priorities makes me surge with intrigue again.

“Would you like to see it?” he asks.

“What—now?”

“I assure you, this is only for your health.” He says it seriously, and if I hadn’t glanced at his face, I wouldn’t have noticed the tiny flash of humor in his lips.

“I’m not sure your wife would be okay with you showing it to me right now, and truthfully, I’m not sure I trust myself around you. I still remember when you were Max,” I say, honestly, for the first time tonight, being a little bit principled.

“She’s the one who told me to prioritize you over everything else. This ballet thing, it’s all her thing, really. But she is always begging me to get involved. She says I need a hobby.”

“So why did you take me for drinks?” I ask.

“To be quite frank, it was a suggestion of Clementine’s. I have a feeling she and Arabella may have arranged our little run-in. She made the dinner reservations with Charlie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made them for the three of you as well.”

“Wait—this is starting to sound very manipulated. Is Arabella—I mean, how close are they?”

“Clementine looks at Arabella as someone to care for.”

“Like…a daughter?”

“I don’t know, I never know what my wife is up to.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I should probably go,” he says then.

I’m taken aback by the sudden change and say, “Oh—I’m sorry, did—”

“It’s nothing you did,” he says. “It’s just that we need to stay professional. Even though my wife and I are pretty much separated, we’re not on bad terms. I don’t want a punitive divorce. And she can be vicious. I don’t want you to get in trouble for crossing a line with your donor. But trust me, the thoughts have been consuming me.”

“I understand. Of course.”

We’re silent for a long moment, and then he finishes his drink.

“Would you like to see the flat?”