Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Justin woke up on Tuesday morning to three missed calls from his mother, two from his aunt, and one from Marcus. He pulled himself out of bed and called Marcus first, knowing that while his mum and Steen were worried about him, they didn’t have much experience of going viral.
Marcus, on the other hand, had had his life turned upside down by a viral video—he and Heather had been caught on camera violating the company’s old no-dating rule, and Peter had fired Marcus on the spot.
And while Heather had ultimately convinced Peter that the policy did more harm than good, and dancers were now allowed to date whoever they wanted, Marcus knew what it was like to have a compromising image of yourself plastered all over the internet for anyone to see.
The phone rang a few times, and when Marcus picked up, his voice was hushed and scratchy.
“Hey, mate, give me a second.” Justin heard muffled sounds, and the sound of a door sliding open and shut. “Sorry, Caroline was up all night and Heather’s trying to get a quick nap in before company class. Sleep regression is a nightmare.”
“No worries,” Justin replied. “What the hell is sleep regression?”
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Marcus chuckled, speaking at a normal volume now.
Justin could hear the twitter of birds in the background and pictured his friend out on his back verandah.
“It’s better I don’t tell you. If people knew how hard having a baby is before they did it, the entire human race would die out in a few generations.
Anyway, I just called to check on you. I know it’s been a shit couple of days. How are you holding up?”
Justin blew out a breath as he tried to formulate an answer.
He’d had trouble falling asleep the last few nights, and work had been a struggle as a result.
Peter was still clearly displeased with him, and that had made it difficult to concentrate in class.
His colleagues, apart from Ricky and Matty, were still giving him a wide berth, which made him feel isolated and guilty.
The company really had busted their asses to get ready for New York, and his fellow dancers were so excited about the tour.
Every time he thought about how he’d jeopardized everything they’d worked for, the guilt crawled up the back of his neck and made him want to pace whatever room he was in.
He paced now, walking the length of the kitchen as the kettle started to steam on the counter. “I’m alright, just a bit out of sorts, you know? Feels like one moment of weakness just changed everything, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I know that feeling, and it’s bloody awful. Like there’s this two-dimensional version of yourself out there and no one can see the rest of you. The real you.”
“Exactly. And I have no idea when this is all going to be over.”
“I know. But it’ll blow over soon enough. It feels like it’s an eternity while it’s happening, but sooner or later they move on to the next thing, the next piece of gossip, the next viral whatever.”
“Yeah, but not before you get fired.”
Marcus sighed. “Well, that didn’t last forever either, did it?
” Peter had offered Marcus his job back, along with the other dancers he’d fired for violating the no-dating policy, though Marcus had chosen to retire and go to uni for physiotherapy instead of going back to the company.
Now, he and Heather were happily and publicly married with a baby, the picture of the kind of romantic bliss Justin had never imagined wanting for himself.
“Mmm,” Justin said, noncommittally. The kettle dinged and he poured the steaming water into his French press.
“Peter seemed pretty stroppy yesterday, but I don’t reckon he’s going to fire you. Especially right before New York, it’d mess up all the casting.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make my life hell until then.
” Justin thought about what his boss had said yesterday, about how he and the administration had a plan.
A plan to make Justin grovel, probably. He wanted to pace again, but instead he cradled the phone against his ear and pressed the plunger down, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of fresh coffee.
“Well, let’s hope this dies down and whatever damage control he has in mind isn’t too intense. Either way, hang in there, and remember that there are plenty of us who know the three-dimensional version of you. We’re here if you need us.”
Justin closed his eyes and let his friend’s words sink in, thinking about those missed calls from his mum and his aunt.
Missy had dropped by last night to check on him, too.
He had his people, and his people had him.
He didn’t need anyone else. He certainly didn’t need the approval of strangers on the internet, or of nosy newspaper journalists who splashed his moment of weakness all over their websites for clicks.
And as for Peter, well, Justin did need his approval, but—
His phone vibrated against his shoulder, and he picked it up and looked at the screen. Speak of the devil. “Hey, Peter’s on the other line.”
“Oh, shit,” Marcus said quickly.
“Yeah. Thanks for checking in, I appreciate it a lot. I’ll let you know what he says and, uh… good luck with sleep regression.”
Marcus laughed, a loud, humorless bark, and hung up. Justin took a deep breath, then picked up his boss’s call.
Three hours later, still sweaty from company class, Justin knocked on the pale wood door to Peter’s office.
February in Sydney was always oppressively muggy, the air thick and sticky, and this year was especially bad.
Australian National Ballet performed at the Opera House, but all the rehearsal studios and administrative offices were around the headland on one of several converted finger wharves that had once housed dozens of warehouses.
There was something magical about being able to look out the studio window and see the ocean sparkling right there, and knowing that it was sloshing beneath you as you did your developpés.
The high ceilings in the studios meant that Justin never worried that his pas de deux partner was going to hit her head on a ceiling fan, and when there was a cross breeze to be had, they could open the doors on the sides of the studio and let the harbor air in.
But it also meant that in the stuffy, airless depths of summer, the studio became one huge sweatbox.
The air in Studio B had been dense with perspiration by the time they’d started petit battements, and grand allegro had felt like leaping through a heavy mist. At the end of class, Justin’s leggings were soaked, and his T-shirt had been clinging uncomfortably to his back.
But heat at the back of Justin’s neck right now had nothing to do with grand allegro.
Since yesterday morning, he’d been dreading facing Peter alone, and now the moment of truth had arrived.
Peter had requested he report to his office immediately after class, and Justin hadn’t even taken the time to splash some cold water on his face before coming here.
When Peter called for him to enter, Justin pushed the door open and stepped into the blessedly cool office.
And came face to face with the woman who was responsible for all that dread.
Ivy Page was sitting on the small couch against the wall in Peter’s office, perched under the triptych of framed posters from Peter’s first three seasons at the helm of ANB, one of which featured Justin and Heather in costume for Giselle.
Stunned, Justin stared at the woman whose shitty clickbait article had blown up his weekend, and maybe his whole career. Whose first review of him had been so cruel he’d memorized it, and still thought about her words every time he had a bad rehearsal, every time he doubted his abilities.
The air-con in Peter’s office suddenly felt non-existent as Justin looked across the room at her, and the heat at the back of his neck flooded his entire body.
Ivy Page stared back, gaze steady and determined behind her round gold glasses as she looked up at him from the coach.
Her light brown hair, streaked with blonde, was brushed over one shoulder.
She wore a knee-length red sleeveless dress with a wide belt at the waist, and her usual sky-high heels.
Justin breathed heavily through his nose as though that dress were a flag and he a bull, but she held his gaze, her chin tipped up with her usual self-assurance.
Despite his scowl, her moss-green eyes were bright and expectant, ready to see whatever she wanted to see and write it up in her newspaper for the whole city to read.
“Justin,” Peter said from behind his desk, after they’d stared each other down for what felt like five full minutes, neither of them apparently willing to break the standoff. “Please take a seat.”
Justin narrowed his eyes at Ivy for a moment, and she replied by glancing down at the notebook on her lap.
Resisting the urge to scoff victoriously, Justin pulled out one of the chairs opposite Peter, and sat, facing his boss as though the couch were unoccupied.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Justin looked at Peter expectantly, wondering if his boss’s grand plan for dealing with the negative press was to extract an apology from Ivy for what she’d written.
Justin wouldn’t accept it, but if that’s what it took to get him off Peter’s shit list and secure his place on tour, it would have to suffice.
Peter cleared his throat. “Justin, let me begin by saying I am relieved that you were unharmed in the fight at the Stoned Crow last week, and that so far, the other man involved has decided not to press charges.”