Chapter 6
Chapter Six
It hadn’t worked.
A week later, Ivy was still fielding calls from journalists about the “Pointe Shoe Punch” and the “Tutu TKO.” The papers were really having a field day with this story.
Every time her phone rang and Ivy delivered her now-well worn line directing the reporter to the company’s official statement and refusing further comment, she wanted to scream.
Now there was interest in stories about the arts?
And never mind that traditionally, men didn’t dance on pointe or wear tutus.
Tabloids never let the facts that get in the way of a good pun.
Ivy had tried to pitch alternative coverage to some of the more sensible outlets, ones she thought could be relied on to cover the upcoming tour to New York, or a lifestyle-oriented story about how Heather Hays was juggling motherhood with her dancing career.
(Childcare. The answer was childcare and a husband who didn’t expect her to do the bulk of the work of parenting.)
But no one was interested. Now, the coverage of the “Nutcracker Knockout”—Ivy had rolled her eyes especially hard at that one—had moved from the news pages to the opinion section.
What did the incident say about modern masculinity, columnists asked.
Why did today’s young men, even the ones who had been raised to express themselves through the arts, still ultimately resort to violence?
What did this mean for the women of ballet, who were held to much higher standards of talent, skill, and behaviour than the men were?
Forget death by a thousand cuts, this was death by a thousand think pieces.
Ivy got it, really she did; the contrast between the refined, mannered performance of a ballet dancer on stage and the unleashed aggression Justin had displayed in that bar, it was hard for reporters and readers to resist. But it had been weeks now, and it was time for this story to die.
It would die faster if Ivy could just secure some other coverage.
More worrying than the persistent press attention was the news from the membership department.
Deb, who oversaw the company’s subscriptions, seemed to be receiving just as many calls as Ivy was, but she was hearing from longtime subscribers who were threatening to withhold their support unless the company issued an official apology, or “disciplined” Justin.
Em didn’t have a subscription—she’d happily accept a free press ticket to a ballet performance when Ivy had one to spare, but on principle, she didn’t spend her money on ballet—but she agreed with those angry subscribers.
Let Justin suffer the consequences of his actions, she’d argued a few days ago, when Ivy had vented her frustrations over text during her lunch break, and stop trying so hard to save him from himself.
But Ivy couldn’t stop trying. She had agreed to this job—had given up so much to do it—and she couldn’t countenance failure.
Even if failure seemed inevitable this morning, when Peter called her and Justin into his office and greeted them grimly from behind his desk.
“More bad news from Deb this morning,” he said, when they’d sat down across from him.
He looked sterner than she’d ever seen him.
His ex-dancer’s posture was perfectly straight, his usually affable face was crumpled in a scowl, and dressed like he was in head-to-toe black, he looked like the grim reaper.
“A small group of donors has organized and threatened to withhold their support for next season. And Connie tells me there’s chatter on social media about subscribers calling for a boycott of any performances featuring Justin throughout this season.
They’d still buy tickets, thankfully, but not for anything Justin would be dancing.
The anger amongst our most reliable supporters is… considerable.”
“I’m trying my best to shift the narrative,” Ivy said quickly. “I can think of a new strategy, since what we’re doing now obviously isn’t working.” Next to her, Justin had his hands in his lap, but he was fidgeting with the hem of his T-shirt.
“It isn’t,” Peter said flatly. “And we’re out of time.”
“Out of time?” Justin repeated. The words came out loose and jumbled, like he’d lost some of the feeling in his lips.
Ivy felt like she’d lost feeling in her fingertips, like panic had numbed her.
She wrapped her hands around the seat of her chair and squeezed hard, pressing sensation back into her fingers.
“There has to be something more we can do,” she said. She had wanted it to sound pragmatic, but it came out more like pleading. “Can Justin issue a public apology?”
“Absolutely not,” Justin growled.
She looked over at him and saw the pink flush high in his cheeks. He was frustrated, and she understood why, but she didn’t see any other solution to this problem.
“You wouldn’t have to mean it, you’d just have to say it. Maybe it would be enough to mollify them,” she said reasonably.
He met her eyes, fierce determination all over his face. “No. I’m not apologizing for what I did.”
“But why not,” she argued, “when it could—”
“I said. No.” His tone was so definitive, so final, so furious, that all she could do was stare at him.
Hopelessly. Because that’s what this situation was.
Hopeless. If he didn’t listen to reason, there’d be nothing more she could do to help him.
She turned back to Peter, who looked almost as frustrated as she felt.
Part of her wanted to channel Em: Throw up her hands and throw Justin to the wolves, to say to her boss, you see what I’ve been trying to work with?
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Peter looked at the two of them for a long moment, then reached over and pulled a sheet of paper from his inbox.
It was a print-out of the newsletter, the silly little piece of lite journalism she’d hoped would salvage this situation.
She’d been so naive. Ivy watched as Peter ran his eyes over it in silence, and dread simmered in her chest.
“Justin, if you refuse to apologize, then I’m not sure what else there is to do.
I had hoped that a little emergency public relations would help, but it seems that’s not enough.
” Peter sighed, dropping the paper onto his desk.
Not enough. Ivy stared at her own words on the page, letting Peter’s next, inevitable words wash over her in a miserable wave.
“I’m sorry, but you have to understand that the tour is now off the table for you. If your public behavior has made you and the company the subject of this volume negative attention, and you refuse to make amends for that behavior, I can’t very well put you on stage at Lincoln Center.”
Ivy had known it was coming, but it didn’t stop her stomach from bottoming out.
Next to her, Justin opened his mouth, probably to object to Peter’s pronouncement, but no words materialized.
She turned to look at him and saw defeat written all over his face.
She’d failed. They’d failed. It had taken him some time to come around and begin to trust her, but when he had, he’d made a real effort.
He’d taken her out into the bush and talked to her, let her poke and probe enough to try to fix this mess for them both, but it hadn’t been enough.
She’d failed, and now the company was going to fly off to New York without him, and someone else was going to dance his favorite part.
Ivy glanced over at Justin, who was clenching his jaw so hard it looked painful, and she could tell he was working hard not to swear in front of Peter. She’d managed it, but only just. This was a catastrophe.
“And what about the apology I deserve?” Justin snapped.
“You threw the first punch,” Peter reminded him.
“I’m not a lawyer, but you can’t very well claim that his face caused you a hand injury.
It’s clear that you were provoked, but there’s video evidence that you escalated the conflict from a verbal one to a physical one.
” As he said the words “video evidence” he flicked his eyes towards Ivy, his unspoken words very loud.
Because of her, millions of people had seen that video evidence.
Not for the first time in the last few weeks, guilt crawled up the inside of her ribcage.
“Peter, come on, there has to be something else we can do,” Justin argued, desperation quickening his speech.
Peter’s eyes went wide and dropped his hands onto the desk, his wedding ring clattering as it hit the glass.
In her years of covering the company, she’d never seen him look so frustrated.
“You can apologize personally. The company can issue a statement saying that you’re sorry. Those are your choices.”
Justin looked over at Ivy, then back at his boss. “I can’t,” he said beseechingly. “Please don’t make me.” Ivy was about to argue with him, but the catch in his voice stopped her. He sounded so anguished.
Peter was quiet for a long moment. “There is one other option. I don’t personally approve of it, and I’d hoped we could avoid it.
But several members of the board seem to think it’s appropriate.
Apparently they’ve received a number of calls from the corporate sponsor whose generosity is making this tour possible. ”
“What is it?” Justin asked. He cast his eyes around the office, as if the solution to his problem was in Peter’s filing cabinet or on his bookshelf.
Peter sighed, and Ivy resisted the urge to snap at him to hurry up. Didn’t he realize the stakes of this, for her as well as for Justin?
“You could come to New York,” Peter said slowly, “if a minder came with you. Someone who could ensure that you don’t do anything else to embarrass the company.”
Ivy blinked. Next to her, Justin stiffened in his chair.
“Like a babysitter?” Justin asked, his voice faint with disbelief.