Chapter 9 #2
“I’m trying to get our audience to click on ballet stories,” Sasha replied, her slightly raised voice bouncing off the empty lobby’s marble floor.
She glanced around, and continued more quietly, but no less insistently.
“I want to write about dance, but if there isn’t sex or violence or drugs, or ideally all three, no one cares.
My editors certainly don’t. You know how this business is: conflict sells.
And this is a ballet story with real conflict.
I don’t want to exploit Mr. Winters or expose him, I just want to know what happened that night.
And if along the way I can get our readers to care a little about ballet while I’m doing it, well, mission accomplished. ”
Ivy let out a heavy sigh of recognition and gave Sasha a smile, a genuinely empathetic one this time.
She remembered that feeling, of trying to convince everyone around her to care just a little about this thing that mattered so much to her.
Like she was trying to feed people Brussels sprouts but had to dress them up as brownies.
“I get it,” she told Sasha. “I really do. I know you want to write a story with teeth. But there aren’t any teeth here.”
“Do you know what happened that night?” Sasha asked.
“Everyone knows what happened,” Ivy said ruefully. “We’ve all seen the video.”
“I mean do you know what really happened?”
“Someone said something that upset him, and he had a momentary lapse in judgment. It wasn’t acceptable, and it will never happen again.” Given how many times she’d rehearsed the line, she was surprised it didn’t sound more rote and soulless. How did PR people do this all day?
“But what did they say?” Sasha pressed.
Ivy frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Sasha said skeptically.
“I don’t,” Ivy insisted. “He hasn’t told me, and I don’t need to know.”
“Why not? You’re out here covering his ass and keeping reporters away from him. Aren’t you curious?”
“I—” Ivy started, but then she realized that she didn’t know what she was going to say next, but knowing it was probably going to sound more protective of Justin than was wise.
She stopped to collect her thoughts before she let something ill-advised and unprofessional slip to an obviously persistent reporter.
“There isn’t another story here, I’m sorry.
Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to rehearsal.
If you’d like to speak with Alice or Katarina later today, just let me know. ”
“Thanks,” Sasha said, clearly not meaning it.
Ivy nodded and watched her walk down the lobby stairs and out of sight, then turned her head up to look at the voluptuous marble woman looming over her, thinking.
Justin hadn’t told her exactly what the man at the Stoned Crow had said to set him off like that.
Given Justin’s allergy to apologizing for what he’d done, it must have been pretty egregious.
She bit her lip. She’d have denied it if Sasha had asked her again, but the truth was, she was curious.
And now, a little uncomfortable. She was here in New York minding Justin, making sure he didn’t have to answer any questions that would get him, or the company, in more trouble.
But Sasha had a point… Why, exactly, was she here?
Ivy was waiting for him at the stage door when rehearsal wrapped up, as they’d agreed. He jogged towards her, sweating slightly under his street clothes, and not only from dancing.
Rehearsal had gone well enough. Peter seemed more anxious than he usually was before opening night, his tone a little more clipped and his smiles somewhat tighter, but that was to be expected.
This was New York City, the center of the ballet universe, and the curtain was going up in just over twenty-four hours.
Thankfully, Peter seemed too distracted by the big night in general to be pissed off at Justin specifically.
The Lincoln Center stage was huge—daunting, even—but dancing with Alice made everything easier.
She was one of his favorite dancers to partner, because she took the dancing seriously, but she was always ready with a joke or a quip to lighten the mood.
Justin wished he had Alice on hand now as he approached the stage door, where Ivy stood, looking distracted. Justin pressed his lips together, disappointed but unsurprised.
He hadn’t meant to overhear her conversation with the reporter, but Peter had released him and Alice early a few minutes after Ivy had disappeared up the center aisle and out of the theater.
He’d gone after her to let her know he’d be ready ahead of schedule and was about to round the corner into the pale, watery sunlight of the lobby to call after her, when he caught a snippet of what she was saying.
“...He’s not available, and even if he were, I don’t see any point dragging an unfortunate incident back into the headlines,” Ivy was saying, her voice warm and professional.
He recognized that tone. It was pleasant and purposeful, but he and anyone else could hear the steel beneath it, the line it drew.
That tone was a promise that warm and professional was temporary and entirely optional.
He’d been on the receiving end of it enough to know that she could make good on that promise.
Especially if her blood sugar happened to dip.
The reporter seemed to understand, at least temporarily.
But then she’d tried another tack. Justin listened from behind the theater door, hovering between lobby and house, as the other woman explained to Ivy how hard it was to get readers to care about ballet stories.
About how she didn’t want to screw him over—pull the other one, lady—she just wanted to get to the truth.
Ivy seemed sympathetic, but she didn’t let her sympathy stop her from holding firm.
No, she’d told the reporter. No, you may not interrogate Justin about his deepest, darkest secrets for the entertainment of your readers.
No, you are not going to sob story your way past me, because I, Ivy Page, warm professional, flew all the way here from Sydney to stop you from doing exactly that.
It was impressive, the way she managed to make it sounded like she cared about the reporter’s problems while steadfastly refusing to do anything to help solve them.
She might have flown here grudgingly, and he might be paying for her protection by sitting through musicals, but he had to admit she was good at this, and he was lucky to have her.
But then, the reporter had pivoted again, and this time, it had worked.
You’re out here covering his ass… Aren’t you curious?
Justin had listened, dread gathering in his gut, as Ivy paused before denying it.
But he could almost imagine the frown creasing her forehead.
The tilt of her head as she thought about it.
The other woman had appealed to what he was coming to realize was one of Ivy’s most tenacious traits: she wanted to know things.
Everything, about everything. About everyone.
Of course she’d been drawn to journalism, where wanting to know everyone’s business wasn’t nosy or rude, it was work.
Where knowledge was currency, power, success.
And of course this reporter’s clever little prod—aren’t you curious? —had hit its target.
He’d slipped back into the theater and made his way to the dressing rooms, knowing that he’d dodged one bullet today, but that he was about to put himself right in the line of fire of another.
The look on Ivy’s face as he met her at the stage door only confirmed that dread.
“How’re you going?” he asked.
“Fine, fine,” she said briskly, and unconvincingly. “How did it feel up there?”
“Fine, fine,” he replied, teasingly. “I think we’re ready for tomorrow night. How did we look?”
“Are you fishing for a compliment?”
“I’m fishing for feedback. How did we look?”
“You looked… good,” Ivy said to the collar of his jacket. “I mean, you looked ready. That last lift especially. Ready to go?”
He nodded and she pushed the stage door open.
Once again, a blast of freezing air greeted them, and Justin tugged his hat down over his ears.
He replayed her answer in his head as they walked across the plaza in silence, heads bowed against the cold.
He looked… good. He didn’t know what he’d expected from her, or why he’d hoped for more.
They made their way back uptown the way they’d come this morning, and Ivy was quiet. He glanced over at her and noted her raised shoulders and creased forehead.
“So where are you dragging me tonight?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation light and away from the inevitable.
“I’m not sure,” she said vaguely.
“Come on, I know you’ve got half a dozen places on that big long list of yours.”
The creases deepened. Ah, shit.
They stopped at another light, and he leaned down so his mouth was a little closer to her ear, and she could hear him over the traffic.
“Kurt,” he said coaxingly, and she jumped a little.
He pulled back slightly but kept his head low so he could see her expression. It was unreadable. “What’s the plan?”
She said nothing for a beat, and he watched as she chewed her lip, clearly thinking hard, and he had an awful feeling he knew exactly what about. Finally, she turned her face up to him, looking apprehensive.
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
Shit, shit, shit. Justin shrugged in response, knowing that if he spoke, all that levity and teasing would have vanished from his voice.
“The night of the fight,” she started, and his stomach tightened.
“Mmhm,” he replied noncommittally. The light changed and they crossed.
“What happened? Before you punched him, I mean. What happened to make you want to punch him?”
Usually when they walked, Justin kept his strides short so she wouldn’t have to scurry to keep up, but right now he felt the urge to increase his pace. He tried to stay calm, but it already felt like a losing battle.
“You know what happened. He was talking shit and I snapped. We’ve been over this.”
“Okay, but what shit specifically? What did he say?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Justin’s heart was racing, and his palms were starting to sweat in his gloves.
“Well, I do. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, but I can’t do my job properly if I don’t know,” Ivy insisted. He must have sped up without meaning to, because she was scuttling along beside him in her shiny black boots. She dodged around an oncoming pedestrian but didn’t break her stride.
“I don’t see why not,” he shrugged, slowing, and trying to sound nonchalant when he felt anything but.
“Justin, please. I’m trying to understand what happened that got you so upset that you’d do that. I’m trying to help you.”
“And I’m trying to tell you that it’s none of your business, okay?” he cut in angrily. “You don’t need to know everything in order to help me. You don’t get to know everything. Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
He’d walked a few more paces when he realized that she was no longer beside him, and he stopped and turned around.
She was standing five meters behind him in the middle of the footpath, looking stung.
Her cheeks were pink from the chill, and he hoped the glassiness in her eyes was from the cold, too.
He started to walk back to her, already regretting how he’d handled this. “Kurt,” he said, but she gave her head a tight little shake. “Ivy,” he tried again.
“Forget it,” she said, her voice thin and wobbly, and he wanted to kick himself. “I’m going to walk around a bit on my own. I’m sure you can make it back to the hotel without my supervision.”