CHAPTER 11
“We will of course require unfettered access to your daily life,” The woman smiled at Dante.
“And those of the other dancers.”
I fidgeted in the comfy chair and daintily sipped my coffee.
This would be a big problem.
“By unfettered, you mean,” Dante smiled back at her.
“ Complete access.” she reiterated, this time she flashed me her smile.
I swallowed the lukewarm coffee.
Definitely a big problem and filling me with an uneasiness that was blossoming into dread.
“You do understand what we’re trying to do, yes?” She glanced at her tablet then flicked her hair over one shoulder.
“This series will show the public the ins and out of being a dancer, not only that, it will show the stark differences between what a small dance company has to contend with in comparison to the big boys, and what it takes to get on their radar.”
I sipped my coffee again.
“This is the BBC we’re talking about here,” she stated for the tenth time since sitting across my table in my surprisingly neat office.
Gloria had gone all out when she found out someone from the BBC was coming.
“But weren’t you originally doing a piece on The Royal Ballet?” I finally spoke.
“I don’t understand why-”
“The program is still based on The Royal Ballet,” she confirmed, again looking at her tablet.
“We’re not part of The Royal Ballet.” I stated the obvious.
Dante gave me a hard look, a ‘what the hell are you doing’ look.
She chuckled, sarcastically I thought.
“Well, of course not, but your dance company will be performing at The Royal Opera House in a few months and it’s the perfect opportunity for us to see first-hand the necessary work behind an unrecognized company putting on a production there. BBC Arts is not a one-dimensional organism. We aim to delve into the nuts and bolts of every program we air. What’s the problem here? When I spoke to their artistic director he assured me you would be on board with this.”
“There’s no problem,” Dante hastily guaranteed.
I gulped my coffee.
It was a problem for me.
My husband would not allow cameras into our lives.
No matter how much it would raise the profile of my dance company.
Plus I couldn’t shake the feeling that the BBC Arts would turn out to be just the plain old BBC trying to sneakily get an exposé on Matt and his family’s companies.
Not that Matt did anything underhand in his business dealings…
at least I didn’t believe he did.
Shit.
Tax evasion perhaps?
Didn’t mega-rich people flout the laws all the time?
What if – I shook my head quickly, best to stay on point.
“Look,” I addressed the woman coolly.
“I’m not certain my dancers will be comfortable with a camera crew following them.”
Dante gave me another look, this one a ‘shut the hell up’ look.
His white teeth were on show again as he rifled through the waivers brought in by the network representative.
“I’m sure we won’t encounter any problems with our dancers,” Dante reassured her.
I covered my derisive scoff with a light cough.
The gang mightn’t have an issue with it, but I did.
The clock on the wall above my office door showed 11:30.
I had a lunch date with Matt, scheduled by the lovely Rachel.
It was strange, having a simple lunch date with my husband needed to be organized via his secretary.
The two weeks since we’d returned from the States had been non-stop for us both.
At least we woke up in bed together, never mind Matt was usually out the door before me.
And unfortunately, he would be flying out on business the day after tomorrow.
The life of a business tycoon was go-go-go.
“Ms Noolan,” I started.
“Mrs.” she corrected.
Excuse me then.
I put the coffee down and straightened up in my chair.
“ Mrs Noolan, the prospect of having a camera crew following my every move is not an appealing one.” I said firmly.
Dante cleared his throat loudly.
I ignored him.
“My interaction with the press, as I’m sure you’re well aware, hasn’t been pleasant.”
She waved a dismissive hand through the air.
“We’re the BBC not some tabloid, Ms DuMont.”
“Bradley.” I pointed out, as if she didn’t already know.
“Mrs DuMont-Bradley, and it doesn’t matter which network you work for,”
Dante cleared his throat again.
Obviously he had a dry throat, so I slid my half-drunk mug of coffee across the table to him, accompanied with a scowl.
“My private life is just that, private; and I want it to remain so.” I finished, pleased with myself at maintaining a professional demeanour.
“I fail to see why you’re so reticent to agree to our terms. This is the standard process when we film documentaries,” she explained.
Her manicured nails rapped out an impatient rhythm across the screen of her tablet.
“Yes, the main focus is on The Royal Ballet and their corp, but filming your company adds another dimension to the overall documentary. You started this dance troupe from the ground up, that is inspiring and will touch a chord with the viewing public.” She was going down the flattery angle it seemed.
“You do understand what it will mean for your company, your dancers? This will propel you into the limelight. How many small companies have the chance at that?”
“We understand,” Dante said while squeezing my knee under the desk.
“We just need to iron out a few things.”
“We need to start filming as soon as possible.” Mrs Noolan advised.
“We are already gathering footage from The Royal Ballet corp and I would love to collate an actual comparison between their training and that of your dancers.”
Great.
They wanted to compare us against them.
Was she shitting me?
I knew my dancers were talented, very talented actually, but come on.
This was The Royal Ballet we were talking about.
The best of the best, in my opinion.
I didn’t want my people being portrayed as inferior.
“Can we get back to you tomorrow?” Dante fingered the waivers again.
I didn’t want to touch them, was certain they’d worked a voodoo hoodoo spell into the paper and once I touched it, they would have my unwilling authority to film everything I did.
Mrs Noolan stood.
Dante and I followed suit.
We all shook hands.
“Contact my office at any time and we can get the ball rolling.” She gathered her stuff up and I watched Dante walk her out my office.
From the moment the door shut behind them I began the countdown.
“Are you out of your damned mind?” Ten minutes, twenty-seven seconds.
He must have walked her to her car.
“Umm, no,” I replied as he slammed the door shut.
Dante was his usual fine self.
T-shirt moulding the lines of his upper body while his slacks showed off his strong legs as he stalked up and down the office.
“Do you understand the kind of exposure this will bring us?” he literally snarled at me.
“D,”
“No. No! I don’t want to hear whatever chicken shit reason you’ve thought up. This is what we’ve been working towards, Madi. Dreaming about since we were kids. I will not let you run from this. We are doing it .”
I walked around my desk, gearing up for the upcoming fight.
Yeah, I knew when a showdown was brewing.
“Dante, I’m not letting the media into my private life. Are you crazy? Matt will flip!”
Dante opened his mouth, then closed it.
Incredulity shone from his handsome dark face.
He shook his head slowly at me.
“I left everything for you,” Dante said.
“And you’re worried about how Matt will react? This has nothing to do with him. This is about us. This is our chance, Madi. I won’t let you fuck it up.”
I stumbled back until my legs hit the desk.
The way Dante looked at me…
as if he didn’t know me-
“I never asked you to leave your career back home.” My voice was small, thick with shame.
He had given up what could’ve been a brilliant career.
If he hadn’t left with me I had no doubt he would have been headlining years ago.
“You didn’t need to, sweet cheeks.” Dante ran a hand over his braided hair.
“I’m a better dancer with you anyway. Look, I know what you’re doing. This isn’t about Matt and the media. It’s you being afraid of failing. You still believe all that bullshit you were fed at our old company back home, don’t you? You still think there’s no way you, a black ballerina, can really shine. But you can, others have done it. Don’t run from your chance to prove them wrong. Don’t run, Madi. We ran once, and I don’t want to again.”
I turned away from him.
Turned away from the harsh truth of his words.
What did I expect?
Dante knew me in a way no one else did.
We’d been together almost from the jump, and he was right.
I was scared.
What if I wasn’t good enough?
Dante came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder as the chill from his clothing seeped through my back.
It was early days in April and there was still a bite in the British weather.
“Remember that night we jumped off the pier at Brighton Beach? You were sixteen. Bret and Sol said we were-”
“Crazy,” I finished with a sigh.
“Before they jumped in too. It was my birthday and we were high as fuck. That Russian dude was pissed I had spray-painted his car and wouldn’t stop chasing us. God. The water was cold that night.”
“Jump with me now, sweet cheeks. Let’s jump.” He tightened the hug and I leaned against him.
That night I had felt fearless.
Searching an escape from the pain of my parents’ death.
Back then I would do just about anything to feel alive.
I chuckled under my breath at the memories of my yearly innocent charade as Sol and I would convince Aunt Cleo we were having a sleep over at her house.
I think my aunt knew deep down I wasn’t being the good girl she expected me to be.
But she saw the pain in my eyes and would nod before reminding us the devil found work for idle hands.
Sol would roll her eyes at me then smile at Aunt Cleo, agreeing with her and reciting what she’d learnt at Sunday Mass.
I broke out of the trip down memory lane and nodded.
“Ok, Dante, but there will have to be some rules. I know Matt is not going to be happy about this.” I bit my lower lip.
“They can’t film my private life. Matt won’t allow that.”
“We’ll work something out.” Dante said eagerly.
“And all our dancers have to be on board with it.”
He squeezed me tighter.
“They will be. Trust me, they will be.”
I sighed and gently patted his hands, indicating my desire to be released from his hug.
“Alright then. I’m meeting Matt for lunch, I’ll break the news to him then.” Another heavy sigh left my lips before I turned my thoughts to work.
“Have you sent off the forms to the Arts Council?”
Dante pulled away and I spun around to face him.
He nodded.
“Yes. I’ve also arranged some visits with three primary schools in your absence. Gerrard, Lisa and Liam will be going to speak to the classes. Umm, you have done your DBS check, haven’t you?”
“My what?” I asked, eyebrows pulling together in a frown.
Dante grimaced at me then tapped me across the head.
Douche.
“Disclosure and Barring Service check,” he drawled out sarcastically.
“The old CRB checks. Damn, sweet cheeks, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck.”
I smacked the side of his head back.
Newton’s third law was so true.
“Of course I have, everyone got it done last year.” I scoffed.
“Go get me a fresh cup of coffee. We have to go through our accounts before classes start for the day. This year I want everything sorted well in advance before we have to file with HMRC.”
Dante burst out into raucous laughter.
“Yeah right, what was the fine last year?”
“Shut up.” I mumbled.
“We were two months late.” he reminded me.
“Shut up.” Harder this time.
“I told you to forward the information to our accountants-”
“ Shut up. ” I groused, embarrassed over that incident.
“And it was only ￡375. We’re not going to be late this year. I think they double the fine if you’re late two years in a row.”
“And the rest.” Dante warned.
“You’re forgetting a ￡5000 fine and being struck off the register.”
I growled loudly.
“Then get my coffee so we can start. I swear you enjoy pressing my last nerve. Go.”
Dante sauntered out our office, humming under his breath.
He was happy and I didn’t blame him.
The possibility of what the future held for us and our dance company would be limitless if we went ahead with the filming.
All I had to do was notify my extremely private husband about my decision.
I mean, he dealt with the media all the time…
but that was on the business front, not the personal one.
I worried my bottom lip again between my teeth.
Matt would understand.
This was the right business decision to make, I’d be stupid not to grab the chance that could potentially propel my small dance company onto another level of success.
Matt was always going on about the bottom line, always chastising me for not looking at every financial avenue to ensure my company made a profit.
In a way he was all about the money, and I couldn’t blame him for it.
Running a multi-billion corporation demanded that sort of thinking.
He would support my decision.
Yes, of course he would.
I had to do what was best for my company.
Matt would understand.
“Madi, can I-”
“Late, Liam. I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now.” I gushed, pulling my fur-lined leather coat on and grabbing my bag up.
Liam hovered by the office door as I hurried over.
“Can it wait until I get back?” I muscled him back before closing the office door.
“Yeah, sure.” He grinned and tugged on my haphazard pony-tail, thus loosening it even further.
“Liam! You-”
“Lanky streak of piss?” he suggested.
I stopped, then laughed out loud.
“That’s a new one.”
“I’ve never used that one before?” He quirked his mouth in disbelief.
My gaze wandered over his tall slender frame.
Yep.
Perfect description.
Another laugh escaped from me.
Then I glanced at my new watch, a gift from Matt.
Argh!
I was going to be late.
“Get out of my way,” I bustled past him.
“And put my phone back where it belongs. Bye.”
I rushed out the building and waved at Gloria on my way.
My Cayenne glistened, beckoning me over, but parking was a bitch in Central London and I hated paying the Congestion charge.
I quickened my steps heading towards the main gates.
If I walked fast it would only take twenty minutes to get to the station.
The Cutty Sark DLR was closer, I could change at Canary Wharf, hop on the Jubilee line and arrive at London Bridge without breaking a sweat.
Why Matt wanted me to meet him there I had no idea.
I couldn’t think of any upscale restaurant he’d frequent, unless he was planning on taking me somewhere else.
But then why have Rachel tell me to meet him there?
Or I could head to Greenwich station and get the Jubilee line right there.
It would only take about 15 minutes, providing there were no issues on the line.
I could park up at the station-
“Fuck.” I spun back around, quickly retracing my steps.
It would take half an hour to get to London Bridge if I left from Cutty Sark.
“Stupid woman.” I muttered to myself as I broke into a run.
Heels and pencil skirts weren’t the best running gear, but hey.
Another quick peek at my watch as I jumped into the Cayenne caused the sweat to bead across my forehead.
Matt was so anal when it came to being on time.
By the time it took for me to pull into the car park at Greenwich station and lock up I was already formulating my excuses.
It didn’t help knowing he would have to be told about the filming.
“Oh Jesus, help me.” I was walking and rifling through my bag at the same time.
My freaking Oyster card.
Where was it?
A vision of it lying unused on the small but ornate table in the foyer at home flashed before my eyes.
This was exactly why I didn’t like being chauffeured around.
I’d gotten so used to either driving or being driven that I’d committed a grave error.
Which bloody Londoner left the house without their Oyster card?
Picturing the scowl on Matt’s face, I bought a Travel card and finally got on the tube.
There were no seats and a greasy looking man was standing next to me, bumping into my side when we lurched into motion.
Great.
I edged away and caught a glimpse of him .
He stood down the carriage next to the other door.
I sent him a tiny smile.
He didn’t acknowledge it.
We had never spoken and most times I forgot he was even around.
My shadow, courtesy of my over-protective husband.
He must’ve been close on my trail to get on the tube with me.
I hadn’t even noticed his car following me to the station.
I sighed, staring at my reflection in the glass windows.
How weird was my life?
Greasy dude bumped into me again and I gritted my teeth, holding my bag tighter.
There were quite a few people in the carriage blatantly flouting some of the unspoken rules of the Underground.
Everyone knew there was a certain etiquette to follow.
The guy pole-hogging, fail.
That young lad man-spreading, fail.
The woman staring me right in the eye at this moment, oh crap, double fail.
What the hell?
Who gives eye contact on the tube?
Crazies, that’s who.
Oh no, I was unconsciously returning the eye contact, quickly my gaze skittered away.
Next stop Canary Wharf.
The lady’s distorted voice came through the audio system.
Another bump from Mr Greasy and I grunted out my displeasure.
Public transport, I used to enjoy the hustle bustle but not anymore.
I urged the tube on, mentally speeding it along.
Canada Water, then Bermondsey.
The next stop was mine.
When I got off, my shadow got off too.
I wondered if it was allowed to actually talk to him.
Matt had never explained what was expected.
Sneaking a look over my shoulder confirmed he was on the escalator, seven bodies down.
I tugged my hair loose and re-did the pony-tail.
Would he run after me if I broke out into a run the moment I got to the top?
What if I ducked into the WHSmith shop and hid behind an aisle?
Was he packing heat?
Ridiculous.
Only the Armed response and criminals carried heat in the UK.
I giggled to myself…
seriously, this giggling shit had to stop.
The woman behind me shook her head and eyed me suspiciously.
The vibration of my jacket pocket was not welcomed.
I pulled it out as I stepped off the escalator.
“I’ll be right there, hon,” I said immediately.
“I’m literally walking out the station.” I wasn’t, but Matt wouldn’t know that.
My feet clicked faster.
“Why didn’t you drive into Central London? You know I don’t like you taking the tube, poppet.”
“Because parking’s a bitch and you know this. Where do you want to meet?”
“At Tower Bridge.” he said matter-of-factly.
“What?” I bumped into someone and distractedly mumbled sorry.
“I just got off the tube at London Bridge. I could’ve gone to Tower Hill-”
“It’s a ten minute walk and I left instructions for you with Rachel.”
“Well, super secretary told me London Bridge,” I bumped into someone else and got a ‘bloody twat’ in response.
Charming.
I needed to pay attention to bobbing through the masses in the station.
“And it’s a fifteen minute walk, not ten. My legs aren’t as long as yours. I’m in heels, Matt. Heels.”
“You always wear heels, sweetheart,” he cajoled.
“Walk faster.”
The call ended.
I slowed to a stop, glaring at my cell.
He called me sweetheart then hung up?
Hubby was asking for some schooling.
“Arrogant.” I resumed walking.
“Bossy. Infuriating.” Mumbling to oneself in public was a quick-fire way to gain a wider circle of space.
I glanced behind me but my shadow was no longer visible.
Had I lost him in the crush of people?
What kind of bodyguard was he?
I hoped Matt wasn’t paying through the roof for his services.
Thirteen minutes later I groaned out loud at the crowds of people milling about.
Tourists.
Always bloody tourists.
I called Matt.
“Hon, it’s manic. Where are you?” Forget hello.
Even in heels I felt swamped.
“Right behind you.” he replied evenly down the line.
I spun around, phone to my ear and got a face-full of chest.
Ah. His scent wafted around me and I tilted my head up slightly to grin at him.