Chapter 27
Catherine Lancaster’s office was on the sixteenth floor of the building that housed the NYB school and the company’s administrative staff, and as Carly rode the elevator from the lobby, which was around the corner from Lincoln Center, she felt the same roiling nerves she’d always felt when she’d been called to an appointment with the artistic director. Perched on the firm leather couch in the waiting room, she remembered the last time she’d been called to this office, when Mr. K had informed her that he was firing her effective immediately, because Jack Andersen had asked him to choose between his golden boy and some random, replaceable woman in the corps.
Despite her nerves, she smiled grimly to herself. So few people got to say they’d been hired by NYB. Even fewer got to say they’d been fired by NYB twice. She’d woken up this morning in her own bed downtown and had spent a few minutes staring at the ceiling thinking about the coming season, which would be her last with the company. What would it be like to wake up and not go to company class? Or to wake up and not feel the previous night’s performance in her calves and ankles and hips? She’d find out soon enough.
A phone rang on Catherine’s assistant’s desk.
“Carly,” Barbara said a moment later, “she’s ready for you.”
Carly gave her a mute, nervous nod and stood. Here we go, she thought. Time to get fired.
Catherine stood as she entered, revealing the usual chic all-black outfit she wore on days when she wasn’t teaching company class. She gestured Carly toward one of several seats on the other side of the desk, then sat down. In Mr. K’s day, the desk had faced away from the floor-to-ceiling windows, which looked out over Lincoln Center Plaza and the grand white theater where the company performed, so that you couldn’t look at the man without remembering that he was in charge of everything that happened in that huge, impressive building. Catherine had turned the desk ninety degrees, so that you still got the view, but only if you looked for it. Carly didn’t want to look at it. She didn’t want to think about the fact that her time on that stage was now so limited.
“Thanks for coming to see me,” Catherine smiled, once Carly had sat down.
Carly tried to match her smile but couldn’t quite manage it. Catherine had been a principal dancer at NYB until a few years ago, so Carly had known her for years, but it was still something of a surprise to see her in a sweater, slacks, and heels instead of a leotard, tights, and pointe shoes. She’d cut her hair to shoulder length since retiring, and she wore a little more makeup than she had when she’d been sweating at work all day long.
“Thanks for … asking me,” Carly returned weakly. Had she just thanked Catherine for firing her in person?
“How was the wedding?”
“Oh, it was fine,” Carly said, caught off guard. Were they going to engage in social small talk before Catherine lowered the ax? “Lovely, really. Heather is really happy down there, and it was a beautiful trip.” Except for the bit where the best man betrayed me and I found out I’m out of a job.
“Looks like a beautiful city,” Catherine nodded, “and you certainly made it look its best. The photos were fantastic, truly. A nice bit of positive press attention for NYB.”
“Uh, thanks?” Carly said. If the photos were so great and press attention was so positive, why wasn’t she getting promoted? Why was she getting fired?
“Like I said in my email, I want to talk to you about your future at the company,” Catherine started, and Carly steeled herself. It would be fine. She would be fine. She would make a new plan. One that didn’t involve Nick Jacobs’s “help.” And she’d be fine.
“As I’m sure you know, I didn’t have any experience running a ballet company before they gave me this job. I didn’t have any experience running any kind of company. I virtually went straight from being a principal dancer to being artistic director, in charge of this entire operation, with very little preparation and certainly no training beforehand.”
Carly nodded. What did this have to do with Carly’s contract?
“Obviously, I know the dancer’s experience inside and out, but there are so many other people who make the company run: ballet mistresses, choreographers, costume designers, doctors, lighting designers, sales, marketing, philanthropists, the board.” Her eyes widened, and she gave her head a little shake. “And that doesn’t include everything on the school side: dealing with teachers, and parents, and funders, and the list goes on. It’s so many things I had no idea how to do, and the learning curve has been extremely steep. I’m more than a year in and I still don’t truly feel I know how to do it all well.”
Carly nodded again, understanding even less why Catherine was telling her this. But she had no doubt it was all true: most companies picked their next artistic director out of the ranks of retiring principal dancers, and plenty of former NYB dancers were running companies around the country. If the board hadn’t picked Catherine for this role, Mr. K probably would have tapped some other dancer—like Jack, God forbid—who would have transitioned straight from dancing into directing with basically no way of knowing if he’d be any good at a completely different kind of job. Carly suppressed a shudder at the idea of Heather’s abusive, drunken ex being put in charge of her career and everyone else’s.
“All of this is to say, I’m very grateful to have this job, but I think the model is broken,” Catherine said. “Just because someone is a good dancer doesn’t mean they know how to run a company.”
“Okay …” Carly said, cautiously. She agreed, but she still didn’t understand what this had to do with her own job.
“As I’ve told you, I’ve decided not to promote you this season,” Catherine said gently. Ah, here it comes. “Instead, I’d like you to start shadowing me in this role. I’d like you to get a sense of what it requires and if it’s something you’d like to start work toward. When you’re ready to stop dancing, that is.”
Carly stared at her.
“So I’m not getting fired?” she blurted out.
Catherine frowned. “No, you’re not getting fired. But none of us can dance forever, and I think you have a future at this company. There’s no way to know that until you’ve had some exposure to the job, of course. As I’ve said, it’s very different from being a dancer, and not the kind of thing anyone should do without preparation and some kind of training. So I’d like you to spend some of your time this season here with me. You’ll be paid for that time, of course. And if you enjoy the administrative and leadership side of the company, and think you’d like to do more of it, that’s a conversation we’ll have when you decide to stop performing.”
Relief knocked all the air out of Carly’s lungs. She still had a job. She was being offered the chance to explore another one. It was a future, a plan. A way to fend for herself after ballet.
“Is that something that interests you?” Catherine asked, after a moment.
“Yes,” Carly said quickly, giving her a shaky smile. “Yes, absolutely. But I have to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“I hope you understand that if I were to take this opportunity, or any role that came of it, it would be just me. Not my parents and their checkbook. I know that fundraising is a large part of running a company, but they haven’t given to NYB or the school in years, and I wouldn’t ask them to start giving again. Does that change things?”
Catherine shook her head slowly. “No, that’s not a problem.”
“You’re sure?” Carly pressed.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Catherine said, with a small, amused smile. “With all due respect to your parents, there are a lot of checkbooks in this city.”
Carly laughed. “I guess that’s true.” She fell silent for a moment.
“Is something wrong?” Catherine asked. “If you want to take some time to think about this, you should.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just in shock.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Catherine shrugged. “You’re observant and opinionated, and an excellent advocate for other dancers. That photo project makes me think you have a good sense of what modern balletgoers want and what gets them excited about ballet. Which is important, because we can’t rely on, forgive me, rich old New Yorkers forever. The world is changing, and I think you understand that ballet will have to change with it. Assuming you don’t mind the other, less enjoyable parts of the job, I suspect you’ll find this work very gratifying. And you’d be doing me a favor, too,” she added conspiratorially.
“Why?”
“Well, I want to stay in this job for as long as I can, but I’d be silly not to think about my successor. This current model for finding one is clearly broken, but unless I can find some other way of doing things, I won’t be able to get the board to understand that. If we can show that this new way can work, we can set an example for other companies, and they can make sure that they’re picking the best people for the job, not just the people they’ve always picked. It’s not just about NYB, it’s about ballet as a whole.”
Carly gave her another smile, a full one this time. “You want to lead,” she said.
“I do,” Catherine agreed. “I’m sick of the Great Man model of ballet. I want great women, great people, a great collective. I want people who care about the future of ballet more than its past, and I don’t want to figure this all out on my own.”
For the first time in days, Carly’s limbs didn’t feel heavy with dread. She stood and shook Catherine’s hand and walked out of the office, pride and relief warring in her chest. She had a job, and more than that, she had Catherine’s trust and admiration. She’d earned that. All by herself.
Well, not all by herself. Nick had helped. But Nick was gone now, far away in Sydney or Scotland or Chiang Mai or whatever photogenic location he’d chosen for his first Vogue photo shoot. She was on her own now, and she was fine with that. Perfectly fine. As the elevator opened and she slumped against its mirrored walls, she could almost believe it.
Out on the plaza, she zipped her coat up to her throat and flipped up her hood. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, she’d been sweltering in the Sydney sunshine. The trees around Lincoln Center were spindly and bare, and chunks of dirty gray snow were scattered around the stretch of grass next to the opera house. The pond had been drained, and the fountain was still. She dug her hands into her pockets and felt her phone vibrate. For a split second, she hoped it was Nick, but she squashed that hope as quickly as it had flared. She needed to tell Heather what had just happened. Quickly, with fingers numb from shock and cold, she checked the time in Sydney. Too late to call—if Heather was even awake, she was almost certainly busy with honeymoon-type activities.
Carly, 11:37 AM: Not fired! Not only not fired, but Catherine wants me to shadow her to see if I’d be any good at running a company. Call me when you can … I want to make a plan.
She paused, then sent another text.
Carly, 11:38 AM: Don’t call me until AFTER opening night. The plan can wait.
She stared down at her screen, hovering her thumb over Nick’s name. She didn’t know where in the world he was now, and she didn’t want to care. She didn’t want to start every morning remembering how it had felt to wake up next to him, his warm body curled elegantly around hers. She didn’t want to think about his Freshwater-blue eyes every time she made eye contact with another man. She missed him enough to make her ribs ache, and she wanted to tell him that their plan had worked in a roundabout way, and she was furious with him, and she didn’t want to feel any of that.
Forty minutes later, she climbed out of the subway station at Canal Street and dragged her jetlagged limbs up the stairs to her apartment, letting herself in the door with a deep, bone-tired sigh. She’d just flopped down on the couch and let her body sink into the saggy old cushions when there was a sharp knock at her door.
Carly sat up with a start and for a second all she could do was stare, suddenly alert, at the door. When another knock came, she pulled herself off the couch and opened the front door to find a messenger in a bright yellow jacket and matching beanie waiting for her, a package in one hand and a table in the other.
“Carly Montgomery?” he asked.
Carly nodded, and he held out the tablet. “Sign here, please.”
She signed without thinking, and he handed over the package, which was about the size of a book but weighed almost nothing. “Thanks,” she said numbly, and he nodded and hurried toward the stairwell.
Carly closed the door behind her and leaned against it, gazing down at the package in her hands. It was wrapped in thick, dark green paper she thought she recognized. Trying to ignore the way her heart had raced at the knock on the door, then sank when she saw the courier, she slipped a finger under the seam of the paper and prised it open. Of course Nick hadn’t followed her back to New York, she chastised herself. Of course he hadn’t dropped his fancy Vogue contract to beg for her forgiveness—and that was good, because she didn’t want him to. He’d lied to her, over and over again. She didn’t want him, at all. Nodding decisively, and ignoring the lingering ache of disappointment that throbbed in her chest, she lifted the paper away.
And revealed her hideous, Nick-scented T-shirt, ironed and carefully folded into a neat rectangle, with a piece of sturdy, green-trimmed paper pinned to the chest. The initials at the top of the card were MPM. Marlene Parker-Montgomery.
You left this behind, her mother had written in her distinctive, looping hand, and I thought you might want it back.