27. Sinclair
Sinclair
Before our weekend at Fairwater, I thought I faced an impossible choice regarding Elyse: keep this a secret until it’s run its course, or move forward.
Now, there is no choice.
Moving forward with her is the only conceivable option. What’s inconceivable is ever, ever letting her go; I know that much.
And the more distance I put between me and that day at the solène pitch, the more I realize that I may have overreacted.
Not in the room—though I wasn’t exactly a picture of restraint—but afterward, in my spiraling, in my desperate need to keep my relationship on the down-low.
There were three other people in that room that day.
My brother’s not an issue, Audra will be fine, and Vanessa I can deal with if necessary.
Which is why, in a total one-eighty, I find myself begging my beautiful girlfriend to accompany me to the Met—even if I’m keen for us to keep as low a profile as possible. You never want to upset the wasp’s nest if you can help it.
The last time I was at the ballet was a few weeks back, for that fucking Fall Fashion Gala.
I had no Elyse on my arm, and I was miserable, driven to gazing wistfully at dark-haired ballerinas on stage to conjure her up.
This time, she gazes up at me with a dazzling smile as I help her from the car.
When she dropped by my apartment earlier, I had a rack of dresses from Bergdorf’s waiting in one of the spare rooms. After a brief and, in my view, avoidable, verbal scuffle about the necessity of my gifting her a new dress for the occasion, she succumbed.
And here she is, all in black, the low neck of her chosen Givenchy number making her look as though she’s straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Her excitement is tangible as we walk, her arm tucked against my chest, to the main entrance.
We are five minutes away from curtain up, and that’s on purpose.
The audience should be seated by now. No grand entrance for us; Elyse knows the score.
We’ll start discreet and we’ll build up.
An usher shows us to our box on the Parterre level.
I’ve bought out all the seats in the box and have arranged for a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice.
It fits the French theme for tonight. French champagne, French designer—Givenchy—and French production—none other than Giselle, performed by the visiting Paris Opera Ballet.
“Oh my God!” she squeals, turning to me in abject delight as we take our seats. “This is unreal!”
The position of our box is decent but not great, over to the left-hand side of the stage. Again, the decision was intentional. I absolutely do not want to court the exposure that comes from sitting in a center box at the Met tonight.
Her excitement is so infectious that I can’t help but grin.
I feel oddly stressed about being out in public with her—as if it’s reckless to be out in the big, bad world with something so precious.
And by something, I mean our fledgling relationship as much as I mean Elyse.
But tonight is for her. Like I said, I’m intent on moving forward with her.
And I’m hoping that this evening’s date will give her something beyond the obvious—fancy seats at a world-class performance—and that is the gift of feeling more connected to her late mom.
“Have you ever seen Giselle?” I ask her, leaning back in my seat as the usher reaches across me to hand her a flute of DP.
“No, never. But I know some of the music—the main pieces, anyway. Mom had the album when we were little,” she says. “I love it so much.”
I take my flute and nod at the steward to let him know he can leave us. “Hopefully, you’ll enjoy this, then.”
We clink our glasses and take a sip. The champagne is excellent.
She picks up her program. “Doesn’t she fall for a deceitful nobleman?” she asks with a mischievous grin, and I shake my head at her.
“She does. Foolish, foolish girl.”
Watching Elyse watch Giselle is the best thing I’ve ever seen.
For the first time, I understand what it is for someone’s face to be truly alight.
Thanks to our Fairwater weekend, I now have a small but precious collection of photos of her, but if I could spend the performance snapping pictures of her reactions to it, then I would.
I’m an appreciator of the ballet rather than a lover.
Mostly, I enjoy the reprieve it affords me.
I tend to let it wash over me rather than consume me.
But this evening, I’m in raptures. I see it through her eyes.
And as I watch her profile in the shadowy darkness, tears running down her cheeks during the “mad” scene, I marvel at the chain of events that brought us here, at the hope and courage and heartbreak that drove a young ballerina to leave her native France and settle in New York, finding not the fame she hoped for but lasting love.
Love that created Elyse.
Love that has made me feel things I didn’t know it was possible to feel.