Chapter Eight
Over the next few days, class goes well. It’s just a ballet class, at the end of the day, and I should have trusted my body more to remember what it’s doing. It’s just the same as it was when I was little, only now I’ve done it a million times. It’s the same basic routine, the same foundation. When I was seven and began dancing, we started ballet class beginning at the barre, then center, then jumps. And it’s the same today. I’ve just gotten better at it.
It’s been interesting staying with Arabella, who’s been letting me borrow all her clothes and ballet stuff. I went to Boots and got all my own basics and some makeup. A toothbrush, some floss, boring CeraVe face wash and lotion, which is what I use anyway. I know I need to go by Jordan’s and get my things, but I am dreading it.
So I’ve just thrown myself into ballet. It’s been easy, as Arabella is like a completely different person during the workweek. It’s all Epsom salt baths and yin yoga before bed, soothing piano music playing from the speakers, cups of tea and green juices in the morning delivered fresh from a place down the road.
It’s kind of a nice change.
By Thursday, though, the director still hasn’t come by to see me dance, and I’m starting to freak out a little. Arabella tells me not to worry, that there’s no way Sarika isn’t telling him how great I am. On Friday, just as the barres are taken away and we begin to work in the center, Charlie Haydn-Cole appears.
He’s a tall, thin man with a dark complexion and a shock of bleached natural hair. He’s in a turquoise suit I recognize as one of Virgil Abloh’s designs for Off-White from a few years ago. Not what I had expected, since ballet—especially in England—is famed for being a bit on the traditional side. Which usually calls to mind boring white men with too much power and money.
After class, I’m discouraged again when Charlie disappears quickly. But Sarika tells me to meet him in his office.
Arabella and I head to her dressing room to change.
“This is it!” she says, grabbing me by the arms as the elevator doors close. “I know he’s going to hire you. I just know it.”
“I hope so.” I look upward at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling.
The elevator dings as we arrive on floor two. We hurry to the dressing room, and I put on my street clothes.
“Wait, wait, let me check you,” she says, holding my arms and standing back to take me in. “You look fucking perfect.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
She leans in and kisses me on the lips before saying, “Go get ’em, tiger!”
I giggle from her silly American phrase and I feel dazed from the kiss—clearly that’s just how she is with her friends—and then start to head out.
“I’ll wait outside for you!” she calls down the hall.
“Okay!” I wave. I feel like I’m being dropped off on my first day of school.
I get into the elevator and take it one more flight up.
It takes only a few seconds, and I’m out on another hallway upstairs, so similar to the one downstairs that it’s spooky.
I look for his office, find it, and his assistant points me through, and then I rap gently on the door.
There’s no answer, and I hesitate another moment before knocking again, more loudly this time.
Still nothing, then the door swings open.
Charlie takes expensive-looking headphones off and says, “I thought I heard something. Come in, come in.”
I do, and sit in the chair he offers. He moves to his side of the desk and sits in his own.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say. “Sarika said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, yes, I apologize, I had a quick casting emergency to sort. Water?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sparkling or still?” He stands and crosses to a small black refrigerator hidden behind a wooden cabinet door.
“Uh, sparkling,” I say.
He pulls out two San Pellegrinos and hands me one.
“I was just listening to the new orchestra’s most recent recording. We’re doing a new Swan Lake soon. I think it’s going to be exceptional. I really do. Okay, where were we?”
He claps his hands together.
He’s got such a strong, present energy. His scattered nature makes him seem less like he can’t stay focused and more like he thinks in a million directions at once. He’s like jazz, as a man.
“Jocelyn,” he says, centering on me. “It is so lovely to meet you. I’ve heard phenomenal things about you in the last few days. Forgive me for only getting a chance to sit in for a bit today, but I’ve seen you dance quite a few times in New York.”
“Oh, thank you so much. I’m honored. It’s wonderful to meet you as well.”
The fact that he’s seen me dance in New York gives me a huge surge of relief. I was afraid that the classes wouldn’t show my talent enough.
“I have good news and bad news,” he says.
My brief moment of relief is squashed by plummeting fear. Already, my mind is whirring with questions. Where to go from here, what connections do I have? Do I call my old director? If I leave London, am I going to lose Jordan for good? Have I already?
“Okay,” I say, calmly, as if my mind isn’t on its own miserable roller coaster.
“I know you’re coming from a principal position at the NAB, but I don’t have that position available. Also, it’s clear you’ve had a bit of a time-off, and you’ll need to work to get back into performance shape.”
His face is just as pleasant as ever, as he is seemingly unaware that he’s delivering news that is making me queasy.
“However, that being said,” he goes on, “I would like to offer you a soloist position, starting immediately.”
My insides run cool as the roller coaster comes to a screeching halt. Is this really happening?
“Really?” I ask, breathless.
“Absolutely. We’re down quite a few dancers and we start Swan Lake in two weeks, so you’ll jump right in. At the same time, we’ll begin rehearsals for the run of Manon in the spring. And hopefully we’ll have a donor arranged for you by then. Will that work for you?”
“Yes!” I burst out. “Thank you so much!”
The mention of a donor rings a small alarm bell in the back of my mind. I resist asking more about it and think of Mimi. I need a donor. I need to get back on my feet. I need to get more than on my feet. I need a good donor.
“Great, well, welcome to the team,” he says, standing. It’s the international in-office gesture of We’re done here .
He sends me to meet with the company manager and sign a contract. I get the usual rundown of company life. Then I’m free to go—leaving today as a soloist with the Royal National Ballet.
I can hardly contain my excitement. I can hardly breathe. Talk about being in the right place at the right time! I decide to skip the elevator, too excited to meet up with Arabella, and head for the stairwell.
Rushing down the stairs two at a time, I run smack into Luca. Like a hero in a Marvel movie, he grabs me as I fall backward, nearly hitting my head.
“Careful, bella ,” he says, in a gorgeous Italian accent.
“Thanks.” I smile, blushing at him and righting myself.
He winks, I die a little at how incredibly fucking hot he is, and then I resume existing on planet Earth.
I burst outside and see Arabella across the narrow street having an Aperol Spritz and reading Feel Free by Zadie Smith. Girl has untold depths.
“Let me guess—soloist?” she asks, as soon as I sit down.
“Yes! God, you’re good.”
“I make it my business to have an understanding of what’s going on at all times. It makes the most sense. Charlie’s brilliant. He couldn’t possibly turn you away. You’re Jocelyn Fucking Banks.”
A server comes over with a spritz for me. “Thank you,” I say to him. Then to her, I point at the drink. “How?”
“I told him to bring one over as soon as you joined me. Come on, darling, child’s play. Cheers!”
I clink glasses with her and take a deep sip of the bright, icy cold drink. It tastes better than anything I can remember.
“I have him make it with Dom Pérignon and Campari,” she says.
“God, really? No wonder it’s so good.”
“Just a taste of the good life, love,” she says, leaning forward. “Now get ready, because tomorrow we are getting your things out of that flat of Jordan’s, and you’re starting your new life.”