Chapter 19 #2
To my surprise, after my first term I realised – and more importantly Mrs Willoughby, who we all had to call Madame Willoughby, realised – that I not only enjoyed ballet but was actually good at it.
Since up to that point I’d been a child with two left feet and as much natural grace as a baby elephant, this was quite the turnaround.
For once, my mother and I were in alignment about something. My memories of before that time were of being in trouble or being in tears, or quite often one as the consequence of the other. I always seemed to be making a mess, causing delays, not going to sleep or not waking up on time.
Now, finally, it seemed I could do something that made Mum proud.
After a year or so, she removed me from Mme Willoughby’s classes and enrolled me in a more exclusive ballet school that ran classes for six-year-olds not once but three times a week.
She bought me more expensive leotards to wear and had my feet measured at a proper ballet-shoes shop, where I gazed longingly at the rows of pointe shoes I’d wear one day.
She even managed to have conversations with Dad that didn’t degenerate into rows when she told him how proud she was of me.
In hindsight, I wondered why her obsessive interest didn’t put me off.
But it didn’t. I carried on getting better and carried on loving ballet.
I had posters of Darcey Bussell and Lauren Cuthbertson on my bedroom wall.
I worked towards my ballet school’s end-of-year concert like it was the most important thing in the world.
To me, it was – and I believed it was to Mum too.
I found out the hard way that it wasn’t.
It was the Christmas before I turned twelve, and my ballet school was performing The Nutcracker.
I wasn’t a soloist or anything, but I was right at the front in the chorus.
The following year I’d be allowed to dance en pointe at last, and after that – who knew?
Clara and the Sugarplum Fairy lay in my future, I was sure.
I was in my bedroom getting ready. I’d learned years ago how to do my hair in a perfect bun and put on foundation for my stage make-up, but still needed Mum to help me do my eyes.
I’d laced my trainers and checked that my ballet shoes, warm-up top, sweat towel and water bottle were in my bag.
Now all I had to do was wait for Dad to get home so we could all go to the concert venue together.
Except Dad was late. He’d been late more and more often recently, and when he did get home, there were often horrible rows between him and Mum.
You’ve been seeing her again, haven’t you?
I’d heard her scream at him, more than once.
And I’d heard his reply: Shut the fuck up, Marina – Georgia can hear you.
Reluctantly, not wanting to be there when Dad opened the door, I crept downstairs. Mum was sitting in the living room, staring at nothing, one foot twitching with impatience.
‘Mum? We should leave soon or I’ll be late.’
‘We’re not leaving without your father.’ She looked at me with a tight, determined smile, and it was then that I realised. She cared about my dancing, of course. But she didn’t care about it as much as she cared about being able to use me to punish my father.
He got home about half an hour later, and the row that followed was the worst I’d ever heard. It was his fault I’d missed my concert – his and that other bitch’s. No, it wasn’t – it was hers because if she wasn’t so boring, cold and uptight, he’d never have looked at another woman.
I never went back to ballet class, and six months later my parents were divorced. I’d never truly been able to trust either of them after that. I’d never really been able to trust anyone, apart from Molly, and then Sam.
Shit. The sound of applause jerked me out of the memory. The first half was over and I’d barely seen a step or heard a note. Worse than that, I hadn’t been paying attention to Zahra, checking she was enjoying herself, not too hot or too bored.
I looked at her now, hoping I’d be able to judge her mood beneath the face covering. But it was easy – tears were pouring down her cheeks, and she was mopping them futilely with the sleeves of her abaya.
‘Oh my God. Are you okay? Can I get you tissues? Water? An ice cream?’
Her tears fell faster. I didn’t know whether it was the right thing to do – if it was even allowed – but I put my arms around her. Her chest was heaving with sobs, her teeth chattering.
I remembered what she’d said in the Harrods’ fitting room, about whether men liked women in jumpsuits, and how I’d responded jokingly with an anecdote about Sam’s lack of fashion sense.
It felt like a long time ago now – it felt like things between me and Sam were very different now from how they’d been then.
I probably wouldn’t make a joke about anything to do with him now.
At the time, I’d wondered fleetingly whether she had a boyfriend. Perhaps she had, and the wheels had come off for some reason, same as they looked like they were coming off for me and Sam. If that was the case, I could offer her comfort and empathy if not actual practical help.
‘It’s okay, Zahra. You can tell me what’s wrong. Do you want to go home?’
‘I’m all right.’ Her words came out in jerks. ‘It’s just… the story… about the girl who gets chosen, and there’s nothing she can do about it.’
‘Oh no. What are you… you’re not…?’
‘I’m going to get married,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get married.’