Révérence
The weekend matinee was no less daunting than opening night; every performance is different, with new colours pulled out of the dark.
The Rose Adage was a joy and a battle, more allegro than adage as I hurried to stay on top of my leg and sweep it high with the music.
For the second time, I thanked God when I made it through each of the balances unscathed (although I mostly thanked Valentin, who had made tiny, subtle adjustments to the orchestra’s pace to give me extra breathing room).
Stephen, I had to concede, was on top form, confident in our pas de deux and the very picture of princely charm during his Act III solos.
He may not have delved as deeply as Sander during the pensive solitude of his entrance, but his scores of hours in the studio couldn’t be faulted.
By the grand pas of Aurora and Florimund’s wedding, we were just enjoying ourselves (even if he slipped half an inch during the second fish dive and almost dropped me – we saved it with manic smiles).
Most importantly of all, the threat of stress fracture did not return.
After the curtain calls, Stephen and I hugged and congratulated each other on a performance well done – I was particularly relieved that my Act III solo had ended in a controlled open fourth, as planned.
Before the cast could go their separate ways, Nick materialised and waved his arms until our adrenaline-fuelled chatter petered out.
I blinked at him, then at Stephen, then at the bouquet of pink and yellow roses, which I rotated until I found the tiny white card tucked into the cone.
Congratulations to the BCBC’s newest principal ballerina
Stephen took a sharp breath, his grip tightening around my arm.
‘What does it say, what does it say?’ Our White Cat and Puss-in-Boots appeared at my side. Fiona and Jamie were silent for a moment before screaming with glee.
Stephen grabbed my waist and spun me in circles off the floor, laughing while I tried to catch tears in my hands. As soon as he put me down, dancers began hugging me on all sides, even those I didn’t know well.
I hugged Fiona the longest. Having graduated into the company together, she knew how long I’d dreamt of this moment – and I knew how much she wished it were her moment instead. That she let me enjoy it, and jumped with excitement over it, made my heart sing.
Principal. The ultimate promotion. I had mentally prepared myself for it to take at least another two seasons; the number of places were so limited, the standards so high, the opportunities to shine so rare. But I’d done it. I was twenty-six years old, and I had done it.
The only thing that convinced me I wasn’t in a fever dream was when I submerged my plum-bruised toes in an ice bucket twenty minutes later – that brought me right back down to earth.
It also brought a moment of startling clarity, as I thought of Armand’s notecard in Tuesday night’s bouquet. She hopes you enjoy Aurora.
While Fiona, Jamie, and the rest of the corps headed to the stage door, I went up to the third-floor corridor where the communal pinboard was lit by a solitary fluorescent bar and the sunset glitter of other buildings.
A new performance grid had been put up for the rest of the run. Carolyn’s name was nowhere to be seen.
I’m not sure how long I stared at it. My name appeared three more times: twice with Stephen, as originally scheduled, but also once more with Sander, in the first week of March.
Crystal and Blanca were down to appear as Aurora for his other performances, the three of us filling in the gaps where Carolyn should have been.
She had performed on antibiotics, on a sprained ankle, and with a broken rib. I tried not to worry, but if she was unwell enough to be out for the rest of the run, it must have been something more serious than food poisoning.
A faint thud came from somewhere down the dim corridor, followed swiftly by another. A bar of light crept out from under the Nijinsky studio door.
I opened it without knocking – just to push it ajar and quell my curiosity about who was putting in extra rehearsal hours without music. Sometimes dancers did that – myself among them – to refine steps that didn’t come easily, or to try something outside our comfort zones.
I stood in the doorway and watched Sander launch himself into the kind of grand jeté normally reserved for ballerinas at their most limber and energetic, where your pointed foot catches the back of your skull and your arms reach in open fifth for a hold that isn’t there.
He brushed the ceiling, landed with the lightness of a leaf, then jumped to the same height three more times.
He didn’t hear my gasp, but he did spot me when he switched to a tour en l’air, whipping his head round on the way down. His landing was like a blanket over an open flame, his body at once completely still.
I said nothing, but my eyes must have asked everything. He brushed his brow with the back of his hand, chest barely rising. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it sank in that he looked just as handsome under the unflattering studio lights as he had in full stage make-up.
‘I…’ My mortification set in quickly. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t – I thought someone had just left the lights on.’
I waited for him to say something in return, to explain why he was in the studio on his day off. To explain how he was physically capable of doing what he’d just done.
When he didn’t, I apologised again and left him to it. Whatever it was.