Chapter 24
brEATHE IN TO PREPARE
From the first moment we danced together, Sander had made me feel safe, comfortable, and respected. I was a fellow human being, a creative partner, but nothing more. I had never been on his romantic radar, and never would be. What a perfect twit I was.
It would be unfair to say that Jamie’s scoop ruined the rest of the summer holiday, but it turned the blue flame in my chest right down.
Over the years, on the handful of occasions when Jamie had gone cruising around Hampstead Heath at dusk, he’d spotted Sander a few times, always cutting through the undergrowth as far from the footpaths as possible, often glancing over his shoulder.
In short: when you put dozens of beautiful people in the same building for years, in constant proximity and positions of trust, entanglements will ensue.
‘He once mentioned someone called Glen,’ Charlie told me. ‘But that was ages ago. I don’t think he meant to – he sort of froze as soon as he said it.’
‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that,’ Jamie said. ‘What do we think: secret boyfriend? One-night stand?’
Charlie’s eyebrows waggled with intrigue. ‘Good luck ever finding out. I tried to follow up, but Sander would just walk out of the room whenever I asked.’
‘What, without a word? Just…?’ Jamie mimed a door swinging shut.
‘Not even a white lie. He just walked away. Quite an effective tactic, actually.’
The irony that our first show of the new season ended with the male lead breaking the female lead’s heart was not lost on me. But Carolyn had warned against getting distracted, and this was the bitter medicine I now had to swallow.
Even if I had to dance with Sander in every full-length for the rest of the year, I refused to let it obscure my excitement about going into my first complete season as a principal.
Little Trix, whose feet hadn’t been able to touch the floor of the stalls when she watched her first Nutcracker, deserved to reap the rewards of all the labour she’d put in since.
There was one sunbeam of joy during the exceptionally rainy August bank holiday: Carolyn gave birth to a baby girl, Layla.
I was honoured (and stunned) to be invited back to Primrose Hill for a visit along with her closest principal pals Grace, Blanca, and Annie.
We stared in reverent silence at the tiny newborn against Armand’s shoulder as he walked softly around the living room, while Carolyn rested on her chaise longue, blissfully exhausted.
Occasionally, Layla opened her eyes and silently assessed us as we took turns holding her, but otherwise snoozed.
It was almost enough to make me want one of my own.
I remembered why I didn’t when, for no obvious reason, the baby started wailing loudly enough to scare one of the neighbourhood cats off a bin lid.
* * *
After the first morning class of the new season, I walked into the Pavlova studio with muted expectations. There Sander was, as if he’d never even left the Hall, let alone the country. Looking up at me. Smiling.
It didn’t sting as much as I’d thought it would. I was still glad to see him. I couldn’t help it.
‘How was the continent? How was Sylvie?’
‘Oh.’ He took a moment, as if he’d been expecting a different question entirely. ‘Very kind. Very classy lady. Fearless. Less care about technique, more care about… uh…’ He swept up armfuls of air.
‘Energy?’
‘Yes! Energy.’
‘That sounds right up your street.’
‘The travelling wasn’t nearly as kind,’ our assistant director Ben said, swanning past us to set up for the afternoon. ‘We may have to keep him grounded for a while yet.’
‘Oh dear, really?’
Sander grimaced, waving a hand. ‘I do not do well in aeroplanes. Trains. Cars.’
‘I had no idea. Hard luck.’
‘Anyway,’ Ben said, opening a large notebook of grid paper, ‘let’s see how you do in the Highlands.’
Sander showed no signs of burnout from his busy touring schedule and, as usual, had to be instructed to tone his moves down, “for the sake of the lighting fixtures, if nothing else”.
By the second week of rehearsal, we had enough muscle recall to run most of our scenes without Ben needing to fill in the gaps from the side.
We settled back into step with each other, the summer nothing but a brief scratch on an otherwise smooth vinyl.
For the most part. Whenever I thought my feelings towards him were cooling to something more platonic, I’d walk into the studio and only have to look at him once for the ember of desire to stubbornly light up again.
I tried to look at him less often, but that only prompted Mariska to tap me under the chin and ask what was so interesting about the floor.
Performing opposite Sander in La Sylphide while also rehearsing The Firebird with him became an exercise in self-flagellation, and I had to bear it without giving anything away.
At least that was a skill I’d had years to perfect: as soon as I started pointework at the age of eleven and discovered a new realm of pain and discomfort, my teachers had trained me to disconnect my expression from whatever was simmering behind it.