I rented a room in part of a gentrified house, a charming old mansion that had been sliced and diced into lots of tiny efficient apartments. They were all weirdly shaped, and some had kitchens in the bedrooms. My room didn’t even have a bedroom. It was just one large, odd shaped room. From the outside, the house was a beautiful house. But the inside was not beautiful at all, just strange. I often thought it was just like people, just like me.
Beautiful and impressive on the outside, but sliced and diced and strange within.
So it seemed appropriate for me to occupy this ugly house that, from the outside, appeared lovely and perfect. I stayed in that pathetic little apartment even though I hated it. I stayed long past the time I should have moved on. At least it was cheap and convenient to the theater. If I got out on time, I felt pretty safe walking home. If I got out too late, when the crowds had already thinned, I usually took a cab the few blocks. There were bars and restaurants all around and when they closed,
drunk
men poured into the streets. Not that I was afraid of a few
drunk
men, but they could be scary in the wrong time and place.
All that depressing week, during the day, we rehearsed hard for the Gala. We had two Galas a year, one in the fall and one in the spring. It was early October now, chilly weather and brown leaves blowing in the street, so Gala was in the air. Some of the dancers really got into it and worked with the office staff on themes and decorations. They brought in caterers, florists and planners, and in the end it was always a grand and impressive night.
The Gala was an opportunity for the
richies
to come out to see us. To rub elbows with us and make us feel like whores. They paid for some time with us, forced intimacy, and they got it because money can talk. It’s not like they expected a lap dance or anything. Most of the big money patrons were white-haired old couples, so a lap dance probably would have finished them off. But it just felt icky in a way, to smile and socialize with them those two nights a year. Socialize with people we had nothing in common with except that they gave us money to do what they liked. But that was the life of the modern dancer and we were contractually obligated to participate and smile. The theater buzzed with plans and preparation while I obsessed privately about blue eyes and a hand on my elbow.
This fall it was to be a Greek theme.
Grégoire
and I rehearsed a new work that we would perform exclusively for the guests. I found myself getting caught up in the piece as we rehearsed. It was lyrical, sensuous, the story of a Greek statue come to life from cold, emotionless rock. I loved my costume, an ivory wisp of a gown that floated and spun when I danced. The piece would probably be performed as part of our next season, but for now, only our most generous patrons would have a sneak peek. Gala tickets were expensive because of this exclusivity, and somewhat scarce, which made them even more desirable. The Galas typically sold out before the previous one was even over. Did I expect Mr. Norris to grace us with his presence? Yes. In truth, I did.
That’s why, the night of the Gala, I was totally stricken with nerves. I paced in my dressing room, hopped and turned and stretched endlessly. I ran through the motions and tricks of the dance in my head, over and over, and trusted in
Grégoire
to hold up his end. He watched me from the vanity, eating an apple in silence. I’m sure he knew that Mr. Norris was in my thoughts, but for whatever reason, he didn’t tease or badger me about it. Maybe, like me, he was anxious to see him again too. Maybe he still nursed the hopeless crush on him that made him push me his way whenever he had the chance. He was so quiet and
calm,
so unlike his usual self, that I knew he felt as anxious as me.
Yes, that’s what it was. We were both
nervous
. How long since we had been nervous together before a performance? I couldn’t remember the last time, and I guessed he couldn’t either. It gave me a full and hyper feeling, like my chest was going to burst from excitement or dread. It took me back to ten years before, when
Grégoire
and I had been faceless dancers in the corps of the City Ballet. How far we’d come since then, how much we’d accomplished, and how much we’d aged. I started to feel almost wistful on top of all the nerves.
Darling
Grégoire
, my lover of a partner.
I couldn’t wait to feel his hands on me, couldn’t wait for us to move together, to bring the music and steps to life. But I couldn’t say a word to him of why I was nervous and shaky, so we sat in uneasy silence and waited to be called to the wings.
Finally, it was time for us to take our places. This piece began on stage, no flourish of an entrance. We padded out behind the curtain and assumed our still positions. He put his arms around me as I
arched
into the lovely lines of the statue I would play. He looked at me and winked, squeezing my side with the faintest pressure. How I loved him.
Help me, G
, I said with my wide, frightened eyes.
Help me. I’m nervous. I’m scared. What if he’s not here? What if he is?
Then the curtain opened and between the both of us, the dance unraveled in a perfect arc. No missteps, no awkward lifts or late beats. Together we nailed it and it was intoxicating. When I reached for him, he was there. Always, with
Grégoire
, the perfect amount of pressure, the exact amount of force to propel me where I needed to go. As for me—my every line was perfection. I prayed that he was watching. He
had
to be.
Please
. I wanted him to want me again, to find me the thing of beauty he’d described even though I’d been so terribly rude. I selfishly wanted him to want me even though I’d pushed him away.
When the piece ended we received a standing ovation, and armfuls and armfuls of flowers that filled my nose with their sweet scent. These Galas were always over the top. Between graceful
reverences
, I scanned the small audience for Mr. Norris, but all I saw was a sea of bald heads and tuxedos, and old matrons in garish silk gowns.
After the curtain call, they brought up the lights in the theater. The wealthy guests swarmed the stage and the champagne and hors-d’oeuvres flowed. I went to the dressing rooms with the other dancers to change and tone down my stage makeup. By the time I returned the party was in full swing. Many deferential and polite patrons of the arts sidled up to me and complimented me. I smiled so much my face started to ache, but I appreciated their words. We had moved them emotionally and that seemed a worthy thing, and their feelings were honest and heartfelt.
Grégoire
hovered around me, playing the straight guy, except with the gay patrons, who saw through his act with a wink.
But even amidst all the glamour and champagne, the lovely Greek setting and the flattering praise, I grew melancholy because he had not come after all. Our wealthy patron Mr. Norris was nowhere to be found. Around midnight
Grégoire
brought me some champagne with a sympathetic smile, leaning next to me on the fake Greek balustrade.
“I thought your beau would be here,” he said.
My
beau
.
What a bizarre word to use for him. It was too gentle a word for what he was. Maybe
Grégoire
used it ironically, silly French boy. No, Mr. Norris was not my
beau
. In my fantasies at night,
beau
did not describe what he was to me.
Lover.
Conqueror.
Master.
Animal.
Even, ridiculously and embarrassingly sometimes,
husband
. But
beau
, no. It was far too soft for what Mr. Norris was to me in my dreams.
“No, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him,” I said, shaking myself from my reveries.
“But you wanted him to be here.”
“Yes, and so did you,” I shot back.
He smiled a wry smile. “You were great tonight, Lu.”
“So were you. It was fantastic. It really was.”
He took a deep breath. “I had that feeling I haven’t had in a while, that something I did was truly beautiful. That something between us grew and developed and was...transformed.”
“Oh, G.”
I hugged him hard. He held on to me as we hid back in the wings and I thought if I was able to cry, I would have cried in G’s arms, for so many things. For happiness and sadness, for confusion, for disappointment that lodged like an awful lump in my throat until I thought I would choke.
He let me go and we peeked out at the glamorous spectacle from our hiding place. We lapsed back into our usual sneering comments when he returned with more champagne.
“To being dance whores.” He held up his glass up to mine.
“To being dance whores,” I agreed. That was what it felt like, these events, one hundred percent, even if you’d danced better than you’d danced in your life.
If you pay for me to dance, I’ll pretend that we’re friends.
Poor
Grégoire
had a suit jacket full of phone numbers, both male and female. I looked around at the blue haired rich ladies and their pompous rich husbands. Where would I be at eighty years old?
At a party like this?
Living vicariously through others?
I grew more and more despondent the later it got. I wondered if Mr. Norris had withdrawn his association with the theater.
Over me?
Silly.
But what if he had, because I’d been rude to him, because he scared me? And just as I was mulling over that unpleasant thought, I felt a hand on my elbow, a pressure I remembered. My blood rushed loud in my ears. I turned and there he was, a foot away. He wore that same unflappable, broad smile.
He nodded to my partner first. “Beautiful work tonight,
Grégoire
.” He pronounced his name perfectly in French, the way I never could.
Grégoire
blushed like a boy and stammered his thanks. They shook hands like straight men would do, and I worried for a moment that G might actually faint. But he didn’t, and then Mr. Norris turned in my direction.
“And you, Lucy Merritt with two
t’s
.
Stunning.
I really don’t have words.”
I didn’t have words either. I just looked back at him, speechless, sick with embarrassment and lust. He may have been acting like our last conversation never happened but I still burned with mortification over it. He turned from me, made more polite small talk with
Grégoire
, and then, with a strange subtle agility, he dismissed him. As
Grégoire
left us, he shot me a warning look.
Don’t fuck this up, you little dork.
I turned back to Mr. Norris.
Matthew.
I’d called him Mr. Norris so many times in disdain. I’d never remember to call him Matthew now.
“Mr. Norris?” I began.
Ugh, you idiot.
“Um, Matthew, the last time we talked...please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Yes there is. I was so rude to you. I apologize, I really do.”
He smiled, that kind, easy smile, and leaned close to me so my eyes fixed on his lips.
“I apologize for calling you a thing,” he said. “Although in my defense, I did call you a thing of
beauty
.”
I looked up at him and somehow managed a smile. His own smile was infectious, but he still scared me. Why did he scare me so much? I couldn’t put my finger on it. Wild animal male, I thought to myself.
Dangerous and unpredictable.
And here we
were,
alone together back in the wings where no one could see us.
Mr. Norris, the wild animal, and me, his prey.
But he wasn’t wild. In fact his manners were impeccable. He took my glass and offered to bring me more champagne. He left, fully trusting me to wait there for him, and I did although my brain was pleading with me to fly.
When he returned to me with our full glasses of bubbly, I waited for the typical moronic toast.
To dance whores
, I envisioned him saying, holding up his glass to me. But no silly toasts or comments were forthcoming. He only sipped his champagne and looked out with me as the room began to thin.
“Where were you?” I asked finally, to fill the awkward silence.
“Earlier tonight?
When the party began?”
“You missed me?”
I
blushed
a thousand shades of red.