Dancing Daze (6 page)
Authors: Sarah Webb
Before I know what I’m saying, I blurt out, “You’re not going to walk out on Shelly and Gracie, Dad, are you?”
He looks appalled. “No, no, of course not. What gave you that idea? It was all getting to me earlier, but I feel much better now. The golf really helped. I’ll have to try to squeeze in a few more rounds soon. I was just mouthing off, Amy. I should have kept it to myself. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s OK,” I say, feeling relieved. I’m still annoyed with him, but my mood has mellowed a little. Sharing my angst with my diary has really helped.
That evening, Dad insists I have dinner with him, Shelly, and Pauline before he drops me home. There’s a lot of tension in the room. Dad and Pauline are barely speaking, and Shelly is picking at her food, looking tired and unhappy. She’s wearing a navy Juicy tracksuit with milk stains on the shoulder, which isn’t like her at all. Usually she’s Gucci-ed up to the max, even at home.
I used to stay over a lot, pre-Gracie, but now Pauline’s staying in my room, and to be honest, sharing a house with not one but two Lames isn’t my idea of fun, so I haven’t suggested it recently, even though I’d love to spend more time with Dad and Gracie.
“I spotted the Harvey Nichols bag in the hall, Amy,” Pauline says, her lips pursed. “Bit expensive for a teenager, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say. “It was Dad’s.”
“Art, you do spoil her. I hope you appreciate it, young lady,” Pauline says with a sniff. “In my day, young people made do with hand-me-downs. None of this designer nonsense. Teenagers today are dreadfully privileged. No wonder the country’s going to the dogs. The future of this great nation is in your hands, Amy. It’s a serious responsibility.”
“It is,” I say mock gravely. “You’re so right.”
She throws me a daggers look, but I try to appear all innocent. She isn’t fooled. “Art, you need to have words with your daughter,” she says. “She’s getting fierce cheeky. You clearly haven’t taught her properly to respect her elders.”
Dad’s eyes darken, but before he gets a chance to open his mouth, Shelly says quickly, “Would you like some more wine, Mum?” and fills Pauline’s empty glass to the brim again.
Shelly tops up her mum’s glass so many times during dinner that afterward Pauline is California-surfer mellow.
“I do like a nice glass of fruity red wine,” Pauline says. She gives a satisfied sigh and settles back in her chair. “It’s like being back in Portugal. I always had a little tipple with my Dean after our siesta. Dean really knows his wine —”
There’s loud squawking from the baby monitor, but Pauline ignores it. Shelly looks at Dad, but he doesn’t appear to be moving either. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” she says, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. “I always do.”
“Dad! Go and help her,” I tell him as Shelly leaves the room. Pauline is still blabbering on about a man called Dean and doesn’t seem to have noticed how upset Shelly looked when she left the room.
“Go on,” I insist.
“Oh, what? Yeah, OK, good idea. Right,” Dad says, as if it hadn’t occurred to him. He really is hopeless. No wonder Shelly nags him. It’s only after he’s gone that I realize I am now stuck with the dreaded Pauline, alone.
“Where was I?” she asks me.
“In Portugal, having a siesta with someone called Dean.”
She gasps, her cheeks turning lobster-pink, even under the heavy makeup. “Amy Green! That’s a terrible thing to say. Dean’s a perfect gentleman. He takes his siesta in his own villa, I’ll have you know.”
“Is Dean your boyfriend?” I ask, expecting her to tell me off again for being cheeky. But she doesn’t.
“Not anymore,” she says. The drink is clearly loosening her tongue. I can’t believe she’s telling me all this. “Stupid man and his stupid pub. He owns an Irish pub in Portugal, but he’s from Birmingham, for goodness’ sake. Birmingham, not Dublin!” She takes another loud slurp of her wine.
I shake my head. “Men. Nothing but trouble.”
She looks at me a little crookedly. “And what would you know about it? Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend, with that skin?”
The cheek of her! “Pauline, all teenagers have zits.”
“Rubbish,” she says. “My Shelly has always had the most perfect complexion, even during puberty.”
“Bully for her,” I mutter. “Anyway, for your information, yes, I do have a boyfriend, and strangely enough, he manages to overlook my skin and all my other glaring flaws. He’s older than me too.”
Pauline sighs. “Dean’s also an older man. Sixty-eight! But you wouldn’t know it, apart from the hair. He doesn’t exactly have any.” She slaps my hand, giving me a bit of a fright. “Anyway, do you know what my Dean does every single bloomin’ day?”
I shake my head, hoping she isn’t about to tell me some hideously inappropriate X-rated granny-on-grandpa tale.
“Plays golf.” She shakes her head violently from side to side. Her hair must be practically varnished with spray, because not a strand moves. “Every single day. Golf, golf, golf.” She hits my arm every time she says “golf.” I pull it away before she bruises it. She packs quite a slap. No wonder she hates Dad playing. She clearly has a hang-up about it.
“I want to show you something.” She staggers up from the table and fetches Dad’s laptop from the kitchen counter. She plonks it down on the table and sits beside me. As I watch, she logs in to her Facebook account, taking three long, agonizing tries to get both the password —“sunnydays”— and her e-mail address right.
“There.” She points at the screen. I look at the photo of a tanned bald man playing golf. She clicks on another picture, the same man, again playing golf. She bangs the screen closed, making me jump. I hope Dad’s computer is all right.
“See, he’s obsessed,” she says. “I was so sick of it. So I told him, ‘Dean,’ I said, ‘it’s not acceptable to leave me to my own devices every single day. Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with someone who pays me more attention? Someone who’ll make an honest woman of me? For pity’s sake, let’s stop behaving like teenagers and get married. We’ve been together for a year now. It’s the logical thing to do.’ He’s got the best-looking girlfriend in Portugal, but, no, he still won’t marry me. Says things are just fine the way they are.
“When I came to Dublin to help my Shelly with little Grace, he didn’t seem all that bothered that I’d be away for a couple of weeks. So I stayed for a few more weeks, and then a few more. I hoped it might bring him to his senses, you see — that he might miss me. But I don’t think he does. Miss me, I mean. I think he’s forgotten all about me.”
Her face crumples (as much as it can with all the Botox), and she gives an almighty howl and then starts to sob into her hands.
It’s quite a scary sight. I grab some paper towel and hand it to her.
She dabs at her eyes, the paper towel turning black from her mascara. “Thank you, Amy. I don’t know what came over me. And you mustn’t tell a soul what I’ve just told you. Promise? I wouldn’t want my Shelly finding out about any of this. She might get the idea that I’m not here to help with little Grace, which of course I am. I do love my little Gracie-Wacie. And Shelly was very close to her dad. She was devastated when he died, which is why I haven’t told her about Dean yet. Looks like I won’t need to now.” She gives a little hiccup.
“Why don’t you have a little nap on the sofa?” I suggest. “I’ll tell Dad and Shelly not to disturb you.”
She hiccups again. “What a good idea. Pity you’re not as pretty as my Shelly. But I’m sure you’ll find someone to marry you — eventually.” With that, she staggers out of the kitchen.
I blow out my breath. Everyone in this family, including the in-laws and the out-laws, is completely crazy.
On Sunday afternoon, Clover bounds into my bedroom like a Labrador puppy and flops down on my bed.
“So, like, what’s up, girlfriend?” she says in her best D4 voice. “Gimme a
C. C!
Gimme an
L. L!
Gimme an
O. O!
”
I laugh. “What are you doing, Clover?”
“OMG! Sylvie’s just told me that Mills tried out for the All Saints. How could you let it happen, Greenster? Have I taught you
nada
? Cheerleading is so antifeminist that it’s in another ballpark on another galaxy.” She shakes her head and gives a deep, drawn-out sigh. In a French accent, she says, “Oh, ze young women of today, what is to become of zem? Tell me zat.
Moi,
Simone de Beauvoir, I am turning in my grave.” Her accent changes to BBC News English: “And was it for this that poor old Emily Wilding Davison, RIP, threw herself under a horse? Answer me that.” Clover’s been taking a feminist literature course at Trinity College, and Simone de Beauvoir is one of her new heroes, along with Emmeline Pankhurst and other suffragettes who chained themselves to railings to get the vote for women. She smiles at me so I know she’s only joking.
“I did try to talk her out of it,” I say. “But it was hopeless. Her heart’s set on wearing one of those tiny blue-and-white skater skirts.”
“They are kinda cute,” Clover admits.
“Clover! That’s what Mills said. They are not!”
“But still, it’s a sad state of affairs when your best friend takes up with the pom-pom poodles.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Maybe it’s her way of stealing a bit of Claire’s limelight,” Clover says thoughtfully. “Can’t be easy having a superstar sister. Maybe Mills is feeling a bit left out and wants to strut her own dance moves.” Clover wiggles her chest backward and forward, making me giggle.
“Cheerleading is hardly ballet, Clover. And it’s not about Claire, it’s about Bailey. He’s just joined the rugby team, and Mills wants them to be the Perfect Couple.”
“It’s still all a performance. Speaking of which, Claire Starr is one tough cookie.”
“Of course, the interview. How did it go?”
“Nail-file rough at first. She seemed very wary of me. The PR woman sat in for most of it, but she had to leave toward the end to take a call, and Claire started to loosen up a bit after that. Unfortunately, I can’t publish much from that part of the interview, as I promised Claire. She was in tears by the end of it. I think I might have asked her one question too many. I certainly didn’t mean to upset her.” Clover bites her lip.
“I’m sure it wasn’t you, Clover. She’s terrified about dancing her first big solo part.”
“It’s more than that, Beanie. You were right. Something is seriously upsetting Claire. I just don’t know what. She was even talking about leaving the company and giving up ballet for good.”
I gasp. “She can’t! She loves dancing. It’s all she’s ever wanted to do.”
“I know, and I wish we could fix things for her, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Have you got any idea how we can find out, Beanie? Has Mills said anything?”
I can feel my face heating up because, yes, I do have an idea, but I can’t possibly tell Clover about having Claire’s diary. I’m too ashamed. I should never have made a copy of it in the first place, let alone read it.
“You OK, Beanie?”
“Yes, sorry, just thinking. . . . Writing the best interview ever and making Claire sound ultra-amazing might help. At least it would give her a confidence boost.”
Clover grins at me. “It certainly can’t do any harm. Glad you haven’t lost your people smarts, babes. Now, my perfectly crafted piece has to be on Saffy’s desk by first thing tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.”
“
Merde,
Clover.”
She gives a laugh. “Claire told me about that one.
Merde,
I like it. Better limber up.” She knits her fingers together, twists her wrists out, and stretches her arms away from her chest. Then she rolls her shoulders, making an alarming bone-on-bone
click.
“Ah, that’s better. Have to be writing fit to tackle this one, Bean Machine. I have a long night ahead of me. And let’s hope Claire gets some of that old dancing diva-ness back before she has to charm her Romeo. Love you, babes. Kiss, kiss.” She kisses the tips of her fingers and blows them at me. “‘Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!’ Oops, I think that’s
Hamlet,
not
Romeo and Juliet.
Note to self: must brush up on my Shakespeare.” And with that, she’s gone.
I’m sitting on my bed, feeling down. Poor Claire. A bruised body will heal, but a bruised heart? Dancing is Claire’s one great passion in life. If she has to give it up, she might never heal. I have to do something. I have to help her. I know it’s wrong, but I
have
to read her diary! I’ll start with Claire’s very first entry.
Dear Diary,
Ta-da! I’m finally in Budapest. It’s a bit of a dump, but I kind of like the rough edges. Makes it more interesting.
I’ve been here a week now and I’ve finally grabbed a few minutes to write up what’s been happening. So — in a nutshell — I arrived last Saturday at Ferenc Liszt airport in Budapest and got a taxi to the academy.
Arriving at the academy was an eye-opener. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but, boy, is this place old, and, boy, are the rooms basic.
The building itself must have been spectacular in, oh, 1800, or whenever it was built, but I don’t think it’s been fixed up since. The whole place smells old and musty, of ancient crumbling plaster, bleach, and damp washing. More on the washing in a mo’!
When you walk through the big wooden door, there’s this humongous entrance hall, with a smooth stone floor and a huge marble staircase marching up the back wall.
So there I was on Saturday morning, exhausted after getting up at four a.m. to catch the mad-early flight, struggling through the door with all my luggage, and inside there were masses of girls and guys milling around the hallway with bags. Theirs were much smaller than my whoppers, of course — you’d swear I was going to Outer Mongolia. Mum and Dad even made me bring toilet paper, just in case.
Anyway, the others all seemed to know one another. They were chatting in groups of three or four. I was feeling a bit lost and out of place until a blond girl started talking to me.
“You’re the Irish girl everyone’s been talking about, yes?” she said. “Lucky for you, I like Ireland. U2, yes? Bono rocks for an old man. OK, Irish, you and I will share a room, yes? Stay there and mind my bag.” Before I could answer, she’d dumped a long black-canvas bag at my feet and run over to talk to a tiny old woman with white hair in a bun and small dark eyes like a bird’s.
Then the girl shoved her way back through the crowd that was now clamoring noisily around the woman and sprinted up the stairs. She was followed several seconds later by a stream of boys and girls, all elbowing one another and shouting. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, so I just stood in the hallway, minding her bag and hoping she’d come back.
And she did — half an hour later.
After grabbing her bag, she told me to follow her. When I asked where to, she said, “To our room, of course. The best room in the whole academy. If someone realizes I’ve gone, they’ll steal it. Move!”
So now I have a Slovakian roomie — Lana — and the best room in the academy. It’s a tiny space with two squeaky metal beds and no outside window. The only light comes through the glass door, which opens onto a long conservatory. At first, it seemed an odd place to pick — it’s just beside the washroom and we have to walk through all the damp leotards and tights drying on racks to get to our door — but Lana says it’s the warmest room in the whole place. The windows of the other rooms freeze up in winter. And as long as you don’t mind getting slapped in the face by wet tights now and then, it’s heaven.
Washing is a BIG DEAL in the academy. We all have to do our own by hand, and there’s no tumble dryer, so everything takes ages to dry. Honestly, it’s like living on the set of
Annie
or something. I asked Lana if there was a launderette nearby, but she just laughed and said, “You think you will have time to waste outside class? Ha! Get used to it, Irish.”
Lana showed me around the academy on our first full day and also made me do some exercises in one of the ballet classrooms. There are six in total: three on this floor and three more on the first floor. Each one has large windows, an upright piano, and a stool or bench for the teacher to sit on, and, of course, huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
“This will be our classroom,” Lana said, waving her hand around one of the classrooms on the first floor. “It is a big honor to be in Madame Irina’s class. I hope you do not mess it up, Irish.”
Madame Irina János is the principal and artistic director of the academy. She used to be a prima ballerina here and is almost as famous in Hungary as Olga Varga.
Lana told me to begin the exercises with some tendus, so after some warm-up pliés at the barre, I started doing them, stretching my leg out and brushing my toes over the worn wooden floorboards.
Lana stood watching me, her hands on her hips. When I had finished, she said my tendus were poor. I was shocked. No one has ever called them poor before. I’ve always been the best in the class at everything. But Lana told me to do them again, faster.
I tried once more, and she still shook her head. “But Irina must have seen something in you, Irish,” she said.
I wasn’t taking it. I’ve worked hard to get here, and I’m not going to let anyone discourage me. I asked her to show me how they should be done.
Standing in front of me at the barre, she whipped her foot out and in again like lightning. I couldn’t believe it — her movements were so sharp, so strong. And she was right, my tendus were poor in comparison. I was determined to make them better.
I tried again and again. Each time she said, “Faster. More power.” Finally, I was just too exhausted to do any more. She shook her head. “They’re going to eat you up here, Irish, and spit you out.”
“I don’t taste very nice,” I said, and then I steeled myself. I flicked my foot out and in again, as hard and as fast as I could.
Lana looked only mildly impressed. I was determined to get my tendus perfect by the following morning’s class, so I asked Lana how long we could stay in the classroom. She smiled and said, “As long as you like, Irish. There may be hope for you yet.”
Later, Lana gave me another piece of advice. She told me never to smile, talk back, or cry in class. Ever. I told her I understood, even though it all sounded weird. Miss Smitten had warned me about Hungarian dance classes and how tough they were, but come on, what teacher would make you cry? Besides, I never cry, it’s just not me. (I hadn’t been in one of Madame Irina’s classes at that stage — and boy was that another eye-opener!)
Oops, better stop. I can hear Lana slapping her way back through the wet tights. I’ll write soon, Diary, promise. And I’ll tell you all about my very first class with the Miss Terrifying herself, Madame Irina!
Szia!
That means “See you soon” in Hungarian. I’m picking up a little bit every day, but don’t talk to me about the Hungarian language classes — yuck!
Claire Starr, future prima ballerina xxxxx