Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (25 page)

“No one was holding a knife to your throat to make those weekend plans, you know.”

He frowned. “You told her, didn’t you? That I was the one who suggested the getaway to Julia.”

“Um, why was that wrong? When it was the truth.”

“I would have thought you’d cover for me.”

“Gil. In order to cover for you, I need to be apprised of the full situation. And besides, this wasn’t a work-related issue. I don’t have to lie for you on my personal time.”

“There would have been no lying involved in the least.”

“Ah. Just a little evasion.”

This brought forth a distinct glare from him. He was in one of his prissy moods, Alice sensed. But she had news to change that. She waved a business letter at him.

“This just arrived. It might interest you.”

She laid it down on his desk, a letter from the Redgrave Foundation. They’d read the WCBT’s proposed request for $250,000, the letter stated, and prior to the final decision they wished to arrange a meeting and site visit. She watched Gil read it. A smile bloomed on his face.

“Andy told me this part is mostly a formality,” he said. “He even brings the foundation’s letter of agreement with him to the dinner meeting so it can be signed by both parties right there if he chooses.”

He read the letter again. “This is very good news.”

“It is indeed.”

She could feel his good spirits returning, filling the room with optimism so heady, it made her feel like she’d just taken a whiff of some intoxicant that would soon cause her to burst into giddy laughter.

“Record turnaround time on a proposal, to boot,” she said.

“He told me he’d fast-track it once he got it.”

“He certainly lived up to his word.”

“This’ll put us back on forecast for next year.”

“All thanks to your hard work.”

Gil smiled at her, with genuine warmth this time. “Our hard work. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Thanks.”

They smiled at each other and like that, they were fine again, great friends, an unbeatable team.

Tuesday morning signaled the end of Alice’s good mood. She overslept, there was a long line at Starbucks, they skipped her order and on the second pass, got it wrong. When she entered the main lobby from the street, the door caught on her heel, making her stumble. As she hobbled toward the elevator, she heard the female security guard ask her colleague, “Is that her?”

“Yeah. Kinda clumsy, though,” he said, and they both chuckled.

She puzzled over this on her way to her office. A few more curious glances cast her way made her wonder if there was a terrible stain on her blouse, or perhaps a smudge of cocoa dust on her face. She stopped by the ladies’ room and peered into the mirror. Nothing.

One of the administrative assistants was washing her hands at the basin next to Alice. She smiled at Alice.

“I didn’t know you
danced,
danced,” she said. “With the company here, I mean.”

Alice nodded, mystified.

“Well, I think that’s just great. Really. It’s very touching.”

Something was going on and Alice didn’t have a clue what it might be. It was as if a year, not an evening, had passed since she’d left the offices, a year in which something very profound had happened to her, only she didn’t know what. A hint arrived ten minutes later when she received a phone call from Lucinda.

“You’re late,” Lucinda snapped. “I thought you came in at eight o’clock.”

Alice glanced at the clock. 8:17 a.m. Still before Gil, before official business hours. She swallowed a sharp retort and instead told Lucinda that she was here now.

“Stay there. I’ll be right over,” Lucinda said and hung up before Alice could ask her just what this was all about. A minute later she arrived, carrying a copy of the newest
San Francisco Arts Times
, which she slapped down on Alice’s desk.

“Dance section,” Lucinda told her, her expression a mixture of fury and triumph.

Alice leafed uneasily to the section. And there she was, poised in an arabesque en pointe. Dear God.

It was the eight-year-old
Tomorrow’s Lament
publicity photo and further down the page, a photo of two dancers in the ultra-contemporary
Paradigm for Six
ballet. Between the two photos—which were oversized, glorious, taking up a quarter of the page—was the article, entitled, “Moving Forward: Changing What no Longer Works.”

The first thing one notices about former West Coast Ballet Theatre soloist Alice Willoughby,
the article read,
is her brisk professionalism, her commanding presence that hints at the grace and artistry of her former craft. The thirty-three-year-old is the associate director of development, but during her tenure with the West Coast Ballet Theatre Association, she has taken on many roles. Rising from apprentice to the corps de ballet and ultimately to soloist level, Willoughby’s promising career was tragically cut short following a debilitating injury in 1997. Forced to reassess her career goals, the determined dancer shifted her attention and her abilities toward the administrative side of the game, starting as an assistant and working her way up to her current position. Flexibility, so important in a dancer, becomes a philosophy, a business model that has spelled success for both Willoughby and the West Coast Ballet Theatre, as the institution commences its pre-season performance schedule and prepares for its annual black-tie October fundraiser.

It continued on, from Alice to the WCBT, to today’s group of dancers and back to Alice. Her spirit and drive that was so symbolic of the art of ballet in the 21
^st
century in general, its challenges, the constant need to reassess, ask what wasn’t working and how to change it. How the WCBT, under the direction of Anders Gunst, managed to do just that. But it was not until the final paragraph that the October fundraising event received further mention. And only at the end of the paragraph did Lucinda’s name appear as the public relations contact. Sarah, as the special events manager, was not referenced at all.

Alice wanted to shrink into a tiny ball and roll herself under her desk, staying lodged there until five o’clock. Maybe past then. Maybe she’d just shack up for the week under her desk.

“What did I tell you?” Lucinda had the high brittle voice of an elementary school teacher who’d been at the same job way too long. “What did I specifically tell you?”

“You told me not to say anything bad. And I didn’t.” Alice pointed to the article. “I had no idea whatsoever that she was going to pull this. She never gave me any clue that this was going to be about anything besides the upcoming events.”

“Did you tell her these things about your past?”

She hated that she had no defense here. All she could do was protest that even though yes, she’d said these things, she’d considered it all to be off-topic, just chitchat.

“Don’t you know anything? She’s a
reporter.
She sniffs out stuff like that, it’s how she develops her hook,” Lucinda said. “There’s no such thing as ‘off-topic’ conversation. From the moment you shake their hand, it’s on the record, even when they try to tell you that something’s off the record. It’s never off. Honest to God, I regret the day I let you give that interview.”

Rage billowed up in Alice. “Maybe I do too. Maybe, just maybe, I was more interested in doing
my
job that day, not your job, not Sarah’s job. Try and remember that next time you pawn another department’s work off onto me.”

Lucinda’s eyes glittered with hostility. “Well. I’ll let you get back to your work again.” She pivoted around and headed toward the door.

“Wait, don’t you want the paper?”

Lucinda looked back at her. “Why don’t you keep it? A souvenir of your glory days to go show all your friends. Which was what you wanted all along.”

The breath left Alice’s lungs in a great whoosh. She was so angry she couldn’t speak. Which was not a bad thing in retrospect, because the things she might have otherwise shouted out at Lucinda might have gotten her into trouble. Instead she sat, seething.

Obsessed by her former “glory days.” Was that how she was perceived here? How long had Lucinda been waiting to say such a thing to her?

Her eyes settled on the framed photo on the wall. The very same
Tomorrow’s Lament
photo. At least Lucinda hadn’t noticed. She rose from her chair, strode over to the wall and yanked the picture down. So much for the reminder to pay attention at all times while on the job. She shoved the framed photo face-down in the bottom desk drawer.

The day was ruined. Every time Alice stepped out of her office she felt the stares, heard the whispers. In the break room, someone had pinned the photo and article in its entirety on the bulletin board. Gil, to her relief, was more amused than angry about it, as if Alice had displayed poor choice in attire at an important function.

“What the hell,” he said when she sought him out to explain. “There’s no such thing as bad press. Lucinda’s just getting all excited for nothing. Guess that’s part of her job. Create a buzz whenever possible. But no media buzz lasts forever, much as she’d like it to.”

Gil had a point. By Wednesday, the comments and jokes had become routine. By Thursday they’d subsided. There were more important things going on; it was the company’s opening night for Program I, what they’d be taking on tour. The marketing and special events departments were hosting a pre-performance reception, which Alice begged off, claiming a pounding head. Gil excused her under the condition that she’d join him and other key administrators at L’Orange, a posh bar-restaurant, following the performance. Charlie Stanton, the WCBT’s executive director, had booked a private alcove adjoining the dining area, for him and Anders to more comfortably mingle with the WCBT’s key clients and friends.

Alice agreed to Gil’s proposal. They both knew that no amount of cajoling or threats would get her to sit through an actual performance.

At ten-thirty that night she took a taxi back to the Civic Center and met Gil in the lobby of the theater. Together they waited for Lana to remove her makeup and change into street clothes. Alice knew Gil wanted to time their entrance at L’Orange as a trio on purpose. Once again, Alice was to be their front.

Tonight, however, she didn’t mind. Lana, appearing a moment later, looked sensational in her black party dress, her Ferragamos. She’d let her hair down and it was a shiny brown shimmer down her back. Some eyeliner still remained from her stage makeup, lending her a sultry, sophisticated air. She looked like a rising star, Alice decided, as the three of them entered L’Orange.

She was not the only one who thought so. Lana was creating a stir and, even more charming, she didn’t even seem to notice. Instead she was wide-eyed with admiration over the restaurant’s cosmopolitan ambiance, the wrought-iron stairway curving up to the second level, the sleek taupe walls interspersed with exposed brick.

L’Orange, post-performance, was more of an event than a source of meals. Michael’s alcove was crowded with people and the party had spilled out to the main area, making the whole restaurant feel like a nightclub, a New Year’s Eve party. Gil had asked Alice to make sure Lana didn’t get lost in the shuffle of the boisterous crowd. He needn’t have worried. Alice led Lana around and everywhere they went, people wanted to know who she was, congratulate her on a fine performance, even though they likely wouldn’t have been able to pick her out, there in the ensemble of
Serenade
dancers. Alice introduced her to board members, administration, influential patrons. She saw Mark Haverford, a WCBT donor, better known for his flirtatious, womanizing behavior than his financial generosity. He was staring at Lana. Two minutes later he was by Alice’s side, tugging at her arm, insisting on an introduction.

She looked up and saw Gil, across the room, frowning at her. She ignored him and introduced Lana to Mark. Lana was being her sweet, polite self, and Mark was falling over himself in his eagerness to get her a drink, have her sit down next to him, get to know each other a little better, and was she seeing anyone? No time for anything but her ballet? Ah. Well. Too bad. But commendable. But here was his card, should Lana change her mind.

Alice saw Gil, trying to make his way back over to them, but the crowd seemed to be moving against him. Tonight Gil was the one who was forced to fight for Lana’s attention and compete with the others. It was the opposite of the night of Andy’s party, a fact that Alice found entertaining. Gil finally returned to their side and flashed Alice a reproachful look.

“I told you to look out for her,” he said to her once Mark Haverford had been shooed away, replaced by two elderly ladies eager to tell Lana of their own bygone ballet days.

“I was looking out for her. You’ll note she’s been by my side since we arrived.”

“Mark Haverford? How could you? No woman is safe around him. And you introduced them. I saw you.”

“Gil. She’s twenty-two, not sixteen.”

“She’s taken, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Right. Taken, by Julia’s boyfriend.”

Gil scowled, but held back further comment.

Lana’s hand on his arm a moment later seemed to diffuse his anger. She murmured to Gil that, if possible, she’d like to have a seat and eat a real meal. Gil, being Gil, managed to procure them a private table in the restaurant area within minutes, ahead of the people still waiting to be seated. A waiter materialized, took their order and hurried away. Alice asked Lana how she thought the performance had gone.

“I think it went okay,” Lana said and cast an inquiring glance at Gil, who nodded.

“You were incredible, utterly gorgeous. It was amazing to watch. Alice missed a good one.”

“Gil said you never attend performances,” Lana said to Alice. “And I remember your telling Niles the same thing. Why not?”

Gil snorted with laughter but made no comment. Lana looked expectantly at Alice, who gave a self-conscious shrug. “Oh, I don’t know; it just gives me the hives. Sitting there, after so many years of having done it. I guess I burned out on it all.”

“Alice can’t be the star of the show anymore,” Gil joked, and Alice made sure to laugh with him.