Authors: Thalia Kalkipsakis
‘Shit.’ I clear my head with a few good shakes. ‘Sorry.’ I move onto all fours.
‘Don’t get UP!’
Hands push me back. Awkwardly, I sit again, resting on the bum cheek that didn’t take the fall. That sure is going to be the mother of all bruises.
Miss Penelope sits next to me and rests my leg on her knees. ‘Scissors!’ she barks at Tadpole.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘My ankle’s fine.’ I wish I could say the same for my bum. ‘I’ll be okay.’
She’s not listening. Tadpole comes back and my pointe shoe comes off, tights are cut away. I circle my ankle as proof.
Miss Penelope works through various tests and prods before moving to my knee. ‘No pain at all?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I’m okay.’ Tadpole’s rocking from one foot to the other. ‘Sorry, I’ll keep going,’ I say, and push against the floor, meaning to stand.
‘No.’ Miss Penelope places a hand on my shoulder.
I keep going, pushing past her resistance and standing anyway. I test my weight on my ankle. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
Miss Penelope places her hands on her hips and looks from me to Tadpole. She breathes in. ‘Twice I’ve seen dancers keep working after a scare and then end up with a real injury.’
I shake my head. ‘But we have scares all the time. It’s nothing, I promise –’
‘Scarlett. Do you realise how close you were then? Do you realise what that would
mean
?’
Something about her tone makes me stop, swallow.
‘It’s not happening on my watch,’ says Miss Penelope softly.
When I glance at Tadpole, he’s staring at Miss Penelope, mouth open slightly.
‘Anyway,’ she says, crossing her arms. ‘I want you to go home, Scarlett. Take some time.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll make you pay.’
‘Yes, but …’ Then I trail off. Maybe I don’t
have
to push through this. Maybe this is just what I need. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
I collect my gear, sign out at the office and head out the main doors. I suddenly feel shaky. I drop my bag and watch it topple down the steps before coming to rest at the bottom. I sink to the ground, jolted by a sudden realisation. If Miss Penelope cares so much about me hurting myself, why don’t I? What am I doing?
Pushing to my limit, or just running away?
Water fizzes orange in a glass as the vitamin tablet dissolves. I watch it flip and fizzle to nothing before bringing the glass to my lips and draining it in one go. I’m still paying for last night, but this helps. I have an apple and a boiled egg, and start to feel human again.
Mum’s not home. Probably taking piano lessons at Kennington Primary. Upstairs, I lie back on the pillows.
Seconds tick into empty minutes. I’m tired, but sleep doesn’t come. Maybe because I just ate. Soon I roll over, lying still. For the first time in so long, I’ve stopped pushing.
I look around my room. Ballerina posters, dancing magazines, old pointe shoes hung over the door. All my life I’ve dreamed of dancing with the NBC. I’ve worked so hard, I’ve come so close …
So close to messing it up.
The sticky note saying Natasha called is still on the edge of my mirror. I should have called her back ages ago. Before I can chicken out, I dial her number.
‘Ah … hi,’ I say when she picks up. ‘It’s Scarlett Stirling. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Not at all,’ comes Natasha’s voice. ‘I’ve been hoping you would call. I thought that perhaps you didn’t want to see me.’ There’s a pause. ‘Your references are ready, but I’d like to speak to you about … other things too.’
‘Thanks, that’s … great.’
‘I could come over this evening perhaps, to drop off your references?’ There’s hope in her voice.
Once again, I imagine Mum opening the door to find Natasha. ‘Ah … can I come over now and pick them up?’
‘Well, I’m at work. But I could print them out here, I guess. Do you remember where we are? The NBC …’
‘Sure. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.’
As soon as I hang up, I feel a quickening in my chest. I’m seeing her at the
National Ballet Company.
The building is in a funky part of the city, among cafes, specialty bookshops and art-supply places. I find the entrance easily. Carpeted steps lead to reception. As I walk up them I imagine coming here for work. Being one of the best.
There’s no-one behind the desk. A hallway to one side seems to lead somewhere, so I wander down, peeking through doorways as I go.
‘Scarlett, here!’ Natasha’s head appears at the end of the hall, and she raises her hand smoothly before disappearing again.
Boxes are lined up against one wall of the office, a printer clunking through pages.
‘Have you just moved offices?’ I ask, eyeing the boxes.
‘Sorry?’ Natasha turns away from the computer. ‘Oh … no, I’m packing up. I’ve accepted a position as artistic director at a new company. I’ll be leaving in three weeks.’
‘Wow, congratulations.’
She smiles graciously, the queen accepting a compliment. ‘Yes, it’s time to move on. I’m looking forward to this, such a different way of working. Highly collaborative.’
‘Sounds amazing.’
Natasha breathes in. ‘So, how are you, Scarlett?’
‘Fine.’ I shrug and immediately feel awkward as Natasha looks at me steadily. What am I meant to say?’
‘And how’s your mother?’
I cross my arms. ‘She’s fine too.’
‘I wanted to apologise about the phone call,’ says Natasha. ‘For any confusion. I didn’t realise –’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault,’ I say quickly. You weren’t the one who pushed him away and then lied about it.
For a moment Natasha considers me, then swivels to the printer and pulls out some pages. ‘All right, the references. It’s a while since I wrote these.’ She reads through the top page and then flicks through others.
I shift my weight, crunch my toes. There’s nowhere to sit, even if I wanted to.
‘Good,’ Natasha says after a while. She signs the papers before looking up. ‘One of these is addressed to the Artistic Director of the NBC, as you requested. But I also want you to consider some other companies. I’ve made a list,’ she says, holding it out for me.
My eyes skim down the names. ‘You don’t think I’ll make it here?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Natasha says. ‘I’m just not sure this is the best place for you.’
I look her in the eye. ‘I can do whatever they ask of me. Whatever it takes, I promise you, I’ll do it.’
‘Listen to me, Scarlett.’ Natasha stands so that we’re at eye level. ‘Anyone who sees you dance will recognise you’re a creative artist. You need freedom to develop that, which is why I think that you belong in a collaborative environment. Modern, not classical.’ She tilts her head. ‘You want to be the best, but you can only be best at who
you
truly are.’
‘But Dad … he worked here.’ It comes out quietly.
Natasha sighs. ‘And you think that makes it the place for you?’
I don’t respond.
‘How much has your mother told you about the night your father died?’
Part of me shrinks back, suddenly scared of what I’ll hear. ‘Not much. She said his heart stopped.’
‘I can explain a bit, if you’d like?’ she asks softly. ‘I tried speaking to Celeste that night but she refused to see me. Then I tried a few weeks later and was told that she’d moved to the UK.’
‘We did move there, for a while,’ I say. ‘But we came back.’
‘Okay,’ says Natasha. For a moment, she closes her eyes. Her voice begins, calmly, evenly, as if she’s rehearsed. ‘That night … Ashton turned up late at my house, bashing on the door, upset. He’d been out drinking, from what I could tell, and then ended up at the Company. It wasn’t uncommon, all the principals had access. I think he’d planned to sleep there that night, but … I don’t know … perhaps he’d had trouble sleeping and ended up rehearsing instead. His contract was up for renewal and I think he knew his chances …’
She drifts off, shrugging rather than saying the words Dad couldn’t bear to hear so long ago.
‘He’d got it into his head that he had to prove he could still lift partners,’ Natasha continues. ‘He wanted me to rehearse some lifts …’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Clearly he wasn’t thinking straight, and there wasn’t much I could say. Everyone knew about his shoulder by then. The best I could do was calm him down and send him home. But the taxi driver took one look at him and drove off. I don’t blame him. Ashton was so drunk he could hardly stand. So I took him inside and steered him towards the couch …’ Her voice goes tight but she pushes on. ‘I thought he’d just sleep it off. But I didn’t realise what he’d already taken by then. There was a combination of alcohol and drugs in his system and his heart gave up.’ She sighs heavily. ‘I’ve gone over that night in my mind a million times. What should I have done?’
For a moment, she looks at me as if expecting an answer.
I’m trying to think it all through. This isn’t what I’d expected. It’s awful, of course. But no mention of an affair.
‘But Celeste … she blames me or … I don’t know. It got out that he was found dead in my house. She wouldn’t let me explain.’ Natasha’s eyes lock onto mine. ‘Will you tell her what happened? I’ve wanted to speak to her for so long.’
I nod. It’s such a lonely story. Sad and desperate. If Dad had listened to Mum that night, would he still be here?
‘Thank you.’ It’s all I can say, but I mean it.
‘Good luck, Scarlett.’ She smiles awkwardly. ‘And give my regards to Celeste. I hope this will … help her somehow?’
I’m almost at the door when I stop and turn. ‘Would you like to come to our graduation performance?’ I ask. ‘Mum will be there on closing night. You could speak to her.’ Maybe I can give Mum something she needs.
Natasha straightens her back, considering. ‘When is it?’
‘A week from Saturday. I could leave tickets at the door. You and a friend?’
‘All right.’ She nods once. ‘Thank you. That would be good.’
Mum’s at the stove when I get home, her body moving slightly as she stirs. She glances my way and raises her eyebrows before turning back.
For a while I watch her cooking, trying to imagine what she used to be like before all this.
I stand against the door frame. ‘I’m going to try for an audition at the NBC.’
Mum stops stirring and rests her fingertips on the edge of the bench. I wait, but she doesn’t turn around.
‘You don’t need to worry. She won’t be there much longer. She’s leaving to start up a new company.’
There’s no reaction but I see her body stiffen. ‘Who?’ Mum asks thinly.
I want her to look at me, but she keeps her back to me and starts stirring again.
‘Mum, she wants you to know … nothing happened between her and Dad. It sounds as if he went on a bender … he ended up at her place, wanting to rehearse lifts.’ Again, the stirring stops. Again, Mum’s body stiffens. ‘He wanted to prove that his shoulder was okay. He was there so that he could keep dancing, not … for anything else. And I believe her, Mum. She was telling the truth.’
Mum’s head is bowed over the stove. Her shoulders are shaking a little and I realise …
This is it. Her tender place. The words I’ve just spoken are massive for Mum. Much bigger for her than even for me. This time, she’s the one who can’t talk about it.
So I take a seat, and watch her stirring while she comes to terms with a truth she’s needed to hear for so long.
The music ends and I’m breathing hard, hands on hips. I haven’t felt this clear for a long time.
I take another breath then mark out a step. Something’s wrong with it. It’s too slow.
I go back, do it again. Yes, that’s better. I was giving it too much time.
Once more, I mark it through. Then I move to the sound system, pressing play and running to the side. I’ll be entering from off-stage left, so that’s where I start from now. It’s the only solo I’ll be doing in the graduation performance. Here’s my chance to show them what I can do.
The music begins and I move forwards, imagining that I’m performing for an audience that holds, in less than a week’s time, the ticket to my future.
I’ve already sent Natasha’s reference to the Artistic Director of the NBC, along with a letter from me, promising that I won’t waste his time. I also sent a letter with a general reference to a modern-dance company that I’ve seen and liked, and another to a new company that’s getting the reviewers excited. Everything that I can do has now been done. Other than dance.
So that’s what I’m doing.
When I’m happy with the solo, I start into my part in the finale, marking it through in the mirror, then working to music.
I’m tired. It’s almost time to stop, but adrenaline carries me through. After closing night, I can rest. All that matters now is the performance.
My whole life has been spiralling towards two nights that are nearly here.
Tuesday is a forced rest day, the day before our first full run-through. I had booked a studio, but Jack made me cancel and promise that I wouldn’t dance today, even at home.
It’s okay. I’m tired already. The twinges remind me that I’ve worked enough, done as much as I can. I eat small meals, and snack on an apple and a handful of almonds in between. Not too much that I feel weighed down, just enough to keep me focused.
I try a bit of homework, a practice psychology exam. But now more than ever it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than dance, so I pull out my headphones. I choose a track and lie back on my pillow. My body begins to relax, settle in.
I’m about to hit repeat when the ring of my mobile rises above the music. I’m upright in a flash, earplugs pulled out, and picking up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Baaaabe, it’s me. Do you want to come round?’
My heart accelerates as my stomach turns over. Moss is acting as if nothing happened.
The anger and the hurt flare within me. ‘Sorry, I’m busy. Opening night’s three days away.’
‘Next week then?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ But I can’t leave it at that. ‘I’m sure you have someone else you can call.’
I hear a slow intake of breath. ‘Look, you made your point. You don’t want to see me with –’
‘It’s not just that,’ I butt in.
‘Then what?’ says Moss. ‘Babe, I’ve missed you.’