Silhouette (6 page)

With the others I do a circuit of the room, collecting bags, water bottles and various tops that have been flung off throughout the day. I hang back as the door thuds shut behind them.

Here’s my moment.

Natasha’s finished on her mobile but I hover, keeping busy with the zipper on my top. After a while I make my way across the room and stand neatly, feet together. Her eyebrows rise questioningly, hand pausing before she wraps her burgundy scarf around her neck.

I resist the urge to curtsey. ‘I just wanted to say thanks for today. I’ve learnt so much.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Her voice is warmer than I was expecting.

I take a breath. ‘Actually, you wouldn’t know this, but you danced with my father once.’

There’s a moment of quiet as Natasha’s eyes meet mine. ‘I know who your father was, Scarlett.’

My lips part as I realise that this is why she saved me at the audition. ‘You knew all along?’

She nods and something flickers across her face, her eyes distant. It’s almost as if she’s looking
through
me to … where?

Soon Natasha turns towards the mirror and breathes in. ‘And Celeste? How is she? I thought she moved to the UK.’

She knows Mum? Of course. Mum was a piano accompanist at the NBC. ‘She’s … okay,’ I say slowly.

Natasha’s eyes flick back to me. ‘And she knows that you’re working with me?’

‘Sure,’ I lie. But I don’t want to talk about Mum. ‘I just wanted to ask about Dad. See … there’s not much I remember.’

‘Of course. You want to hear about Ashton.’ There’s a pause as Natasha considers a distant point in the mirror. ‘Your father was very talented … a unique dancer. But perhaps a bit too arrogant for his own good.’ She turns to me, almost smiling. ‘A bit like you.’

‘Really?’ I can’t help grinning. If she’s trying to insult me, then she’s talking to the wrong person.

Just slightly, she nods. ‘It still makes me sad to think of what happened. Such a waste.’

The car crash, I guess she means, or maybe his shoulder injury before that.

I want her to keep talking, but Natasha gets in before I can form my next question. ‘And what about you, Scarlett? What are your plans from here?’

It feels good to be able to speak about this openly. No fear of hurting Mum, or sparking envy in anyone’s eyes. ‘I want to be the best dancer I can be. Working in the best company. I’m aiming for the NBC.’

Her eyes narrow on me. ‘To be the best you can? And what exactly does that mean?’

Isn’t it obvious? I just raise my eyebrows in explanation.

‘You want to be a soloist, or principal artist one day, yes?’

I nod.

‘What if you find work with the Company but spend your career in the corps de ballet? Would that be enough?’

‘Well, I don’t know.’ I shrug. But I’m not planning on staying in the corps.

‘My point, Scarlett, is that the National Ballet Company is highly specialised and exceedingly competitive. Only a handful of people ever make it as principal artists. Others spend years waiting for their chance. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You might want to consider other options as well.’

I look carefully at her. ‘Yes, but some people make it. You did. And Dad.’

Natasha sighs. ‘Yes, your father …’ Her eyes drop. ‘And you’ve discussed your plans with Celeste?’

‘I’ve tried, but … she’s not exactly keen for me to audition for the NBC. I think she wants to forget everything that happened.’

Natasha’s keys jangle in her hand as she reaches into her bag. ‘Here.’ She’s holding a business card. ‘I might be able to help. Ask your mother to call me.’

‘Really?’ I take the card:
Natasha Stojmenov. Resident Choreographer, National Ballet Company.
‘Wow. Thanks.’

The warmth is gone. ‘You realise that there will be no changing choreography if you make it to the Company?’

‘No. No. Of course not. I’ll do anything.’ As I say it, I realise I have to do this. Even if it means hurting Mum. It’s the best, and it’s where he was, so it’s where I have to be.

‘Standing by!’

I straighten my back in preparation, watching from the side.

The rigid bulk of a camera slides forwards in slow motion, like a mechanical dinosaur. One of the lighting guys makes a last-minute bolt across the set and disappears up the stairs. Jack’s around somewhere, and Natasha, but it’s hard to know where. I can sense bodies beyond the lights rather than see them. The air feels thick with the breath of so many people, close and intense.

At the centre of it all is Moss. His head is bowed, legs apart. He’s wearing a silk shirt, open at the chest. His arms are slightly back from his body as if he’s about to fly at the camera.

We’ve been through this so many times that I’ve lost count, but I don’t feel tired. I’m almost addicted to Moss’s magnetism.

‘Standby sound … standby camera one.’ With the director’s cue, all breaths are held at once. ‘And take … CAMERA ONE!’

Music fills the space as Moss lifts his head and focuses on the camera. I can feel the pulsing rhythm beneath the power of that voice.

Oh, that voice …

I feel a quickening in my chest. It’s nearly my time.

Pania steps forward, her blue-grey dress rippling about her legs like water flowing in slow motion. She’s like a ghost moving towards Moss, and seems to pass through him before the steps pull her away. It wasn’t until make-up at six this morning that the whole vision really came together, our faces transformed into pale, drifting spirits.

With my cue, the music pulls me towards Moss, just like Pania before me. I’m so close that I can hear his real voice singing in time with the recording. His eyes are on the camera. Never at us. That’s the whole point; we’re all around him but destined never to touch.

Then comes the point, intricately choreographed by Natasha, when Moss turns to look the other way and I fall towards him, leg outstretched, chest close and rising up the length of his arm. My face finishes so close to his shoulder that I can smell the sting of sweat about him.

‘All right … CUT!’ calls the director from somewhere.

It takes me a while to catch my breath. That was intense.

‘Gooood take.’ Moss clicks his tongue my way and winks. I watch him take the stairs two at a time up to the sound booth. Who would have thought? I’m dancing with Moss Young.

Once the door clicks shut, I turn away. I’m so thirsty. The make-up woman appears from somewhere and fusses before moving on to the other dancers. The hair people do the same.

When they’re finished, I find a chair on the side of the set and wait to be called for the next take.

At the end of the shoot, word goes round about an afterparty at Moss Young’s place. I immediately think about auditions next week for the graduation performance, all the homework that needs to be finished before then, Mum expecting me home … but I push it aside and decide to go.

The two blonde dancers, Alice and Georgia, are in too, but I’m disappointed when Pania shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I have to work.’

‘Really?’ I cock an eyebrow. ‘Where?’ A cabaret show, maybe? Dedicated dance performance?

‘Sasha’s Wine Bar,’ says Pania, and laughs at my reaction. ‘It’s okay. The pay’s good, and you don’t have to audition at the start of each shift.’

‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, and even though I should probably keep my mouth shut I can’t help saying more. After today I might never see her again. ‘Did you ever try for work with a company?’

Pania’s ready with a shrug and a dry smile. She’s not surprised by my question. ‘Sure, I’ve tried. Not that I ever had a real chance with the big ballet companies. I mean … a black ballerina? Not that they’ll ever admit it.’

‘What about modern?’

Pania’s chest rises smoothly. ‘If I’m ever invited to audition, Scarlett, you can be sure I’ll be there with bells on.’

I nod, feeling silly to have asked. ‘It’s been great working with you.’ A cliché, but I actually mean it.

Pania grins. ‘I’ll see you round.’

Once she’s gone, I send Mum a text saying that the shoot’s gone into overtime, and switch my phone to silent mode.

My clothes are okay, I think, a tight dancing top and skinny jeans. Not exactly party gear, but something tells me Moss won’t be expecting an evening gown. The ghost make-up has been stripped away. At least I think it has, but a paler face than usual peers back at me from the mirror. I look washed out, so I take my time with the make-up in my bag. Eye shadow contoured carefully. Lots of black mascara. Burnt-red lipstick matches the red in my hair. My new self smiles back from the mirror. She’s older than I am. Her hair looks amazing … perfectly windswept. Sophisticated somehow.

It’s not until I’m crammed in the back seat of the taxi with Alice and Georgia that I realise how hungry I am. Acid trickles slowly in my stomach. Lunch was a huge spread of mini quiches, baguettes and expensive fruit but, like me, none of the other dancers seem able to eat much while they’re working, so the lunch went to waste. I’m tempted to pull an apple out of my bag but that feels somehow childish, so I leave it there. Just accept the stomach churning.

Georgia whispers something to Alice as the taxi turns through two iron gates that have been jammed open. We start up a very long driveway, catching glimpses of the house perched on the side of a hill, like it’s presiding over the city.

Alice hands over a Cabcharge as we slide out of the taxi. More tyres crunch on loose gravel and another taxi pulls up behind ours. A bunch of lighting guys tumble out, all holding beer stubbies. One guy cracks a joke about being the official dancers’ escort, making Georgia smile uncomfortably. Alice shoots daggers with her eyes before walking up the steps to the main entrance. I follow.

The door is opened by an older woman in a stylish black knit. Moss’s mother maybe? I’m about to introduce myself when she asks for Georgia’s coat and I realise she’s the housekeeper.

We’re shown through a huge living area to an even larger room at the back of the house. Groups of people are dotted around, drinks in hands and heads thrown back in laughter.

A group all dressed in black are lounging around a coffee table in the middle of the room, smoking cigarettes. Musicians, I assume. But I can’t see Moss anywhere. The coffee table is crowded with bottles, an overflowing ashtray the centrepiece.

Maybe this was a mistake. Alice and Georgia have already disappeared into the toilets. I scan the room for Natasha or Moss. Even Jack would be a sight for sore eyes now. But I can’t find anyone I know and I start to think they must be working back at the studio.

I’m shifting feet for the fourth time when a skinny guy dressed in black comes over, smiling like a hyena. He’s better than no-one. We chat about the amazing house for a while, but I make a point not to meet his gaze.

Eventually I cut him off with an über-fake smile. ‘Nice talking to you.’ And make my way to the other side of the room.

Through a wall of windows an outdoor pool sits empty and still. It’s lit up with rows of blue lights. A faint shimmer of heat rises from the water, making the city lights blur and blend beyond it.

‘You like it?’ asks a voice behind me.

Quickly I turn, caught unawares. ‘Oh … ah, yes.’ I’m breathless already. Not sure if it’s from the view or the fact that Moss is standing in front of me. ‘It’s beautiful.’

His eyes don’t leave mine. ‘Yes. It is.’

‘Just make sure you don’t go out for a walk and fall in,’ mumbles a guy beside Moss with tattoos twisting down one arm. ‘Speaking from experience.’

Moss jerks his head. ‘This is Bruno. Dancer, meet drummer.’

I smile and nod. ‘Scarlett.’

‘So what’s ya poison, Scarlett?’ grunts Bruno.

Right now I’d kill for a chicken stir-fry. Can of tuna? Boiled egg? ‘Maybe … just coffee,’ I say, and immediately feel like an idiot.

At the mention of coffee, both guys frown and Moss raises a finger. ‘Leave it with me.’ He makes his way to the bar, pausing to say something to the housekeeper on the way.

‘Don’t worry, he’s coming back,’ says Bruno.

Am I that obvious? I wish I could make some easy conversation. After dancing in heels all day, my legs ache in whole new ways. I wish I could sit down, but I just stand there feeling awkward and waiting for Moss to return.

‘How did the shoot go today?’ asks Bruno, mercifully making an effort to fill the silence.

I answer distractedly, but my eyes drift back to the bar. When Bruno asks another question, I realise that he is actually interested so I try to focus. I tell him about instructions from the director. How many takes we did. What I thought of the music.

I see a tall woman walk up to Moss at the bar. She’s stunning, moving with the confidence of knowing heads will always turn her way. Not a dancer, though. It’s not until she leans over the bar that I see it’s Kitty Hudson, the model. She’s always in magazines and sometimes on TV. I keep talking to Bruno, sneaking peeks at the way Moss looks at her, the position of his hand on her back, the lingering kiss they share.

Soon Moss comes over again, carrying two tall glasses.

‘Sorry, mate,’ says Moss and shrugs at Bruno. ‘Only have two hands.’

Bruno just grunts, with a cigarette between his lips as he holds a lighter to the tip. Once it flares he slowly breathes in and stale smoke is replaced with fresh. I think I’m going to faint from holding my breath.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Bruno waves the air around me in an attempt to clear the smoke. ‘’Scuse me.’

I nod, relieved, as Bruno wanders away.

My stomach churns greedily as I sip my drink, savouring the sweetness of coffee-tinged alcohol. I read somewhere that alcohol has heaps of calories, but I’m starving and there’s nothing else. I decide to count this as dinner.

‘What do you think?’ asks Moss, smiling.

‘Mmmm …’ I lick my lips and give him a small smile. ‘Delicious.’ Already my head has begun to float, but my stomach cries out for more and I sip again. My whole mouth tingles.

‘Black Russians are my inspiration.’ He leans close, voice low. ‘One of many.’

For a moment the day floods into my spinning brain: his stance, his voice, his sweat. I can hardly breathe. I clear my throat and somehow manage to speak: ‘So … ah … you’re happy with the shoot?’