Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  “Wait.” Crimson jumped up. “Will you be staying at Longwood Hall?”

  “Yes.” Her mother said, flustered. “I invited Myrtie to stay. It’s still my home, until the end of the year, and I there is no reason why I can’t have guests…”

  Crimson waved away the bumbling explanation. “Of course you can have guests. I was talking about your car. I’ve been using it to learn to drive. Is it all right for me to keep it, if I get you a rental instead?”

  “There’s no need,” her mother said. “Myrna’s bought a car, now that she can no longer afford a limo and a driver.”

  “Oh?” Crimson directed her attention to Nick’s mother. “What did you get?”

  “A pickup truck, of course,” Myrna Constantine said. Then the two mothers looked at each other and burst into peals of laughter. They were still reeling with it when they bounded down the stairs in their practical shoes, clutching the photocopied bits of gossip.

  At the end of the day, while she waited for Hank to be ready to leave, Crimson leafed through the magazines. She found no clues to the odd behavior of her mother and Myrna Constantine in the reading material the pair had left behind, but an item on the society page caught her eye.

  Marcela Ballard, the wife of David Ballard, a former motor racing champion and the head of Ballard Automotive, had flown out to China on an extended holiday. It was rumored that her marriage was in trouble and she was leaving her husband.

  A jolt of jealousy slammed into Crimson. She stared at the picture of a woman with long, dark hair and serene beauty, and accepted the truth. She had committed the utter act of stupidity and fallen in love with Nick Constantine. And now he had vanished off to China. And so had Marcela Ballard, his former fiancée.

  ****

  I can do this. I can do this, Crimson told herself. If Marcela Ballard can write books on early Christianity, and the history of the Vatican, and the Spanish Inquisition, I can bloody well chair a meeting and tell people what to do. Particularly as those people are paid to do what I tell them to do.

  Crimson turned to Patrick Letterman, who sat beside her at the conference table in her office. They had spent a week brainstorming ideas for the advertising campaign. Patrick was in his early thirties, fair haired, a little chubby. He’d worked hard to impress, in the hope that Jorge would soon leave for a bigger job, creating an opportunity for promotion.

  The three directors, Hank and Peter and Jorge, walked in together. Making it clear that they had convened beforehand, to speculate about the purpose of the meeting.

  “I’ve reached some decisions,” Crimson informed them. “I want to make a promotional video, to tie in with the print campaign in car magazines. A blank DVD costs less than fifty cents. Add postage, and it will only cost a few dollars to target selected clients.”

  “There’ll be one-off production costs,” Jorge pointed out.

  “They’ll be small. Gregg Watkins has a brother who is in film school in New York. He can borrow equipment, provided he can direct the video and use it as his school project. If we need extras, Anna and Gregg can bring in actors from Longwood Players.”

  Jorge glanced at Patrick. “You’ve looked into this.”

  Patrick shrugged. “It’s Crimson’s idea. I’m just helping with the logistics.”

  She took over again. “I thought we’d start with a film clip of the Spur in Le Mans in 1923, or some other race. There must be archive footage we can use. Then a segment with someone narrating the history of Constantine Motors. Then Hank, doing a tour of the factory. Perhaps Nick talking about motor racing in general. Then a ballet sequence that flows into a picture of the original Spur. Grace and speed. Glamour and artistry. Poetry in motion and all that crap. There’s a buzz about a ballet dancer heading up a car company. I want to milk it for all it’s worth.”

  She paused for effect. “Then, the old Spur will morph into the new Spur.”

  “New Spur.” Hank scowled. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  “A new car,” Crimson told them. “I want to revive the Constantine Spur. A limited edition vehicle. Ten, twenty cars at the most. That’s what we’ll produce into inventory, to keep the factory on a full working week. I’d like to make the new Spur bigger than the Panther, with every possible extra included. And I want to sell them in an auction, here, on the premises, a few days before Christmas. The ideal Christmas gift for the man who has everything.” She directed her words to Hank. “Can we do that? Make bigger cars, without cutting into the profits?”

  “Well.” Hank’s wiry brows gathered into a frown. “If you just make them with a longer wheel base, with the same width…yes…it can be done.”

  “Jorge, do you think it might work?” she asked the marketing director. “Will people pay for something exclusive? I want the reserve price to be three hundred thousand dollars per vehicle.”

  Jorge rubbed at his top lip in a gesture that made Crimson guess he’d shaved off a moustache not too long ago. “If you create a buzz…maybe…but I’m not sure about the auction. If you have ten identical cars, people will get bored bidding for them.”

  Crimson studied the glossy picture of a Constantine Panther on the table. “How about we make them each a different color, and give them a name. A blue one, Spur Sapphire. Green one, Spur Emerald. Give each of them a unique identity.”

  “No,” Jorge said. “Not the tradition. Dilutes the brand image.”

  “What if we make them two colors, like the Panther?” She traced her fingertip over the photograph. “Black here, where the panther is dark green, and another color here, where the Panther is purple?”

  “That might work,” Jorge conceded.

  Crimson scribbled on her notepad. “All black, Spur Onyx. Black and cream, Spur Ivory. Black and pink, Spur Ruby.”

  Peter, the earnest, somewhat plodding finance director, spoke for the first time. “I’m not sure Christmas is a good time for the auction. People don’t like to be away from their families. And some of our client base is from other religions.”

  The room fell into silence.

  Jorge brightened up. “Thanksgiving. American festival. We promote the Panther as an American car, and we’ll do the same for the Spur. That should appeal to both domestic and overseas markets. We could make the auction at the end of November, the weekend after Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s only three months away,” Hank said, his face furrowed as he performed the mental calculations. “Unless we start working overtime, the production schedule would allow for twelve cars. Let’s play it safe and plan for ten.”

  “Great.” Crimson held up her pen. “All in favor, gentlemen?”

  Hands rose in agreement. Heads nodded.

  Eat your heart out, Marcela Ballard, Crimson thought as she watched the management team of Constantine Motors file out of her office, excited voices trailing after them, her plan now their sole topic of conversation.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Ten

  Nick rented a car at JFK. Driving jetlagged was not a good idea, but he wanted to go straight from the airport to Longwood Hall. To Crimson.

  For six weeks, he’d rattled around China, checking out electronics suppliers, using the business as an excuse to stay away while he wrestled with the demons from his past. Even with the crowds teeming around him, people yammering away in that high pitched, staccato noise that was rapidly spoken Chinese, he’d never felt lonelier in his life.

  He wanted Crimson. Needed her. He was ready to admit that much to himself. She didn’t trust him, but he wouldn’t let her say no to him. Not again. Not this time. For, as far as he was concerned, there was no better way for a man to gain a woman’s trust than to occupy her bed, and then prove that he wouldn’t stray.

  When his eyes grew gritty with fatigue, Nick stopped for a coffee at a service station, drank it black and strong. He took out his phone and dialed Longwood Hall to alert Soames to his arrival.

  The butler showed no surprise. “Welcome back, Mr. Constant
ine,” he said. “Miss Crimson is at the office. The film crew is staying at Longwood Hall overnight.”

  “Film crew?”

  “For the commercial, Sir.”

  Nick ended the call and resumed his journey. While he’d been away, he’d exchanged impersonal, businesslike emails with Crimson. She had told him about the promotional video and the limited edition Constantine Spur. Pride stirred inside him. She might be a ballet dancer, but she was giving any MBA graduate a run for their money.

  He parked outside the office, next to a minivan and an old VW bus, and walked over to the showroom across the lawn. The cool evening air revived him. Autumn leaves rustled beneath his feet, reminding him of how long he’d been away. He eased through the darkness, guided by the spill of light through the glass wall of the showroom and the gentle, tentative sounds from a solo violin.

  When he reached the building, he curled his hands against the glass wall to peer inside. The showroom had been rearranged. The race cars were gone, except for the antique Spur, suspended on the glass platform. Beneath it, five finished Panthers stood in a semicircle. In one of them sat a young man, dressed in a leather helmet and a pair of small, round racing goggles that spoke of a bygone era.

  The violin let out a discordant note and fell silent. The makeup girl, a gangly redhead, gave the racing driver a final puff of powder. A young man with long hair caught in a ponytail rushed around, adjusting the Klieg lights. Then he retreated into the corner, next to the cluster of curious onlookers, and yelled, “Action.”

  The ceiling lights went off. Darkness shrouded the vast room. In the next moment, the violin started again, a slow, haunting tune. One of the Klieg lights came on, a dim glow that formed a golden circle on the polished stone floor. Something stirred in the center of the light. A flutter of white. Slim arms lifted. A slender body uncoiled, rising inch by each, each gesture brimming with tension, with impatience, as if waiting to explode into motion.

  A purring sound joined the violin. Like an engine. Crimson broke into a swift sequence of steps and began to dance, round and round in a circle over the small floor, leaping, gathering pace, her movements growing more and more urgent as the violin burst into deep, hectic sounds. The other instrument kept pace, roared and then faded again, like a race car that travels around the track, slowing for the turns and accelerating on the straights.

  In the dance, in the music, Nick could see and hear a race unfold. Finally, the violin broke into a crescendo, the purr grew triumphant, and Crimson darted across an imaginary finishing line, chest thrust forward, arms flung back. She came to rest draped over the racing car that another Klieg light had picked out at the last moment. The driver reached out to wrap his arms around her, pulling her head to rest against his shoulder.

  “Cut!” the young man with a ponytail yelled.

  The ceiling lights came on. Nick hauled air into his lungs, which had stopped working. A massive, aching arousal strained in his jeans, and he thanked his lucky stars that he’d not gone inside to join the others.

  “There’s a shadow on the glass.” The ponytail stormed over, across the room, adroitly skipping past the trailing cables, and yanked open the glass door. His eyes fell on Nick.

  “Who to fuck are you?” he grumbled. “You just ruined the shot.”

  “I’m sorry.” Nick stepped forward, using the movement to adjust his jeans. “I’m Nick Constantine. I’ve just flown in from China. I wanted to stop by the office and saw the lights. Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt…I didn’t realize I’d cause a problem standing out here.”

  “Come inside.” The young man moved out of the way, holding the door open with one hand, a clipboard clutched in the other. He gestured down at their feet. “Watch out for the power leads.”

  Nick went through. The young man shut the door behind him and held out a hand. “I’m Todd Watkins. My brother Gregg works here.” As he spoke, he waved a hand toward the people gathered in the back. Nick could see Gregg, and Anna, and Patrick, and Jorge. Todd Watkins kept talking and pointing. “Kathy does the makeup and wardrobe. Sohaila provides the soundtrack, with help from a synthesizer.”

  With each step, they were getting closer to Crimson. She stood beside the driver in the Panther, her hand resting at the top of the door. Nick had never been so conscious of the presence of a woman. Not even when he’d been in bed with one, pounding flesh to flesh.

  “Hello, Nick.”

  Two short words. They made his skin tingle. Had her voice always been so husky, so full of promise? Her skin shone milky white, bare shoulders rising from the flimsy costume. The outfit had some kind of a gossamer trail that fluttered in the air while she danced. Her hair had been styled, and it tumbled in soft waves down to her waist.

  “What did you think?” she asked.

  “I’ve always loved to see you dance.”

  She blushed, one of those slow rises of color that started at her breasts and swept up to her hairline. Nick knew that she remembered. Remembered the frantic minutes in the boardroom the last time he’d seen her dance. His arousal stirred again, and he hastily spun around to face the violinist, a small, dark girl with a hooked nose and huge dark eyes rimmed with kohl. In contrast with her harem girl appearance, she was dressed in a bright orange tank top and denim dungarees.

  “That was cool,” Nick said. “Made me think of the Monaco Grand Prix.”

  The girl—Sohaila, he remembered—broke into a huge smile. “I love this man,” she announced to everyone at large, then returned her attention to him. “I watched tapes of the whole season of Formula One to find the perfect sequence of engine roar.”

  “Good job,” Nick said with a nod.

  “This is David.” Todd Watkins slapped the shoulder of racing driver who had taken off his goggles and leather helmet and was now raking a hand through his thick, dark gold hair. David. A blond young man, with clean-cut preppie looks. Nick’s rational mind knew it was just a name. Just a coincidence. But the corrosive acid of jealousy burned in his gut.

  He spoke without thinking. “That’s all wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?” Todd asked, and waved for Patrick to join them.

  Patrick hurried over. His chubby face drew into a frown of concern. Behind him, Jorge followed with lazy, confident steps, one finger smoothing the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip.

  “The girl. The race driver.” Nick made an impatient flap with his hand toward Crimson, who remained standing far too close to David. “The ending is wrong. I don’t like the way she drools over him.”

  Patrick shrugged. “The winner gets the girl. That’s the story board.”

  Todd gestured toward the car, where Kathy was fluffing David’s hair and powdering his forehead. “It’s not going to be the Panther in the final cut,” he explained. “We’ll film the vintage Spur and digitally superimpose it. The old Spur will then change shape and morph into the new Spur. By doing the shot digitally, we avoid the hassle of taking the vintage Spur down from that platform.” As he spoke, he indicated the car up overhead.

  “So,” Nick said. “The aim is to sell the new Spur.”

  Patrick nodded. “Right.”

  “But you’re not selling cars to racing drivers,” Nick pointed out. “You’re selling them to rich men. Fathers, husbands, sons. Think of the adverts for Patek Philippe. A watch to be handed from father to son. That’s what we’re selling. The American dream. Family values. Tradition. The car you’ll never replace.”

  Jorge’s eyes flashed with interest. “I get it.” He turned to Todd, and Nick got the impression that Jorge’s enthusiasm was partly based on the opportunity to wrench control back from Patrick. “We don’t want a racing driver,” Jorge was saying to Todd. “We want a guy in evening clothes. A guy picking up his date. A good looking guy, with a debonair aura of success. A guy that men can aspire to be, if they can afford a Constantine Spur.”

  Todd tugged at his ponytail. “I see the point, but we have to wrap tonight.”

  Kathy
finished fussing with David and ambled over. “We could use him.” She pointed a long, bony forefinger at Nick. A tall, skinny redhead, she had bold, angular features that lacked symmetry but probably photographed like a dream. At a close range, Nick could tell she was older, possibly in her fifties. He would have bet money that she’d been a top model in her youth.

  She studied him, green eyes bold and intrusive, almost level with his, despite his six foot two. “Is that an afternoon shadow or a day old beard?” she asked.

  Nick rubbed his bristly jaw. “In between. I shaved in the morning, but that was Chinese time. Twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Perfect. The handsome rogue look. Goes with your dark coloring.” She poked her fingers into his hair and teased and tugged. “I have a dinner suit in the van that’ll fit. I’ll be back in a sec,” she said and strode off.

  While the others launched into revising the final scene, Nick eased over to Crimson. She’d been watching and listening, with a cautious look on her face. As he approached, she marshaled forth tiny scowl, but she could not hide the shine in her eyes, or the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing grew rapid again, after having already steadied since her dance.

  He lifted a hand and trailed his fingertip over the edge of her bodice, just as he’d done once before. “You’re mistaken if you think that I’m going to let pictures of you draped all over some other guy be circulated around the world.”

  There was no mistaking the shiver that rippled down her body, but she made a valiant effort to put up a fight. “It’s none of your business,” she informed him.

  “As of now, I’m making it my business.”

  “I’m your dreams.”

  “Yeah, baby,” he drawled. “And you’ve been starring in them all.”

  That sent another fiery surge of color up her skin. Nick suppressed a grin. For six weeks, he’d been thinking of her, day and night. He could see within Crimson the same stubborn pride that drove him. He’d suffered enough for it, had made others suffer because of his pride. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let Crimson compound his mistake by pushing him away and stopping him from finding out what could be between them.