by Lynn Turner
“Not enough hours in a day,” he mumbled, pausing the tape again. Flipping to a clean sheet in his notebook, he scribbled down more notes, then gave Alex his attention.
Alex was looking at the screen, where a ballerina was frozen in a mid-air pose that defied the laws of physics. Her right leg extended straight out in front of her, level with her waist, and her left leg mirrored it behind her. Her back arched so deeply her head nearly touched her calf, and her arms stretched overhead and behind her until she could have clasped her ankle in her hands. “Even after decades of dancing and teaching new generations the art of movement, it still amazes me the way dancers contort themselves in ways the human body shouldn’t be capable of.” He turned from the television. “I assume, since you’re taking her apart frame-by-frame, that Miss Allende has agreed to be Lady Camille?”
Zack wasn’t about to admit to blowing almost three grand on a flight to Paris, a hotel room and last-minute tickets to the ballet without so much as mentioning the part to Mina. Not in a million years. “I didn’t get a chance to extend her an offer in person. She was swarmed all night and I had an early flight back.”
And besides…He studied her impeccable posture. She’s all wrong for this. Completely wrong… Mostly wrong.
Fuck.
“I see—Oh, dear God…” Alex cringed. “That means you’ll be contacting her manager…?”
“Already taken care of.”
Alex’s brow ticked in curiosity.
“I sent a friend,” Zack said.
“A friend?”
Zack shrugged. “She was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh.” Alex grimaced, finally catching on. “Dear God.”
*
Mina stood on the large, continuous balcony of her mother’s upscale apartment in central Paris, gently towel-drying the soft, curling ends of her thick hair as she looked out at the garden below. It wasn’t exactly the lap of luxury, although she and her mother could both afford it now. But the historic Saint-Germain neighborhood was quieter than the flats she typically rented during the season in the lively Eleventh Arrondissement.
It’s not that she didn’t appreciate the eclectic people and places, but navigating the social scene was terrifying without Étienne’s hilarious running commentary and effortless charm. She’d thought it would comfort her to be surrounded by their favorite haunts, and people who wouldn’t immediately recognize her, but lately she felt like a timid guppy thrown into a sprawling tropical aquarium. She was relieved her lease was up.
“Madame, please!” her mother’s voice rang out. “It’s early. I realize your seniority affords you certain privileges where you come from, but-”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” a distinctive voice carried throughout the apartment. “It’s not my age that makes me bold. It’s my money.”
Mina left the balcony to quickly finish dressing and wrestle with her hair. By the time she joined her mother and her uninvited guest in the dining room, Mirielle Allende’s courteous tone was losing its luster.
“I’m due at Christie’s in an hour,” she tried again. “In the interest of time-”
“There you are!” Vera ignored Mirielle now that the person she’d come to see had finally emerged. “You must know who I am?”
Mina hid her amusement at the woman’s metallic gold headscarf—or was it a turban? She wore a velvet brocade jacket, minuscule penciled brows, and harsh red lip. It was as if she couldn’t decide which forties fashion trend to wear and donned them all. Enfin, the woman was heiress to her late father’s multibillion-dollar media conglomerate. She could wear whatever she wanted.
“Of course, Madame Tetley.” Mina kissed Vera’s pale cheeks. “I hope you’re enjoying your time in Paris.”
Vera Tetley wasn’t known for social calls, or mundane niceties. “Listen, doll. I’m not getting any younger. I’m ready to make my own mark on Tetley Media Group.” Sipping her tea, she left bright red smudges on the edge of Mirielle’s delicate china. “My sources tell me you haven’t renewed your contract, which is interesting, since Forbes lists you as the fourth-highest paid ballerina this year-”
“Madame, if you please,” Mirielle cut in. “This is between my client and I.”
“Of course it is.” Vera did not look away from Mina. “Which is why I’ve called on you here. You haven’t renewed, or signed a new contract, because nothing’s jumping out at you and grabbing you by that pretty little throat.”
Mirielle sucked her teeth in distaste, but Mina looked at Vera with interest. “And you have something that will…grab me?”
Vera smiled for the first time since her arrival. “The industry is pissing all over itself to find the next Hamilton. It’s too dense to understand that the next big thing won’t copy Hamilton’s model, it’ll evolve from it.”
If it were possible to see a headache take physical form, it would look like Mirielle’s expression. “We love Broadway as much as anyone, Madame,” she said, “but I don’t see-”
“Hamilton is Adam,” Vera continued. “The first of his kind. A new era of theater will spring from his loins, and I have every intention of making sure the show I’m backing will be Eve.”
Mina took a seat. The woman really was draining. “So I’m…Eve?”
“No, sweet girl. I won the bid to be the sole financier of an upcoming production written and directed by Zachary Coen.”
The bottom fell out of Mina’s stomach. She was very glad to be sitting down.
“Good heavens, my dear! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Pardon, I think I just need to eat.” Mina felt Mirielle’s eyes on her and reached for a piece of fruit from the center of the table.
Vera stretched out her hand at the same time, selecting an apple and turning it in her hand. “Coen’s production will be Eve, and you will be the apple.”
Mina saw her distorted reflection in the apple’s waxy red surface, subtly aware of the irony of an old woman tempting her with a succulent piece of fruit. Vera’s voice kept going and Mina processed everything in pieces. Broadway. New York! Zachary Coen. Zack. A musical? She could dance, but his choreography was…radical. And…nom de Dieu…she was no Audra McDonald.
It was at once terrifying and incredibly enticing.
“What do I have to do?”
“Mina…” Mirielle cautioned.
“Sing something for me, darling.”
*
“Ooohhhh my Goooood,” Sophie groaned in French.
“Mmmmmm,” Mina moaned at the same time.
Fresh from the Hammam, they still wore their terry cloth robes, their skin supple and damp. Their eyes rolled shut and they practically melted into their spa seats, sinking their feet into the warm sea salt foot bath. A few other patrons of the spa stared at them with amused faces.
“I have waited for this.” Sophie lifted her head to look at their long-time pedicurist. He was a miracle-worker, and never balked at the sight of their battered feet. “Sorry, Guillaume. They’re in bad shape this time. I could walk on nails with these puppies.”
Guillaume smiled. “Don’t worry, choupinettes. I love it when you two come to see me.”
“I can’t wait to wear open-toed shoes again,” Mina said wistfully.
“So you shall,” Guillaume assured her. “Soak. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Okay, I’m dying,” Sophie pounced when he’d gone. “Did you sell your soul to Cruella de Vil or what?”
“Sophie!”
“What? She looks like she devours human souls.” Sophie sat up in mock alarm. “Oh mon Dieu, are you okay? Let me see your eyes.”
Mina swatted her arm. “Will you stop? She was a little…overbearing…but-”
Sophie scoffed.
“Fine. She was scary. You should have seen maman.” Mina grinned. “She didn’t even scold me about my clothes.”
“Sweats are not appropriate street attire,” Sophie parroted in Mirielle’s austere tone.
“She couldn’t
get a word in! But for once, I was grateful for it.”
Sobering, Sophie peered at Mina. “It must have been something, if it silenced Queen Mother,” she joked softly. “What is it, chère?”
“Broadway.”
Sophie gasped.
“A modern adaptation of La Dame aux Camélias…”
“Oh mon Dieu!”
“And I do mean moderne.”
“Whoa.” Sophie fell back in her seat. “That’s way out of my comfort zone.”
“Mine, too. But it’s such a rare opportunity, and I’ve been looking for something to…something that’s-”
“Away.”
Mina nodded. “The musical is called Lady in Red. Choreographed by Zachary Coen.”
Sophie shot forward. “Putain de bordel de merde!”
“SOPHIE!” Mina burned with embarrassment, every eye in the space now trained on her.
Sophie was oblivious. “Sleep orgasm guy?!”
“S’il te plaît, I’m begging you…” Mina wanted to crawl from her skin.
The scandalized brunette finally looked around at their riveted audience and lowered her voice. “Désolé,” she repented sheepishly. “But oh mon Dieu, Mina!”
“I know.”
Sophie leaned back again with a sinful grin. “The way he moves, oohhh, I bet he’s good.”
Mina knew exactly what she meant.
Zachary Coen was a wonderfully expressive dancer—he used his entire body to tell a story, like the words were trapped in his atoms, and only movement could draw them out. His proportions shouldn’t allow him to be so extraordinarily elastic and quick. But he was. He could make great leaps, then continue in a lazy stride, like he’d merely taken a little hop. Unlike the partners she was accustomed to, his poses weren’t showy, but clever. It was completely rational to wonder what that kind of…skill…was like in other ways, was it not?
She turned to mush in her chair. “I miss sex. Everything about it. I miss the sounds, the smell, the sweat—the feel of someone strong and heavy moving between my thighs.”
There wasn’t a man in Paris who wanted to date a woman he’d never see, and with her recent fame, casual liaisons were out of the question now.
Sophie blew a sympathetic breath. “So… aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“Of course I am.”
“Scared?”
“Shitless.” Mina wiggled her toes. “Étienne used to say that’s how you know you have to do it.”
Sophie reached for her hand and squeezed just as Guillaume returned. “A musical. Not my cup of tea, but I’d endure a two-hour singing telegram for you, chère.”
“Oh, merci,” Mina deadpanned.
Sophie looked thoughtful. “Enfin, the piano and violin may have been failures, but you should thank Queen Mother for making you get voice lessons. Have you heard Monsieur Coen sing?”
“Oui.” Mina smiled conspiratorially. “I found some off-Broadway stuff on YouTube. He sounds like…chaipas…like, Hugh Jackman and Luke Evans had a baby.”
Guillaume whistled appreciatively.
“Damn.” Sophie bit her lip. “And Cruella? She said yes?”
“I don’t know yet, but she made me sing.”
“Ahaha!” Sophie cackled. “What did you sing?”
Mina blushed furiously and even Guillaume stopped to stare at her.
He snapped his fingers. “Out with it, choupinette.”
“I was put on the spot, okay? It was the first thing to come to mind…from my favorite movie when I was little…”
“’FIEVEL GOES WEST?!’” Sophie howled.
“I was eight!” Mina snapped.
“Hush,” Guillaume said to Sophie. “I want to hear.”
Straightening her spine, Mina took a deep breath and sang the first verse of “Somewhere Out There.”
*
“What do you think?” Zack asked Mrs. Perez, the vocal coach they’d tapped for the cause.
She, Zack and Alex had just watched Mina perform her…interesting…song choice on a tablet device. Vera’s breathing was audible over the speakerphone as they awaited Mrs. Perez’s expert assessment.
“Well, she’s not winning any Grammys for that little show,” she said frankly, “but I think she’s a lovely lyrical alto. Rich and full at the bottom, lighter at the top. Good resonance. But most importantly, she’s loud. Impressive, considering the French have a natural huskiness in their tones.”
Zack looked at Alex, trying to quell his mounting excitement.
“That kind of chest voice is perfect for Camille,” she concluded.
“I agree,” Alex said. “Naturally sultry. Not trying too hard.”
“Good.” Vera clapped once. “The invitation to open the Tony Awards this year means people are dying to see what’s under our skirts. I say we give them a peek! We’ve got our shiny ballerina and your ballsy choreography, Zachary. So, whet their appetites with the bawdiest number, and they’ll be drooling at the box office come opening night.”
Alex looked toward heaven in exasperation and then cocked a brow at Zack. “Can we do it in a few weeks?”
Zack raked his fingers through his hair. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely confident. The rest of the Lady in Red cast had been selected weeks ago during workshops. After returning from Paris, he devised a plan that was completely batshit, but just might work.
If he split the cast into groups to rehearse with dance captains he hand-picked, his evenings would be free to work one-on-one with Mina. They had six weeks to prepare for previews, and less than two weeks of previews before opening night on Broadway.
“It’s risky.” He rubbed the new growth on his chin. “Her schedule will be grueling. I’m gonna need the first few weeks just to teach her technique and prep for the Tonys. The remaining three weeks, she’ll have to play catch-up in rehearsals with the rest of the cast. But…I have a good feeling about her.”
“She’s got something I can work with,” said Mrs. Perez. “I’ll need to see her a few times a week to iron out any pitch issues, and help her with stamina, so her voice isn’t cracking halfway through a performance. After that, I’ll see her once a week like everyone else.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Vera croaked. “When does she need to be there?”
“Yesterday,” Zack and Alex said at the same time.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
*
New York was loud. Loud in the morning, loud in the afternoon, even overnight. Outside Mina’s hotel in Times Square, it was a symphony of honking horns, Euro beats, and the never-ending stream of people going about their everyday lives. Paris was busy, too, but she’d never describe it as noisy. The offbeat soundtrack of the city made her feel…alive. After a few days, jet lag was finally wearing off, and she was beginning to get a feel for her surroundings.
The dance theater was less than a mile away, an easy jog to get her body temperature up each morning so her ankles wouldn’t snap during warm-up class. The metro ran twenty-four seven, she remembered from her last visit, as did a smorgasbord of every kind of food establishment she could imagine. She was grateful, because she’d awakened ravenous at four in the morning the last two days.
Eventually she’d need to find someplace that didn’t offer a days’ worth of calories in a single serving. Most urgently—she glared at yet another café chain sign overhead—a good, strong espresso. Just before she was reduced to scratching herself in withdrawal, a friendly native (who loved her accent, by the way, where was she from?) directed her to a cafe on West Thirty-Eighth.
Her cell chimed, and she answered without checking the caller ID. “Allô?”
“Ça va, Mina,” Alex’s upbeat voice came over the line. “How are you settling in?”
“Oh, Monsieur Verenich!” She was slightly breathless from rushing across the crosswalk. Pedestrians, it seemed, were moving targets here. “Ça va bien, merci. So kind of you to pay for my hotel.”
“Think nothing of it. Sorry to treat y
ou like a nomad, but it’s a temporary arrangement. Hopefully we’ll find something more suitable in the coming weeks.”
“It’s no bother,” she said. “Dancers are like nomads, I think.”
He chuckled. “They are, indeed. Listen, don’t be a stranger. If you’re not doing anything this evening, why don’t you drop by the summer intensive course I’m teaching? They’re kids, and they’d get a kick out of meeting a famous ballerina.”
Alex Verenich just asked me to “drop by.”
“Of course.” She tried to sound casual, digging for a pen in her enormous Chanel bag. It was her baby, a rare splurge that fit her entire life in it easily. “What is the address, s’il vous plaît?”
Mina hadn’t been to Harlem since her father had taken her when she was a child. They’d seen Cats on Broadway, and then taken the train to eat at Sylvia’s after. It was the latest she’d ever stayed out and was still one of her fondest memories. Much had changed since then, but much was still the same: the towering brick and mortar, bodegas on almost every corner, and the virtually uninterrupted sea of brown faces, one of which smiled warmly at her and pointed her in the right direction.
The dance theater was rife with nervous excitement. It was like it was airborne, bouncing from person-to-person as soon as Mina walked through the storied doors. She didn’t need to ask where to go because she was recognized instantly, escorted by the gushing receptionist to the introductory pas de deux class Alex was teaching that evening.
She slipped in as quietly as possible, just in time to see Alex demonstrate to a young man the proper hold for his partner’s échappé.
“The left hand holds.” Alex moved the teen’s hand to its proper position on the girl’s abdomen. “And the right pushes, gently at her back, helping her with the turn…Good!”
A few whispers had already made it around the studio, and Alex looked to where Mina stood in the rear of the space.
“Mina!” He walked toward her with a warm smile. “What’s it been, ten years?”
“Almost exactly.” Leaning in, she exchanged cheek kisses. “I was seventeen when I joined the Paris Opera Ballet, and meeting you is still one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me.”
“Well bon-jour,” someone said in a cheeky tone.