“You danced really well today, Jessie.” Tabitha sidled up beside her, the tight pinch in her voice matching her bright bottle-red hair pinned in a tight bun. Unlike most dancers, Tabitha wore lots of make-up to rehearsals. Probably to show off the perfect symmetry of her exotic face, thought Jessie, disappointed with her own ordinary round eyes, her too-wide mouth and too-square jaw.
“And you did too, Tabitha. Your pointe work was perfect,” said Jessie, as Jasmine tapped her foot, obviously impatient to leave.
“Well, it won’t be long now. One of us will be principal dancer and the other will remain a senior artist next year.”
“And what will you do when Jessie becomes principal?” sneered Jasmine with a toss of her head.
“I wouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Jasmine. I have it on good authority that the role may not go to Jessie.” A smirk turned Tabitha’s exquisite face into a mask of spite.
“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.” Jasmine stepped in, thrusting her chest forward.
“Seriously, Jasmine, you can be so…” Tabitha jutted her chin higher.
Like a referee, Jessie sliced her hands between them. “Listen, you two. Let’s not argue about it. We just have to wait for the final decision. Okay?” She glanced at each of them in turn.
“Okay,” they murmured, eyeing each other suspiciously.
“Good. See you tomorrow, Tabitha, and all the best with the selection.” Jessie tried for a genuine smile, but knew she failed. Liking Tabitha proved challenging. She seemed to go out of her way to be confrontational, except to her superiors who almost fawned over her when she was at her compliant best. “Come on, Jasmine. Let’s go.” She grabbed her friend and together they hurried from the studio.
“Tabitha gets me so mad. She thinks she’s queen bee,” seethed Jasmine as she tossed her pointe shoes into her locker, slammed the door and locked it.
“Don’t let it bother you. It’s no big deal.” Taking her time, Jessie wrapped her pointe shoe ribbons neatly around each shoe before locking them safely in her locker.
“I don’t like her. And I don’t trust her.”
“That’s obvious. But why?” Worried they might be overheard in the change room, Jessie pulled her friend aside.
“Pure and simple, she’s a bitch,” she hissed, stripping out of her dance gear. “Tabitha is someone not to be trusted. I’ve seen those types before. She’ll do anything to get the top job. I’m telling you, Jessie. Watch your back.” She shoved her damp gear into her dance bag with a punch and dragged on her street clothes. Still incensed, she continued her tirade. “She’s Snow White on the outside, but the Wicked Queen on the inside. She’s evil, through and through.”
Jessie giggled. “Oh, Jasmine, you should have been an actress, not a dancer. Your gift for the dramatic is amazing.” She loved how her friend always stuck up for her, but she could certainly blow things out of proportion.
“Regardless of whether you think I’m over exaggerating or not, I don’t like Tabitha Simpson. She’s bad news.”
Shaking her head, Jessie sighed. “But I do envy her self-confidence. There is no doubt in her mind, the job’s hers.” She peeled off her sweaty dance gear and rubbed her throbbing, inflamed toes. At least, they weren’t bleeding today.
“Rubbish. Stop putting yourself down. You’re every bit as a good a dancer as she is. Better.” She leaned over and grabbed Jessie’s shoulders, giving them a slight shake. “Jessie, you need to give yourself some credit. Stand up for yourself a bit more. This is as much a mental game as it is physical, you know. You need to storm her defences like she does yours.”
Pulling free of her grip, Jessie rose and began dressing. “Sorry. That’s just not me. I’d rather keep a lower profile and let my work speak for itself.”
“Well thank God you have me then. I’ll storm that bitch’s defences until she crumbles in a heap.” Striking a pose with hands on hips and legs wide, she reminded Jessie of Peter Pan, full of confidence before taking on the evil Captain Hook.
She giggled again. “Jasmine, you are wicked, but I love you.” She stretched her arm around her best friend’s shoulder in a tight squeeze.
“Ditto,” said Jasmine, hugging her close.
Now changed into their street clothes, they finished grooming in front of the mirrors. Freeing her buttery blonde hair from its tight rehearsal bun, Jasmine raked her fingers through its roots, rubbing madly. “God, that’s better.” She tugged at her hair as if trying to uproot it like a nuisance weed. After a quick finger brush, she tossed her straight mane behind her shoulders and applied a bright red lipstick. Meanwhile, Jessie brushed her shoulder-length brunette locks, allowing the natural curl to bounce back. After applying a neutral-coloured lip gloss, she brushed her cheeks with a stroke of blush. Both dressed in blue jeans, loose-fitting blouses and sneakers, Jessie thought they resembled book ends.
“Ready?” Jasmine picked up her bright red parker.
“Ready.” Jessie reached for her navy pea coat.
“Let’s go eat some pasta.” With jaunty resolve, Jasmine led the march to the best café and pasta ristorante in the area.
At peak hour, the short walk up Kavanagh Street bustled with professional types conversing on their phones while they rushed to get home.
“You’re not going to believe what happened to me last night after yoga,” said Jessie, over the hubbub.
“What?”
“I was at my car and…”
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” snapped Jasmine at the business-suited man who bumped into her without apology. “Stop texting and watch where you’re walking,” she called after him, hands to mouth. But his head remained bent forward, oblivious to their contact.
“Come on, over this way.” Tugging her friend’s arm, Jessie manoeuvred them away from a widening procession of IT-crazed workers. “Don’t make a scene. We’re nearly there.”
“But people can be so rude…”
“I know, but it’s not worth having an argument in the street.”
“All right,” she huffed, as they ducked and weaved through the burgeoning crowd.
Barely five metres from the restaurant, a sudden downpour of rain spewed from a lone cloud and the pedestrians bolted, their phones no longer the centre of attention. Bucketed in water, the girls dashed through the restaurant’s glass doors.
“Miss Jessie, Miss Jasmine. Welcome. Welcome.” The cheerful voice of Salvatore Bacci, owner and pasta-maker extraordinaire, greeted the dancers as they burst into his café.
“Bloody weather,” cursed Jasmine, shoving wet strips of hair from her face. As she and Jessie shrugged off their coats, Salvatore offered them a hand towel each. Jasmine gave him an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Salvatore. How’s it going?”
Shaking his head in disappointment, he pouted. “Oh, not so good. Not so good. Only one hundred and twenty-three covers today.” He blinked his big, brown puppy-dog eyes, obviously wanting sympathy while they wiped the last of the water away.
Jasmine slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Get out of here. That’s a great day, Salvatore. And you know it. Thanks for the towels.”
“You are most welcome,” he said, folding the crumpled wet towels over his arm like a five star maître d.
“Have you got a table for us?” asked Jessie.
“Si, si.” He flourished his arm, directing the way. True to the Italian stereotype, he wore his love of pasta on his belly and rolled like a barrel between the two dozen undressed tables and bright red chairs. A favourite with the locals, Salvatore’s café with its trendy atmosphere, rustic tables and red theming, buzzed with bright conversation and animated diners. Similarly, Salvatore seemed to thrive on playing pseudo-father to the dancers from the ballet company. For many of them, eating at Salvatore’s was the closest thing to home, and for Jessie and Jasmine, their preferred haunt.
“Here you go.” He pulled out a chair for Jessie, while Jasmine sat oppos
ite.
“Thank you, Salvatore,” she said, mirroring his smile.
“You are welcome, Miss Jessie.” Cocking an eyebrow, he leaned closer. “Any news yet?”
“No, not yet, Salvatore. You’ll be the first to know.”
“I am sure they will pick you, Miss Jessie.”
“Thank you, Salvatore.” She squeezed the strong dough-making hand with which he patted her shoulder. If only all fathers cared this much for their daughters.
“Skippy will be here shortly to take your order.” In a flurry of customer service, he hurried away to attend another couple entering the restaurant.
On his retreat, they decided on their usual—entrée-sized vegetarian lasagne for Jessie, main fettucine carbonara for Jasmine, and a litre of sparkling Santa Vittoria between them.
“Now what were you saying about last night, after yoga?” Jasmine picked up a bread stick from the basket on the table and bit into it.
“Well, this guy tried to mug me.”
“What?” Half-masticated breadcrumbs spilled from her mouth. “What happened?”
“Long story short, this guy tried to snatch my bag when I was at my car. But one of the other yoga students, Brad Jordan, happened to be there and threw the mugger across the street.”
“And?” Brushing the crumbs off the table, Jasmine gnawed at the breadstick like a voracious rabbit.
“The mugger was so scared, he got up and ran away.”
“God, Jessie. Are you okay?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure what would have happened if BJ hadn’t been there.”
Jasmine lips curled upwards into a cheeky smile as she swallowed the last mouthful. “BJ is it? And is this BJ tall, dark and handsome?”
“No…” A coy smile forced its way onto Jessie’s face, try as she might to stop it. “He’s tall, blonde and handsome.”
“Ah, ha. So when are you seeing him again?”
“I’ll see him at yoga next Sunday, like I always do. Nothing more.”
“Pity. You could do with a bit of tall, blonde and handsome.”
“What do you mean?” Jessie pouted.
“You’re too wound up for your own good. I love you to bits, but you need to relax more. Let yourself enjoy life. And a hunky man could be just the tonic.”
“Despite what you think, I don’t need a hunky man or any man for that matter.”
“Really? Here have a breadstick?” Jasmine shoved the basket across the table.
“No, thanks.” She waved the offer away.
“Why not?”
“Because I have to be careful what I eat.”
“For God’s sake, Jessie. There’s nothing of you now but lean muscle and bone. One breadstick isn’t going to hurt.” She scowled at her friend. “This is what I’m talking about. You’re too uptight. Thinking a breadstick is going to impact your weight is crazy. Loosen up a little. Jump into bed with this BJ guy…”
“Absolutely not. Seriously, Jasmine, you can be so…”
“Coarse?”
“No, I don’t mean that…”
“Jessie, I worry about you.” She reached over and squeezed her hands. “You’re too tightly wound, like a watch ready to bust a spring.”
“I’m fine, really I am.” Jessie squeezed back. “I just have to get the principal role next year and then I’ll relax. I promise.”
“Yeah, well you say that now, but when next year comes, you’ll probably be even more stressed out.” She withdrew her hands and flopped back in her chair.
“No, I won’t. I promise. Come on. Let’s order.”
Skippy shambled up to their table as if on cue. “Hi, J-J-Jessie. Hi, J-J-Jasmine. How’s th-th-things?”
Poor Skip Norton suffered from a speech impediment which, along with his red hair, made him the brunt of snide comments from some of the other dancers. No one except Jessie called him by his christened name—Skip. Somehow the misnomer of Skippy had stuck, which only added to his obvious embarrassment. In direct contrast to the bright, hoppy nickname, Skip moved with an awkward gait. Dressed in oversized jeans and shirt, he wore his sorry state for the world to see.
“We’re good, Skip. How have you been?” asked Jessie. She’d witnessed the effect of school bullying on her friends, twin sisters Mia and Kate Jones. Like Skip, they’d inherited bright red hair and freckles. Mia and Kate’s problems had been further compounded by their need for glasses and bulky braces. By early high school, life became a living hell for them. Although Jessie didn’t know much about Skip’s history, she could guess enough from his slumped posture and downcast eyes.
“Oh th-th-things are pretty good. We’ve b-b-een b-b-busy here and…” he began.
Just as his tone brightened and his hooded lids lifted to reveal opaque blue eyes, Salvatore scurried over. “Now Skippy, don’t go disturbing Jessie and Jasmine. Just take their order. We have more people arriving. Come along now.” With fatherly affection, the owner patted Skippy on the shoulder, but his message was clear. Move on.
“Yes Mr B-B-Bacci. Right away.” Shut down like a toy box lid slammed by a bratty child, Skippy looked down and wrote their order on his pad. Then with a lame smile, he retreated towards the kitchen.
“God, I feel sorry for him,” said Jessie, watching him shuffle off. “It must be awfully difficult to stutter and not be able have a simple conversation.”
“Yeah, he seems nice enough. How old do you think he is?”
“Maybe our age… in his twenties, I guess. You know, if he stood up straight, got a different haircut and found some confidence, he’s quite a good-looking young man.”
Jasmine spun around in her chair to eyeball Skippy, whose attention was elsewhere. “You think? Maybe? Not my type though.” She swivelled back to face Jessie and snickered. “I like men with muscles and strong, powerful arms to throw me around the bedroom.”
“For goodness sake, Jasmine. Who has time for men or sex?”
“I do. I know you don’t, as all you think about is ballet. But I’m not going to make the corps de ballet for much longer and in a way I’m glad. I’m twenty-six years old, which is ancient in ballet years. I need to have some fun.”
“But won’t you miss it?” Jessie couldn’t think of life without ballet.
“Of course I will, but I need to think about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. And I want a man, a real man I can settle down with.”
The sound of falling plates and the scream of a customer disturbed their conversation.
“Skippy…” roared Salvatore, as he dashed over to the customer who now wore Skippy’s fully laden tray. Tomato-based pasta, coffee and salad rested in the woman’s lap, like an ugly nest of bird guano. With a look of horror on her face, she blinked rapidly, hurling expletives at Skippy, who was on his hands and knees, collecting the broken crockery and ducking from the abuse. “S-s-sorry, s-s-sorry,” he stammered, and as his stress elevated, his stutter worsened.
Jessie’s heart sank for him. She wanted to get up and help him, but thought better of interfering. With effusive apologies, Salvatore escorted the woman to the ladies’ restroom. Shooting a death stare back over his shoulder at Skippy, the owner sealed the young waiter’s humiliation. Struggling to his feet with the evidence of his clumsiness returned to his tray, Skippy scuttled to the kitchen for his reprimand.
“Oh, God. Poor Skip. How terrible for him,” said Jessie.
“You’re right. I feel sorry for him too. But I hope he gets it together before he brings out our pasta.” Jasmine’s mouth curled in an irreverent grin, which drew a giggle from Jessie.
“Mum, you know I can’t get there now. We’re about to do the final season. I’ll be there as planned for Christmas.” The weekly phone conversations with her mother were taxing, but tonight’s was tortuous. Jessie always notched up multiple circuits pacing around her unit whenever she spoke to her mother. Mostly it worked to quell her anxiety. Tonight, not so much.
“Well, I just hope your father pulls through, Jessica.
Otherwise he won’t be here when you come home for Christmas.”
“For goodness sake, Mum. You said Dr Bruen told Dad today to take it easy, rest and wait for the results to come back. He didn’t say it was urgent, did he?”
“Well, not yet. But it could be…” Joanna Hilton continued to criticise her daughter over her indifference to her father’s health. It had always been this way. Dad came first as far as her mother was concerned, then her younger brother, Richard, then Coodravale Homestead, and finally her.
“Listen, Mum, this is my last chance to impress as a senior artist. I can’t come home now. But as soon as the season is over, I’ll be there as planned. I promise.” Jessie waited for the obligatory pause and heard a sniffle on the other end of the phone.
“Very well, Jessica.” Oh God, she’s doing mother martyr again. “I understand. It’s not that I don’t want you to succeed and be a star in the Australian Ballet Company. It’s just that I thought you might like to know about your father’s health. After all it is Coodravale Homestead that financed your dream, you know.”
Jessie bit her tongue. Joanna Hilton, the dominatrix of guilt. “I know, Mum. And I’m eternally grateful to you and Dad for getting me here. But I have to finish it. I need to know if all your sacrifice has been worthwhile. I need to give it my best shot at becoming principal in the company. Surely you understand?”
Joanna’s tone softened a little. “Of course I understand, Jessica. You’re right. I guess I’m just overwrought. I don’t know what I’d do if your father died.” Then in a meek voice, she added, “I do miss you, you know.”
Retribution: Who would you kill to escape your past? Page 3