by M. J. Duncan
Mallory glanced down at Clara as she took the hint and began making her way toward the door. “You’re friends with her, aren’t you?”
“Nina?” Clara asked.
“No, the Queen,” Mallory teased with a laugh as she waved goodbye to Leanne, Max’s secretary. “Yes, Nina. You’ve mentioned her a few times. You were close when you worked over there, weren’t you?”
“We were,” Clara murmured, a soft, almost wistful look crossing her face. She sighed as they turned toward the conference room at the end of the corridor where there was a small crowd milling about the door. “She’s…special. Definitely not the kind of woman you meet every day. Or even every decade.” She chuckled. “And she’s also brash and demanding and doesn’t mince words at all, but I swear that woman has the most refined eye for talent that I have ever seen in my life. If things do work out, this could be quite an opportunity for you, too.”
Mallory smiled. “Should I call you tonight, once I’ve met with her?”
“I would greatly appreciate that, yes,” Clara replied in a low voice as the crowd parted for them and they poured into the rapidly filling conference room. Being on the taller side of average for a woman, Mallory was always struck by the way Clara—at only five foot three—always managed to command a room without a word. It was hard enough being a half-Singaporean woman in a profession dominated by white men without the added disadvantage of being so petite, but Mallory had never seen anyone challenge Clara’s authority. It was honestly beyond impressive given the size of the egos that filtered through the hall, and she and Will often joked about getting Clara a shirt with Shakespeare’s famous line, “though she be but little, she is fierce,” printed on it.
“Of course.” Mallory spotted Will waving at her from the corner of the room furthest from where the board and Clara would sit and lifted a hand to let him know she saw him. “Is there anything else?”
“There always is,” Clara sighed. “But, for now, you should absolutely go hide in the corner with Will.” She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. “Lord knows I’d love to join you lot back there, but I’ve got to go sit by Max and Thad,” she muttered, waving toward the front of the room where Max and the LSO’s other principal guest conductor were holding court with a handful of board members.
Mallory laughed. “Sorry, Clara. No kids’ table for you.”
“Oh, bollocks,” she grumbled, shooting her a playful smirk as she made her way toward the front of the room.
“So…?” Will prompted as soon as she’d taken her seat beside him.
Even though everyone in the room seemed to be engaged in their own conversation, she still leaned closer to him as she shared in a low tone, “The artistic director for The Royal Ballet wants to meet with me about a possible collaboration.”
His eyes widened much the same way she was sure her own had at the news. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Damn,” he murmured.
“Exactly.”
“Do they know you can’t dance for shit?”
She elbowed him in the side. “Oh, shut up.” She was certainly no Ginger Rogers, but she had at least a modicum of rhythm.
“Well, I can’t wait to hear what all that leads to, then.” He smirked and bumped their knees together. “I was surprised you were late this morning. You’re usually at least half an hour early. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I just lost track of time.”
“And what, pray tell, caused you to lose track of time like that?”
She sighed, knowing that he would only become more insistent if she tried to avoid the topic altogether. “If you must know, I was talking with a woman at Higher Ground.”
“Nicely done, mate!” He grinned.
She huffed a laugh. “Thank you.”
“Does the beautiful woman have a name?”
“How do you know she’s beautiful?” Mallory challenged. She sighed at the way he just shook his head and stared at her, clearly intent on waiting her out, and muttered, “If you really must know, it’s Addison.”
“Pretty.”
“Yes, she is,” Mallory agreed quietly, more to herself than him.
Will must have heard anyway, because he pumped his fist and cheered, “I knew it!” He grimaced as a handful of people in front of them turned to see what the commotion was about. “Sorry,” he apologized, ducking his head and holding a hand up for emphasis.
“I swear, I can’t take you anywhere,” Mallory muttered.
Once their audience had turned back toward the front of the room where Joseph Hayes was now trying to get everyone’s attention to start the meeting, Will whispered, “You gonna see her again?”
“I have no idea,” Mallory answered just as softly. “Besides, what does it matter?”
“You were late because you were talking to her. You’re never late. Ergo, this Addison must be something special.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Mallory scoffed, even as her lips curled in a small smile.
“Maybe,” he agreed as he slumped in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable. “But you’re smiling. And you look like you mean it for a change.”
She shook her head. “I’m just glad to be back.”
“Yeah,” he grumbled as three old guys at the front of the room started arguing about whatever the first motion on the day was. “Aren’t we all. Right lovely party, this is…”
Mallory’s eyes swept over the dimly lit, upscale cocktail bar as the door to the underground lounge closed behind her. A large bar anchored the center of the space, rimmed by comfortable-looking tufted chairs, while long leather benches and tables and chairs lined the perimeter. Soft light was cast upward against the natural rock that lined the walls, creating a warm and elegant ambiance. She had never been to Neo before but, as she looked around, she made a note to visit again soon with Will and his wife Siobhan and some of her other friends from the LSO.
Goodness knows they needed a better place to go to after their performances than the corner pub they usually frequented, where pints were spilled with alarming regularity and they had to all but shout to be heard.
Thanks to a bit of Googling during her lunch break, she was able to spot Nina Devereaux almost immediately, sitting at a secluded corner table, toying with the stem of a martini glass as she scrolled through her phone. Despite the fact that Devereaux had asked for her by name, she hadn’t wanted to presume that she would be recognized on sight, and she had to admit that the professional headshot on Nina’s Wikipedia page—while stunning—paled in comparison to the woman in front of her now. Even though she had stepped away from the stage close to fifteen years earlier, Nina Devereaux exuded all the poise and confidence Mallory would expect from a former principal ballerina. Her arms and legs held the faintest hint of a tan and were perfectly toned, and her shoulder-length black hair caught the light in a way that made it seem to glow. Her black dress was classically cut, dipping low enough at the throat to reveal the sharp line of chiseled collarbones while remaining elegant and tasteful, and it hugged her body and draped around her thighs in a way that commanded everyone around her to look.
Judging by the barely-there quirk to her lips, she knew it, too.
Mallory toyed with the aluminum clasp at the base of her violin case as she started across the bar toward Devereaux, and wished she had worn something dressier than slacks and a blouse to work today. Although, she thought as she approached her table, she had a feeling she would have felt entirely inadequate next to her even in her fanciest blacks.
Nina Devereaux looked up from her phone just as she approached, and she smiled as she set the phone face-down on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “Ms. Collingswood.” She held out her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Of course,” Mallory demurred as she shook her hand. There was no missing the once-over she was given before her hand was released, and she smiled politely as she slipped her briefcase and violin from
her shoulder. “Though I’ll confess that I am not quite sure why you seem to feel so strongly that I am the person you need for your project.”
Devereaux nodded as she gracefully retook her seat. “I’m well aware that this is a rather unconventional request,” she said as she turned just enough to comfortably cross her right leg over her left, “but what I’m trying to do is anything but conventional.”
“That was the impression Clara gave me, as well,” Mallory confirmed as she settled into the chair opposite her. “Do you mind?” she asked as she motioned toward the menu sitting in the middle of the table.
“No. By all means.” Devereaux waved for her to go ahead with her left hand as she picked up her drink with her right.
Mallory hummed her thanks as she opened the long, thin leather-bound book that was heavy on the cocktails and light on the food choices. She was keenly aware of sharp eyes watching her as she perused the menu, the weight of her gaze so intense that she knew there was very little—if anything—that the woman did not notice.
A server in black slacks and a silk black button-down blouse appeared at her shoulder the moment she set the menu back onto the table. “Are you ready to order?”
Mallory nodded. “I’ll go with the rusty nail.”
“Excellent choice.” The server turned her attention to Devereaux and nodded toward her half-empty glass. “Can I bring you another?”
Devereaux shook her head. “Not quite yet.”
“Of course. Can I get any appetizers for you ladies?”
Mallory was actually halfway to starving but, since she had no idea exactly how long this meeting was going to last, she thought better of speaking up about it.
Devereaux tapped a finger on the tabletop thoughtfully and nodded. “The vegetarian platter.”
“To share?”
Mallory nodded when Devereaux looked to her with an arched brow.
“Please,” Devereaux said, the single word both a confirmation and a dismissal.
“I’ll be back shortly with your drink,” the server murmured, ducking her head in a small bow as she turned toward the bar.
“Was the board meeting this morning as dull as Clara dreaded it might be?” Devereaux asked conversationally once they were alone.
Mallory chuckled. “I’m sure she would say that it was, yes.”
“She always did hate the business side of the arts,” Devereaux murmured fondly. “Though, I can hardly blame her. It’s so much easier to go out on stage and perform than it is to feign interest in numbers and politicking and making sure everyone feels like their ass has been sufficiently kissed.”
Mallory bit her lip to keep from laughing but, judging by the way Devereaux smirked around the rim of her martini glass, her reaction was exactly what the artistic director had been going for. Their server reappeared just then to set a lowball glass in front of Mallory before quickly and efficiently making herself scarce again.
Now that Mallory had a drink as well, Devereaux seemed to take that as her cue to get down to business, because she uncrossed her legs and sat up just that little bit straighter. “I don’t want to bore you by repeating details you already know, so may I ask what Clara told you about my project?”
Mallory shrugged and reached for her glass, noting the way the lounge’s lighting highlighted the golden-ochre color of the drink, making it look both darker and lighter than the mix usually appeared. “Honestly, very little beyond the fact that you inquired about me for the production.”
Devereaux smiled, and it wasn’t hard to see how pleased she was that Clara had left it to her to present the ballet herself. “What do you know of ballet?”
“My mother put me in the usual childhood dance classes before I was accepted at the Academy, but I essentially know nothing about ballet,” Mallory confessed. “Which is why I don’t—”
Devereaux arched a brow in playful challenge. “Have you lost any of that remarkable talent of yours with the violin over the summer holiday?”
Mallory huffed a laugh and shook her head. “No.”
“Then you have all the innate skills I require. The rest of what I need from you can be taught.”
“While I appreciate your confidence, won’t your music director have a problem with you bringing someone in from outside your organization for this?”
“I don’t consult the music director on my casting decisions,” Devereaux scoffed. “Nevertheless, I imagine Henry will find some insult in the decision, especially if Clara agrees to conduct one of the performances.” She paused and leveled Mallory with a pointed look. “Let’s not pretend to ignore the obvious, Ms. Collingswood. You are the very best in the world at what you do, and though you might not be a dancer, you are the only person who can make this vision of mine come to life. I would rather shelve the idea altogether than produce a substandard version of my ballet.”
There was a fierceness in Devereaux’s gaze that said she wasn’t exaggerating, and Mallory nodded, her interest sufficiently piqued by Devereaux’s conviction that she was the right choice. “I’m flattered. And curious as to how, exactly, I fit into this grand vision of yours.”
“You and your music will be integral to it,” Devereaux murmured thoughtfully, almost more to herself than to Mallory as she twirled the stem of her glass between her thumb and index finger. “You and the principal I have in mind for the project will create a most striking pair,” she said in a stronger voice.
“And I will be playing the violin?”
“Yes. And doing a bit of dancing”—she waved a hand dismissively—“though the bulk of that work will fall to your partner. You’ll be mostly…moving with them. A dip here, a spin there, letting them use you like a living barre as the dance cycles from solo to adagio and back again. It isn’t until the pas de deux at the very end that you’ll be fully dancing with your partner.”
Mallory tried to picture what Devereaux was describing. “Could you describe the ballet a bit more?”
Devereaux nodded. “Evolution will be presented in two parts; though, in all actuality, it will be a presentation of two entirely different ballets. The first will be a traditional ballet in every definition of the word. Tutus and tights and romanticized shirts for the men. Hair pulled back in pristine buns. A simple story that relies heavily on the corps with a handful of short solos and a single, relatively brief pas de deux. It’s the ballet you picture when you hear the word ‘ballet.’ It will be beautiful and evocative and leave all the uptight traditionalists in the seats clasping their pearls and sighing wistfully about how much they love ballet.”
Mallory chuckled. They had a few regulars at the LSO that perfectly matched that description.
“The second part—your part—will be a perfect evolution of the first half of the ballet. And ballet in general. Flowing, lightweight dresses instead of tutus, a more modern edge to the music, the movement, though nothing so gauche as truly ‘modern’ dance, updated. Faster. A little bit sharper, a little less steeped in the traditional de rigueur. It will be a glimpse of ballet as it can be that will leave even the staunchest classicist in awe and on their feet at the final curtain, applauding until their hands literally sting from the effort of it all.”
“And you honestly believe that I have the skills to help pull that off?” Mallory asked.
“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Devereaux answered, her gaze strong and unflinching.
The server returned with a platter of grilled and roasted mixed vegetables, slices of ciabatta, and what looked like a traditional olive oil and balsamic vinegar dip. Smaller, oblong plates and silverware wrapped in black cloth napkins followed, and she smiled politely at their murmured thanks as she backed away.
“Please, help yourself.” Devereaux motioned toward the plate between them as she unrolled her silverware and laid her napkin over her lap.
Mallory did the same as she asked, “So what, may I ask, does this thoroughly modern ballet entail?”
Devereaux spooned a mixture of veggies ont
o her plate, completely ignoring the bread that had been served alongside them. “Each half of the ballet will run somewhere between forty and forty-five minutes. It depends on how things look once I get everyone into the studio for rehearsals next week when the season starts. You don’t need to concern yourself with the first part, but the vision the second half is based around is at once simple and striking—just you and my most talented principal on a stage blanketed by the faintest wisps of smoke, moving together in a way that highlights both of your talents in the most involved pas de deux the ballet world has ever seen. Imagine, if you will,” Devereaux murmured, a small smile curling her lips as an inspired twinkle flickered in her dark eyes, “the two of you moving together as you play—gliding, spinning, pausing…her movements so perfectly attuned not just to yourself but also your music that you appear to be two halves of a whole.”
Mallory arched a brow in surprise at the feminine pronoun but did not dare interrupt. Though Devereaux had said the ballet would be modern, a pas de deux between two women was a step or six further along that scale than she had imagined.
“If you’re the type that needs a story behind the dance,” Devereaux continued with a small shrug and a dismissive swish of her hand, “you can think of it as a dance between an artist and her muse—a physical representation of not just inspiration, but also creation.”
Mallory nodded. “It sounds intriguing.”
“Yes,” Devereaux hummed. She cleared her throat and blinked, her expression losing the softness that had made her appear almost enthralled by the very idea she was presenting. “It is also incredibly ambitious, in that you would need to perform the entire thing from memory. And with the exception of the entrée where the corps sets the scene, you will be on stage for the entire ballet, drawing the audience in with your music. The dance will be beautiful and evocative, but there is no Evolution without you and your violin. Ballet and music have always been intertwined, but it is this marriage of the two mediums on stage that will make this a groundbreaking performance.”