Pas de Deux

by M. J. Duncan

  “Thank you.” Mallory locked the door after herself.

  Once she turned around, Serena pointed at a large opening to her left. “Not that it matters for the time being, but there is a set of stairs that lead down to backstage through there,” she said as she pushed off the wall and turned toward the lifts. She waved at a closed door three down from Mallory’s dressing room. “Toilets and showers are in here. Do you want to have a look?”

  “I’m okay for now,” Mallory assured her.

  “Excellent. Then up we go!”

  They took the lift to the top floor this time, and the first thing Mallory noticed when they exited the lift was the handful of insanely pretty, incredibly young and fit dancers milling about the corridor. She was instantly self-conscious of the fact that she was at least a decade older than the lot of them, and that those extra years had added a softness to her frame that her Pilates classes couldn’t quite fight.

  “Shoe room is this way,” Serena said, waving to a few of the dancers as they passed. “I had Greta pull a few different shoes in your size for you to try on.”

  “I’m sure anything would be fine,” Mallory protested, not wanting to make trouble.

  “Trust me,” Serena insisted as she pulled open a door and ushered Mallory inside, “you want shoes that are comfortable. It helps that you won’t be on your toes, but you’ll still be up and moving a lot, and you don’t want a poor-fitting shoe. We’ll find something that is passable for the time being, and if any modifications need to be made, we can do them here after the order comes in.”

  Mallory nodded as her eyes swept over the shoe room. It was long and narrow, the left wall taken up by gorgeous dark wood cubbies labeled with dancers’ surnames that were absolutely stuffed with shoes and what looked like a workspace at the back of the room.

  An older woman with perfectly silvered hair and half-lenses hanging from a chain around her neck appeared from the back of the room, and she smiled as she motioned toward a small bench that Mallory only just noticed opposite the cubbies. “You must be Mallory Collingswood,” she said as she gathered a handful of black ballet slippers from a cubby. “I’m Greta. And you’re an eight and a half. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Mallory nodded.

  “Sit, sit,” Greta insisted with a little wave. “Let’s get you kitted out.”

  Even though the first pair of shoes Greta handed her were more than fine, the shoe mistress insisted she try on each of the half-dozen pairs she had pulled to make sure she found the best fit. And she was glad for it, too, because the last pair she slipped on felt like they had been made specifically for her. It must have shown in her expression, because Greta chuckled and patted her shoulder.

  “Freed it is then. Is there anything about the shoe you’d like changed?” When Mallory shook her head, Greta smiled and nodded. “Unfortunately that’s the only pair in your size that I have here, but since they’re flats, they should last until the order comes in.”

  Mallory nodded and gathered her discarded trainers. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, dear.” Greta winked.

  “Right then,” Serena drawled as she glanced at her watch. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

  Mallory nodded again, feeling utterly overwhelmed, and obediently followed Serena out of the shoe room and down the hall to the Fonteyn rehearsal studio. She was glad to see the studio was empty when they entered—she would have hated to have kept people waiting on her first day—and she immediately made her way toward an area of the barre that seemed like it would be out of the way to set her things. She wedged the folder with sheet music between her violin case and the mirrors and dropped her trainers beside the case.

  She had just flipped the latches on her case open when a quiet murmur of voices filtered into the studio, and she hurried to grab her bow and violin. There was no mistaking the barely-suppressed panic in her eyes when she looked at herself in the mirror, and she took a deep breath as she pushed herself to her feet.

  Not that she had seriously considered backing out, but the time to do so had now well and truly passed. It was time to put on a brave face and, as the old saying went, fake it till she made it.

  The new arrivals were standing in a small huddle near the door, with Nina Devereaux holding court as Serena and the other three people who’d arrived with the artistic director listened. Mallory was grateful for the opportunity to just observe for a moment. All of this was so new that even this little bit of time to find some kind of equilibrium was a blessing.

  Nina looked like she was ready to model for a fitness magazine in her silver leggings and oversized white, scoop-neck sweater that hung in a way that highlighted the sharp line of her collarbones and made her look effortlessly glamorous. The man to Nina’s right was blond and fair and incredibly pretty, with bright blue eyes and chiseled jaw that was shadowed with a dusting of whiskers. The muscles in his arms were defined, though not in the bulky sort of way that was achieved by weightlifters. He was dressed to move in a pair of black track pants and a fitted tee, and looked perfectly at home in the studio as he rested his right hand on the barre.

  A dancer. Or a former dancer, at the very least.

  The man on Nina’s left looked like a caricature of an absent-minded professor with his long, almost floppy brown hair brushed up away from his forehead and a full beard that was in desperate need of a trim, and she wondered what his role in all of this was given that his loafers, plaid sport shirt, and trousers were clearly not meant for dancing.

  Surely Nina wasn’t bringing in people to observe already? She shook her head. Even though she was new to this world, she had a feeling that the men weren’t here to judge her. Oh, they would, of course, everyone does when they encounter someone new in their profession, but perhaps they were a kind of support staff to help her get this idea of hers off the ground.

  Yes, that made much more sense, she decided as she turned her attention to the final member of the group—the woman she would undoubtedly be performing with. She was taller than Devereaux but shorter than herself, with short, dark hair that was held away from her face with a wide, blue and white patterned elastic headband that paired perfectly with her sky blue leggings and white sleeveless leotard. The woman’s legs were long—almost impossibly so—and though her muscles were lean and her frame slight, she looked powerful.

  Strong.

  Competent.

  And, while Mallory supposed she should have felt some kind of reassurance knowing that her partner was all of those things, it really just made her feel glaringly, impossibly inadequate.

  And old.

  Not that thirty-nine was old, exactly, but looking at the obviously young dancer, she felt positively geriatric. And sorry that she had skipped Pilates the last two weeks to focus on learning the music for this project.

  Serena broke away from the group first, offering Mallory a reassuring smile and a thumb’s up as she made her way toward the door. A moment later, with a twist of her hips and a dip of her shoulders, the dancer turned to look at her, and Mallory’s eyes widened as she recognized her.

  “Addison?” Mallory swallowed thickly in an attempt to force her heart, which had leapt into her throat the moment she recognized the dancer, back where it belonged.

  Addison laughed and nodded as she made her way across the studio to where Mallory stood, too surprised to do much more than gape at her. “Yeah. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “Oh.” Devereaux’s expression turned curious as she waved a finger between them. “You know each other?”

  “We’ve run into each other at Lena’s place a couple times, yeah,” Addison explained, her eyes crinkling with her smile. Her smile softened as she stopped in front of Mallory, and she added in a quieter voice, “I’m glad Nina was able to persuade you to take this on.”

  Mallory nodded as her nerves from earlier returned with a vengeance. Addison was looking at her like she was utterly chuffed about this arrangement, and Mallory just prayed that she was able to
live up to whatever stories she might have heard about her. “Me too,” she murmured.

  Addison beamed, looking for all the world like her day had just been made. “Good.”

  “Well, let’s finish our introductions so we can get on with it, shall we?” Devereaux drawled. When she was sure she had both of their attention, she nodded and motioned toward the blond man standing to her left. “This is Toby Doubek. He’s going to help me with the choreography. And this is Paul Roxon, our resident notator,” she continued, half-turning toward the professor-looking gentleman on her other side. “All, this is Mallory Collingswood, leader of the London Symphony Orchestra.”

  “We’re going to be trying a lot of different things,” Addison explained in a low voice, “so the notator will keep track of every step in relation to the music so that, once a decision is made as to how, exactly, the dance is to go, we’ll have a record of it all.”

  Mallory nodded, the gesture at once a signal that she’d heard and understood Addison’s explanation and an unspoken gesture of greeting to the two men who were regarding her with analytical expressions that assured her she was absolutely about to be judged.

  God, why in the world had she ever agreed to this?

  “Mallory, if you would, please…” Devereaux motioned toward the center of the room. “You’ll, of course, have to make an entrance of some kind, but for now could you play the pieces you learned for today? To bring everyone up to speed with where you’re at?”

  Mallory nodded, her heart fluttering into her throat as she made her way to where Devereaux wanted her. Addison remained off to the side of the room, next to the barre where she had dropped to the floor and had begun pulling on a pair of pointe shoes, as Devereaux made her way toward the sound system and the choreographer and notator retrieved a couple of stools from the back of the room.

  Once it appeared that everyone was ready, she lifted her violin and waited for further instruction. She watched as Devereaux fiddled with the stereo, and took a deep breath when the distinctive rumble of a bass spilled through the speakers. Devereaux nodded and arched an expectant brow that made her think that this was some kind of test, and she took a deep breath as she waited for her cue. The music swelled and dipped, and she closed her eyes as she lifted her bow and put it to strings.

  She played through the first two pieces she’d learned and was preparing to launch into the third when the accompanying music fell silent.

  “Very nice,” Devereaux declared. Mallory blinked her eyes open and let her bow fall to her side as Devereaux continued, “Addison, thoughts?”

  Addison’s expression was awed as she shook her head and murmured, “Wow.”

  Mallory felt her cheeks warm at the open appreciation in Addison’s voice, and she ducked her head as she smiled shyly at her.

  Devereaux smirked and turned toward Toby and Paul. “Well?”

  Toby grinned. “This is going to be fun.” He hopped off his stool, his gaze thoughtful. “I think it would be better for her to make her entrance playing. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy—just sort of…” His voice trailed off as he began making his way toward the center of the room where Mallory stood, his steps light and his stride long as he seemed to float on the balls of his feet. It was elegant yet without fanfare, and Mallory was relieved that it looked like something she would be able to do. “Like that.”

  Devereaux hummed and nodded. “Yes, I think that will work. No reason to make things more complicated than they need to be, after all.” She turned to Mallory. “Can you try that, please?” She motioned toward the side of the room where Addison was still standing. “Just playing your part without the background music?”

  Mallory nodded and moved to where Devereaux wanted her. She lifted her violin and waited for a sign to continue, and then took a deep breath as she split her focus between the music that was still too new to play entirely without thought, and her feet.

  “Too stiff,” Devereaux declared once she’d stopped near the spot she’d stood before. “You don’t need to be dancing, but you can’t look like a soldier marching in a parade. Again.”

  The next time, she paid more attention to her footwork and less to the music, but the result was the same as Devereaux shook her head and announced, “Again.”

  Mallory bit the inside of her cheek as she returned to her start position. This time she began without waiting for a cue and, when she reached her mark, waited for Devereaux’s assessment.

  “Again. Lighter in your frame.”

  What the hell did that even mean? Mallory took a deep breath and, though she had no idea what Nina was asking for, lifted her violin and tried again.

  “No. Again,” Devereaux dismissed and directed her with a quick flick of the wrist back to her starting point.

  Fourteen tries. Fourteen failures. The furrow in Devereaux’s brow was practically a chasm at this point, and her tone was barely concealed frustration.

  “If you could just—” Mallory bit out, dangerously close to losing her temper, but was interrupted by a soft hand curling around her elbow.

  “Relax your shoulders as much as you can while still being able to play,” Addison murmured. “Let your feet turn out with each step. Walk on the balls of your feet and let the tip of your toes drag across the floor. Your heels can drop to the floor if you need to for balance, but allow them to do so only briefly. It will feel weird, but it should give the look she seems to be looking for.”

  There was no judgment in her tone, for which Mallory was eternally grateful. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “We’ll get it,” Addison replied just as quietly with a confident smile.

  Mallory took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she pictured the adjustments Addison suggested, and then let it go slowly as she blinked her eyes opened and once again lifted her bow to strings. Allowing the front of her feet scrape across the floor was easier than trying to step gracefully, and she knew when she reached the center of the room and looked at Devereaux that Addison’s refinements had done the trick.

  “Acceptable. For now.” Devereaux nodded and tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully as she turned to Toby. “So where do we have Addison come in?”

  “I have an idea,” Addison spoke up. “If I may?”

  Devereaux nodded and took a step back, gesturing with a small wave of her hand for Addison to proceed as she told Mallory, “From the top, if you’d please. With the entrance.”

  “Of bloody course,” Mallory muttered under her breath.

  Addison laughed. “Come on. It’s not that bad. You’ve got it now.”

  Mallory closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself before she blinked her eyes open and attempted her entrance one more time. Devereaux’s expression was a mask that she interpreted as meaning that she had somehow screwed up again, even though she was nearly positive that she had repeated her previous attempt perfectly, but she wasn’t stopped when she reached her mark and found herself breathing easier as she continued to play. She turned her attention to Addison’s reflection in the mirror as she waited for her entrance, curious as to what she had in mind, and it took all her years of experience not to lose her place in the music when Addison began to move.

  She had known, intuitively, of course, that Addison would be exceptional given her youth and position within the ballet, but that knowledge didn’t entirely set in until she watched her dance.

  Addison took three long strides that looked like a carbon copy of how she’d instructed her to move, before her hips and shoulders dipped and twisted in opposite directions. Her arms lifted and extended, elbows bending and straightening as her entire body flowed in graceful lines that emphasized the music Mallory was still somehow managing to play through muscle memory alone because lord knows her thoughts were focused entirely on the beautiful creature in the mirrors.

  Though Mallory was watching Addison with rapt attention, she was still startled when a soft hand landed on her shoulder, long fingers curling around the joint
in an almost possessive sort of way. She took a shaky breath as she closed her eyes and focused only on the music, willing herself to ignore the feeling of Addison’s fingers trailing lightly across her upper back.

  Mallory was grateful that she was the only one who could hear the way her pulse tripped and stumbled over itself when Addison’s touch glided along the length of her arm that was holding her violin. Three fingers became two as she rounded the curve of her elbow, which became one when she hit her wrist, and Mallory blinked her eyes open when the touch of that lone finger disappeared. She was grateful that all eyes were on Addison, whose arms had lifted above her head now as she did a little spin on the tip of her right shoe, her left leg bent and extended behind her, and her arms moved slowly lower as she repeated the move three more times as she finished her circuit of Mallory to end where she had begun—just behind her right side, with a gentle hand wrapped around her shoulder.

  It was clear from the way she dropped to the flats of her feet and arched a brow at Devereaux that she had finished, and Mallory obligingly stopped playing and lowered her arms to her sides to await the artistic director’s decision.

  “Very nice,” Devereaux murmured with a small, pleased smile. She glanced at Toby, who nodded his agreement, and then to Paul. “Did you get that?” When Paul nodded, she turned to Addison. “Can you do it again, exactly like that?”

  Addison nodded. “Should be able to, yeah.”

  “Mallory…” Devereaux’s voice trailed off, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully as she made her way toward her. “I need you to look a little less terrified when Addison touches you,” she continued in a low tone. Mallory figured she should be grateful, at least, that Devereaux seemed to want to spare her the embarrassment of having her correction heard by everyone in the room. Though, really, the fact that Addison had heard it was more than mortifying enough. And, well, if she had to pick an emotion—terror would be the complete opposite of what she’d actually been feeling.