I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say “You haven’t met my mother,” and turned to be on my way. Late now. Quite late.
Even so, I arrived at the restaurant before Josh. Our reserved table waited, and I sat at it, feeling daunted by the sharp edges of the folded linen napkins and the posh quiet. Josh was born into privilege; for me it had come only lately, and I still felt like an impostor sometimes, waiting for the tap on the shoulder, the polite “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ten minutes passed. He still hadn’t arrived. This was unusual. I’d been living with him in our roomy rented apartment in Chelsea for six months, and he lived his life like clockwork. The alarm went off—he got up! Not like me, hitting the snooze button over and over, clinging to the last thin shard of sleep until I heard him putting on his shoes near the front door and guilt finally prompted me to rise. If he said he’d be home at six, then at six he’d be home: no later, no earlier. If anything beyond his control held him up—and there was little beyond his control—he’d call and . . .
My phone! Did I even have it switched on?
I rummaged in my bag. I hated the damned thing, but Josh had insisted on it. I barely knew how any of its functions worked, and 90 percent of the time, I forgot I owned it. Dozens of calls were usually piled up on my voice mail every week. Sometimes I just ignored the tiresome task of listening to them all; it was time taken away from more important things.
My hand closed around it . . . Four missed calls. I was thumbing through the functions, trying to remember how to retrieve my voice mail, when I heard the door to the restaurant open, briefly letting in a blast of traffic noise. I looked up, knew it would be him.
He smiled. Oh, that smile. It had been the start of everything. A smile that hinted at the man beneath the polished surface, at primal urges and passions balanced against immaculate manners. I’d never been much good at men until Josh. I’d had boyfriends, of course, but I had a record of picking the ones with big dreams and no way of making them come true: would-be artists and aspiring rock journalists. Josh was ambitious and razor-sharp, with a job in a stockbroking firm and a family of terribly old money. The love that had bloomed under my ribs for him was fierce.
But there was something different about his smile tonight—some wariness, something held back—and I found myself on my guard.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down and gesturing to the waiter.
“It’s fine. Now I know how it feels,” I joked.
He didn’t laugh, didn’t even seem to have heard me. He beckoned the waiter over; we ordered wine but said we’d take a few more minutes to decide on meals. He laced his fingers together and looked at them for a moment.
“Good day?” I asked.
He looked up. “My mother called.”
“Oh?” His family had moved to Spain a year ago; I’d never met them. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” He glanced around again. He was nervous about something, that was for sure. “They’re all coming up to Paris for a week. End of October. My mum, my dad, my sister. They want us to meet them there.”
“Great, I . . .” My mind was spinning through my diary. Damn, where was Adelaide, my PA, when I needed her? What was I doing in October? Would Giselle be over? But here was Josh, asking me to meet his family. A sign—a clear sign—that he was thinking of more permanent arrangements. A week in Paris with him would be lovely. We’d never been away together. I’d always been too busy. Then it occurred to me: casting for the Christmas season. I couldn’t miss it.
“Would we have to go for the whole week?”
Irritation crossed his brow. “Most people have holidays, Emma. It isn’t unthinkable.”
“It’s complicated. I’m on contract. I’ll need to make sure I have another contract lined up for when it’s finished. In this business—”
“You can’t have a break. Yes, I know, you’ve told me this before. But you need a break, and I need to introduce you to my family.”
“Need to? Why?”
“Because they’re my family.”
“You haven’t met mine.”
“They’re in Australia. And I can guarantee that if they were just across the Channel for only a week, I’d make the effort to come and meet them.”
“Look, Josh, don’t be upset. I’ll check with Adelaide; she has my diary. If you can give me the dates, I—”
To my surprise, Josh stood up, fists clenched by his sides. People at the neighboring tables glanced up sharply; he realized he was creating a scene and sat down again. Leaned forward and, obviously keeping his anger in check, said, “This cannot go on.”
By now I was growing annoyed. He was overreacting. “I think it’s reasonable that I should be able to look at my diary before committing to anything.”
“Before committing to me?”
I shook my head. “What are you asking me?” I felt as though we were playing a game and I didn’t know the rules. It was so unlike Josh to be unreasonable that I suspected darker motivations. It was almost as if he wanted to find fault with me. “Where has all this come from?”
“Do you know what I want from life, Emma?” he demanded.
“Of course. You want . . . to do well at work and . . .” I trailed off. Did I really not know what he wanted from life?
“Marriage?” he said. “A family?”
“You’ve never spoken of it.”
He exhaled sadly. “I have. You just haven’t listened.” He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “Do you want those things, too?”
“Maybe. One day.”
“You’re nearly thirty-two.”
“Plenty of time.” What was that constricted feeling in my chest? “Lots of dancing to do first.”
Josh ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, then said, “I’m sorry. This relationship isn’t working. I want to end it.”
A bolt of electricity slapped my chest, and the world became sharp-edged. A vacuum, a long silence. I was afraid to speak, in case I said the wrong thing. Not working? From my perspective, it had been working just fine. And so that was the word I said. “Fine.”
He cocked his head, a brief moment of anger crossing his brow. He thought I didn’t care. But I did. I had just been shocked into silence. People always misunderstood me. I just didn’t know how to say the right things.
Josh, regathering his efficient self, ruled out a long, messy goodbye. He picked up his keys and phone and stood. “I’ll head off. I’ll book a room at the Berkeley tonight, and I’ll nip into the apartment to collect my things tomorrow while you’re at the studio.” He reached for my hair, but I flinched away. “I’m sorry, Em,” he said softly, in the intimate voice I had grown to love. “I really am. But you’re not the girl for me.”
I wanted to shout. To upend the table. To kick him so hard in the groin that his face turned blue. But I did none of these things. I was too visible: I was Emma Blaxland-Hunter, prima ballerina with the London Ballet. Granddaughter of the Blaxland Wool empire. I carried the family’s reputation on my slight shoulders.
He left. I waited five minutes and left, too, ignoring the curious stares in my wake.
I refused to believe that Josh wasn’t coming back. Certainly, the following day he’d moved out his clothes and toiletries and CDs while I was at rehearsal, but he hadn’t taken any of the potted plants on the terrace that he’d so lovingly tended. I was confident he’d return, so I didn’t call him. I wanted him to call me. He owed me an apology. A big one.
The summer days dragged on. I longed for the dark of winter. But instead the days lingered, a bright light shone on my uncertain heart. The heat just added to my misery. At least back in Sydney the houses were designed to cope with hot weather, to let the air flow through. Here, every building seemed designed to trap the stuffy warmth.
So, because the emptiness and the heat were all that waited for me at home, I stayed at the rehearsal studio later and later. The perfect way to forget about Josh, about how I was wait
ing for him to come back, was to throw myself into my work. Rehearsals for a September production of Giselle were in full swing, and from the moment I arrived at the studio till the moment I left, I barely thought about him. But the sadness hung, waiting for me as I dressed in my street clothes and brushed my long hair out of its tight knot. The emptiness. No Josh to meet for dinner. No Josh to come home to.
I spent every evening of those first two weeks walking from one end of the city to another. Sometimes the traffic got too much, and I escaped into parks; sometimes I idly stared in shopwindows. On the second Friday night, I caught sight of a Blaxland Wool display in Selfridges & Co. and went in to look closer. Blaxland Wool specialized in classy women’s wear. This year it was forties-inspired suits with short, short skirts in bright colors. I doubted Grandma would have liked them, and the thought gave me a pang. Grandma. If she’d still been alive, she would have been the first person I’d call. “Gran, I think he’s left me. I don’t think he’s coming back.” And Grandma’s voice would have soothed me down the line. Shh, Emma, you will be all right. I know you, and I know you will be fine. Grandma had more faith in me than I had in myself.
I fingered the cuff of one of the suits, getting my panic under control. Josh would come back. Stay positive.
“May I help you?”
I turned, found myself looking up at a tall, coltish young woman with miles-long French nails. “No, no, I’m fine,” I said.
“Hey,” the young woman said, “you’re Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” The jokes that Josh and I had made about our surnames. His was a double-barrel, too: Joshua Hamer-Lyndon. Modern parents and their need to keep maternal surnames, Josh had complained. Our children, he declared, would be Bill and Ben Hamer-Lyndon-Blaxland-Hunter, and pity the poor generation that came after them.
I’d never taken him seriously. Children hadn’t been in my plan—not until the distant future, at any rate—so I’d assumed they weren’t in his, either.
“Do you mind if I get my boss over here? She’d be ever so thrilled to meet you.”
And that night I simply couldn’t do it. I would look like a stuck-up cow, I knew. It would be shop-floor gossip for weeks: “Emma Blaxland-Hunter came in to look at our display, wouldn’t even talk to us.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to be somewhere . . .” I backed away, nearly knocking over a mannequin with legs identical to the shop assistant’s. “I’m very sorry.”
I escaped, hurried down to the crowded street. My stomach grumbled lowly. I ducked into the Bond Street underground and made my way home.
Every time I opened the door, my heart held its breath, hoping Josh would be back. But no, the flat was dark and empty. I hung my keys on the hook and switched on a lamp. The message light was blinking on the phone. Surely it would be Josh this time. This silly game had gone on for too long. I dialed the message bank. No Josh; Adelaide, my part-time personal assistant.
“Call me. Important. Really important. Not work-related but important nonetheless. I want you to hear it from me.”
I frowned, hung up the phone. I didn’t want to call her. She sounded rattled. As though she had bad news.
I set about opening every window in the apartment; a grudging breeze, warm and laden with the smell of petrol fumes, leaked in. I poured a glass of wine. I looked in the pantry for food. There was none. When had I last shopped? I glanced at the phone. Really important. I didn’t want to know; I was afraid of what I’d hear.
Finally, I marched up to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed.
Adelaide had it on the first ring. “Emma?”
“How did you know?” My heart thudded softly in my throat.
“Caller ID. Are you sitting down?”
I perched on the arm of the couch. “I am now.”
“I saw Josh this evening.”
“Josh? My Josh? Is he . . . ?” Coming back? But I knew from the tone of her voice that he wasn’t coming back; that this would not be happy news.
“He was with someone else, Emma. I’m so sorry.”
My stomach sank. I hung on tight to the edge of the couch with my free hand. “You mean . . . ?”
“A woman, yes. Not just any woman. Sarah. His assistant.”
I barely remembered her and was surprised that Adelaide did. But they had probably organized appointments together. Josh and I were both very busy people.
Somehow I managed to keep my voice even. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I had good news for you.”
“No, no. I’m glad you told me.” Was I? Or was that the kind of empty platitude anyone said when her heart had been torn out and crushed to pulp on the ground? “I’ll see you at the studio.”
I hung up, slid down into the couch with my eyes closed. Josh and his assistant. What a horrid cliché. He’d moved quickly: less than two weeks since we . . .
But wait. Sarah. I was remembering now. She had a hard face, not pretty at all. Her name had popped up many times in our conversations, not that I’d paid much attention. And now it seemed that I’d been overlooking some very important facts. Josh’s late nights at the office, at least one business trip a month, the endless attachment to his BlackBerry, furiously two-thumbing messages every minute of the day and night. Had he been having an affair all along? Was his ultimatum a way of finally deciding between me and her?
I felt myself crumbling from within, turning to sand. I didn’t want to be alone, but I had so few friends. Two away, abroad with the ballet. One old friend from Australia who now lived in . . . where was it again? And for the first time in a very long time, I wanted my mum. I wanted her very badly.
I scooped up the phone again and dialed before I could think better of it. At the other end, thousands of miles away, the phone rang. And rang. I realized that I would be terribly disappointed if it rang out. That, despite the fact that my mother would nag me to come home, I still needed desperately to hear her voice.
Just when I was about to give up, the line went live.
“Hello?” Out of breath.
“Mum?” I said, my voice already breaking.
“Oh, Em, what’s up? You sound—”
“Josh has left me.” Big sobs bubbled out of me, the first I had allowed myself since Josh had abandoned me at the restaurant. “He’s run off with his assistant.”
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” Mum said, and while I cried, she kept up a comforting string of sounds and words. For the first time in years, I actually wished I were home in Sydney, just so I could put my cheek against her cool throat and be comforted like a child. Mum and I had a tense relationship, a clash of personalities that we hadn’t been able to resolve. But she was still my mum, the person who had smoothed Band-Aids over my cut knees and driven me to every ballet class.
Finally, I got my tears under control. “God, Mum, one minute I think I’m living the perfect life, and the next, it all falls apart.”
“You could come home,” my mother ventured.
The familiar sting of irritation. “No.”
“Just for a visit. You haven’t been back since before your grandma died.”
“I can’t. I’m in rehearsal for a production.”
“After that.”
“There will be another production.”
A sigh on the line. “Emma, you’re nearly thirty-two. You can’t dance forever.”
But I could: that was the thing. My body still felt fine. If not forever, I hoped to get at least another ten years out of my work. Maybe more. I’d seen footage of Maya Plisetskaya en pointe at sixty-three. Since childhood, I’d wanted to do nothing but dance; I couldn’t even think of stopping. I didn’t know how to stop.
“Mum,” I said, “I promise you I’ll come home when I stop dancing. But for now it’s still my life.” In fact, it was all I had left.
I must have heard the expression “broken heart” hundreds of times in my life. But now I understood with every muscle a
nd nerve in my body what it actually meant. My heart, the vital organ that pumped blood through my body, and love and longing through my veins, never stopped hurting. I would wake up with the pain, then go to sleep with it again at night. I cried into my hands over the bathroom basin getting ready for work. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know myself.
The only way I knew to shut out the awful feelings was to move. After rehearsals every night, I stayed on, dancing and dancing and dancing. Adelaide gave up on me at six every evening and wisely went home to her family in Clapham. I cherished the gleaming empty room, its high white lights and its long mirrors. I had all the space in the world to express my anger and my pain. The more my feet ached, the closer I knew I was to getting over him. I danced like a mad person; I danced as though it were the only thing keeping me alive. And in some ways, it was.
Thomas, the janitor, rattled around the hallways. I heard the vacuum cleaner, the water running in the bathrooms. One evening he came and cleaned the mirrors from one side of the room to the other, studiously not watching me as I tortured my body. By the second Friday afternoon, Adelaide couldn’t hold her tongue anymore.
“You’ve been doing this for two weeks. You know it’s bad for you.”
“Practicing is never bad for you.”
“You can push your body too far. If Brian found out—”
“Don’t you dare tell Brian!” Brian Lidke was the artistic director. The last time he’d cast me, he’d pointedly asked me how old I was. “I need to do this, Adelaide. I spent far too much time with Josh, missed rehearsals, lost form.”
“You’ve never missed a single rehearsal, Em. I manage your diary. I should know.”
“I could have attended the extra ones.”
She snorted a cynical laugh. “For God’s sake—for your own sake—go home.”
Home. To the empty flat that I couldn’t afford much longer. “One more hour.”
Adelaide hitched her bag onto her shoulder and huffed away. I pushed down my guilt and headed for the barre. Calves aching. Up.
I worked particularly furiously that night. Didn’t notice at first that I couldn’t hear Thomas’s vacuum cleaner. When I was done, working through some cooldown exercises, I slowly started to realize that I truly had the theater all to myself. I went to the door and peered into the hallway. Usually, the wooden panels and wide stairs were lit by soft downlights. But it was pitch-black. Either Thomas hadn’t come, or he had taken off early and forgotten me. I was probably locked in.
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