Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  Adrian grabbed the duffel, vowing that Jackson Power would not toss him out of the picture that easily. Rich people think they can buy their way out of everything, Adrian thought as he fingered the check in his pants pocket. Not this time. Not this guy.

  CYNTHIA took a deep breath, walked up the stairs to Bruce Harold Raymond’s office, and then didn’t remember how she had arrived there at all. She was that nervous.

  She had never fired anyone before.

  Three-Name Bruce barely looked up as Cynthia walked in the room.

  “Bruce,” Cynthia said, “we have to talk.”

  “A week and a half to performance, Cynthia. I’m sure whatever it is can wait.”

  “It can’t. And the reason it can’t is that much has to be changed in the next ten days. We can’t waste a moment.”

  Bruce Harold looked up. Tall and cut and imposing, even while sitting. His long neck stretching like a sauropod, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as his chin tilted back. All hail the Prince of Smugness.

  “Changed?” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Yes.”

  “Change what? Napkins? Seating arrangements? What on earth do you propose to…change?”

  “Two dance pieces, three leads, and one artistic director,” Cynthia said. “You’re fired, Bruce.”

  He looked at her. Her knees, which had been shaking, suddenly stilled. Hey, they seemed to be saying, this isn’t so bad, firing an asshole.

  “You can’t,” he said.

  “I just did,” Cynthia replied.

  “You don’t have the power,” he said. “You’re nowhere near a majority—”

  “Oh, but I am,” Cynthia said. “From my apartment to your office, I’ve made ten phone calls. It’s done.”

  “I’m calling Mr. Plotzicki—we’ll just see what he has to say—”

  “I’ve already had that conversation. After hearing my concerns and suggestions, he threw his considerable weight behind me.”

  They stared at each other. Somewhere, a clock ticked. A piano wandered into its arpeggio.

  “I’ll sue.”

  “I’m certain of it. Pack your things,” Cynthia said. “Goodbye, Bruce, and good luck.” She turned on her heel and walked out, exhilarated and terrified.

  What had she just done?

  Ten days.

  Five minutes later, she and Margot faced the corps.

  “Why do we dance?” Cynthia began. “Who can understand our passion? We are artists. But more than that. We are warriors.”

  Cynthia noted the chests puffing out a bit.

  “Each of you went into ballet because you want to create. To create beauty. You never feel more alive than when you’re on that stage. I know that feeling. I used to live for that feeling.”

  Cynthia paused.

  “But we must face the truth. We’ve gone numb. And safe. When did we stop taking chances? When did we stop testing our own limits?” Was she talking about dance or her life? “It’s not too late for us to make a change. I want the NYBT to be a corps that people have to talk about. That they have to see. A company that makes the audience feel as alive as I want you to feel when you’re dancing. We need to reinvent ourselves. That means enough with The Nutcracker. And screw Don Quixote. Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to dance without a safety net.”

  She told them of the new lineup. They were tossing some of the traditional offerings and adding a pièce d’occasion from Margot Ashford, NYBT’s new artistic director and choreographer(!), interspersed with exciting palate cleansers by Tiffany Mills and Mark Morris. She expected the disappointment and fear she saw in some faces, the looks of surprise and excitement in others.

  “Impossible. We only have ten days,” the Russian lead ballerina spouted.

  “A little less than that, actually.”

  “Can’t be done,” the veteran American dancer opined. His opinion was among the most revered in the corps.

  “It can’t be done, Joe, if we don’t start,” Cynthia said. “I’m going to need your leadership to make this happen.”

  He took a long look at her. Then, finally, gave her a nod. The dancers were all looking at them. Cynthia could hear tectonic plates shifting, energy rising.

  “Let’s get to work,” Margot said, clapping her hands briskly. “We have a show to do.”

  And like that, they were up.

  46

  MARRIAGE REHAB: KING ROOKED

  JACKS HAD a plan mapped out. He’d enlisted Caprice’s help, who was eager to facilitate the Powers reconciliation. Peace in Jackson Power’s life? Caprice thought, peace in Caprice’s life.

  Week One: Jackson choreographed a phalanx of romantic dinners, a trip to Harry Winston, a helicopter ride into Roxbury to Cynthia’s favorite spa, hand-in-hand walks through Central Park, maybe even Madama Butterfly—if he could stand three hours at the opera (he’d take his BlackBerry).

  And every night, every single night, Sunday through Saturday, Jacks would be at Cynthia’s beck and call, to pleasure her in whatever way she desired.

  Case in point: Jacks had Harry drop him off in front of a discreet West Village storefront to purchase a little something to get Cynthia’s machinery geared up.

  Let the wooing begin.

  The problem was Cynthia hadn’t received the memo.

  “I can’t go anywhere this week,” Cynthia informed Jacks.

  “But, I’ve made reservations, we’re all set to go—”

  “Jacks, I am spending every waking moment, and almost every sleeping one, at Brooke Astor Hall until opening night—I’ve changed up the program, the dancers—Margot’s actually choreographing—if I’m not there, there won’t be a fall season—”

  Cynthia sounded annoyed, but secretly, she was thrilled: she’d never felt so needed!

  “But I’ve made all these plans! Can’t you fit in one dinner this week? You have to eat—c’mon, Cynthia, I am your husband.”

  “My husband? My cheating husband who’s trying to push me out of my home?”

  “Well, you know…the closest thing to a husband,” Jacks said, then segued. “I think we should discuss Vivienne.”

  He knew that would get her.

  Cynthia paused. Jacks counted the seconds on his fingers.

  “I can do an hour on Wednesday,” she said finally.

  Jacks smiled, and said, “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock at 740—”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “I’ll pick you up and drop you wherever you need to be afterward.” Never let ’em say no—Jacks repeated one of his mantras—a no is just a yes that hasn’t been aged properly.

  CYNTHIA had never seen Margot so focused and intense—she hadn’t even made a sarcastic remark in days.

  And not one comment about all the sex she was missing.

  Their vision was working. The troupe was coming together around Margot’s piece and the other new interludes. Cynthia and Margot were exhausted, but exhilarated.

  Cynthia was watching the married Ukrainians dancing a pas de deux onstage for the umpteenth time that evening when Teddy Pendergrass rang. “Where are you?” Jacks asked.

  “I’m at the Hall.”

  “But I’m at 740.” He sounded irritated.

  “It’s Wednesday, already?” Cynthia asked. “What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock. We have reservations at eight-fifteen.”

  “Oh, God. It’s already eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  Cynthia was about to protest—but stopped herself. She hadn’t eaten since lunch—something limp with dressing. She could order, find out what was on Jacks’s mind regarding Vivienne (she never thought she’d hear those words), and be back at the Hall by 9:30. “Okay, fine,” she said.

  “Great, great. I made us a reservation at Aureole.” He’d even had Caprice phone ahead for the special “aphrodisiac tasting menu.” It was usually offered only on Valentine’s Day, but if you’re Jacks Power, you can declare an
y day Valentine’s Day.

  “No, no,” Cynthia said. “Let’s just grab a bite at Vince & Eddies.”

  Jacks hesitated. Lara had liked Vince & Eddies—it was a network hangout. “But—that’s so noisy, so crowded—”

  “Jacks, I don’t have much time. It has good burgers and the service is fast. Pick me up in five.” Cynthia hung up before Jacks could respond.

  Cynthia waved goodbye to Margot, who was putting the dancers through yet another run-through, and hurried off.

  JACKS was elbow-to-tweedy-elbow with the dinner crowd—and some of their kids! There were even a couple of dogs tied up outside. Jesus Christ, what was the world coming to?

  He’d barely recognized Cynthia when she walked up to the car, with her hair loosened, strands settling along her face, her cheeks flushed. Not a lick of makeup. And wearing jeans! She looked like a twelve-year-old who’d just ridden in on horseback.

  He watched her talk. So animated! Where’d she get all these opinions? he thought. What’s with all the energy, and she hadn’t even ordered a diet Red Bull or espresso?

  She was going on about her week and the dancers and firing some guy (Cynthia fired someone?! ) and how she could be in so much trouble if the company didn’t pull this all off—(“Oh, the press, Jacks, they’re horrible!” She’s having lunch tomorrow with the Times critic, Adeline somebody) but how could they be expected to pull all this off? It’s unheard of—using an unknown choreographer and changing the lineup and the dancers and the artistic director with a week and a half to go—

  And if that wasn’t enough, she couldn’t keep her hands off his French fries.

  “Anyway, enough about the gala,” she said, exhaling. “What’s this about Vivienne? What’s your concern?”

  “Vivienne?” Jacks asked.

  “Yes, the reason we’re having dinner, Jacks. Vivienne?”

  “Ah. Yes. She seems…”

  Jacks took a moment to think about this. Vivienne. What did his daughter seem like? If he really thought about it… “Sad.” Oh, Christ. That was painful.

  Cynthia nodded. “She is sad,” she said. “She’s getting over heartache.”

  “Oh,” Jacks said. “I didn’t know.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Cynthia said. “Vivienne is a very strong girl. She doesn’t talk a lot about it…I wish she did”—without the gory lesbian details, thank you, Cynthia thought—“but she’s a pretty private person. As you know.”

  “Yes,” he said. Private? Vivienne’s private? “But she’ll be okay?” he asked. Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Vivienne.

  “Oh, yes. In fact,” Cynthia said, leaning in conspiratorially, “she may have already met someone new. A boy.”

  Jackson looked at her; he wasn’t getting the true meaning of her statement.

  “You didn’t know,” Cynthia said. “Vivienne’s a lesbian.”

  Jackson pulled back, as though he’d been slapped. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible!”

  “Jackson.” Cynthia put her hand over his. “She’d been living with a girl for a year. A beautiful girl.”

  “Living, yes…that’s normal. Roommates! She called her her roommate.”

  “It’s not the worst thing in the world, Jackson.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Jackson said. Okay, think of what would be worse—drugs? Alcohol? One of those rich girls who party every night and put out sex tapes when the partying gets dull and doesn’t pay? Jacks thought about the press—how had the vultures not discovered his daughter’s sexual preference? Maybe, he thought, maybe that’s why Vivienne is strictly under the radar.

  “So she met a guy?” Jackson asked, trying to temper the hope in his voice.

  “Yes, she’s kissed him. And liked it!” Cynthia said, not bothering to temper hers.

  “Oh, thank God,” Jackson said. He grabbed Cynthia’s hand and squeezed. They sat, enjoying their moment of parental bullet-dodging, Cynthia thinking (she couldn’t help it) once again of the Times wedding pages; Jackson wiping the image of Gertrude Stein (Billie Jean King?) with Vivienne’s curls and cowboy boots out of his head.

  “I have to get back,” Cynthia said apologetically.

  “Oh, already?” Jackson asked, then started patting his pockets. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Cynthia put her hand to her chest. “You do?”

  “I picked it out myself,” he said proudly, as he placed a small box with a white bow on the table. “I hope you like it.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have, Jackson,” Cynthia said as she slowly reached for the box.

  “I wanted to show you how much I care,” he said.

  She sat, fingering the bow. Then, finally, opened it.

  And stared. Then squinted. Then grimaced.

  “Jackson, what is—I don’t understand—”

  “It’s the latest innovation,” Jackson said. “This stuff is selling like hotcakes.”

  “But, it’s—” Cynthia faltered. “Jackson, it’s wrinkle cream.”

  “The most expensive wrinkle cream,” Jacks said. “You know what the secret ingredient is?”

  Cynthia just stared at him.

  “The leftover skin from circumsized penises, I kid you not!” Jacks said. “I’ve used it myself, I’d say it works.”

  “Do you know how insulting this is?” Cynthia asked.

  “You don’t like it?” Jacks asked, sounding crushed. “But the stuff’s like five hundred bucks—”

  “It’s just so…” She shook her head. “You bought me wrinkle cream!”

  “Oh! I get it,” Jacks said. “Did you think it was jewelry? I’ll get you jewelry—whatever you want—”

  “No, no, no—” Cynthia put her face in her hands.

  “I was trying to think of something practical, something you could really use,” Jackson said.

  Cynthia looked at him. “Take me back.”

  “Look,” Jacks said, “I’ll put it on myself—”

  “Check, please!” Cynthia yelled to the waiter.

  47

  THE QUEEN EATS CAKE

  LUNCH AT Per Se at the Time Warner Center should at the very least be pleasant, if not sublime. But not today.

  Clues that Cynthia’s noontime meal with the Times ballet critic, Adeline Crisp, would not go well:

  The woman sported a lacquered helmet of black hair that Cynthia could not peel her eyes from. Was it real? Was it a wig? Was she doing Kabuki in her off-critic hours?

  The critic pushed away the menu parading Thomas Keller’s finest and pointedly ordered an espresso. And only an espresso.

  Adeline, in her gravelly drone, informed Cynthia that one of her dearest friends was Bruce Harold Raymond. And smiled. Like a crocodile.

  Cynthia bravely forged past the comment, and told Adeline of her bold plans for the NYBT.

  “After next week’s performance,” Cynthia predicted, “we won’t be seen as the ‘other’ ballet company. I guarantee you that.”

  “What about your financial situation?” Adeline asked, her signature fountain pen poised on her notepad. “Isn’t it true that the NYBT is flirting with bankruptcy?”

  “I’ve brought Margaret Lord Foster back into the fold. I have meetings lined up with the major communications and technology companies. I’m talking to the younger crowd, the new financiers. Even Fred Plotzicki has renewed his pledge.”

  “Interesting,” Adeline replied as she scribbled, without sounding the least bit interested. “I’m afraid Bruce Harold Raymond has offered a very different view of your capabilities as head of the board, not to mention your tenuous fiscal responsibility. In fact, there are those who believe that you alone may well be guilty for the final death knell of the NYBT. Enjoy your meal. I have another engagement to get to.”

  Adeline stood up from her chair and gathered her notebook and purse. “I will be attending next week. I wish you the very best of luck.”

  Cynthia sat staring as Adeline scuttled away, in her
black tights and oversize black sweater dress, looking like Cynthia’s personal Grim Reaper.

  48

  TOURNAMENT PLAY

  CYNTHIA AND Margot stood before their dancers, Cynthia the Queen in a floor-length Valentino, Margot her knight in a black viscose cocktail dress. They held hands, without actually realizing they were doing so, as naturally as children.

  Margot spoke first.

  “You had ten bloody days, and what happened? All the bitching and moaning, and guess what—you created perfection. You should all be so fucking proud, no matter what happens now. I love you all like I’d love my own children, even though you know I can’t stand kids.”

  She was starting to cry.

  “Screw it—Rudy, watch the turn on the first movement. Pilar, I need your height. You can do it. And Tanny—for God’s sake, be yourself, but even more so. This is your moment. And that goes for each and every one of you. And Joe,” Margot said, looking at the veteran, whose last season was upon him, “as much as this is my work, this is yours, too. You rock my world. If you weren’t gay, I’d make you marry me. Thank you. Thank you all.” She sniffled. “Now go out there and make me proud, and if you fuck up, don’t come home.”

  She turned to Cynthia, who grabbed her waist and held her up. Cynthia turned to the dancers.

  “Remember who you are, where you came from, and why you’re here. You are the embodiment of not only your childhood dreams but the dreams of so many others, including people in the audience. Respect that. Respect yourselves, not just tonight, but for the rest of your lives.” Cynthia paused. “And for God’s sake, remember to have fun. Celebrate. It’s all over before you know it. And this is your night. No one can take that from you.”

  Unless you let them, she thought. Cynthia turned to Margot, as the dancers dispersed. “I’ll see you after the performance.”