Dancing Daze

by Sarah Webb

  Ireland is not known for its ballerinas. Apart from Ninette de Valois, who set up the famous Sadler’s Wells Ballet in London, and Monica Loughman, who danced with the Perm Ballet and now has her own ballet company in Dublin, few Irish dancers have hit the headlines. But Claire Starr is set to change all that. And like both Loughman and de Valois, she started young.

  “I’ve been dancing since I was tiny,” Claire tells me from her family home in Glenageary, Co. Dublin. “I was always skipping and jigging around the house, and Mum thought I’d like ballet, so she enrolled me in Miss Smitten’s School of Dance when I was three. I loved it from the very first day. And then in February 2010, Miss Smitten heard that the Budapest Ballet Company was in Dublin auditioning for students. She thought I was ready, so she put me forward. And the rest is history.”

  I read on, fascinated. Although I know Claire’s background better than almost anyone, Clover still manages to make it interesting. Mum’s right, she’s a really good writer. Clover goes on to ask Claire about Budapest and the academy, information I already know from reading Claire’s diary, of course. Claire tells Clover about the journey from pupil to soloist, about the tough classes and the demands that ballet puts on dancers’ bodies. It’s all fairly upbeat, but toward the end of the interview, the tone changes a little.

  So what’s in the future for this extraordinary girl? And what roles would she like to dance?

  “Definitely the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker,” Claire says with a smile. “It was the first ballet I ever watched live as a child. Mum took me for my birthday when I was eight, and I’ve never forgotten it. And Giselle, obviously. And Odette-Odile, the white swan and the black swan, in Swan Lake. That’s an amazing role. As for the future, I’m just not sure. It will depend on a lot of things. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing, but I miss home a lot, and it’s a tough world. You have to fight both physically and mentally to stay on top. Will I still be dancing in five, ten, fifteen years’ time? To be honest, I just don’t know.”

  Hopefully Claire Starr will continue to dance for many years to come. She’s just too good not to. And maybe after that, she will teach a new generation of young Irish dancers by setting up her own ballet school in Dublin, like Monica Loughman. But one thing is for sure: the Irish Ballerina’s debut as Juliet is not to be missed!

  I put the magazine down on my desk and sit back in my chair. I give a low whistle. That’s a pretty honest interview. Claire is definitely having second thoughts about her ballet career. And I’m almost positive it’s all because of Zsuzsanna and the bullying. I can’t keep the information to myself any longer. I have to tell someone. Claire’s ballet career is at stake. Luckily, there’s someone I can tell who will understand instantly, someone who (I hope!) won’t judge me for reading Claire’s diary in the first place. I pick up my iPhone and ring Clover.

  “Y’ello?” she says brightly. “You are speaking to the rising star of the magazine world. How can I be of assistance?”

  “Fabarooney interview, Clover. Best yet. Even Mum’s impressed.”

  “It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it? And Saffy digs it with a capital D. I’ve never heard the woman gush before, but gush she did, like a fountain. In fact, she loved the piece so much, she’s asked me to do a follow-up interview. She wants me to find out more about Claire’s life in Budapest and the ‘grueling reality of a dancer’s life,’ triggered by Claire’s confession that she might give it all up someday soon, which I have to admit I also found pretty shocking, as I told you before. I still wish I could help her. There was definitely something on her mind on the day of the interview.”

  I already knew I had to tell Clover about Claire’s diary, but thankfully she’s just given me the perfect in! I take a deep breath and before I can chicken out say quickly, “I think I know what’s wrong with Claire . . . She’s being bullied.”

  “Bullied? Seriously? How do you know that, Beanie? Did Claire say something to Mills about it?”

  “No, I read Claire’s diary.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  I tell Clover exactly what happened: how I stumbled on Claire’s diary while she was home for the prepublicity tour, and how I made a copy and then read it. I explain what I’ve discovered about Zsuzsanna and the kick marks. As I talk, I can feel my cheeks burning with shame.

  “I know it was a terrible thing to do,” I say finally. “Reading someone’s private thoughts like that is unforgivable. But I didn’t feel I had any other choice. Claire is so obviously in pain, and I want to help her.”

  There’s silence for a few seconds and I wait in agony for Clover to say something.

  Eventually she sighs. “Sometimes life is complicated, Beanie, that’s for sure. No, you shouldn’t have read Claire’s diary. It was one hundred percent wrong, but I can tell you’re genuinely worried about her, and I think you have every reason to be. So in this case, I guess maybe the end justifies the means.”

  “So you’re not disappointed in me for stealing her diary and reading it?” I feel almost dizzy with relief.

  “No, Beans. I probably would have done exactly the same thing if I’d been in your shoes. And if I know you, you’re probably already beating yourself up about it every single day. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “Serious guilt pangs.”

  “And that’s just something you’re going to have to live with, I’m afraid. But this does make my next piece of news rather interesting for both of us. Saffy’s flying me out to Budapest to talk to Claire. My darling editor wants me to hang out with Claire for a day, watch a Romeo and Juliet rehearsal, get a feel for where she lives, what she eats, what the other dancers are like — that kind of thing. Plus, I have to organize a couple of photo shoots. We’re getting an amazing response to my first interview with Claire, and Saffy’s itching to make the next interview another cover story. She’s putting me up in a swanky boutique hotel and everything. And, boy, am I hungry for Hungary.”

  I laugh. “That’s terrible, Clover. The joke, I mean. But it’s fantastic news, and you really deserve it. You rocked that interview.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “And maybe you can get Claire to open up about the bullying. Encourage her to talk to someone, get some help.”

  “Ah, that’s where my second piece of news comes in. Are you sitting down, Green Bean? I talked to Sylvie earlier and . . . you’re coming to Budapest with me! So we can talk to Claire together.”

  I squeal. “Are you serious, Clover?”

  “Absolument, babes. Would your old aunt lie to you? The tickets are already booked. We’re leaving Friday late afternoon for two nights of ballet balhooey in Budapest.”

  I still don’t quite believe it. “Are you sure Mum said yes?”

  “I talked her around. But you so owe me one, Beanie.”

  “I owe you a lot more than one, Clover. Can we do the whole touristy thing? Visit the art gallery? I haven’t had a proper art fix for ages. And I’m sure there are castles, and museums and . . .” The line’s gone quiet. “Clover? Are you still there?”

  “You’re joking, right? Culture, smulture. Not this trip, babes, sorry! You’ve got the wrong girl. I intend to eat, drink, and be merry. Oh, and have a good old soak in one of the famous baths. . . . Oops, Brains is on the other line. Better boogie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And no guidebook studying, OK? Promise? I don’t want any lectures on Hungarian history on the plane.”

  I cross my fingers. “Promise.”

  I click off my iPhone, a big grin on my face. Budapest! With Clover! And only four more sleeps!

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Beanie,” Clover says as we take our seats in the blue Aircoach bus. “Stop being such a worrywart.”

  “You say that, but something always goes wrong. On the way to Paris, you forgot your passport and Gramps had to tear up the M50 to give it to you. On the way to Miami, we nearly missed our flight ’cause you were trying on posh sunglasses. When it comes to traveling, you’re
jinxed.”

  “Not this time, babes,” she says confidently. “My passport’s safely in my handbag, along with the tickets, my laptop, and thousands of florints.” She pats the chic tan Alexa satchel, “borrowed” from the Goss’s fashion wardrobe especially for the occasion.

  “Thousands of florints? Are we rich?”

  “Don’t get too excited. There are about three hundred florints to a euro. It’s for our expenses. And that does not include icky, cheap, plastic models of Hungarian castles.”

  “Boo!” I say. Clover knows I love touristy things, the tackier the better. “So how long is the flight?” I ask.

  “Just under three hours.”

  “And will you be snoozing, snoring, and drooling as usual?”

  “I do not snore or drool, Beanie. How dare you!”

  I smile to myself. She so does.

  Sure enough, halfway over England, Clover is already sounding like a Great Dane with an adenoids problem. She’s snoring seriously loudly. Comedy loudly. Everyone’s staring at her, and they don’t look happy. I’d better do something. After taking out my iPhone, I stick it in front of her open mouth and make a short sound recording. Then I shake her arm. “Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”

  She gives one last shuddery snort, then peels her eyes open slowly, one by one. “What? Are we there?”

  I shake my head. “Some of the passengers are starting to get seriously worried. They think there’s a farmyard animal on board.”

  I press “play” on my mobile, and her slobbery snores ring out.

  “Beanie!” she cries. “That’s disgusting. That can’t be me.”

  “It is, Miss Snuffleupagus.”

  “Maybe I have a bit of a cold or something. I don’t normally snore, you know.”

  I try not to laugh.

  “You’ll have to keep me awake, just in case,” she says huffily. “Tell me some interesting facts about Budapest. I know you’ve been secretly reading that travel guide you’ve sneaked into your backpack.”

  I love travel guides, especially glossy ones with lots of photographs. I like to know a bit about the history of a place before I visit. Clover thinks it’s boring, but Mum says that’s because Clover’s mind is a cultural black hole and her idea of history is last year’s X Factor.

  I pull out my guide eagerly and flip through the pages. “Did you know that Budapest is often described as the Paris of Middle Europe? Or that there are over sixty galleries and museums in the city?”

  Clover groans. “Jeez Louise, Beanie, I said interesting, not snooze-inducing. You’re supposed to be keeping me awake, not boring me into oblivion. I’ll read my magazine instead.” She picks up her handbag, which is under the seat in front of her, and rummages through it without success. “Must be in my wheelie bag.” She stands up and opens the overhead bin. Then she looks back at me. “Beanie, where did you put my wheelie bag?”

  “Last time I saw it was on the Aircoach. You put it in the trunk, remember? Mine fit under the seats, but yours didn’t.”

  She screws her eyes tightly shut and then opens them again. “Oops!”

  “Clover, you look blingtastic,” I say, stifling my giggles. “Just like a gangsta rapper’s moll.” Clover is standing in front of me in a knee-length flamingo-pink Puffa jacket with a halo of fluffy white fake fur around the hood. Her feet are snug in matching silver-and-pink puffy snow boots. We’re in the only clothes and shoe shop at Budapest airport, and it’s pretty slim pickings. But as it’s minus two degrees outside and Clover has only a light leather jacket, a red knitted skater dress, and ballet flats to her name, she doesn’t have much choice. She has to buy them, along with some lacy black underwear, black jeggings, and two sequin-encrusted purple tops. I offered to lend her some of my clothes, but she said there was no way she’d fit into them. “I’m far curvier than you, babes,” she said. “Your jeans would cut off the circulation in my legs.”

  She studies herself in the shop mirror. “At least no one I know is going to see me over here. I’m such a muppet. I spent a whole night sorting out my Hungarian wardrobe too.”

  While she’s paying, I adjust my own bag on my shoulder and look out into the foyer, past the scurrying travelers, toward the doors leading outside. I can see what look like white feathers falling from the sky, spinning in the orange airport lights. “Look, Clover. It’s snowing.”

  She grins. “You’d better pull on your beanie, Beanie. It’s snow time.”

  Outside, I stick my tongue out to catch the swirling flakes. They melt instantly.

  Clover laughs. “You’re such a child, Bean Machine.”

  “At least I don’t look like a skiing Bratz doll.”

  “Touché, darling.” And then she pelts me right in the face with a snowball.

  The hotel is amazing! I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first. The taxi driver drove up all these narrow rickety streets and then dropped us off outside a huge wooden door with a curved top. There is a small brass plaque outside saying BALZAC HOUSE. Clover pressed the intercom. There was a buzzing noise and the lock on the door clicked open, but no one came to meet us. We looked at each other, shrugged, and then walked inside.

  The hallway is spectacular. It has huge, soaring vaulted ceilings, like the inside of a Victorian church, and it smells like a church too, of old wood and damp.

  As we stood there wondering what to do next, Clover wrinkled her nose. “Bit smelly.” But as soon as she spotted a tall, beautifully dressed Hungarian man in his early twenties walking down the sweeping marble staircase toward us, a welcoming smile on his handsome chiseled face, she quickly changed her tune. “Now, that’s more like it,” she murmured.

  “Welcome to Balzac House,” he said politely in perfect English. “Can I take your bags?”

  “I wish you could,” Clover said wistfully.

  He looked confused.

  “Clover’s bag got lost on the way,” I explained.

  He shook his head. “That is a shame. Airlines. So disorganized.”

  Before I could correct him, Clover had pressed her foot against mine and grinned. I smiled back at her.

  “I will arrange a welcome pack for you — toothpaste, shampoo, et cetera,” he continued. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Not at all. You’re a complete doll,” Clover said. “But if I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Let me carry those.” He took my bag and backpack from me. “I hope you will enjoy your stay,” he said, leading us up the stairs.

  “You’re such a sweetie,” Clover gushed, her eyes fixed firmly on his bum. “We definitely will,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows and digging me in the ribs. I could only laugh.

  I’m now lying on the double bed, waiting for Clover to come out of the bathroom. She’s been in there for ages. I had a quick shower, but she insisted on filling the giant old-fashioned brass bath and having a soak in all the delicious smelly things that the hotel provided. The receptionist also dropped off a large plastic bag packed with toiletries, so she’s really happy.

  I’m starting to get bored. “Clover, hurry up. I’m starving,” I shout at the bathroom door.

  Nothing.

  “Clover? You OK?”

  I hear a splash and then, “Sorry, Beanie. Must have drifted off. How long have I been in here?”

  “Too long. Get your skates on. My stomach is growling like a grizzly.”

  Seconds later she appears in the doorway, cheeks bright red and shiny from the bath. “Give me two secs.”

  I avert my eyes as she dashes past me, completely naked. “Clover!” I say.

  She just laughs. After shimmying into her underwear, she starts doing this funny hula-hula dance, wiggling her hips, waving her arms in the air, and singing, “I love ma body. I love ma body.”

  “Have you completely lost the plot? Get dressed. You’ll freeze.”

  “It’s only skin, Beanie. We all have it. And I happen to love the skin I’m in.”

  Outsi
de, it’s a beautiful night — clear, crisp, and freezing. Our breath hangs in the air like little dragon puffs. The city is gorgeous, and it is a little like Paris, with its old buildings and pretty squares. It seems edgier, though, as if anything could be lurking around the next corner.

  We head toward Vörösmarty Square. When we asked Boris, the receptionist from the hotel — Clover shamelessly asked him his name — where to go for dinner, he suggested we pick up some food at the famous Christmas Fair in the square and gave us directions. He promised it was only a few minutes’ walk and was well worth the effort.

  “I love this place,” Clover says, swinging her arms and crunching through the fresh snow in her new boots. “It’s got character. And I guess we’ve found the Christmas Fair.” She points across the road at the dozens of brightly lit stalls.

  As we cross the street, I smell mulled wine. It reminds me of Christmas Eve. Every year, Dad used to make a big saucepan of it for his and Mum’s Christmas Eve party. I feel a slight tug in my stomach, thinking about Dad and Mum together. Yes, they argued a lot, but we were still a family. And now they both have different families, but I’m the bridge that links them together, and at the moment, I’m doing my best to keep Dad with his new family! So far, my Send-Pauline-Packing plan is coming along nicely.

  We find a pancake stall and buy two savory pancakes, stuffed with gooey melted cheese and spicy sausage, and sit on white metal chairs under an outdoor heater to eat them while we watch the crowd mill by. Lots of the women are wearing coats just like Clover’s. Others are wearing fur from top to toe, with big furry hats like cats perched on their heads.

  After we’ve eaten, we wander among the stalls. Clover munches on some roasted chestnuts. I try one, but they don’t really taste of anything and they leave a funny zingy aftertaste in my mouth, so one is enough. Then I spot a tourist stall and I’m like a bee drawn to honey.