Dance: The Collected Series

by Charlotte Eve

The audition?

  Of course.

  I’ve been so fucking wrapped up in myself for the past week that I’ve totally forgotten about the upcoming auditions for the end of year recital.

  “But Madame, I’m not sure I’m ready,” I plead despairingly. “I’ve not rehearsed all week. I’m completely off my game.”

  “I did say the auditions were mandatory, didn’t I?” Madame Lyon cuts in, her voice totally steely cold and unforgiving.

  Oh shit.

  There’s no way I’m getting out of this one.

  “Yes,” I sigh. “You did.”

  “Well in that case, I’ll see you at school tomorrow morning. Nine o clock sharp.”

  And without even saying goodbye, she hangs up the phone.

  For the first time in days, I venture to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, and no surprise, I look awful. My hair hangs limply in my face, lank, greasy and unwashed. And I’ve not eaten anything for days, either, so I look really scrawny and unhealthy, too. Truth is, I’ve been in a state of total shock, ever since that horrible talk with Gloria almost a week ago. And I just haven’t been able to face the real world ever since.

  Next, I hazard a glance at my turned-off cell phone.

  I just know that the minute I turn it back on there’ll be a million and one missed calls, and right now I all I want to do is wallow a little longer.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  So dumb.

  So wrong.

  I actually thought Gloria liked me. What a joke! Turns out she hates me so fucking much, she’s willing to give away whole chunks of her fortune just to make sure I stay the hell away from her precious son.

  And if I’m wrong about Gloria, I think sadly, then what else am I wrong about, too?

  What do Isabella and Bailey really think of me? And what about Dylan?

  It takes all my remaining willpower just to walk over to my cell phone and turn it on. Deep down, I know I can’t hide from the world forever. Sooner or later I’m going to have to face the music. So with a final deep breath I hit the power button and wait.

  A moment later the screen blinks into life and sure enough, just as I predicted, it starts going crazy with messages: ping, ping, ping, ping, ping!

  But the one that catches my eye is from Dylan, sent only six hours ago:

  I know you said you were ill, but I’ve not heard from you in days and now I’m worried. I’m flying over. I’ll be there by 4pm your time.

  I check the time – it’s 2pm already.

  Holy shit, I think. I’ve only got two hours to pull myself together before he gets here.

  And when he does?

  What the hell am I gonna do then?

  §

  “Christ Julia, you look awful,” Dylan says the moment he sets eyes on me, his face full of worry and concern. “I knew I should have come over sooner.”

  He’s right, of course. I do look awful. I don’t even have to pretend to look ill. The amount of weight I’ve lost, plus all the crying, has left me scrawny, red-eyed and tired, no matter how much damn make up I put on to try and hide it.

  He tenderly scoops me into his arms, and says, “I’m putting you on the sofa right now. And then I’m calling for take out. I know this great deli that does New York’s finest chicken soup, and I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Thank you,” I smile, choking back the tears, my heart breaking a little as I look at him from my place on the sofa. Because he’s so kind to me, so sweet, so good. I mean, how the hell am I ever going to break up with this guy?

  I can’t do it.

  I just can’t.

  No matter how much Gloria hates me, I just can’t do it.

  I love him way too much.

  “By the way,” Dylan adds, breaking me out of my thoughts, “that guy Marcus? The one you asked me to check out?”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, my interest piqued, although I can already tell by the look on Dylan’s face that this is not about to be good news.

  “Well, I had Alex take a look into it and it’s not too great, I’m afraid,” he says, coming to join me on the sofa. “In fact, his name raised all kinds of red flags straight away. Alex told me that he’s been a sleaze to her. He’s tried to pick her up in the past.”

  Woah.

  Wait a minute. Alex is a she?!

  But I don’t even have time to process this new information, as Dylan continues on his scathing rundown on Marcus Anderson.

  “Turns out I’ve met him in the past, too,” he says. “I remember it now. He was trying to get me to invest in one of his many shady business ventures, a few years ago, back when I was still starting up Campbell Finance. Real pushy guy. Anyway, I checked him out, and well, the numbers just didn’t add up. Something seemed sketchy to me. So I asked around my friends – guys I trust, guys I’ve worked with for years. And I’ve gotta tell you, baby, he’s not exactly popular.”

  “How come?” I ask, my head spinning with all this new information.

  “It’s nothing concrete,” Dylan sighs, “but the bottom line is, people think he’s kind of an asshole. And whoever your friend is? I’d tell her to stay well away from him. He’s real bad news.”

  I let out another sigh. Because even though my asshole radar was going crazy around him, I was really and truly hoping that I was in the wrong about Marcus – just like I was about Dylan when I first met him.

  But now it looks like now I’m going have to have that conversation with Nat, and it’s not gonna be fun.

  As Dylan starts to busy himself around the apartment – calling for take out and tidying away the week’s worth of trash I’ve managed to gather while I told the cleaner not to bother coming this week, I just sit there watching him weakly from my place on the sofa, and it hits me all over again just how fucking difficult it’ll be to walk away from this man; how damn hard I’ve fallen for him in such a short space of time.

  Then a new thought enters my head.

  Why should I walk away?

  Who does that snooty bitch even think she is anyway? The ‘Campbell name’? What about the Tate name? I’ve worked damn hard all my life, and I’m proud of my fucking name, too. And you know what? I’m not about to let anyone tell me I’m not good enough for their goddamn son. Gloria Campbell isn’t going to get rid of me quite so easily.

  “What?” Dylan says with a puzzled smile and an arched eyebrow. “What is it?”

  And that’s when I realize I’ve just been flat out staring at him for the last few minutes, totally lost in thought.

  “Your expression!” he laughs. “Ill or not, you look like you’re ready to take on the whole damn world!”

  Maybe I am, I think to myself defiantly. Maybe I am.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As soon as Dylan left last night, I pulled on my sweatpants and began practicing hard for the auditions. Now it’s eight a.m. and I’ve been awake half the damn night. I’m on my fifth espresso in a last-ditch attempt to keep me sharp, and I’m totally determined to get through this. But my brain is still a total whirl, and it’s not just ‘cause of the coffee.

  I feel like my whole life is in a spin, and I just don’t know how the hell to ground myself, as my thoughts flit and flash: from Gloria, to Nat, to Marcus, to Alex, to Dylan, then back again in a crazy whirl.

  Just stay focused, Julia.

  Right now I’m trying to practice my moves in the rehearsal room next door to where the auditions are taking place. I’m one of about twenty five girls, and I can tell that the whole room is a bundle of nerves. Just then, I hear a voice call: “Next three please! Helena Cole, Liliya Konstantinov and ... Julia Tate.”

  Of course.

  Just my luck.

  The last thing I need to watch right now is Liliya’s no-doubt perfect audition piece, but I guess I’ve got no choice.

  Thanks, universe.

  I head through to the main studio, where Madame Lyon and two of the other instructors are sitting ster
nly at a row of tables, faces deadly serious, and as I look over at them I’m reminded of my very first audition here.

  If anything, I’m even more nervous now than I was that morning.

  Come on, Julia, I tell myself determinedly. You aced that. And you can ace this too.

  “Liliya Konstantinov,” a stern voice calls. “We’d like to see your piece first.”

  Liliya wordlessly steps forward, nods, then hands her sheet music to the pianist. There’s a moment’s pause before he begins to play – a beautiful classical piece, and Liliya breaks into her dance: as graceful and perfect as ever.

  There’s nothing I can do but stand on the side lines and watch enviously as she totally nails her routine.

  Fuck.

  She’s even better than I thought.

  She’s so poised and practiced, she makes the complex piece look totally effortless. And she knows it. There’s such utter confidence in her movements. Such grace. I can’t help it – I’m seething with jealousy. But it’s not just Liliya’s grace I’m in awe of. It’s that serene look on her face, too – like nothing else matters. I know that feeling, or at least I used to. That feeling of being completely in the moment.

  But me? My head’s all over the damn place.

  How the hell am I supposed to focus? I mean, I should be concentrating on my own routine, right? But instead my mind is a blur of images – of Dylan making out in the back of a limo with his beautiful female assistant Alex, of Nat screaming at me when I tell her the truth about Marcus, of Gloria looking at me like I’m total worthless trash. And then last, a final crazy image pops into my head: a New York Times article announcing the engagement of the city’s most eligible bachelor, Dylan Campbell, and the beautiful new dancing sensation Liliya Konstantinov.

  “Julia Tate?” a voice calls out, and I can tell by the tone of irritation that this not the first time they’ve called out my name.

  “I’m, uh, sorry,” I say, realizing the whole room is staring at me, waiting for me to make my way into the center to perform my own routine.

  Focus, Julia.

  Just clear your mind. Just for a few minutes.

  You can do it.

  With a shaky hand I give the pianist my own sheet music, then take my position before the row of judges. I push back my shoulders, take a deep breath and then, as the music starts, I do the only thing I can: I dance. And I try my hardest to channel every emotion I have into my performance, too; all the anger, all the confusion, all the hurt and upset and longing – I try to let it flow into each move I make, each spin, each jump, each pirouette, because while I’m never going to be as graceful and effortless as Liliya Konstantinov, she wouldn’t know raw passion if it jumped up and bit her on the ass.

  And that’s all I have left.

  Passion.

  The most important item in the dancer’s toolbox.

  I just hope to God it’s enough.

  §

  This is a really bad idea, I think, a few hours later. Because here I am in a downtown bar, with Dylan, Nat and Marcus. I don’t even know why we agreed to it, only that I didn’t want to upset Nat by saying no when she suggested we all go on a double date. And I guess I feel guilty too for having been out of touch with her all week. But even so, this is a really, really bad idea.

  At least we’re not back in that sleazy men-only joint, I think. But even though this is a cute little wine bar that Dylan and I sometimes go to, Marcus just seems to have a way of making any place feel sleazy.

  I really dislike him – and after all the things Dylan told me, well, I’m just trying to get through this evening with gritted teeth. ‘Cause even though I think he’s a total sleazebag, of course I’m not going to show that to Nat.

  Instead I do my best at keeping things friendly.

  “So Marcus,” I ask, trying to engage him in conversation, “Nat tells me that your parents come from Connecticut?”

  But even though I’ve just asked him a direct question, he point blank ignores me, turning to Dylan and clapping him on the back. “So Campbell,” he drawls, already a little drunk, “word on the street is you’re moving into the European market now? Brave move! How’s that working out for you?”

  I can tell Dylan’s growing just as mad at Marcus’s rude behavior as I am. Because he glances across at me with a what-the-fuck expression, before saying, “Yes, like Julia said, you grew up in Connecticut?”

  And this time, of course, Marcus answers him – drawling on about his family connections and how great his dad was at business, etc., etc. As he goes on and on at excruciating length, I glance over at Nat, trying to read her, but for once it’s like I can’t. I totally can’t tell if she’s getting embarrassed by Marcus’s rude behavior or not. And if she is, she’s doing a damn good job of concealing it.

  She’s even smiling at him, proudly, like he’s all she ever wanted.

  I just want my best friend back, I think sadly. The old Nat wouldn’t sit back idly while some boring guy droned on and on about himself.

  How have we let ourselves drift so far apart in such a short space of time?

  “So Nat,” I say, leaning into her, just wanting to have a normal conversation for once, “how’s things going at the Project?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she replies breezily, checking out her nails. “I’ve been taking a little time off. I mean, do I really wanna be a dance instructor all my life?”

  “What the hell? I thought you loved that place!” I say, totally taken aback.

  “Maybe,” she shrugs, making me wonder if perhaps Marcus has said something to make her reconsider her job.

  And if this wasn’t awful enough, a little later, well, something else happens. Not just something, either, but the worst thing possible. So bad, I almost can’t believe it.

  It happens toward the end of our night. I’ve just excused myself to go to the restrooms, and Marcus gets up at the same time to go and settle the tab. Well, as I’m walking back to our table, I pass by the bar and overhear his conversation and it makes me stop dead in his tracks.

  Because, loud as all hell, he’s laughing and joking with some sleazy creep in a shiny suit at the bar, and it doesn’t take much to work out just who he’s talking about. “Oh, her?” I hear Marcus laugh. “She’s just some ghetto ho I picked up in a bar.” His voice drops a little, but even so I can still hear every damn word as he adds, “The sex is incredible but I’m kinda getting bored. You know how it is.”

  “Well, let me know if you ever want me to take her off your hands!” the other creep chuckles.

  “Will do, bro,” Marcus laughs back.

  When I return to the table I’m seething with rage, but making sure to bite my lip. Even so, Dylan can obviously sense something’s wrong, because he leans in and quietly asks if everything’s okay. I shrug, feeling so fucking frustrated and not knowing what to do without breaking Nat’s damn heart. But in the end, I just know I need to say something.

  “Hey Nat,” I say quietly, taking the seat next to her, “I think we need to have a proper talk, just you and me. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m coming round to your apartment.”

  “What for?” she replies, totally puzzled.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” I sigh with a heavy heart.

  This is not gonna be fun.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I pause outside the door to Nat’s apartment, pacing from foot to foot, totally wracked with nerves. Damn, I think. This place used to be like a second home, somewhere I could really be myself. And now I don’t know what’s about to happen when I set foot through that door.

  A moment later the front door opens and there’s Nat, and to make me feel even worse, she looks like her old self, too. For once her face is makeup free and she’s wearing casual yoga pants and a white off-the-shoulder tee. She looks so comfortable, relaxed and happy, that I start to feel guilty all over again for the conversation we’re about to have.

  “Hey girl!” she grins, leaning in
to give me one of her famous hugs.

  “Hey,” I smile back, before following her into the apartment.

  “Sit down, sit down!” she says, gesturing to her couch. “Want a soda? A grape juice? Glass of champagne?” she adds with a wink.

  “Just a soda would be great, thanks,” I say, taking a seat on the comfortable old purple velvet couch.

  This apartment is just like Nat: flamboyant and totally over the top, every inch of wall space covered in pictures and photos and cut-outs from magazines. There’s even a gigantic disco ball hanging from the ceiling; I was there the night she salvaged it from a dumpster after we’d been dancing at Countdown.

  Nat returns from the kitchen, hands me the can of diet soda, then flops down on the couch next to me.

  “I’m so glad you wanted to talk,” she says, eyes full of concern, “because I have to say, you really haven’t been yourself lately, Jules. You’ve kind of had your head in the clouds if you know what I mean?”

  Wait ... what?

  I can’t help but be a little taken aback. I guess I’d been so worried about Nat’s relationship that I’d forgotten she might have picked up on the fact that not everything is a hundred percent perfect with mine.

  “So? Everything okay with you and Dylan?” she asks, straight to the point as always. And while a good heart-to-heart with my best friend is probably exactly what I need right now, I need to keep focused.

  This isn’t about me, I remind myself. It’s about Nat.

  “I guess,” I mumble. “But listen, Nat, it isn’t Dylan I came here to talk to you about.”

  “What then?” she replies, confused. “Is it stuff at school? Because if that’s what’s stressing you out, girl, I’ve got this awesome new relaxation trick I’ve been trying. You should totally check it out.”

  “No, no, it’s not school, either,” I say gently. “Listen, Nat, this is kind of difficult for me to say, but I actually came here to talk to you about Marcus.”

  “Marcus?” Nat says, shaking her head, totally puzzled. “What about Marcus?”