The cars drop us off just upstream of the lock itself as we hear a, “Diana, over here.” A man dressed in shorts, one shoeless foot up on the side of a small pleasure boat, shouts over in our direction.
“Welcome aboard The Lucy,” he says warmly to Diana as she clambers aboard air-kissing him and his wife on both cheeks. Once everyone is settled onto the padded seating that wraps around the stern of the boat a cool box appears, concealing yet more booze. Some of the men crack open beers, as another grabs the nearest bottle and I hear the familiar ‘pop’ of another champagne cork flying through the air, landing this time in the Thames. Champagne flutes are filled with fizz and offered around the remaining guests. I feel as if I might just pop myself if I drink anymore bubbles, but I politely take another glass when it’s handed to me. Drinks held aloft, and three cheers given in honour of Diana, we castoff from the tow path and head upstream.
The soft lapping of the water slaps gently against the boat as it cuts through the river. Those enjoying a summer’s drink from the outdoor beer gardens and riverside pubs wave and raise their glasses as we pass. The light wind softly blows both my pashmina and my hair behind me as I turn to gaze at the passing scenery. This part of Greater London is a wealthy commuter belt. The increasingly impressive waterfront properties are a mix of modern but stylised Tudor with the familiar painted white upper storeys, interlaced with dark stained English oak beams, and earlier Victorian houses, in both the darker London brick and the odd one in a brighter, more modern red brick.
I take a sip from my glass, drinking in my surroundings. Despite the joyousness of the occasion I feel melancholy. Watching Jeremy and his family, him and his brother ribbing each other, his mother and father and their friends laughing and enjoying each other’s company, my mind flashes back to the last time I travelled up the Thames in a pleasure boat. The time when I was a baby on holiday with my own mother and father, and a wave of sadness washes over me. It was such a long time ago, I have no idea why this memory flashes up unexpectedly now and why it adds to my feelings of heartache. It’s not as if, despite the breakup of my parent’s marriage I never had a loving upbringing, or missed out on anything, but once again I feel like an outsider. I’m surrounded by people but I’m all alone. I’m the person on the other side of the glass looking in on a life that I don’t fit into and one I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure of a lot of things at the moment.
Jeremy sensing my mood comes over. “You OK, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Jeremy,” I reply, turning and smiling at him.
“Come on, let’s go and sit upfront.” He grabs my glass, expertly holding both our flutes in his left hand, and with his free arm leads me round the starboard side of the boat. “Watch your step,” he says considerately.
Leaning back against the cushions on the bow, he passes me back my glass, clinking it against his own before taking a sip of champagne. Without any hint of embarrassment of the occasion or the company we’re in, he leans forward and kisses me fully on the lips. His lips brushing mine lightly, before he deepens the kiss. The softness of his slightly moist lips contrasting against the sharp prickles of his fashionable two-day old stubble. He reaches his arm around my waist to pull me closer as his tongue darts inside my mouth and I return his kiss momentarily, before breaking away early. It just doesn’t seem appropriate to be making out in front of his family. He clearly isn’t bothered, as after today we have officially been pronounced as ‘a couple’, visible for everyone to see, and I sense he also wants everyone to know that. Like he’s just scored the winning try in an important rugby match and he’s the hero of the moment.
“I have been dying to do that all day,” he says, taking another drink from his glass. “Are you sure you’re OK. You seemed miles away before.”
“Yes, I’m absolutely fine, I was just having a quiet moment soaking up the atmosphere. It’s not every day you get to travel up the Thames, drinking champagne and having fun,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.
After another ten minutes or so, everyone on the boat pauses their conversations. We all are spellbound by the scene that opens up on the right-hand river bank. Hampton Court Palace has just come into view. A palace is the exact word to describe this magnificent building. Its remarkable architecture renders everyone speechless. Approaching the palace from the roadside is one thing and the way most tourists will see the building for the first time but seeing it from the river is even more breath-taking. The distinctive Tudor red stonework, formal grounds and endless chimneys make this a very unique and historically important place. It’s absolutely stunning.
“Wow,” is all I can say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful building. For all he was a megalomaniac and a horrific tyrant, you can’t take away the fact that Henry was one helluva visionary.” I comment on the most famous owner of the palace. The infamous King Henry VIII, who was responsible for much of the building’s development.
Today Hampton Court is a stunning tourist attraction, luring visitors from every corner of the world, and viewing it now from the river, as we approach Turk’s Pier ready to disembark, it’s easy to see why. As our party alights onto the shore, Diana stops and thanks the skipper for the gift of the journey up the Thames. They exchange familiar conversation, discussing their next dinner date, before a few more air kisses and everyone is onshore.
“Right, who’s hungry?” Jeremy’s father asks.
What more food? I think to myself. I still feel so full after our endless canapés and afternoon tea on the lawn earlier, I can’t imagine anyone else is hungry either, but nevertheless a pre-ordered picnic is collected and we all head into the East Front gardens along with other pre-concert goers who all appear to be doing the same. The family lay out a couple of large picnic rugs before spreading out the food from the hamper for all to share. I find it almost impossible to eat anything else, but aware of the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, and realising that my stomach could do with something to soak it up, I nibble on a couple of cucumber sandwiches, some smoked salmon on rye bread and of course, some obligatory strawberries and cream.
“Come with me,” Jeremy instructs, leaping up and brushing his hands together to remove any lingering crumbs, having drained his glass of the latest alcoholic offering. “Mummy, we’ll meet you in Base Court ten minutes before curtain up, there’s something I need to show Victoria.” He holds out his hand to help me to my feet, before grasping it firmly and running across the lawn at full pelt, making me stumble in his wake in order to keep up.
“Slow down, you madman,” I laugh, as we continue to run across the grass and away from his family. “Where are you taking me?”
“No trip to Hampton Court is ever complete without a visit to The Maze… let’s get lost together.”
Well, here goes nothing, I think to myself as I run in Jeremy’s wake. “Another tick on my bucket list.”
Hampton Court Maze is over 400 years old and one of the largest and oldest mazes in the UK. We’ve stopped running now but continue to walk briskly towards the entrance which is now in sight up ahead. I see my opportunity and break away from him, running ahead and through the entrance, taking the first few turns in quick succession in an attempt to get lost.
“You’ll have to find me first,” I tease, as we giggle and laugh as he gives chase. It doesn’t take him long to catch me. Grabbing me around the waist with both hands he turns me around and embraces me fully.
“Or I could just lose myself in your eyes, Victoria,” he says stroking my hair tenderly.
My head feels fuzzy and I can’t think straight. A combination of too much alcohol, consumed slowly over a long afternoon, combined with the intensity and intimacy of the occasion. Knowing I’m being scrutinised by his family, and that he wants to show me off to them and my sense of duty to make him look good in front of them, I feel helpless. Like a leaf being swept along the gully on the side of the road by the flow of rainwater, knowing that you are heading closer and closer to the drain and th
at once you fall in, there is no way back, yet also feeling powerless to stop the inevitable. I know Jeremy is falling in love with me. I now also feel the pressure of the expectations of his family and I’m not sure how to stop the whirlwind that continues to swirl on around me.
Jeremy gently pushes me back up against the hedgerow as he kisses me.
“Ouch. That prickles,” I say as the spikes from the hedgerow stab me in the back.
“Sorry, sweetheart. But I just can’t hold back anymore. I’ve been dying to get you to myself all day.” This time he pulls me into him. One hand escaping down my back to squeeze my bum as the other reaches round my waist holding me tightly. I return his affection with as much passion as I can muster, but his hands on my body or the touch of his lips on mine just don’t light any fireworks within me. I’m not expecting a New Year’s Eve-esque display but I keep waiting for the spark between my thighs to ignite. As he continues to kiss me passionately, a small groan escapes from him and I can feel his desire harden against my leg, I remind myself how perfect Jeremy is on paper. So when my lust doesn’t appear, and I have absolutely no clue why it’s missing, I resign myself to the fact that I must be the problem, not him.
“Well I told you, you’d charm the pants off everyone today,” he says, resting his head on my forehead, so we are nose to nose, breathing in and out in sync. “Everyone absolutely loves you, just as I knew they would.”
“You have a lovely family, Jeremy, and everyone has made me feel so welcome. It’s been a very special day.”
He looks deep into my eyes and takes a deep breath in.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, I think, my panic rising urgently as I sense this is the moment he’s been waiting for. The moment when he’s going to tell me he’s in love with me. In any other context and with a different person, this maybe be the perfect romantic moment, in the perfect romantic setting. A story to retell to the grandchildren in 50 years’ time.
“Grandpa, when did you know you were in love with Grandma?’
“Well, it was one sunny Saturday afternoon in late June. We were at Hampton Court, for your great-grandma’s 50th birthday. I whisked grandma off into the maze where I told her for the first time that I loved her… and I’ve never stopped loving her ever since.”
Perfection in every sense. Except I don’t want to hear it.
“I think we should find our seats. It’s only 15 minutes until the ballet starts, and I’d like to buy a programme.” I make an excuse to break the spell and snap us back to reality before he has the opportunity to say anything further.
“OK, let’s go,” he says reluctantly, as I hear him slowly release the air from his lungs and feel him loosen his grip around my waist. He reaches for my hand before we turn and retrace our steps out of the maze.
We’re here to see Sylvie Guillem perform two short ballets by the choreographer Maurice Béjart. Sylvie Guillem is an extraordinary ballerina, and this is the first time I’ve seen her perform live. She originally trained as a gymnast so is renowned for her impressive extensions and the extremely high insteps in her feet, meaning she can create the most beautiful lines with her body. Her développés and grand jetés often go beyond the 180-degree angle, giving the impression her joints are made of elastic. She joined the Paris Opera Ballet School when she was 11 years old, graduating into the company at only 16, where she became Rudolf Nureyev’s muse, as he was the artistic director of the company at that time. Not surprisingly she became the youngest ballerina ever in the company to play Odette/Odile in ‘Swan Lake’, at only 19 years of age.
She’s unique not only because of her athletic prowess and physical capability, but with her flaming red hair, cut with an unorthodox fringe (usually an absolute ‘no no’ in the ballet world, as any hair on the face spoils the line of the neck and head), her striking cheekbones and vivid interpretation of character, she can dance both the classics with an air of innocence and purity. But it’s her ability to stir her audiences through her perfect technique combined with her emotionally charged interpretation of music in the more modern pieces that have made her into a ballet superstar. I’m still dumbfounded that I’m actually here, about to see this legend of the dancing world perform.
Staged in a temporary outdoor arena within Base Court, the first act is a ballet called ‘Sissi’, which traces the life of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, Queen of Hungary from her journey as a young princess renowned for her beauty, married to Franz Joseph of Austria, to her eventual decline into madness. It’s a powerful and compelling story which Guillem portrays with great sensitivity, initially portraying the innocence of a young woman coping with a preordained destiny, before expressing the violence of her final internal torment as she loses her mind and slips into a mad and uncontrollable paranoia.
I am captivated, my eyes never leaving the stage as I feel Jeremy shuffling in his seat beside me. It’s powerful stuff, but not an easy watch if you’re not really into the art form. I sense his almost relief when the interval arrives as he’s the first to jump up and offer to buy a round of drinks for our party.
The second act, is the one I’m most excited to see. Maurice Béjart’s ‘Boléro’ was originally choreographed in 1960 but has benefitted from a recent revival, in part, due to the popularity of the British ice-dancers Torvill and Dean who won the Sarajevo Winter Olympics ten years ago in 1984 with their interpretation of Ravel’s hypnotic score. Their success having made the music, at least, highly recognisable.
As the curtain rises on the second act, the stage is blacked out. In the centre, just visible, is a raised twelve-foot-wide table where the silhouette of a single dancer, presumably Guillen, on the top is poised and ready to perform. As the familiar drum beat begins to pulse from the snare drum, Guillem, still in silhouette, begins to pulsate her hips, moving ever so slightly from the flat of her front foot to the ball of her back foot, over and over again, gyrating her hips back and forth in time to the drum beat. Her waist-length red hair flowing freely, she’s dressed simply in black tights and a flesh coloured leotard which makes her appear half naked, all of which contrasts sharply against the bright shiny red surface of the table top upon which she’s dancing.
As the flute plays out the first 24 bars pianissimo of the hypnotic tune, a single spotlight shines initially on her right hand as it floats up through the air, before she slides it erotically down her own torso, repeating the same movement with her other hand as the spotlight now moves to her left hand. A pure and simple piece of choreography but accompanied by this music and with the undercurrent of the pulsating rhythm mirrored in Guillem’s hips, it transforms the movement. The whole performance is charged with sexual tension. And we are only 24 bars of music in, I think to myself, absolutely transfixed and leaning forward in my seat.
As the piece continues and the flute is replaced by the clarinet, the spotlight widens to reveal the whole of Guillem who is now using all of her body to reflect the contrasting textures in the music, the angularity and strength of her arm movements and leg extensions expressing the highlights in the tune, whilst the undercurrent of the constant and pulsating snare drum is reflected by the continuous rhythm in her hips. It’s almost as if she is inviting the audience in, leaning forward beckoning us to come on this journey with her. She’s in absolute control and we, her audience, are at her beck and call.
As the first trumpet now repeats the melody, giving the sound more depth and volume, Guillem’s movements atop her red table becoming wider and more pronounced, the spotlight widens still and reveals 34 bare-chested male dancers, kneeling in submission to the female at the centre. I gasp in anticipation of what is still to come, and after a few more bars of music, first one, then two male dancers join in with the choreography, dancing on the floor on either side of the table, mirroring the same movements as Guillem who is still raised up dancing in the middle of the red table top. Two become four. Four become eight and so on, until eventually as the entire orchestra is repeating the familiar tune having built up in
a continuous crescendo to a full fortissimo and all 34 dancers are now on the floor, their bare chests, rippling with perfect six-packs and their strong, muscular arms and shoulders all making beautiful shapes in time to the music, worshipping the goddess at the centre of them. All the while their hips continue to pulsate to the rhythm of the constant snare drum. Meanwhile Guillem leaps and jumps in the centre, enticing them all to join in. Each new male dancer sequentially increasing the intensity and sexual tension of the piece.
Fifteen minutes later as the cymbals clash and every instrument in the orchestra plays out the final notes of the piece fortissimo in the climatic finale, on the last few notes, all the male dancers reach up skyward before falling prostrate in complete submission to the female at their centre. Guillem falling, seemingly disappearing, into their abyss.
I’ve never seen anything so equally hypnotic and sexually charged. Brilliantly choreographed, superbly danced. Not one dancer physically touched another, but the entire piece was filled with passion and sexual tension. This was a celebration of true femininity. The very definition of power in the female form which had the vigour to captivate both the audience as well as the male ensemble and I’ve never seen anything like it.
As the curtain falls, without any hesitation or any ounce of self-consciousness, I instinctively leap up out of my chair, the first person in the audience to do so, my hands clapping so hard it almost hurts my palms, whilst I simultaneously shout, “Bravo!” and “More! More!”. I don’t care if Jeremy or anyone else thinks I should be more reserved or show restraint. I’m completely moved by the performance and am compelled to show my gratitude to the ballet company as they take their curtain calls.
Later that evening, Jeremy and I are back in his childhood bedroom, still decorated with school trophies and House Awards from his time away at boarding school and he’s making love to me. I simply can’t stay in the moment. My thoughts drift back to the ballet from earlier in the evening. As much as Jeremy is doing his best to connect with me, I know I’m just going through the motions. I felt more alive watching the 34 male dancers worship their female heroine, than I do now, in bed with my boyfriend. Despite his attempts to turn me on which are at best, perfunctory and at worst, clumsy, I find myself not wanting to be here. Instead I’m imagining what it would be like to be the ballerina on top of the red table, commanding the male ensemble to my every whim.
Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1) Page 11