by Lola Keeley
“Let’s move the barres,” Victoria announces, clapping her hands twice. “Then I want you all to come to center. Allez.”
Four of the male dancers move the barres from the center of the room in a practiced move. Anna wonders how these little duties are decided, if she’ll be expected to divine what she has to help with, and what she should stay the hell away from. Being helpful is usually how she makes a good impression. Here, she doesn’t have the first clue.
“Adagio,” Victoria says to Teresa, who strikes up again.
Anna is watching the dancers around her—they make quite a crowd as she hovers at the back. She has a clear sightline on Victoria, who promptly turns her back on them once more.
Oh God. She’s demonstrating. After so many years of dreaming about seeing this live once more, Anna is watching Victoria Ford dance.
“Chassé on one, to first arabesque, lift the leg, hold.”
Well, it’s pretty minimalist, just an indication of each move rather than anything like the fluid movements Anna has studied for hours at the Westin Center archives. She marathoned those recordings the way other people her age spent the weekend watching back-to-back episodes of Friends.
“Penché on five, six, come up seven, pas de bourée eight.” Anna holds in a happy sigh at the grace of Victoria’s movement. “Pas de basque on one, attitude two, chassé, fouetté. Tombé, pas de bourée to fourth and many, many turns.”
Oh, this is a real set this time. Anna concentrates maybe as hard as she ever has in her life.
“Let’s finish fourth, tendu, and find your fifth.”
There’s a murmur around the room, some feet moving as they mime the movements.
Victoria turns to face them, arms now firmly back at her sides. “Groups of five. Let’s go!”
Delphine and Gabriel are the first to step forward; the other three in their group are all featured soloists. They start the routine with confidence, exchanging glances as they make those first few steps, but the focus of the room is shattered by the shrill ringing of a cell phone. In a room full of ballet dancers, anyone could have the ironic choice of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Judging by the groans of disgust and the way the dancing grinds to a halt, Anna knows there’s only one person to blame.
She freezes.
“Am I hearing things?” Victoria spits her disapproving question at them. “Did one of you have an aneurysm on your way here and decide cell phones were suddenly allowed in my studio?”
People start to look around. Still the notes blare out. Anna can’t believe someone would call her the one morning she was too distracted to flick the damn thing to Silent. When a second chorus begins, she has no choice but to scramble for her bag, muttering “sorry” as though repeating the word will somehow make her invisible.
“Sorry,” she blurts again when she finally jams the damn thing to “Off”. The silence is crackling, and Anna knows that what comes next won’t be pretty. She turns to face her fate, ready to apologize to Victoria Ford, and all her worst fears come bubbling to life in an instant.
“The charity case,” Victoria snaps. “Of course. Just another millennial who thinks the centuries-long history of ballet owes them any career they bother to pick for themselves. This is what happens when people fawn over your first tutu and tell you that you’re special, Anya.”
Anna opens her mouth to protest the wrong name, wounded that the only thing her hero knows about her is how she came to join the company, but not even her name. She feels the pity radiating from Ethan, and she’s almost pathetically grateful that nobody else knows yet that she’s been slighted.
“You’re not,” Victoria finishes with a relish that makes Anna feel bruised.
It might have hurt less to be slapped across the face. She can feel her chance to recover any ground at all slipping away by the second. “Ms. Ford—”
“Members of the company call me Victoria.” She straightens even further, which Anna didn’t know was possible. “But you are no longer a member of this company. Tell Rick this is the last time he’ll be indulged.”
That sends a gasp around the room, not to mention a few unkind giggles.
“I’m so sorry,” Anna manages to say, grabbing her bag and shoving her phone into it. The stares from every corner of the room feel like lasers bearing down on her, but she’d rather endure all of them than the disgust on Victoria’s face.
“Wait!” Victoria calls just as Anna reaches the door.
Great, further humiliation. Last time Anna had a dream this mortifying, she was back in high school and naked in the cafeteria. This feels a thousand times worse.
“Since your lack of consideration has knocked the sequence from everyone else’s memory, why don’t you take a stab at it. Show us what we should be doing now, if not for your selfish interruption.”
The curl of Victoria’s lip is cruel, and it’s clear that Anna is already beneath her contempt. This is intended as a final embarrassment, to make sure the only memory anyone may retain of Anna Gale is of stupidity. It’s every gym class that the new foster kid was laughed out of, every party she showed up to only to realize the invite had been a prank designed to make her the entertainment.
“You, you want me to—”
“Teresa!” Victoria shouts with a brisk clap of her hands. “Adagio, please.” The music starts up. “Well?”
Anna slowly lowers her bag back to the floor. If the attention was keen before, it’s blazing now, but she takes a deep breath and picks out the beats in the music. There isn’t time to dwell on anything but the given routine now, and not for the first time, Anna takes position knowing she’s dancing for her career, and that feels a whole lot like dancing for her life.
So she chassés, into that arabesque and the music lifts and carries her while she repeats the list in her mind. Anna has never been comfortable with an audience, able to dance for other people purely because she can shut them out with sheer force of will. These steps might not be her own creation, but she owns them from the very second she starts to move.
Her toes lift her, and her heels bring her back down. Hips tilt and shoulders twist and it’s barely an effort at all to make one flow into the next, as though she’s had ten secret rehearsals in her dreams. The music persists, mournful in its rippling way, and Anna lets the memory wash over her. Dancing for the first time, for her parents, seeing their smiles and their open arms at the side of the room, urging her on.
The music comes to a halt as she finishes in fifth, perfectly in sync. It’s just soon enough to stop the rest of the memory coming, the fragmented, flickering flames that still dog the edges of her dreams if she doesn’t tire herself out enough. The room is silent, a collective breath being held in their chests.
“Well.” Victoria flicks her wrist idly in Anna’s direction. “At least you remembered it.”
“Does that mean—”
“You get to stay.” Victoria claps, and the room exhales as one.
Teresa plays a jaunty imitation of Anna’s ringtone and laughter erupts from every corner.
Anna doesn’t dare, but she’s relieved when Victoria just rolls her eyes. “If you wanted to do stand-up, Teresa, there’s a club across the street. First group. Let’s go!”
Anna sinks gratefully back into the crowd, and when she repeats the sequence as part of a group including Ethan, she tries to pretend like she doesn’t notice how they all give her a wider berth than necessary.
The rest of the ninety minutes passes quickly enough. As the class starts to filter out, Anna feels a tap on her shoulder.
“Anya,” Victoria says as Anna turns, bag already on her shoulder. “Come and see me this afternoon. See Kelly about a time.”
The rest of the class moves faster on overhearing that.
CHAPTER 2
God.
Her fucking kingdom for a handful of Advil and two fingers of Scotch to chase them. Failing that, a door on her office that actually closes, because the usual day-trippers have come pouring
in after class to bitch and gossip and moan. Her underlings are dedicated and brilliant, she wouldn’t have hired them otherwise, but sometimes having enough staff to handle a company this size means being surrounded by far more people than Victoria would prefer.
They don’t even realize that Victoria is in the grip of inspiration. Pure, undiluted genius is coursing through her veins, and not one of these sycophants can see it.
“New girl won’t forget her first class,” Teresa crows as she enters.
“I mean really,” Derek, her head of recruitment, chimes in. “Who has their phone on anything but Vibrate these days? And by the looks of her, she could use some good vibrations.”
“She can dance, though.” Kelly is back at her desk, ever the competent assistant. “Can’t she, Victoria?”
“What?” Victoria affects not to have been listening so keenly. A certain aloof brilliance is expected at all times, and as her idea takes shape she knows she’ll need maximum theatrics to whip up their enthusiasm. “Oh, the new girl. Anya.”
“I haven’t seen lines like that since…well, since you.”
Kelly is getting bold as she grows into the role of personal secretary and gatekeeper. The first few months were rough on her, everyone else in the building treating anyone above a size two as a curiosity, something to be stared at and whispered about. Kelly has brushed it all off magnificently, and when the younger girls in the company get out of line, she pointedly eats cupcakes in front of them until they run off in fear or disgust.
“Can you get me some time with our esteemed benefactor?” Victoria asks, tone as breezy as a spring morning.
“You actually want to see Rick Westin?” Derek is either stunned or scandalized. Either way the word will be around the entire company before the hour is out.
“Hmm,” Victoria confirms, the very picture of nonchalance. “You see, I’m changing our program. Giselle? That old chestnut has been done to death. If even one of you speaks up now to suggest Swan Lake instead, that person is fired. I did not make my name by regurgitating clichés, and my company will not be doing that, either. That girl in there is a disruption, and by the looks of her she’s some kind of corn-fed hick who thinks sophistication is a shade of eyeshadow you can buy in Sephora. But luckily for her…she just met me.”
The sideways glances and murmurs come right on cue.
“That is my new star. Or I’ll make her one, at least.”
“But what about—”
“Derek, has asking a question that began with ‘but what about’ ever worked out well for you?”
He shakes his head, suitably chastised.
“Let me know when Delphine and Gabriel are done with David’s class. Have them meet me in the executive dining room for an early lunch.”
“What should I tell them?” Kelly asks, the frown on her face suggesting she’s already dealing with someone at Rick’s office about Victoria’s meeting request.
“Tell them we’re rethinking Giselle.”
Gabriel holds the door open for Delphine when they enter the dining room, and Victoria allows herself a momentary smile at what a gorgeous couple they make, in publicity shots and otherwise. It certainly made for a solid, if not spectacular, season last time around.
“I won’t annoy you by offering food,” Victoria begins, playing the I’m one of you card right up front. “But there’s no reason we shouldn’t have a drink together.”
Delphine’s eyes are sharp, and there’s a flicker of movement at her elbow as she nudges Gabriel. Clearly she read the room almost as well as Victoria did, while their primo remains oblivious. It’s an age-old problem, but the dearth of appropriately talented male dancers makes their competition nowhere near as fierce. Women, on the other hand, conditioned by a lifetime of seeing ballerinas as the ultimate feminine grace, find a threat in every new set of pointe shoes in the chorus.
“Vodka tonic,” Delphine snaps at the waiter, and Gabriel opts for mineral water.
“I know we made plans before the break,” Victoria begins. “But Giselle is out.”
“Fine by me,” Delphine comes right back at her, poised as ever. “Though I think we would have killed it.”
“You would,” Victoria says, although the idea is so tarnished now, so yesterday that she can barely stand to think about it. “I’m going in a different direction for this season. You’ll still have La Bayadère, of course.”
“Wait…” Gabriel has spotted the blood in the water first. “That’s just the fall show.”
“True,” Victoria says “But for spring I’ll be going another way. I’ll still need you, Gabriel. Delphine, you’re still our prima, but I need the spring showcase for someone else.”
“You’re bringing Irina back up from the corps?” Delphine is gripping the edge of the table.
Victoria wants to laugh at the suggestion. They all know this is Irina’s last season, as long as her prescriptions keep getting renewed. Physio, painkillers, and sheer determination are giving Irina this last hurrah. Victoria is not going to be the one to take it from her.
“No.” Victoria waits for the drinks to be set down, stirring her martini with the olives on their toothpick. This is early even for her. She has choreography churning in her brain with unexpected vividness, and too long in this state of inspiration will get painful before long. A dulling of the edges, and she can do everything she intends before the day is through. “I have someone else in mind. Someone new.”
“The only new person is that idiot with the phone,” Delphine points out, folding her arms over her chest. “You can’t possibly… Victoria?”
“I’m going to take an older, obscure ballet and give it my own spin. I know I haven’t done much original work in the past few seasons, but let’s just say I have something brewing and she will be the perfect fit.”
“And I won’t?” Delphine reaches for her glass, and for a brief, shining moment Victoria thinks she might have the balls to throw it at her. It’s exactly what she would have done if someone tried to usurp her as prima.
“I know the right fit when I see it.” Victoria dismisses them both as she swallows the rest of her martini, standing with minimal jolts from her knee. “You’ll make this work, and we’ll have a triumphant year together. Won’t we?”
“Yes, Victoria,” they mutter, eyes cast down.
She doesn’t have time to dwell on whether they’ve truly accepted this. There’s so much more still to be done.
The prospect of Rick is so thoroughly unpleasant that Victoria has a Xanax chased with a slug of Grey Goose from the dainty silver flask stashed in her oversized purse.
She can’t even get a goddamned break from New York traffic, because she’s outside his pathetic little club all too soon. There’s no need to remove her sunglasses when the maître d’ fumbles her name while frantically searching the list; she knows Rick will have left it off on purpose. At least Kelly’s call has added her to the reservation.
“Mr. Westin will see you in his private room,” a perky young hostess announces.
Victoria smooths down her black blazer and avoids the temptation to tousle her hair as she walks through the club behind the girl. There’s something in the swing of her ponytail and farm-fresh complexion that sets Victoria’s thoughts of Anna bubbling again, and she knows she has to seal this deal to get her way.
“Victoria!” He greets her with the usual smarm, standing from where he’s been sprawled on a leather bunkette. “A sight for sore eyes.”
“Darling.” Victoria lets a little warmth into her voice. “You never come by the center.”
“You have things well in hand. And I did my part by finding you some new blood. How is she?”
“Are you sleeping with her?” Victoria asks, despite her best intentions. “I can still use her, but if this is some fling, I won’t disrupt the balance of my company.”
“Our company,” Rick says, exactly as expected. She can hear him gritting his teeth. “At least, I’m the one paying for it.”
“And it wouldn’t make a damn cent if I wasn’t the one bringing it up to standard.” Victoria takes a seat, leaving him standing. “I have plans for your girl. So long as she’s not just for you to use once and discard.”
“She’s a talented ballerina, Victoria. Not a Kleenex.”
“Tell me when that’s ever stopped you before.”
Rick shrugs, conceding her point. “I hear you’re done with Giselle. These whims of yours, Victoria. They cost money.”
“Lucky you have so much of it,” Victoria fires right back. “I thought you wanted to save ballet from itself. Make it as exciting as when we danced together.”
Rick wags a finger at her, in a way he no doubt finds charming. “Flattery will get you most places, you know that.”
“I’ve never denied we were great together, Rick.” Victoria accepts her drink, presumably ordered before her arrival, and the hostess scurries out. They must know it’s a bad sign when Rick is forced to talk to any woman over thirty. “But I know talent. I know how to get the best out of someone’s dancing.”
“Nobody does it better, and that’s why you’re my artistic director. But if you screw this up, you’re out. You know I can’t carry you forever.”
“Carry me?” Victoria rocks back in her chair at that. She’s heard the whispers of course. But never—never—from Rick himself. “I thought I was the crown jewel in your dazzling assortment?”
“When I hired you, yes,” Rick says. “But it’s been four years and you haven’t blown anyone out of the water yet. How do I know there’s a truly original Victoria Ford production in you? If you couldn’t do it with Delphine, one of the most technically gifted—”
“Technique doesn’t count for shit on its own, and you know it.” Victoria throws back the rest of her drink and stands. “But if you need me to bet the house on this idea, then consider it gambled.”
“Careful, Victoria. I might think you still give a damn.”