by Lola Keeley
“And they say nobody knows anyone in New York,” Victoria mocks, pulling the arms of her gray sweater down over her hands. She leads her way to the home studio, where the mat is out and the rollers are lined up.
Kim tenses some bands around her wrists that are clearly going to mean lots of stretching in Victoria’s near future.
“I saw you in heels twice this week,” Kim says. “And you’re out of alignment again. Did you go and get your refill?”
“Of course I did,” Victoria snaps. “Or did you think I switched to meditation?”
Kim holds her hands up in surrender. “I was just asking.”
“I know.” Victoria sighs. “How’s the rest of the company? Anything else I need to be aware of?”
“They won’t trust me if I tattle on every ache and pain. You probably get more honesty out of Irina than I do. Morgan’s hip is about back to full strength, so I’ll speak to David about her program. Otherwise they just want painkillers and plenty of massages. It’s early in the season.”
Unable to divert Kim any further, Victoria starts her stretches, muscles flexing beneath the running tights and sports bra.
“Nervous?” Kim grabs Victoria’s heel, making her stretch farther.
The pain spikes, and Victoria hisses through her teeth. Kim waits. With a grunt, Victoria continues the exercises.
“I haven’t been nervous in about thirty years,” Victoria scoffs. “My dancers don’t let me down. The new girl will be no exception.”
“For all your bitching, this is looking pretty good,” Kim informs her, nonchalant as ever. “Better than it’s been in a while, despite your suicidal attachment to four-inch heels.”
“Yes, I’m just one good stretch away from reviving Swan Lake.” Victoria sighs
Kim starts up with her alternatives-to-ballet diatribe again, and that’s the point Victoria decides she’s had enough.
“I’ll finish the repetitions,” she says, as terse as she’s ever been. “You can go.”
Kim doesn’t move, more than accustomed to this little routine. Like a knotted muscle she can’t resist dragging her knuckles over, Kim can’t help pushing at Victoria’s carried damage. The slightest hint of weakness or uncertainty tonight, and Rick will steamroll her in front of their exclusive audience.
“D’you need me in tonight?” Kim asks from the doorway, packed up again in a minute flat. Victoria ignores her, stretching her arms and completing the rest of her workout in sullen silence. Eventually Kim takes the hint and lets herself out of the apartment, leaving Victoria to continue to push herself far past the point of her current tolerance.
She’s in frustrated tears when she hits the shower, the icy blast a necessary shock to the system. She fights the impulse to step away from the chilled torrent that rains down on her, passing through the shivers into a kind of shock. Victoria takes gasping breaths until finally the pain starts to be drowned out. The elusive numbness turns the sound down on everything but her own heartbeat and the spray of the water.
The apartment is quiet when she steps out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still shivering. The sky is starting to darken, fall evenings closing in by the day. She makes her way to the dressing room off her bedroom. Tonight, she has to be the not-so-faded jewel, dazzling, and appropriately severe. Aside from Rick, she can handle these clowns. Charming investors was as much a part of her education and career as the pirouettes.
Hesitating over the familiar rows of black, Victoria sighs and reaches instead for the splashes of color at the end of the rail. Getting her way will be worth making the exception.
“Jesus!” Anna gasps when Irina opens the door. The building is some kind of converted warehouse, and the ceilings put to shame some of the theaters she’s danced in. “If you tell me this is rent-controlled, I might hate you.”
“It’s mine,” Irina says with pride. “Bought to celebrate the end of my first season in New York. Who could afford it now? It’s not so perfect: the pipes, the crazy neighbors. But it’s home.”
“I’m moving into the company accommodation soon. This light is amazing. How do you ever leave the house?”
“Masochism? And because I don’t want Victoria to come here and hunt me down.”
“She does that?”
“Would you be surprised?”
Anna shakes her head and steps farther into the huge living room at Irina’s gesture. The brick walls are a dark gray that somehow doesn’t absorb the light. Stripped pale floors and lots of glass make it feel like a shabby-chic extension of the Metropolitan Center, and Anna can’t help wondering if that’s what made Irina love it: a home away from home, but a space still worthy of the spotlight.
“You came from Russia?” Anna asks, uneasy in silence. “The Bolshoi must have been something else. I saw the tour, a few years back, but—”
“These things are more romantic from a few thousand miles away.” Irina crosses to the open-plan kitchen, bereft of any sign of food save for a lopsided bowl of oranges, and retrieves a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “Dutch courage,” she tells Anna, pouring the cold liquid into heavy tumblers and not the shot glasses Anna would have expected. “Or Ukrainian, to be more accurate. Just like me.”
Anna takes the glass and bites back a surprised remark at the shared heritage with her mother. “All your biographies say Russian. I didn’t know.”
“It was all confusing for a while. I was lazy about correcting people. At first I didn’t speak enough of the language, then later I didn’t care what they knew about me or not. It’s much easier that way. You,” she adds, downing her drink, “will have to learn to be good with the press and the critics. The Russian ballerina can be an ice queen. The girl who looks like the sun has to be nice.”
“No one will want to talk to me.” Anna scrunches up her face. She sips the vodka and lets it burn her throat. It’s not unpleasant. The thought of a defensive drink or two is more appealing as the minutes march toward her moment of truth. “I’m sure they’ll still only care about Delphine, or try to get Victoria to give an interview. Or you, of course.”
Irina refills her glass and splashes more into Anna’s as they stand at the kitchen counter.
“Come,” she announces. “Nobody ever had a good makeover in a kitchen. And remember to pick something you’ll keep. I owe you for your ugly little woolen thing.”
“Hey!” Anna makes a weak protest. She’s had that cardigan since middle school. “At least it was absorbent. We can’t all look like models.”
“You should try it some time.” Irina leads the way toward a bedroom that’s a bit less dramatic in scale but fastidiously tidied. The dressing table is arranged at perfect angles, and every splash of color is coordinated. The bed is made up like a hotel, just asking to be bounced on.
“I’m kind of scared to touch anything,” Anna admits, taking in the huge canvas that hangs above the bed. Something abstract, but Anna can pick out the lines of port de bras, or at least she thinks she can. It’s possible that half a lifetime of obsessing just makes her find it everywhere.
“Touch, touch,” Irina commands, rifling through a stack of sweaters folded so neatly that even the fussiest employee at the Gap couldn’t find a fault. “I don’t have many pale colors, though. Since I’m not twelve.”
“Point taken.” Anna takes a sweater Irina tosses on the bed. In charcoal gray, it’s the softest thing Anna has ever touched. She presses it to her face and sighs contentedly.
“That was easy.” Irina’s tinkling little laugh takes them both by surprise. “Now what did you bring to dance in? Lay out options, I’ll find you something better, and then I’m going to introduce you to eyeliner.”
“I wear eyeliner!” Anna tips out her leotards and folds the sweater back into a sloppy square. “Sometimes. Liquid is hard, okay?”
Irina reappears with what looks like a suitcase. It opens to reveal stacks of cosmetics and hair clips. Anna can’t even name half of the brushes or colors.
“So
how is it?” Irina asks, musing over Anna’s clothing choices.
“How’s what?” Anna replies.
“Being ridden by Victoria,” Irina answers, impatience at the edge of her tone. “She’s always given me a certain…respect in the past few years. I think she must be a good teacher when you’re still new.”
“Well, she demands the best.” Anna’s happy to be on safe ground again. Victoria has been the whirlwind that swallowed her week, filling even the minutes when Anna’s free of the studio, dominating every conversation and almost every thought. “Clearly I have a lot to learn, but this is why I’m here. To work with her.”
“For her,” Irina corrects, but she’s teasing. “Wear the black,” she decides. “Add red for Kitri, and something silver for Juliet. Your shoes are up to it?”
“Maltese Cross,” Anna answers, feeling like she finally gets to whisper the shibboleth, to be granted access to this secret society of every woman she’s worshipped or admired. “I heard you used to like them.”
Irina shrugs, returning to her wardrobe to select something for herself. “Royal blue.” She plucks the leotard from a large selection. “If I must be Florine, I’ll look the part.”
“What about this?” Anna picks out a thin gold belt from beside the leotards, pushing into the space next to Irina. “You know, for the suggestion of royalty? You know what? Never mind, that’s a dumb idea and…“
Snatching it from her hand, Irina considers it. “Good.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Have you developed the little crush yet?” Irina changes tack at a dizzying rate, and yet again Anna feels like she’s barely keeping up. “It’s funny to watch the new ones every year.”
“A crush? Who even has time for that? I barely remember how to get to bed every night.”
“Gabriel?” Irina tries. “I suppose you know you’re not the type for Ethan?”
“I should get dressed.” Anna scoops up the black leotard. “Is there a bathroom, maybe?” Changing in the locker rooms is one thing, but in Irina’s home she feels self-conscious.
“You’re not one of my groupies.” Irina considers the idea, as though Anna hadn’t spoken. “And Victoria wouldn’t work with you if you were stupid enough to get involved with Westin. That leaves Delphine of course, but somehow I think you might be more interested in the Queen herself, hmm?”
“That’s…ridiculous!”
“Happens every year.” Irina gestures to the door in the corner. “Why do you think her ego is the size of Russia? Bathroom is here, for your sudden shyness.”
“Okay, but can we just be clear that I’m not—”
“She would chew you up and spit you out anyway. Not that Victoria is likely to be interested. Still, you never know with that one. Unpredictable.”
Anna sighs in exasperation. It’s not like Irina is even listening to her anyway.
Anna has to admit Irina knows what she’s doing. Glancing in the studio mirror in what now counts as “backstage,” Anna concedes she looks more glamorous than she ever has. Her hair is perfectly tamed, and the shading of her face is a careful mask of precision that looks as natural as her own skin. Even the blood red tutu Irina found in Wardrobe is sitting perfectly, as though tailored just for Anna’s waist.
They’re early, and Anna still has her shoes to put on, but she can’t sit for long enough. Left alone behind the black curtains, she paces, unsure of whether she deserves to be here, wondering if tonight is when this bubble of a dream finally bursts.
Her interruption comes from Victoria herself.
It may be the way the light hits, or seeing Victoria in anything other than black for the first time, but Anna is struck dumb at first sight.
The jade green dress is sculpted to Victoria’s body, a tailor’s dream in sharp lines and gentle folds of fabric at every strategic hint of a curve. The split on one side is daring, enough to make Anna’s breath hitch. The low neckline, the absence of straps, and the gentle brush of Victoria’s hair at her shoulders completes the vision.
“There you are,” Victoria mutters, fussing with the gold necklace that rests at the base of her throat. “What? Why are you staring?”
“Your…hair,” Anna settles on. “I haven’t seen your hair down before.” It has the benefit of being true, save for a few photoshoots lost in a scrapbook, years before.
Victoria rolls her eyes. Apparently something that inane isn’t worth one of her pointed remarks.
“Rick wants to see you beforehand.” She gestures for Anna to follow. “Try not to talk too much.”
“Um, sure? Now?”
“Only if you want to dance with this company. Yes, now.” Victoria actually snaps her fingers in front of Anna’s face to get her moving quicker.
Just as Anna gets one foot in front of the other, Victoria treats her to another one of those scouring looks that makes every skin cell feel exposed. Anna hesitates, awaiting the inevitable judgment.
“I’ll say this for you: you scrub up well.”
“I do?” Anna seizes on the compliment, and her cheeks warm under the makeup.
“Yes, but this is ballet, not a beauty pageant. So get the introductions over with and get back to warming up. Do not embarrass me.”
“Victoria?” Anna has to say it now. “You look, um, amazing. I mean, you probably know. But I wanted to say it.”
For a shimmering second, Anna thinks that might be a smile about to break out, but Victoria purses her lips instead.
“If you’re quite finished…”
“Right.” Anna sighs. “Go be charming. Got it.”
CHAPTER 11
“Well, well.” Rick greets them with his Hollywood smile, flute of champagne already in hand, and a blonde younger than Anna hanging off his other arm. “If it isn’t my newest discovery.”
“Hello again, Mr. Westin.”
Anna doesn’t blush when the attention of everyone in the small throng turns to her. She’s been on stage and been stared at like a curiosity before. What does startle her, and make her cheeks turn pink beneath the flawless base Irina applied for her, is how Rick’s proprietorial greeting provokes a reaction in Victoria.
One moment Anna is simply standing beside her new mentor; the next Victoria has a death grip on Anna’s elbow, steering her a full step closer to her.
“Well, you did send her to me.” Victoria’s voice is breezy in a way Anna doesn’t recognize. “But you sent me a member of the corps, Richard. I’m going to show you a star.”
Anna’s stomach sinks at the new ratchet of pressure added to the evening.
“Big talk, Victoria,” Rick starts to fire back, when he’s interrupted by an older gentleman who can apparently not contain his enthusiasm a moment longer.
“My late wife and I saw you at your debut in London,” he gushes.
He grasps Victoria’s offered hand in both of his, but shakes it delicately, as though she might be made of china. This does nothing to loosen the grip of Victoria’s other hand; in fact she curls a third finger around the base of Anna’s bicep, reminding her not to stray even an inch.
“Iris always told anyone who would listen that you changed her life that night, Ms. Ford,” he continues.
“Please,” Victoria says kindly, “we’re all friends here tonight. You call me Victoria. Did you visit the ballet together often, Mr. Jebsen?”
“Now Victoria, that also means you call me Paul. And yes, every show of the season, at least once. And the pilgrimages to London and Paris twice a year. It was a great honor to give her that happiness, but her true highlight was always seeing you. You were always her favorite. We were there, in fact, on your—”
Rick is the one to interrupt that departure into dangerous waters, and Anna didn’t expect that much empathy from him. As he diverts Mr. Jebsen, scandalized that he hasn’t been given a drink yet, all Anna can focus on is the dissipating tension from Victoria at her side. Her grip had tightened almost enough to bruise, but even when she relaxes, Victoria
doesn’t let go.
There’s a moment, maybe half a moment, where Anna has the kamikaze impulse to open her mouth and try to say something comforting. Her self-preservation kicks in not a moment too soon, and she smiles brightly at the other guests instead.
Victoria collects herself quickly and steers them back behind the curtains. When Victoria relinquishes her grip, Anna tries not to mourn the loss of contact.
“Not terrible,” she proclaims, casting her eye over the now-arrived Delphine and Gabriel.
Victoria immediately turns her attention to Gabriel, directing him out to greet the patrons, holding Delphine back a moment with some further instruction before sending her to do the same.
“Oh my God,” Anna sighs, hiding behind the clothes rack with Ethan. “Is it always like this?”
“How would I know?”
Victoria peers over the rehearsal piano at them. “Where is my pianist, Ethan?”
“I’m here,” Teresa announces, appearing from behind the black curtain. “I was trying to warm up my baby out there when they all came waltzing in.”
Anna assumes Teresa means the stunning grand piano out in the studio, wheeled in from somewhere to set the tone for the evening. No rehearsal uprights for the chosen guests.
“I was waiting in your office before that?”
Something in the questioning tilt of Teresa’s voice makes Victoria flinch, and Anna catches it. There’s certainly something being implied there, some kind of standing arrangement. Anna looks at Victoria, stunning in green and gold, short blonde curls catching the light, and there’s definitely a pang of something like…no.
Not happening. Irina isn’t right about everything just because she says it with an accent and a wry expression. Anna excuses herself to check her phone, just in time to see Jess’s text.
I’m here.
Anna darts right out the back of the studio, opening the fire escape door and calling down to her sister. Jess takes the steps two at a time, even in heels. It’s kind of an honor that she’s fished out one of her two dresses for the occasion, coupling the black cocktail dress with a blazer stolen from Anna’s piles of clothes.