by Lola Keeley
“It’s a lot of change,” Anna says, finally settling down again just as the car rolls to a stop. The doorman is scurrying across to open the door.
“One thing at a time,” Victoria tells her, and the way she says it might even be approaching kind. “Let’s go see where you’ll be sleeping off all my rehearsals.”
When Anna sees the doorman building that’s her new home, she’s expecting a tiny studio stashed away on a middle floor. If she’s lucky, there’ll be a closet and a microwave. It’s not like she’s ever needed much more.
Victoria falls into conversation with their doorman—Julio, Anna manages to catch—and instead of heading for the building’s slightly ancient-looking elevator, they stay on the first floor and head to the back of the building.
Anna follows Victoria through the door that leads into a courtyard. Julio leaves them there, smiling at Victoria as he goes. It’s not enough to distract Anna from taking in her surroundings. There’s a tree in the center, a bench in front of it that she can already see herself tucked up on, flipping through a book with a steaming mug of coffee.
“Here.” Victoria shoves a keychain toward her.
Anna puts her hand out to accept it. Silver ballet slippers, of course. There must be a whole batch of them. On it are three keys.
Victoria nods toward a door in the far corner of the courtyard.
“This is my apartment?” Anna strides over, caught up in the excitement now. There’s a little panicked voice still drumming a beat about photoshoots and glossy programs, but that will have to wait. She fumbles with the keys, but recovers before Victoria’s huff of impatience gets all the way out. One, two, three, and the heavy door, painted with more than one coat of black paint, swings inward.
The hallway is short and nondescript, but Anna is already in motion. It opens up into a living area that, even with sofas and bookcases, leaves enough space for stretches and yoga on the floor. The kitchen Anna barely glances at, but she does register the appliances and huge fridge/freezer. She’ll be able to keep herself in smoothies and freeze her shoes to toughen them up too.
The bathroom is at least twice the size of the one in Jess’s apartment, with a claw-foot tub that makes Anna’s tight muscles practically sing. The shower in the corner has glass walls, and before Anna can form a protest, she realizes that for the first time in her life she won’t be sharing the bathroom with anyone.
Victoria follows, uncharacteristically silent. It’s only when Anna bounds over to the bedroom, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway, that she even remembers Victoria is there.
Anna still manages to bump into her arm and Victoria grumbles, “A little warning.”
“This is really for me?” Anna can’t help asking. “I thought company housing meant roommates, or some kind of dorm.”
“Would you like me to go and round up some corps members to sleep on the floor?” Victoria sounds almost puzzled. “If this is too lonely for you, I assume you have some ridiculous stuffed bear you’ve had since kindergarten or something.”
Anna isn’t expecting the twist in her chest. She’s gotten so used to people knowing and stepping around the subject that it’s hard to face it head-on.
“I don’t, actually.” If she sounds upset, so be it. She is. “Turns out teddies are just as flammable as everything else in my childhood home.”
“Your home—”
“Burned down, yeah.” Anna walks over to the sliding closet door, barely seeing the empty rack and shelves when she opens it. She blinks furiously, determined not to embarrass herself with tears now. “Don’t worry, it was a long time ago. It doesn’t affect how I dance.”
She doesn’t hear Victoria move.
“I disagree,” Victoria murmurs, much closer than just a moment before. “But I don’t disapprove. Whatever it is, it works for you.”
“Great,” Anna can’t help but snap. Victoria doesn’t know, Anna tells herself. She isn’t being intentionally mean. “I guess it was all worth it, then.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about you.” Victoria steps between Anna and the open closet door. “And I can’t promise that will change. But I’d be a terrible boss if I didn’t point out that this story of yours could lead to better press. Everyone loves a sob story.”
Victoria has the decency to look disgusted even as she says it.
“I won’t do it.” Anna closes her eyes, gathering her resolve. A breath. A beat. She opens them again. “And I am so grateful for this opportunity, but I swear, Ms. Ford. If one word of it goes to some…reporter, then I’ll be on the first flight back to Dubuque. I’ll never dance again before I’ll use their memory for some puff piece.”
“You really think you mean that.”
God, that’s patronizing, but Anna stares Victoria down, tears pricking. If she holds Victoria’s attention, maybe she won’t notice the slip.
“You said ‘their.’”
Of course she didn’t miss it. Anna braces herself for something unkind about pulling herself together. Instead there’s just the gentle touch of Victoria’s hand on her forearm.
“Your parents?”
Anna nods, and the urge to bolt grows stronger by the second. There’s a reason she doesn’t tell people. At least Victoria looks uncomfortable for the first time since Anna met her; she might just be human after all.
“I thought we were just talking property damage. I didn’t… No reporter will hear about it from me, okay? Now, will this little shack do?” Victoria waves at the space around them, offering the change of subject like a lifeline.
“Hardly a shack.” Anna steps away and makes a show of sitting on the end of the bed. “I don’t think I have enough stuff to fill it.”
“You’ll build it up,” Victoria says, but she still looks squeamish discussing such personal things. “You’re still young. This place doesn’t need much. Some fresh flowers once a week, so it feels like you actually live here. That’s how I did it.”
“You lived here?”
“Briefly.” Victoria’s frown slips back into place, the momentary softening over Anna’s tragic past erased as though by the flick of a wand. “There was a time when a place without stairs was a blessing. The elevator in my building is unreliable.”
“When you were injured,” Anna surmises. She holds her breath after putting it out there.
Victoria flinches.
Anna would feel guilty, but why the hell should she after everyone loves a sob story? “Julio remembers you from that long ago?”
“He was in the corps before that,” Victoria says, putting her hands in the pockets of her fitted black pants. She misdirects Anna’s clumsy jab with ease. “Blew out his Achilles after six months, never came back. We always try to keep people in-house. If they can face it. Are we done with all things domestic? I have a center to run.”
“You didn’t have to,” Anna begins, but she’s too tired to be petulant. “So…what time do I need to be in tomorrow?”
“Ten.” Victoria walks slowly back out of the bedroom, with one last glance at the stripped bed and the empty nightstands. The hallway is well lit, and for a moment she looks like she’s caught in a spotlight. “We’ll meet in de Valois and see where they want to set up.”
“I’ll see if I can hit the salon on the way there.”
“Susan will handle it,” Victoria reminds her. “You have the keys.”
“Victoria?” Anna doesn’t know what comes over her. “I don’t have anything in—obviously—but did you want to grab a coffee? I saw a place two doors down…”
“Like I said.” Victoria draws herself back to her full height, remote again. “I have a center to run. Ten sharp, Anya.”
As abruptly as she does everything else, Victoria takes off. Her footsteps barely echo despite the emptiness of the apartment. Anna almost wants to call after her, though she has no idea what to say.
Anna prods the mattress with the flat of her hand and considers her new bedroom. A place of her own. One so empty that she
can’t stand it a moment longer. She’s going to grab some things to start making it home, and maybe Jess will come over for pizza later. Anna grabs her keys and follows Victoria’s path back to the outside world.
“Kelly said you were out earlier.” Teresa slips through the door of Victoria’s office in that way she has, furtive but drawing attention to the sheer discretion of it. It sets Victoria’s teeth on edge, even as she wades through a stack of documents awaiting her signature. “Anything fun?”
“Not particularly,” Victoria says, fighting back a sigh. “Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to check on your stress levels. Big night last night, and usually—”
“It’s a new season. Things are going to be different. I need to focus.”
“On her?”
Oh, the jealousy is uglier than Victoria expected. The briefest jolt to her ego isn’t worth this contortion of Teresa’s otherwise pretty face.
“People are already talking, you know. Think you’re throwing it all away on some rube with a ponytail.”
“People?” Victoria repeats. “Or person? Because I’m sure you remember my ground rules. I couldn’t have been clearer.”
“Oh, you’re clear all right,” Teresa says with a sneer. She fishes some music from the stack in her arms and slaps it down on Victoria’s desk. “You wanted these. Or last week you did. You’ve probably changed your mind.”
“At least be subtle.” Victoria ignores the sheets even though she does still need them. “I can assume this won’t affect our work together? This little tantrum?”
“Why would it?” Teresa retreats, casting a longing look back over her shoulder like she really believes she’s Deborah Kerr in some doomed romance. “We’re all professionals, right?”
“Right.” Victoria pulls off her glasses. “It really is nothing personal.”
“Huh.” Teresa hesitates with her hand on the door. “See, right up until then it wasn’t actually hurtful. Fuck you, Victoria.”
“Out of your system?” Victoria asks when Teresa lingers.
The girl nods.
“Good. Go, scream into a pillow if you think it might help. We’ll start fresh on Tuesday.”
“Okay.” With that, Teresa is gone.
Victoria sighs and leans back in her chair, the leather creaking under her shoulder blades. She can’t afford these distractions. A reminder pings on her calendar, and Victoria puts her glasses back on just to glare at it. Therapy on Monday at nine thirty. Well, that one can go at least. Victoria fires off a message to Kelly to cancel it.
There’s a night worth of work in front of her, but still she hesitates to dive in. She shakes her head to dislodge the image of Anna, forlorn in front of empty closets. The clumsiness of unearthing her parents’ death still rankles. Even if it does explain Anna’s air of quiet mystery. Well, it’s something to channel into choreography. No reason Victoria should give it a second thought.
Which is exactly what she tells herself when it becomes a second thought, and a third and fourth. She should be sketching out sequences in Benesh notation, but much like a frustrated composer, the bars on her page remain frustratingly blank when they should be full of the symbols that denote the steps and direction.
For distraction, she flicks through Teresa’s music. The tune comes to Victoria unbidden, the rich humming her father would soothe her to sleep with as a child. The words replay in Victoria’s head: their memory.
Usually she can spot the tragic ones from a mile away. Anna is deceptive, not a word Victoria would have picked out for her at first. Those bright, sunny smiles don’t give away anything of the pain she must be carrying. How heavy is the loss if the girl can still barely speak about it, other than in such an oblique way?
One perk of being the boss means Victoria rarely has to moderate what she says. She can claim that every mean comment is intended to be character building, something to motivate the right kinds of people. Even so, Victoria wishes she could take back calling it a sob story. If ever there had been a time to wait for all the facts, it was then. So maybe Anna will hate her a little, temper the hero worship. It can only help in making her great.
CHAPTER 14
Anna arrives a little after nine, practically sneaking along the corridor to the studio. Inside there’s already contained chaos—sheets draped on the few surfaces and various bits of rigging being moved in front of the mirrors, only to be covered with even more white sheets.
It’s Susan who spots her first.
“Come on, kid. Let’s turn you into a glamazon.”
“Is Victoria—”
“Still in her office, so enjoy the peace while it lasts. She’s on a tear this morning, and there aren’t enough bodies in today for us to use as a shield.”
“This isn’t a big deal, right?” Anna can’t help the nervous giggle. “I mean, it looks like a big deal, but it’s just a couple of shots to put in with a bunch of other ones, that’s all.”
“I sure as shit hope not,” says a deeper voice from behind them. “Christ, Ramos. I hope you’ve got something planned for this one. I don’t do ‘wallflower’ as a concept.”
“Leave her alone, Michelle,” Susan warns. “You’re here on promise of good behavior, remember? And Anna is gorgeous, so don’t start. She’ll just be dramatically gorgeous when I’m done.”
“Michelle Willis.” Towering over Anna and Susan, she’s clutching one camera, with another slung around her neck. With shocking white-blonde hair and an outfit that’s more rips than it is denim and leather, she looks more suited for a punk band than a photo call. She sticks a hand out to Anna, who shakes it gingerly.
Some flashes go off as guys in tight jeans test the equipment; it’s blinding for a few seconds.
“I’m your artist for the day. Or the poor schmuck who owes her career to some action shots of Victoria, whatever you prefer.”
“From the Times?” Anna can’t quite place her.
“I’m freelance,” Michelle says with a grimace. “Everyone is these days. But it’s funny you should mention my one-time employer…”
“Leave her alone, Willis.” Victoria approaches, her words echoing Susan’s earlier warning. “I told you, this exclusive is visual only. And we’re paying you to do our brochures, not pad your portfolio.”
“But isn’t that just confirming that ballerinas have nothing to say?” Michelle says, tone teasing. “I could do your lame-ass brochures in my sleep, but I could do something way edgier for the Weekend supplements. You can even do all the talking if you want. It’s been a while since the press got anything out of you but a prewritten release.”
“That’s still more than the vultures deserve.”
Michelle and Victoria stare it out for a moment, before Michelle breaks the tension with a shrug. Her heavy leather jacket creaks as she moves off to join her crew.
“So…I should get changed?” Anna ventures, hoping Victoria’s glare doesn’t turn on her next. “What do I get to dress up in?”
“Right this way.” Susan steers Anna toward the racks that dominate the corner of the studio where the piano sits. “You’re gonna love my makeup guy.”
Victoria can’t help prowling the floor of de Valois, kicking at trip hazards and rearranging badly hung sheets as she goes. She shouldn’t have renamed this room for her favorite space in Covent Garden. The two studios have little in common beyond mirrors on the walls.
She rarely gets nostalgic for London, but the start of the season always reminds her of that formative spell at the Royal Ballet—the outsider American soloist who leveraged her years in London into being crowned principal before returning in triumph to San Francisco, then New York.
Of course all the initial art was shot before the end of last season, since the company wasn’t expected to change significantly. Trust Rick to throw this talented new wrench in the works.
Just as she’s about to bark at Ramos to move things along, the flurry of activity in the corner finally ceases and Anna is ya
nked out of the director’s chair they’ve been surrounding like vultures. She’s there in the black leotard and tutu that mark the settled aesthetic for the company’s publicity this year. It’s a significant upgrade from last year’s virginal white that didn’t catch the eye at all.
It shouldn’t be impactful but, as Anna strides across the floor—still barefoot and in search of her pointe shoes—Victoria feels the difference on a gut level.
No bun in Anna’s hair at Victoria’s instruction, but the way it’s been pulled back suggests someone’s fingers have been raked through it, and it works in contrast to the innocence of Anna’s expression. The black eyeliner might be too heavy on a less open face, but it draws attention to those sparkling blue eyes, so much so that even Victoria can’t deny staring for a moment. A hint of gold at Anna’s ears, a ring on her middle finger, and lips barely a shade or two above nude. She’s a photographer’s dream; even Michelle won’t be able to find much to bitch about.
“Shoes,” Victoria snaps as Anna looks up, ribbons dangling from her fingers. “We don’t have all day.”
Anna hurries, sitting heavily on the floor to tape her toes and pull on the customized pair, hands deft as usual.
Susan comes over, mumbling something Victoria can’t overhear, and Anna lights up again with one of those beaming smiles. Victoria turns away, irritated.
“Seriously.” Michelle comes up, trusty Nikon around her neck and a light meter in hand. “This is a waste of a day just to get you a couple of profiles for the season spread. I’ve seen it—it’s not bad this time around—but you’re just making a last-minute tweak. Why not make a splash and look like you had this planned all along?”
“Even if I changed my mind, it’s weeks before a feature will run.” Victoria crosses her arms over her chest. Her sweater is black, a little lower cut than normal. Paired with her favorite black jeans, comfortable at every seam, she still feels Michelle’s gaze lingering. “No, wait…don’t tell me.”
“My editor had to pull something for next weekend, so if I give her the nod this morning, four pages are yours. I haven’t written in a while, but you’ve got red-pen rights if you don’t like it.”