The Music and the Mirror

by Lola Keeley

  “What else do I get?” Irina has a glint in her eyes at Victoria’s veiled promise.

  “A principal role.” Victoria wriggles into her director’s chair, nodding at the prone Delphine, who gets slowly to her feet. “A cross-generational celebration of the uniquely talented primas at Metropolitan Ballet. Tudor’s Gala Performance, modernized by yours truly.”

  “Well, hell,” Delphine pipes up at last. “Victoria Ford had an interesting idea. What took you so long?”

  “We can go back to Giselle if you want to run your mouth and spend two weeks sobbing all night.”

  “Hey, it was a compliment, I swear,” Delphine says. “I guess we all know who the Russian is going to be. And I have the Italian coloring—”

  “We have makeup,” Irina cautions. “And wigs. Or is the passport all that matters?”

  “There will be no Italian,” Victoria says.

  Anna frowns at her. What the hell? She’s supposed to be the Italian.

  “Delphine, you’ll be our French ballerina. Nobody else will get the laughs from it that you can.”

  “And I assume Girl Wonder is here for moral support?” Delphine shoots an apologetic glance Anna’s way; it isn’t personal.

  “Instead of the Italian, the American,” Victoria says. “As corny as Kansas in August, but ultimately the powerhouse of modern ballet. And I have another show in mind for you, too, Delphine, but we’ll talk that through tomorrow.”

  “Are you changing the outcome?” Delphine has her hands on her hips now, realization dawning on her. “Or are we ‘beaten’ by the American, as we would have been by the Italian?”

  “What do you think?” Irina butts in. “You think we go on in New York without saying American ballet lights the world? This production can be as wrong as the original. We all know the Russian should win both.”

  “It’s a celebration of all three schools,” Victoria says. “There will be a victor, as such, but I like to think of it more as passing the baton, sharing the spotlight, all that nonsense. I assume it won’t be a problem?”

  “I’ll let you know” is all Delphine will commit to. “You know I’m skipping dinner with Liza tomorrow though, right?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be taking Bayadère’s first stage rehearsal, so I will see you there,” Victoria says. “I have company for dinner, thank you. Bitch at Liza on your own time. In the meantime I expect you both to show the leadership of a prima and former prima and make this the success it deserves to be.”

  “And Richard?” Irina asks. “You think he’ll like this when we could be packing them in at Giselle?”

  “He’ll like it well enough.” Victoria shuts them down. “Especially when he finds out who’s playing the role of Stage Manager.”

  Delphine works it out first. “You’re kidding me.”

  Anna is suddenly screaming inside her head, not daring to hope this means what she thinks it means.

  “We’re finally going to share a stage?” Delphine asks.

  “It’s a gimmick.” Irina hurls the word like an insult, hands on hips. “But damn, Vicki. It’s a good one.”

  “You’re going to do the show?” Anna thinks there has to be misunderstanding. “With us?”

  “Oh, keep up!” Victoria’s compliments from yesterday are washed away by the iciness of her response. “Of course that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t exactly subtle, Anna.”

  “Right.”

  “Ladies, I’ll have to do some work with this one.” Victoria tilts her head in Anna’s direction. “Not least on her ability to derive things from context.” She turns to Delphine and Irina again. “When I bring this into your schedules next week, I want nothing but teamwork. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” Delphine says with a nod. “Good luck, Anna. You’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks,” Anna says weakly.

  “We’ll work with you,” Irina offers. “But that means you come up to our level, malenkaya. We don’t come down to yours.”

  “Exactly,” Victoria agrees. “Now you all have other work to do today, so get the hell out of my studio.”

  “Again!” Victoria snaps, clicking the music back to the start. They’ve been at it for two hours already. “No, wait.”

  Anna responds to the command without conscious thought, her feet only just back in fifth.

  “Your extension is the laziest I have seen in years. It’s as though you’ve had that leg amputated at the knee.”

  Anna knows that isn’t true. Her extension would be just fine by anyone else’s standards, but Victoria is never happy unless every muscle in Anna’s body is vibrating at the barely concealed tension of a tripwire. She holds her hands out in surrender, palms upturned. If Victoria wants something different—something better—she’s damn well going to have to explain what she wants in detail, for once.

  “Tell me,” Anna pleads. “I can get it if you just tell me.”

  “Sit.” Victoria clicks her fingers from sheer impatience. She started out dressed for the dinner Anna knows they’re going to be late for, a dinner that’s probably just three martinis and pushing a salad around their plates at some overpriced French place.

  Anna sits heavily on the floor, each leg feeling like it’s been caked in cement, muscles jumping beneath the skin. Her toes are stinging, some of the healing cuts newly irritated by the amount of time spent on them.

  “Watch,” Victoria commands, and before Anna can fully appreciate what’s happening barely a foot in front of her face, Victoria takes position in fifth and runs through most of the sequence as if it’s her hundredth repetition of the day. It helps that she barely has to use her bad leg, but even so it’s a revelation.

  “Oh my God,” Anna gasps. She can’t help it. Victoria Ford is dancing in front of her. Not minimalist instructions where she barely has to lift her feet, but the true flowing moves a generation of little girls grew up wanting to emulate. It’s Christmas Morning and a surprise trip to Paris, only it’s over too fast. Victoria is standing over her, hands on hips, glaring at Anna’s openmouthed admiration.

  “Were you paying attention?”

  Anna shakes her head. She knows better than to lie by now. “Sorry. I’m watching now, I promise. Show me, please?”

  Victoria looks for all the world like she may refuse. She’s been more severe than usual. Chasing Anna around the floor tonight seems to have heated her up, though, and she shed the creamy silk blouse twenty minutes in.

  “As you lean in,” Victoria is saying, clutching the remote as the music starts again, “you have to give full extension on the trailing leg, otherwise you ruin the lines entirely. Can’t you see that?”

  Anna can see that. She can see Victoria’s leg, extended with textbook perfection, close enough to reach out and touch. The movement of her leg has caused her skirt to ride up over that pale shin, and for the first time Anna sees it: the faded but still vicious white scar. It’s just the cracked end where skin had obviously split, but she’s never had a chance to really look at Victoria this closely before. It’s clear this has been kept covered.

  Self-preservation has never been Anna’s strong suit. From where she’s kneeling on the battered wooden floor, she reaches out and touches the very edge of the scar. Victoria manhandles Anna most rehearsals, pushing her lower or grabbing her to steady wobbling turns. They touch frequently, without preamble, but Anna realizes just a fraction too late that the common thread is in who initiates the contact.

  “How dare you.” The words are a growl as Victoria returns to standing, a little too roughly.

  Anna is brushed aside by the force of it. It’s the same mistake she made in her apartment, of crossing one line too far.

  “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?” Victoria demands.

  “I—”

  “There’s a reason I’ve never spoken to the press about this injury,” Victoria continues, barreling over Anna’s attempt to speak. “I warned you off the other night. I forgave you and then you throw it
back in my face…for what, Anna? A little gossip to share? Was it really worth it?”

  “I didn’t mean to pry! I wasn’t thinking!”

  “If you think you can fondle my legs and get the untold story, you have another think coming. Get out of my sight. Go find Wade and Bishop, tell them we’re going back to Giselle.”

  “What? You can’t do that!”

  “I can do anything I want. This is my company.” Victoria’s expression is livid, and Anna knows if she gives up now, if she accepts this mistake and walks out, she is done with the Metropolitan Ballet. She’s probably done with ballet forever.

  “Listen!” Anna snaps, and the force of it actually startles Victoria into silence. They’re both breathing a little heavier than they should be, Anna still frozen in place on the wooden floor, Victoria staring down at her in quiet fury. “That wasn’t why I touched you. Of course I’m curious about…that. I’m not a monster. Everyone wants to know, and I think that’s how you like it.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare—”

  “I touched you because I wanted to,” Anna admits, to herself as much as to Victoria. “Because I keep wanting to. It’s stupid, and I’m sorry, and I won’t ever do it again. But you can’t blame me for motives I didn’t have.”

  “So now you’re just another horny ballerina?” Victoria scoffs. “How predictable.”

  “And for the record? If you ever needed someone to talk to? I would be here for you. Because it’s the least I can do, with the opportunity you’re giving me.” Anna hesitates, because that really is too far. “In the meantime, I’m here to learn. So do you want to see my damn extension or not?”

  She holds her breath. Victoria scowls at her, arms crossed. The wait stretches on until Anna starts to regret not exhaling.

  “Fine. But you’d better have been paying attention.”

  “I was,” Anna insists, and she bends into it as though she’d never done it anything other than perfectly. “See?” she demands, looking up at Victoria from waist height. “Is that better?”

  “You’ll do,” Victoria says with a huff. “Now we have to address your awful turn three bars later.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Anna stands again, waiting for Victoria to reset the music and instruct. It’s hard for Anna to believe she’s getting away with it, even though her cheeks are burning and she feels light-headed. Her blurted revelation is hanging in the air around them like residue from a smoke machine, but Victoria doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Victoria? We have dinner with Rick in less than an hour. If you want me to get ready…”

  “Hit the showers, then,” Victoria says without turning around.

  Is Anna imagining it, or does Victoria’s voice strangle just a little over the word showers?

  “And don’t wear anything too ridiculous.”

  “I’ll see you out front?”

  “Well, that’s where the car will be.”

  “Okay.” Anna gathers her bag, scrubbing a towel over her face. She forces herself to stride straight to the door. Hesitating as she passes Victoria would be certain death at this point. “Thank you,” she whispers instead.

  Victoria doesn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgment.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Jess, you don’t understand—”

  “What, she’s got some force field you’re not allowed to penetrate?” Jess scoffs down the phone. “Come on, Anna. She’s not that special. Even if you did get all gropey.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

  Jess’s smothered chuckle is all the confirmation Anna needs.

  “If you’re still going to dinner it can’t be that bad,” Jess makes up for it a moment later. “What did she say after you copped a feel, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t! I didn’t… Jess!”

  “Sorry, ‘accidentally made contact.’” There’s no hiding the laughter this time. This story had better not be shared with her girlfriend, either.

  “You don’t understand—the dream I’ve had since I could walk, basically, is to see Victoria Ford dance right in front of my face. It actually happens and I ruin the whole thing by turning into a grabby hands. What is wrong with me?”

  “Science may never find the answer to that question,” her sister teases. “But seriously. Hair down, hemline up, and put on shoes that are harder to walk in than being up on your toes. Go out looking your best, you’ll be too busy getting hit on to worry about what she’s thinking. Might make this whole dinner from hell go better too.”

  “You’re no help,” Anna says, but she picks out the strappy heels and a black cocktail dress all the same. “If you don’t hear from me by breakfast, have them drag the river for my body, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Try sitting on your hands if the urge strikes again.”

  “Bite me.” Anna sighs, but there’s no denying she feels a bit better as she ends the call. She pulls the dress on over clean lingerie and checks herself out in the mirror. Not bad, admittedly. With a few swipes on her phone, she finds a reliable makeup tutorial that doesn’t look like she just escaped a horror movie, and gets to work. Whatever damage she’s done, she has to make up for it by the end of the night. And while Victoria couldn’t be less interested in the so-called horny ballerina she’s trying to make into a star, there’s no harm in trying to look like something of a catch.

  Victoria has the snarky comments about timekeeping, and the fact that restaurants do actually close, on the tip of her tongue. Only, when her eyes lift from her phone, she’s momentarily struck dumb by the sight striding toward her down the steps of the Metropolitan Center.

  Long legs are hardly a rarity in the ballet world; toned ones even less so. Still, there’s something in the way the Jimmy Choos make Anna swagger that has Victoria completely enraptured. It’s fortunate it takes Anna so long to saunter over, otherwise she’d find her boss and mentor almost entirely speechless. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to expect much beyond the head-to-toe raking of Victoria’s gaze and a jerk of her head to say “get in the car.” Only when inside, trapped by their seat belts and moving, does Anna pipe up.

  “I hope this looks okay,” she begins. “I didn’t even realize I had these shoes in among the new things. You did mean these for me, right?”

  “Well, you don’t look ridiculous, at least. I could almost mistake you for an adult woman with her life together.”

  “Listen, about before—”

  “Don’t ruin fighting your own corner with a groveling apology.” Victoria raises a finger to warn Anna off. “I’m irresistible. You have the whole heroine crush. It spilled over, you made your case for staying… Really, the matter’s resolved as far as I’m concerned. If I’m not offended by it, you certainly don’t get to be.”

  “I…uh…irresistible?” Anna half snorts the word.

  Victoria glares at her, just a little. “Like I said before, do you really think you’re the first?”

  Something in Anna deflates at that, perhaps realizing her own lack of originality. The Midtown traffic is snarling, the usual on a Friday evening, and not for the first time Victoria misses the option of being able to walk long stretches in heels, hopping on the subway to save time when the roads are gridlocked. Still, it will serve Rick and Liza right to be kept waiting.

  “I’ll fix that turn, you know,” Anna mutters a minute later. “We didn’t get time today, but I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Anna leans in, her perfume delicate and teasing even through the haze of Victoria’s own spicier choice. “I mean it. I know how to get it now I have the extension right. I’ll do better tomorrow. No distraction. No accidental…whatever.”

  Somewhere in the pit of Victoria’s stomach, something twists in disappointment. Despite the flare of temper before, Anna’s touch had been thoughtful, almost gentle. Far removed from the doctors and physiotherapists who’d treated with deft hands and occasional necessary roughness. N
ot that Victoria had lacked for physical contact in the more obvious ways. Teresa was hardly the first to keep her company, but none of those encounters and flings had invited casual exploration.

  Just another reason to keep this woman at a professional distance. And yes, very much a woman. To see her in such a stylish dress and killer heels made the very idea of dismissing Anna as a girl impossible.

  “Fine.” Victoria sighs. “Just save that perky angelic routine for Liza. Be sure to remind her at every opportunity how young and vital you are, for my amusement if nothing else.”

  “If you say so. What about Mr. Westin?”

  “Leave Rick to me.”

  The car starts making progress at last, the congestion easing as they make it past the bottleneck caused by tourists and tour buses. They’re traveling against the exodus from the Financial District, meaning the journey is over in just a few minutes. Anna taps the driver on the shoulder and mutters something in his ear that makes him stay put. When Victoria’s door is opened for her, she knows it’s Anna, having scurried around in heels.

  “And they say chivalry is dead,” Victoria drawls.

  “Just to check,” Anna says, “am I here as your bright new prospect, or as…”

  “My date?” Victoria can’t help teasing. Of course the subject hasn’t been entirely dropped. “Well, Anna. I think that’s up to you. Come on, there’s a dirty martini screaming my name.”

  Victoria begins the march from the sidewalk to the restaurant entrance, startled only three steps in by Anna’s arm casually slipping through hers. They present to the maître d’ as a united front, and it’s more than a little welcome.

  Anna knows her grip on Victoria’s wrist is too tight, but she can’t bring herself to relinquish it until forced to by the fact their waiter seems insistent on them occupying two separate seats. Richard looks as scruffy-rich as ever, no tie of course, but his blazer is perfectly tailored despite the faded T-shirt beneath.