by Lola Keeley
It’s safer to focus on the appearance of the man who stands to greet her with two kisses to the cheeks that press a little too hard and a little too long, because next to him, still seated, is possibly the foremost dancer in America. Liza Wade, apparently human and ordinary, running a finger around the rim of her glass.
Meanwhile, Victoria, the Queen of Ballet, is unimpressed with being greeted second, and she grumbles to Rick about his choice of “fast-food joint” without ever acknowledging that Liza is there.
How can she ignore that glossy brown hair that falls in the perfect chin-length bob? Those dark eyes that don’t seem to miss a single thing happening at their table, even though Anna barely dares to glance in that direction for a second at a time. The dress is blood red, seemingly a perfect fit. To anyone ignoring the taut definition of the muscles, Liza might seem almost fragile; she certainly makes Anna feel like a Clydesdale in comparison. But she’s all barely contained power, and her bicep twitches as she pushes her drink aside and waves the waiter over for some muttered conversation about the specials.
“Sit, sit,” Rick urges. “We’re all friends here. Or we will be. Anna, it’s a delight to see you again. I hear this one”—he nods toward Victoria—”has been working you hard.”
“You could say that,” Anna answers with a gracious smile. “But I’m just happy to be learning.”
Liza sends the waiter scurrying off as though he just heard the kitchen is on fire and turns her attention back to the table.
“You must be the famous Anya,” she announces, giving the kind of appraising look that makes Anna cave in on herself under the pressure of it.
“I’ve already tried that game,” Victoria interrupts, an unlikely savior. “Her name is Anna. But don’t worry if you can’t keep up on the spelling. Everyone will know her name soon enough.”
“Will it be in Le Monde?” Liza asks, settling back in her chair like she’s holding court. “You know, I’ve been back from Paris for a while now, but I still reach for that news first.”
Victoria mutters something that sounds a lot like pretentious under her breath. Anna doesn’t want to speculate on which word follows it.
“How long did you dance with Paris Opéra?” Anna asks, trying to be the polite one. “Was it three years?”
“Just two and a half,” Liza corrects, lighting up briefly as though Anna has asked the perfect question. “Though it felt like a decade. But San Francisco is home. And when home has the greatest ballet company in the world, it’s hard not to go back.”
Victoria snorts audibly at the notion of San Francisco being the greatest anything, and Anna resists the urge to nudge with her elbow.
“Now speaking of the greatest, I understand more changes are afoot in our humble company.” Rick isn’t able to finish pouncing as the waiter returns to take their orders.
Anna hasn’t even looked at the menu, but everything sounds as if someone on heavy-duty medication picked four random ingredients and threw them together. She settles for the safest option—some kind of salad with pomegranate and a bunch of things she can’t pronounce.
She’s expecting Victoria to order three martinis as an entrée, but she’s querying the waiter on a variety of things before settling on something that involves pea panna cotta, the wobbly thought of which leaves Anna feeling slightly nauseated. Thank God there’s wine, and she knocks back most of her glass the moment it’s poured.
“I’ve made some changes, yes.” Victoria picks up the thread again. “Though I can’t see why you’d want to discuss them in front of someone who’s technically the competition. After all, if San Francisco suddenly throws Liza over for someone young and fresh, well, that impacts on our PR splash just a little, wouldn’t you think?”
Victoria doesn’t sound like herself. Gone are the abrupt punches on her consonants, the clipped tones that have everyone scurrying at her command. She brushes at the cuff of her silk blouse as she talks, drawling and almost wheedling. Like she’s daring Rick to deny her anything. He seems charmed by it, worst of all, as though this is the version of Victoria he’s been waiting for.
“But”—he wags his finger in cartoonish style, flashing his oversized watch—”what did I tell you back at our showcase?”
“To give this season the Victoria Ford treatment,” she says sweetly. “And others must feel suitably threatened, to do the old glass-in-the-shoe trick.”
His concerned expression is transparently fake. He’s all but grinning. In that moment, Anna’s allegiances are no longer even fractionally divided. She’s on Victoria’s team, and every step she dances will be about getting one over on this smug creep.
“Really, must we talk shop?” Liza interrupts their power plays, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her earrings are delicate strands of gold that catch the light. “If we must, can we at least talk about something new? What do you have planned for this magnificent creature, Vicki?”
“A darling little revival, that’s all,” Victoria says through teeth that sound suspiciously close to gritted. “I think we’ve all seen Giselle and Swan Lake often enough to make our heads spin, don’t you? About time I launched a star in something less conventional.”
“Less to compare her to, of course,” Liza counters. “Less need to be exceptional if she’s following in fewer footsteps, is that the logic?”
“No.” Victoria drains her martini. “It’s called originality. Didn’t they ever mention it when you took my place in Paris?”
The energy shifts then, from polite indifference to something far more tense. There had been rumors Victoria was destined to be the first American prima in Paris, only for Liza to take that honor the season after Victoria’s retirement. Many had joined the company over the years since Maria Tallchief, but none had been given the spotlight until then. Having danced in London and San Francisco and New York, it should have been a crowning glory for Victoria. To miss out on it must have only added to the heartbreak and frustration of retiring the way she did.
Rick takes over. “Whatever you’re doing, Victoria, we need to talk about expectations. We’re what, three, four years in? You’ve set the course now, using the press. So that makes it win or bust, is that fair to say?”
Victoria is rigid beside her, and with anyone else Anna might risk a reassuring pat. With Victoria, she fears it will send her ricocheting toward the ceiling.
“You made yourself clear. We don’t discuss employment matters in front of the company though, you know this.”
“Well, you’re the one who brought her.”
It’s an accusation, and Anna doesn’t like it one bit.
“Anyway, since I’ve had a chance to see Liza this week, I thought I’d clue you in on her plans.”
“I didn’t care about those plans when we all danced together; I’m mystified as to why you think I would be now.”
“You have a habit, Victoria,” he says, with another round of the finger-wagging, and Anna wants to break it off at the knuckle, “of considering my threats to be empty. The way you carry on doing whatever you want is proof of that. But if we’re not the toast of the town by season’s end? Liza has very graciously agreed to come in postretirement as artistic director.”
Liza preens a little, and Victoria flinches ever so slightly as she absorbs the blow.
Anna reaches for her wine again. This is bad. Terrible. The no-good dinner to end all dinners, and she’s endured her own attempts at cooking.
“Why?” Anna can’t stop herself asking. “If you’re rooting for Victoria to succeed—for both of us to have a good season—why would you have a replacement lined up?”
“Because, little lady”—Rick turns to her, the excess of hair product glinting in the soft light of the restaurant—“I believe in investing in the future. Now if that’s you”—he holds up his hands as though accepting the blame—”I’ll be glad to say I picked you out. But with or without you two, this company will prevail.”
Anna opens her mouth to reply, but then
Victoria’s hand is on her thigh, pressing hard enough that even her short nails feel like they might pierce the skin. It’s enough to shut Anna up.
“Well, if that’s all you came to say I won’t bother choking down this bland excuse for a meal,” Victoria says, gathering herself as she stands.
She moves a little too fast, stumbling just for a fraction of a second on her bad knee, and Anna is ready to spring to the rescue. Thankfully she isn’t needed, but she makes to get up and run after Victoria anyway. It’s Rick who sits her back down with a hand on her shoulder.
“She won’t flee, that’s not her style. Let me talk to her, kid. I know her a hell of a lot better than you do. You stay here and look after Liza, okay?”
With that, he takes off in the same direction as Victoria, leaving Anna speechless in her chair.
“So,” Liza picks up as though they were barely interrupted, “what’s the gossip with my baby sister? Delphine never tells me anything, not even about her and Gabriel. You and I could be very good friends, Anna… Means you’re safe next season either way, if you want a little insurance.”
With considerable effort, Anna conjures a fake and friendly grin. “I like the way you think, Liza. Did I mention it’s an honor just to be here tonight? Because I meant to.”
Liza takes the bait, laughing that fake little laugh of hers and motioning for another bottle of wine. As she berates the waiter for taking a second too long, Anna’s mind is made up. She isn’t doing one damn thing to help this woman, and she’s going to make Victoria’s season a splash if it breaks every bone in her body.
Nodding, she laughs at whatever tedious joke Liza is telling. The sooner they get this over with, the sooner she can go check on Victoria, who must be seething wherever she’s run to. The thought of that alone makes Anna hurt in sympathy, which is another problem she is not dealing with right now. At least the overpriced wine goes down easily.
CHAPTER 22
Of course he follows her, and righteous though her anger is, Victoria doesn’t make much effort to evade him. Richard catches up to her eventually outside the bodega where she’s just charmed a Marlboro from a teenager, who’s lingering in case she asks for more than a smoke.
“Those things will kill you,” Rick warns, and he has the decency to look at least slightly shamefaced about it as he pulls out his own pack. “Don’t make me chase you all over the city, Victoria. Neither one of us is fit for that these days.”
“When did you start hating me?” she asks. “A bit of light backstabbing I expect; it comes with the territory. But that was a real betrayal, and I didn’t see it coming.”
“Liza offered.” Rick joins her at the corner with a shrug. “And I’ve spent twelve years taking the blame for the biggest loss in ballet. Even now you still won’t tell the real story, won’t clear my name.”
“You really think people blame you for my injury?” She’s been putting the pieces together, too slowly. “Just because I didn’t go on daytime television and sob about it for sixty minutes?”
“I thought hiring you four years ago would stop it.” His sigh is long and weary. “Why would you work for me if I was to blame? But people are idiots and they stick with that story.”
“Was that reason enough to risk injuring an innocent girl?” Victoria won’t feel sorry for him. He got to dance on for years after her. “Did you really think Teresa wouldn’t crack the minute I pressed her? She’s besotted with me.”
“I was trying to show you how it upsets the balance of the company.” He turns, ready to walk away. “What?”
“You hurt her. Do you have any idea the damage that could have been done? She could press charges, Rick. I’d support her all the way.”
“Oh, aren’t you the devoted director?” He snorts. “Careful, Vicki. I might think you’re the one blurring the personal and professional here. Mind you, Liza might have already turned her head.”
“I have no worries when it comes to Anna, whether it’s Liza or the program I’ve picked. You’re the one who declared war, Rick. Don’t blame me when I win.”
He shrugs, turning and making his way back down the block to the restaurant. Victoria shivers slightly, the evening having cooled enough that her silk blouse isn’t enough protection for someone with her body mass. It can’t be long before Anna comes looking for her, surely? She’s a little surprised her phone isn’t blowing up like she’s a high school senior who missed curfew. Taking her time about it, she walks the short distance back to the restaurant, grinding the butt of the cigarette under her Louboutin when she’s had enough.
The restaurant is a fishbowl because Rick and Liza are about tied in who most likes to see and be seen. It means Victoria has a decent view without getting too close, and it takes only a glimpse to confirm Anna is still firmly in place at their prime table, sipping from her glass before laughing at something Liza says. Given that Liza hasn’t been funny since the first Bush presidency, it’s enough to make Victoria’s heart sink.
With Rick the betrayal was white-hot, a flashbang she’s been setting off since they first started dancing together. Few people get under her skin so effectively or so often. Anna’s turn as a traitor just makes Victoria feel sick to her stomach, the sinking realization that her reputation is rooted firmly in the past. If Anna has any sense of ambition, if she has that self-absorbed streak needed to survive, she’ll hitch her wagon to Liza instead.
Typical Liza should make her move now, when Victoria is truly inspired for the first time since taking the damn position. Just like with her place in Paris, her one unrealized dream and greatest regret, Liza is there to rise from the ashes of Victoria’s chance to make history.
By the time she reaches the car, her knee is complaining with sharp jolts up and down thigh and shin alike, that uncontrollable electrical current of pain. She grunts “home” at the driver and fishes in her purse for her next dose, the one she should have choked down before dinner. If she pops an extra pill, it’s not like there’s anyone else around to count.
It takes far too long to extricate herself, and Anna is practically vibrating with impatience as she hails a taxi. Victoria hasn’t replied to any of the texts carefully tapped out under the table, nor the voice recording Anna had the presence of mind to start on her phone when she realized Liza was a few drinks in and ready to expound on her vision.
The town car is parked outside Victoria’s building in one of the few parking bays, and as soon as she pays her fare to the chatty cab driver, Anna is darting across the street to rap on the closed window. Sheepishly Victoria’s driver rolls down the glass, revealing the meatball sub he’s chewing on. Anna doesn’t know his name, they change so often, but she’s starting to recognize leverage when she sees it.
“Tell me which apartment number is Victoria’s and I won’t tell her you were eating in the car,” she offers, wasting no time beating around the bush. She’s bursting with the need to offload her double-agent status, to prove to Victoria that she stayed loyal. Assuming Victoria even cares, but Anna can’t forget her stricken expression as she’d stormed away from the table.
“She’s in 46C,” he offers. “You were out with her earlier, right? You’re not some stalker?”
“No, I’m not.” Anna’s already in motion, nodding at the doorman who doesn’t seem inclined to stop someone so clearly on a mission. She calls the elevator, jamming the button over and over again. When she doesn’t hear the whirr of machinery, she takes to the stairs. After three floors, she ditches her impractical heels and heads for the top floor.
It’s what would be called the penthouse floor in a more modern building, but this apartment block has a pleasingly vintage feel to it. Three apartments share the top floor, and Victoria’s is the most remote, alone at the end of a short hallway. Steeling herself, Anna doesn’t bother to slip her shoes back on, rapping on the door before she loses her nerve.
Of course there’s no answer. Nothing is destined to go right today. Figuring she hasn’t much left to lose, Anna b
angs her knuckles harder against the door.
A door creaks open, but not the one Anna is staring at. Someone clears their throat and she turns, a sinking dread that she heard the wrong apartment number, or worse that the driver was just screwing with her. Thankfully it’s not Victoria waiting at 46B’s door, but rather a woman old enough to be her great-grandmother.
“You looking for the dancer?” she demands, and Anna straightens automatically at the authority in that steely English accent. “She’ll be upstairs.”
“This is the top floor?” Anna’s voice raises on the question.
The woman points a bony finger to the other end of the hall. “Roof terrace. Give the door a sharp shove. And tell her not to make any noise when she staggers back down.”
Anna nods, because she suspects any other answer will only get her in trouble somehow. She scurries along the dim corridor, shoes still in hand, and shoulder-charges the door. Sure enough, it opens to iron steps and the sparkling neon-tinged darkness of the city. Taking in a deep breath, Anna realizes it’s cleaner and cooler up here.
“Come to resign?” Victoria asks, momentarily invisible but sounding dangerously close when Anna reaches the low wall that lines the roof area. “Or are you going to insult me by pretending you left the restaurant when I did?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Anna counters, her voice wavering in the evening breeze. “Someone had to stay long enough to find out what they were up to. I got the whole plan, I think.”
Victoria steps out of the shadows in the corner, bottle of wine in hand. “I’d offer you some, but I didn’t bring a second glass. That and I don’t share with traitors.”
“I’m not the one who betrayed you tonight.” Anna’s tired. Nothing she does is ever going to be good enough for this woman. “So if you’re going to be pissed, I really feel like it shouldn’t be at me. I’m trying to help.”
“So helpful.” Victoria says it with a sneer, like it’s the worst insult she could hurl at Anna’s exhausted feet. “You should put your damn shoes on.” She picks up the wine bottle, already halfway empty. “Your feet have been through enough already.”