The Music and the Mirror

by Lola Keeley

  How painful would it be, exactly, to launch Anna in triumph only for her steady and dependable corps to suddenly let her down? For their sake, Victoria had better not find out.

  Delphine and Anna leap to attention at the first brisk clap of Victoria’s hands, her star performers leading the way with their professionalism.

  There’s more interest than there would usually be for a work-light run-through, and Victoria spots various technicians and other interested parties who don’t need to be there. It’s not the first time some gender flipping has gone on, but it is novel for this company. Rick did little to chase off the stuffy, conservative reputation when he first took over, and it’s only since hiring Victoria that they’ve looked much beyond the staples.

  “Ladies.” Victoria takes up her out-of-place office chair at the front of the stage. “Let’s show our colleagues what we’ve been working on.”

  Anna wipes her hands on her tights, glad they’re still in their own clothes and not costumed yet. All she has to do is replicate the hard work they’ve put in at the studio, and it’s hardly as though she hasn’t danced in front of people before.

  She glances at Victoria, and where once that impassive face would have turned Anna’s knees to rubber, today it calms and centers her. Her belief in Anna is turning into self-belief on Anna’s part.

  She’s ready.

  Eve is back on piano, but Anna has seen Teresa lurking somewhere. Needless to say, her shoes have been checked religiously and she hasn’t let her kit bag out of her sight. The music strikes up, and Anna smiles because she likes how jaunty Britten can be compared to other composers. This is his only ballet score, and God, she wishes she had seen Victoria dance this at nineteen, with the rapt crowds in London.

  She takes up position, the blocking freshly marked by the stage manager’s tape. Anna doesn’t know his name yet, and it feels rude to only be asking now. Delphine is fussing with the gauzy fabric tied around her head. This is the blindfold pas de deux, and despite Victoria’s insistence on being daring, it has to convey the idea of a blindfold while actually letting Delphine see in order to dance safely. If she feels ridiculous with a strip of someone’s old tutu over her eyes, Delphine doesn’t look it.

  Then Anna’s cue comes surging out of the piano, and she’s taking those first expressive steps. Her ankles pivot the way she wants them to, and her movements are measured as precisely as Victoria insisted they be. She can feel when the dance is right, in much the same way as an experienced contractor can tell if something is straight without a level. Even a fraction off the beat and she’ll know, her mood plummeting with it.

  The pas de deux seems to last an eternity, and apart from a wobbly moment on the second lift, they’re confident and smiling into the final few steps, Anna’s arms sitting easily around Delphine’s waist as they come to a halt.

  Applause is not really done for more than cursory acknowledgment in rehearsal, but a wave of enthusiastic clapping and even a few whoops break out from the watching company. Anna wants to punch the air, but instead she trades her habitual curtsey for a deep bow, staying in character.

  Victoria doesn’t get out of her seat, but Anna can see the sparkle in her eye. She put that there, with Delphine’s flawless assistance. “Well, I should make you do it again just for that second lift, but even I’m not that cruel. Well done.”

  Victoria’s guarded compliment roars through Anna’s bloodstream far more powerfully than the applauding did. Their gazes meet, earning Anna a wink before Victoria turns to address the rest of her dancers.

  “Now, if we could take it from the second act with that level of competence, please?” People scramble; nobody’s playing anymore.

  “You were freaking amazing out there,” Anna tells Delphine in the wings, gesturing to untie the blindfold that she’s still wearing.

  With a nod, Delphine lets her untie it. “You weren’t so bad, either, newbie. Victoria reduced to one criticism? That’s going in the memoir.”

  “I thought that was pretty good. It is, right?”

  “Still living and dying by her approval, huh?” Delphine teases. “You’ve got it bad.”

  Anna could deny it, could even tell Delphine the truth that they were one and done, nothing more to read there. Except that wink doesn’t make it feel so done anymore, and Anna can already feel her resolve to be cool and sophisticated slipping away.

  Instead, she rolls her eyes, much like Victoria would have, and does some stretches to keep ready for their next call.

  The wink is a risk, and Victoria knows it. She does it anyway. Part of her is waiting for Anna to come knocking on her office door—or later, her apartment—and ask who the hell they both think they’re kidding.

  A better person, one less guided by stubborn pride, might march across the street to Anna’s and do the asking. She drinks an extra glass or two, and sleeps poorly. Changing the sheets didn’t help, an extra Ambien didn’t, either. She wakes up wishing Anna was there in the bed, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing she does that makes the feeling pass.

  They make it to semi-dress—Anna in the costume—and Victoria doesn’t think she’s going to make it as far as waiting for Anna to come knocking. If there was any way to guarantee privacy in the locker rooms, Victoria’s impatience might tip her hand.

  She holds out—a pat on the back and a smile for Anna this time, what is she thinking?—and the dress rehearsal is a slow, clunky disaster. Victoria has never bought in to that theater bullshit about a lousy rehearsal meaning a good performance, so she seethes and worries her way through another sleepless night.

  Somewhere around three, she gets a text from Anna.

  Can you sleep? I can’t.

  It’s the window, it’s an invitation, and Victoria is up off the sofa, ready to surrender. Then she catches herself. How selfish it would be to exhaust Anna and fill her head with false hopes before such a big night. No, Victoria will take responsibility for most things, but not for turning Anna’s head at the expense of her career.

  Anna stretches her hamstring one more time. The niggling strain hasn’t bothered her for a day or two. She’s warmed up. She’s ready. Tonight’s the night.

  The ensemble members scurry for places, the heavy damask of the curtain still shielding them from privileged, expectant eyes. Delphine nods at her from the opposite wing, all the acknowledgment they allow themselves before a performance. Her entrance precedes Anna’s, and it’s a long time to choke back the metallic taste at the back of her throat.

  As the orchestra strikes up at last, the conductor wielding the baton, Anna takes her next breath. He’ll keep them all in harmony, let their beats ring out loud and true, never faltering. She trusts that as surely as she trusts that the sun will rise over the Metropolitan Performing Arts Center in the morning.

  She senses the movement behind her more than she hears it. Her dresser has gone to prepare the first change; no one else enters from stage left until the second act. That leaves one person who would presume to approach at a moment like this.

  Anna doesn’t turn. She already knows what she’ll see. The black Vera Wang was hanging outside the office today, fresh from the dry cleaner. It’ll be paired with diamond studs beneath a perfectly sculpted french twist. The impression of lipstick, unwanted but worn anyway, and the slight, immovable frown that has greeted Anna’s every effort these past few months.

  “Dance,” Victoria says, standing close enough for her breath to skim Anna’s bare shoulder.

  It’s an order, a timely reminder, but Anna hears the plea in it too. She kicks her slipper against the ground once in acknowledgment—no block to protect her toes, just the regular slipper. She has faith, stubborn and resolute, despite everything that rides on this one night.

  Delphine enters stage right. Anna turns, but Victoria is already gone. She won’t sit in her house seat, elbow to elbow with tonight’s dignitaries. She might lurk in one of the boxes that wasn’t put on sale, counting steps from behind a curtain of her
own.

  Fourteen bars. Twelve.

  Anna listens to the notes that lead to her cue. She takes one more deep, centering breath, and takes the first step.

  CHAPTER 35

  Anna’s first high hits the moment the audience realize the twist, her entrance a dramatic series of leaps from the wings that lead to murmurs and then to a smattering of applause. She’s cheeky enough to acknowledge, a sidelong glance to the audience that isn’t scripted but feels perfect in the moment. The clapping only increases, and for a moment Anna can’t pick out the beats of the orchestra.

  They simmer down quickly enough, and Anna pursues Delphine carefully across the sacred space they own for the time being. There’s a silky quality to the way Delphine dances, as though she possesses a kind of flexibility mere mortals don’t. Beside her, against her, Anna feels stronger than steel, the steadying presence that lets them throw themselves into every turn and extension.

  The first time she lifts Delphine—a simple lift by the standards of the piece—the audience erupts once more. Anna squeezes Delphine’s hips gently on lowering her, a silent thank-you for being the perfect partner, and gets an unchoreographed touch to her cheek in response. They dance on, in perfect sync.

  The curtain calls seem to last half a lifetime, and Anna is almost more exhausted by the alternating bows and curtseys than any of the choreography. Delphine was complaining about a slight backache before their last scene together, but there’s no sign of it as they take their rapturous applause.

  When the lights dip for a second, she sees Jess and Marcia practically falling over the seats in front of them with how hard they’re cheering her on. The whole audience is on their feet, and it sounds like they may just be a hit.

  Skipping backstage, Anna picks Delphine up one more time from sheer exuberance. They hug it out until Gabriel comes along to congratulate them. The flowers he brings for Delphine are beautiful, and Anna tries not to miss that part of it. Of course, Gabriel is a gentleman and has a second bouquet behind his back, tied with a blue ribbon to distinguish them.

  “I was gonna get you some cigars, but you don’t strike me as a smoker,” he teases, one arm wrapped casually around Delphine’s shoulders. “You done with my girl for the night?”

  “Unless you want to join us for dinner and drinks?” Anna asks, already knowing the answer.

  “Next time,” Delphine assures her.

  They head back to their respective dressing rooms, and Anna still can’t quite believe she has a principal’s space, so close to the stage. No more running up and down flights of stairs between scenes.

  The knock comes just minutes after Anna settles in to clean up and change. She throws the door open, revealing Victoria with her hand still raised.

  “Did you need something?” Anna asks, but it’s friendlier than it might have been.

  “You’re just out of the shower. I can come back,” Victoria suggests, looking right past Anna.

  “Nothing you haven’t already seen.” Anna steps back, gesturing for her to come in. “I won’t be long.”

  Victoria moves straight across to the dressing table, folding her arms over her killer black dress and black coat. Her heels are high enough to make Anna worry, but there’s no denying the length and polished perfection of Victoria’s bare legs. The hem only just covers her scar, but she glances at the spot anyway.

  Mostly dried, Anna starts pulling on her change of clothes. Nothing too fancy, since it’s just family drinks again. At the moment, comfort trumps all. As she sprays some perfume and ties her hair up, Victoria holds court.

  “We’re a hit,” Victoria says, and their eyes meet in the large mirror. “We deserve to be too. You didn’t put a foot wrong tonight, do you know that? It was textbook. Only more than that, Anna. It was art. You did everything exactly as written but made it look like the steps were just occurring to you that second.”

  “That’s good?”

  “That’s career-defining. Are your family in from Meadowlark?”

  “Dubuque. Yeah, I know that’s probably lame, but they get so excited. First time as a principal and all.”

  “They should be—that’s their right as family members.” Poking around Anna’s personal effects on the dressing table, Victoria hesitates over a picture of Anna with her parents. “She really does look like Irina. I don’t know how you ever missed that they were related.”

  “I’ve never seen my mom at Irina’s age, have I?” Anna asks. “And when you’re that young, ‘mom’ is more of a concept than the person with the face.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “The invitation to drinks still stands. Do I need to set fire to anything before I go?” Anna asks.

  “You know,” Victoria says, lifting Anna’s jacket from where it hangs on the back of the door, “I think I might just join you for that drink. If they can make a decent Manhattan.”

  “Uh, sure.” Anna is lying through her teeth. “I can ask Irina too.”

  “Oh, Irina’s out of town. She got a slot with some miracle quack in North…South… One of the Carolinas, anyway. Flew there this morning.”

  “Right.” Anna wishes Irina had maybe thought to mention as much. Just another reminder that family, that caring about someone, doesn’t just happen because of names on a piece of paper. “Well, let’s go, then.”

  “Lead the way.” Victoria opens the door for them.

  Anna snags her leather jacket, but before she can put it on, Victoria is running a fingertip down the thin strap of Anna’s pale blue camisole. “This is a lovely color on you. I’ll tell Susan to consider it for your next fittings.”

  “Uh, thank you.” Anna swallows hard. They’re only a few inches apart. If Jess and Marcia weren’t waiting, this would absolutely be a to-hell-with-it moment for a reprisal.

  The way Victoria quickly licks her lips suggests she’s thinking roughly the same.

  “So. Drinks.”

  “Drinks,” Victoria agrees, and they make it all the way to the stage door without touching, which is probably for the best.

  “Are you coming to stay over with Jess too?” Marcia asks as they leave the bar. “I know you’re all grown up, but I still worry about you heading home alone.”

  Victoria emerges last, slipping that perfectly tailored coat back over her shoulders.

  “I have my car.” Victoria gestures to where the Mercedes idles at the curb. “And Anna lives in the building opposite mine. I’ll see her home safely. Can we drop you first? You’re somewhere downtown, aren’t you, Jessica?”

  “We’ll get a cab,” Jess says. “And I told you, it’s just Jess.”

  “Of course it is, Jessica,” Victoria teases.

  Anna can’t believe she’s just spent two hours watching Victoria completely charm her family. If that had been some kind of formal introduction, a meet-the-girlfriend scenario, it would have been the best one in living history, Anna’s sure of it. Of course it wasn’t, and it’s probably never going to be, but she’d been proud to be the person bringing Victoria Ford to the table.

  Anna opens her mouth to add to the conversation, but all that escapes is a gigantic yawn.

  “To bed with you!” Marcia orders.

  Two more rounds of hugs later, Anna’s being gently steered into the backseat of the town car. Somehow when they pull out into traffic, Victoria doesn’t retreat to her own side. She stays firmly in the middle of the seat, pressed into Anna’s side.

  “You know,” Victoria begins, when the privacy screen is all the way up. “As orders go, ‘to bed’ isn’t bad.”

  “How do you know if that order works?” Anna asks. “I might just be going home to play video games or sort out my closet.”

  “Well, let me try. To bed?”

  “That sounds nice,” Anna says. “I suppose that just leaves the question of which one?”

  “Is that so, Ms. One-Time?”

  “Okay, in my defense—”

  Victoria silences that defense with a kiss. She doesn’
t play it careful this time, and before Anna knows which way is up, Victoria is straddling her lap and her tongue is flickering playfully against Anna’s own.

  “To bed,” Victoria repeats when the kiss ends, forehead resting against Anna’s. “But first—” She thumps her fist on the privacy screen three times. “A little detour.”

  As soon as the car stops, Victoria slips from her lap and out the door with typical grace.

  Anna noticed earlier that the cane has been retired again in recent days, which bodes well. She doesn’t even know where they’ve stopped—somewhere off Fifth Avenue anyway, but for Victoria that could mean anything from a prescription to a new pair of shoes, even at this hour.

  Then Victoria is back, coming in via Anna’s side again with far less grace.

  “Here,” she huffs, dropping a newspaper in Anna’s lap. “The Post has an unfortunate habit of reviewing previews rather than opening night. It’s all about getting the jump, about knowing first. I’d shut it down, but we have such limited runs that even one extra day of a good review means maybe a few hundred seats sold.”

  Anna feels sick. She can’t seem to move her hands toward the paper, so she rests them on Victoria’s thighs instead, where they rest on either side of Anna’s lap.

  “I-I can’t,” she manages to blurt out. “I get, um, carsick if I read in the car.”

  “We’re not moving yet,” Victoria points out. “You’re nervous, aren’t you? Don’t even think about ignoring reviews. That’s just something people say.”

  “I just… This is my first,” Anna tries to explain. “And if it’s bad, or just aggressively mediocre, I don’t want that memory. I don’t want to picture words that I wish had never been written.”

  “You’re so sure you didn’t get a good write-up?” Victoria is incredulous. “After I told you that you were magnificent up there?”

  “Critics don’t know as much as you do?” It’s safest to hedge with a compliment. “Could you…?”