by Lola Keeley
It’s also time for the return of Michelle, her camera, and her attitude, since the Times is running a spread on this “cultural event of a lifetime.” Just seeing that phrase in the press release makes Anna dizzy. How is it possible those words refer to something featuring her?
She’s fanning herself with a copy of the release when Irina comes upon her in the wings.
“Trouble? The theater is not hot, not without the lights.”
“I know, Irina, it’s just…holy shit, you know?”
“Yes, this shit is quite holy,” Irina says with a snort, clearly amusing herself. “But hasn’t anyone told you how to deal?”
“Uh, I guess? Picture the audience naked?”
“Blin, no. Have you seen the regulars?” Irina performs a full-body shudder. “I do not wish to know where the cobwebs are on those relics. Tell me, Inessa picked a ballet school for you young, yes?”
It’s a jolt to hear Irina saying Inessa’s name correctly, the same emphasis and intonation as Anna’s mother herself used. “She did.”
“When did you first perform for an audience? Three? Four?”
“Six. Does that matter?”
“No, but it was a small place, this performance? A barn, a school, the ballet school itself?”
“At school, yeah. We did this cute version of Sleeping Beauty, but the boys didn’t want to kiss any of the girls and…”
Irina’s glare silences her. Clearly, there is a point to be made.
“This time on stage, did you cry? Did you freeze? Or did you wave to Mama and laugh with your little friends? Maybe show off a little, ways you had not planned?”
“How did you know?”
“A lucky guess. That’s who you take on stage. The precious show-off princess who wants the audience to love her. Leave the millennial who makes bad choices in the dressing room. You go out there as this, nothing can touch you. Not the injuries, not the politics of the Bolshoi, not the old ladies with the cobwebs.”
“That’s good advice, thank you.” Anna decides to go for the hug.
Irina allows it, albeit with a long-suffering sigh. “This last week is long. Save some enthusiasm for each day. Some of us don’t have much to go around.”
“Of course.” Anna reins herself in one more time. “They’re just dress rehearsals. I can be chill.”
Irina raises an eyebrow, which is all the statement she needs to make about that.
The system is working, almost too well. Victoria doesn’t trust it. Everyone is fit and on time. Her tech requests have all been achieved. Is it the novelty of the staging? The fact they’re relieved there’s no behemoth this year, no Swan Lake or Giselle to accommodate? She jokes around with her crew and has coffee brought in for them to keep everyone sharp.
Susan and her team roll in the rails, with principal costumes on a rack of their own. There’s the usual scramble, as though each set isn’t labelled for each person to take their turn. Kids desperate to play dress-up, they never lose it.
It’s pleasing that Anna knows enough to hang back, making small talk over stretches. There’s a dignity in the way she conducts herself sometimes, something faintly regal behind that soft and bumbling exterior. Every time Victoria thinks she has Anna down to the last layer, she develops some new interesting facet.
It’s deeply annoying and somehow completely fascinating.
The seamstresses are following dancers around, removing pins they were too impatient to notice. By the time the corps settles down, all three principal ballerinas are being dressed in the wings. Victoria shifts her chair to get a slightly better view. Irina is already zipped into her flame red, ruffling her tutu and cracking some joke about communism that Victoria doesn’t hear all the words for, but she smiles at the gist.
Delphine steps away next, resplendent in ivory silk and lace. The cut is magnificent on her, some of Susan’s most creative work. It’s a tutu, a ballet dress, and a piece of sculpture in one. They’ll have to seriously watch her arm placement over the remaining rehearsals.
But they’re not the reason Victoria is holding her breath. She weathered every suggestion from Lady Liberty to Ronald McDonald, but her American ballerina will be a more subtle statement, a shift in the paradigm for this reinterpretation. People look at Anna, glance at her really, and assume the same banal things Victoria did at first. They think it’s all about that easy smile and big blue eyes. They don’t linger to see what simmers beneath.
She expects Anna to slink out onto the main stage, avoiding the interested onlookers. Even having seen the unexpected bursts of confidence, in bed and out of it, Victoria knows that Anna is still learning how to be in the spotlight.
Well, it’s one hell of a learning curve, because she struts down the center of the stage like a runway model, drawing gasps and interested murmurs from every side. The look isn’t complete without the makeup, of course, but the leather corset over a soft-wave black leather tutu is beyond stunning.
Victoria hadn’t been confident Susan could pull it off exactly as described, but it gives milk-and-honey Anna the wild-child look the part so badly needs. She’ll have the pointe shoes in black, too, and the fishnet tights if it isn’t overkill.
She looks across at Victoria, where she’s sitting just in front of the footlights, and hell if Anna doesn’t actually smolder.
When Victoria speaks up to call them to order, her mouth is dry.
Everyone’s looking at Anna anyway, and she’s sure at least some of them are as turned on as Victoria herself. Not that it matters, with hours of blocking and rehearsal ahead of them. They may just be a little late in leaving tonight, because there’s no way in hell Victoria can wait for the privacy of an apartment.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” she calls more clearly this time. “Let us begin.”
CHAPTER 38
They’re not in costume for this photoshoot, which Anna is faintly grateful for. She loves the leather, even if the corset takes some outside assistance to lace up. Last night she wasn’t lacking for a volunteer to get it undone at least. Victoria seems more than happy with how it turned out, judging by the broken chair and ripped curtain in Anna’s dressing room anyway.
“Did we settle on a theme?” Anna asks Delphine as they sip at their coffees, watching the frenetic activity around them. “I still say Charlie’s Angels would have been hilarious.”
“I’m not rocking seventies hair for anyone,” Delphine says. “Although you’d just need to let your hair down, right, Irina?”
“This curl is all natural,” Irina sasses back. “How was Kevin? You didn’t say.”
“Does everyone know?” Delphine groans. “God forbid I try and be respectful.”
“Victoria knows,” Anna supplies helpfully. “But she doesn’t seem to mind, so I think you’re good.”
“Just as well.” Delphine applies a little lip balm, although they’ll all be getting made up before long. “I got the offer last night. Three years, prima. My own headline tour to China and Europe.”
“Delphine!” Anna squeals, pulling her into a hug. For a moment, she feels it, that knife twist of jealousy. Something about this sudden promotion has her hungry for more, even if she knows she’s not ready. “That’s amazing. Well done!”
“It’ll be nice to finally go home,” Delphine admits. “I’ve missed San Francisco way more than I could tell anyone. The only hitch in the plan is Gabriel.”
“Kevin won’t take him back as principal?” Irina seizes on the problem with a derisive little snort. “Figures.”
“It might not be a race thing…” Delphine trails off. “Yeah, I know. We have to talk it out before I accept, but push comes to shove, I’d expect him to go in my position. We never wanted to do the ‘settling for any old company just to be together’ crap.”
“You’re still young,” Irina says. “There comes a point where having the right person means the right company is negotiable. I think now I would retire rather than try these minor leagues of yours.”
“That sounds serious
.” Anna’s bursting with excitement on Jess’s behalf. “Is my sister really your right person? Irina, that’s huge.”
“Somebody tamed Irina?” Delphine gives a low whistle. “What the hell are they putting in the water in Dubuque?”
“Whistling, Delphine? Really?” Victoria looks as impatient as ever.
She left Anna’s apartment hours before, for mysterious errands, the details of which she wasn’t inclined to share. “Has this circus got a ringmaster, or were you all going to stand in a corner all day?”
“We were waiting for you, Vicki.” Irina makes the reasonable point. “And your Michelle won’t tell us what it is you signed off on. I don’t do pantomime.”
“Will you all relax? When have I ever done anything except in the very best of taste? We’ll keep it simple—three muses, gold leaves in the hair, gauzy togas, you get the idea.”
“Not exactly an original,” Delphine says with a huff, but she seems pleased enough. “Still, give the people what they want, right? Where does that leave you, oh wise ballet mistress?”
“On a throne, naturally,” Victoria answers, pushing past Delphine to take hold of Anna’s wrist. “A word, darling?”
Anna felt as though a big red panic button had been pressed, but she follows Victoria to a quieter spot on the huge floor of the converted warehouse they’re working out of.
“Good morning?” Anna ventures, hoping she doesn’t sound too nervous. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Victoria brushes off the concern with a flicker of her fingers. “Since we’re such a poorly kept secret, I thought we might incorporate a few more intimate shots. Michelle sketched out some poses that certainly appealed. Only if you’re okay with it. This is your career, Anna. Linking yourself to me can be a great thing. But it can be terrible too.”
“Like Delphine and Gabriel,” Anna says. “If I got an offer from another company, for example, you’d expect me to take it. To work with other people, learn different things. Victoria, are you breaking up with me?”
“On the contrary,” Victoria says with a darting kiss. “I’m trying to take this little liaison of ours seriously, and protect you in the process. It’s one thing to be indiscreet around the center, but another entirely with the media. If we come out as a couple, that’s going to linger. It’ll be mentioned probably for the rest of our careers, whether we stay together or not.”
“I might look like an opportunist.” Anna is familiar with the argument by now. “Or I might look like someone lucky enough to be chosen by one of the most picky women ever. For dancing and for all the other stuff. Why would I be ashamed of that? Don’t you know how proud I am to be with you?”
“Well, I’ve lost a little of my luster lately. I’d understand if you wanted to insulate yourself.”
“You can go back out there and tell Michelle I’ll do anything short of nudes,” Anna says, summoning all her courage. She even stands straighter, chest puffing out. “Heck, I’ll even do those if they’re artistic enough.”
“Heck, Anna? Really?” Victoria kisses her more sincerely this time before shaking her head. “Come on, before you destroy my hard-ass reputation entirely.”
Anna risks a playful smack as they walk back. “Seems plenty hard to me.”
“I need a penalty system for puns.” Victoria sighs, but she doesn’t let go of Anna’s hand as they rejoin the group.
It’s a different dynamic now, far removed from the intimacy of two of them plus ribbons. The backdrops are bleak and industrial, all the better to offset the diaphanous dresses the dancers are draped in. Paired with stiletto heels, hair coaxed into three different lengths and colors of glossy curls, they’re a regular Midsummer Night’s Dream. A ballet Victoria had grand intentions of reworking next season.
“Can’t tempt you into something more risqué, Victoria?” Michelle approaches with her usual predatory skill, pouncing at the last possible second.
Victoria glances at the significant vee of skin exposed by her fitted black tuxedo, the one with nothing under it but some illuminating powder applied by a bored makeup artist. The pants are leather, reminding her pleasantly of Anna’s costume. Where the girls have nude heels to not distract from their dresses, Victoria’s spiked heels are shiny patent black.
Red lips, red nails—it’s a little overdone, but if someone has to play devil to these angels, it may as well be she. This season may be a war to keep her job, keep her place, but it’s the most alive she’s felt in over a decade.
Which may be more about the laughing blonde swishing her gossamer-thin skirt around than anything else, but Victoria will take it.
The flashbulbs are unbearable as always, and the heat builds up fast under the industrial-grade lighting. Not quite as intense as being back onstage, but the prop throne they have for Victoria is more intimidating than hilarious at least.
Anna bends forward to whisper, “They finally put the queen on a throne, huh?” and Victoria’s glad she’s already sitting down.
With so many onlookers, Michelle keeps it professional. She has each of the ballerinas in turn pulled aside for some portraits and solo shots that Victoria can already tell will be dazzling. She’s glad she made a deal for rights to any unused photos when bartering with the Times. They might make for some interesting banners on opening night, strung from the lampposts outside the center’s main entrance. She pulls out her phone and fires off a message to Kelly, telling her to arrange as much.
“Okay, muses.” Michelle is mocking just a little. “Let’s show your director some love, huh? Pretend you can stand her.”
They recreate a variety of classic poses, and as the camaraderie builds, hands get to wandering. Anna and Delphine get more daring as the camera keeps clicking.
“Delphine, Irina, we’ve got a bit to do with you both in those second costumes on your rails for the retrospective. Anna, if you could switch out of yours? It’s you and Victoria up next. We good on what we talked about last night?”
“Last night, huh?” Anna asks with a grumble, but she’s clearly teasing. She knows exactly where Victoria was for most of last night.
The second set of outfits are up to Michelle, Victoria agreeing as long as she doesn’t have to change hers. She sits farther back on the throne, which is probably just an office chair run through a nearby art school, but it’s damn comfortable all the same. Her knee is twinging, so she kicks that leg up and over the arm, relieved when nothing appears to crack or fall off.
“Is that an invitation?” Anna breathes the question on her return, barely audible despite the boldness behind it.
Victoria looks at her own position, rather louche all things considered. In response, she quirks an eyebrow at Anna, in a red minidress that’s all scooped front and barely any back. The faintest halter straps hold it in place, and the makeup has been changed from angelic to downright sultry.
Victoria can almost hear the tango music playing. The colors, the style, the sizzle and crackle of tension in the air. She hasn’t danced a tango in fifteen years, and if not for the way Anna comes to stand between Victoria’s parted legs, she’d be on her feet and suggesting it. The moment their orbits coincide, the lights are flashing and the camera shutter is merrily whirring away.
“Help the new girl get across her lap, then,” Michelle directs via her intern, who is completely star-struck and hesitates to touch Anna, let alone Victoria.
The concept is simple enough, recreating some classic ballet moves but using the chair for leverage so Victoria can achieve the lift without doing it herself. She doesn’t much care, since every variation seems to involve part of Anna pressed against her, the little huffs of sexual frustration from her making Victoria’s hands want to wander. Touching as much as she dares, she gets a warning nip of teeth at her collarbone from Anna, who looks like she’s seconds away from ignoring the audience they have and grinding herself against Victoria’s thigh.
“Control,” Victoria murmurs, gripping Anna’s hips a little tighter.
<
br /> They gather themselves, Anna’s face drawing close for a dangerous moment, but their lips barely graze as she moves away, changing position. She ends up in the splits, legs balanced on the arms of the throne, putting her profile alongside Victoria’s own. The instinctive grip on the back of Anna’s neck is possessive. It presses their faces together, side by side, and when they both stare down the barrel of the lens, she suspects they have their cover shot.
“What else do you need?” Anna asks Michelle. “Only, this chair is killing my legs, and I just got my hamstring back in working order.”
“We’re good.” Michelle is already flipping through images on the screen of her Nikon, smirking at her own genius. “Unless Victoria talked you into those nudes.”
“Behave, Michelle.” Victoria helps Anna back to standing, then looks at her. “Legs okay? You can sit out this afternoon if you’re tight.”
“I’m fine now,” Anna assures her. “I’ll go get changed. Think they’ll let me keep the dress? Might rock for the opening night party.”
“I’ll square it with Michelle,” Victoria promises.
Victoria is swept away by Kelly the moment they return, so Anna heads for the roof with an improvised lunch of fruit and nuts, probably more suitable for a woodland creature than a ballerina, but she works with what she’s got. The nerves keep building this time, way more than they ever did for The Prince of the Pagodas. Playing against type there gave her a certain insurance against messing it up. If she couldn’t quite pull it off, the failing would be her gender and not her personal talent.
This production seems so much more about her, and the one thing she can’t seem to summon is the confidence to stride out and compete with Irina and Delphine as their supposed equal. Yes, the technical dancing is coming together well, and the costuming is beyond anything she ever dreamed. No matter how hard she tries, though, next to those accomplished women, Anna still feels like the new girl, as though she should be raising her hand before she speaks.