He cups my face in his hands. ‘I have to tell you something, Nettie.’
Oh my God.
Why does he look so nervous?
He’s going to finish with me.
He’s worried about committing so close to graduating.
Urgh, why do I do that? It could be anything.
‘OK,’ I say, all calmity-calm, even though my heart is beating so loudly it could provide the bassline for Six. ‘What is it?’
‘I just –’ He pushes my hair back gently, his eyes searching mine. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘I . . . love you, Nettie.’
It’s such a shock that I don’t reply. Not that my response needs any thought – I’ve loved this boy almost a year to the day, ever since we sat opposite each other in the library and wrote the end of a song together and talked about losing people we loved. I knew it, even then. So I should be saying it back, right now. Shouldn’t I?
But it just . . . I don’t know – it felt like he was going to say something else.
‘I love you too,’ I say finally.
Fletch breathes out and lets his hands drop. This is not how I imagined this scene would play out. Granted, in my head it’s probably a little too Kelli O’Hara and Matthew Morrison singing ‘Say It Somehow’ from The Light in the Piazza, and I totally get that basing your expectations of romance on musical theatre love songs is only going to end in plummeting disappointment, but seeing Fletch get so stressed working up to saying it and then almost dying of relief afterwards is not where I thought this moment would go. I watch him, waiting for him to speak.
‘I wanted to say it weeks ago, but I was scared,’ he says finally, like he knows he owes me an explanation. He takes my hands; I notice his are shaking. ‘After Danny died, I shut myself off completely. Friends, my family, everyone. The idea of losing you – it terrifies me, Nettie. I’m not saying that to force you to be with me forever or anything – I’m just trying to explain how I feel.’
He doesn’t need to. Since I lost Mum, there’s been a low-level anxiety prickling at my stomach, pretty much constantly. Mum was the only person I’d ever loved – and she left me. I’m completely powerless to stop that happening again with Fletch, or anyone I get close to. It doesn’t surprise me that Fletch feels the same after losing his brother so young.
‘You know what?’ I say. ‘Mum would tell me the grief makes our bond stronger. She’d say we just need to be honest with each other.’
‘Danny would tell me to stop being a knob,’ says Fletch, and we both laugh. ‘I don’t know what I was waiting for. I bloody love you, Nettie.’
He tilts my head up, and our lips meet. It’s the perfect I love you kiss – soft and tender and definitely worthy of a musical – at first. His arms are around my waist, my hands are clasped behind his neck, the dancers across the road are doing a sultry Argentine tango . . . But after a few seconds, something changes. I can’t put my finger on it, except that it feels like Fletch has pulled back. Not physically, but emotionally. Is it even possible to be able to feel that in a kiss? I know Cher thinks so, but, like, in real life?
Something in the kiss, in the space around us, in the way Fletch is holding me feels like we’ve gone back in time to that moment before he said he loved me. When I thought he was going to say something else.
When there was doubt in his eyes.
CHAPTER 2
It can’t possibly have been two months since I saw Duke’s. As we round the corner of Frith Street, I catch my first glimpse of the pale brick building, occupying its space on the corner of Soho Square with self-assurance, calm amidst the camp chaos of Soho. I take a breath. This time last year I had no idea what I was in for. I was a fragment of myself – grieving, voiceless, powerless . . . But today? I mean, don’t get me wrong – Duke’s is still a daunting place, full of talent and competition and people ready to trample over you in the race to the top, and obviously it would be silly if I wasn’t shitting myself. But this year there’s an inner confidence driving me that I didn’t have before.
As we reach the front doors, Alec nips between Fletch and me and throws his arms out to halt us.
‘What is it?’ I say, almost tripping over.
‘I just thought we should take a moment to mark the occasion. You know, enjoying our last seconds of freedom. The moment we walk through those doors, we’ve signed away our souls to Cecile Duke.’
‘In indelible ink,’ I say, echoing something Alec said last year. I turn to Fletch, but he’s staring intently at the plaque on the wall. ‘But this year’s going to be great. I can feel it.’
‘Shall we?’ says Alec, offering Fletch and me his elbows to link.
I take his arm and give it a squeeze. Fletch does the same. We take a breath together.
‘Let’s.’
The noise hits us as soon as we’re through the doors. Everywhere I turn there are students singing, laughing and generally throwing themselves around as much as is humanly possible on a Monday morning in mid-September. It’s like they’re making up for eight weeks without an audience. Just as we start making our way through the crowd, Michael pulls Fletch over from a studio doorway. He shoots me an apologetic smile and disappears.
New people perch on benches against the walls, glancing around nervously. I remember that feeling. I try to smile kindly at a girl in the corner jiggling her legs. She looks away immediately.
‘Friendly bunch, these first-years,’ says Alec loudly, striding through the front doors and directly through the crowd.
‘Alec, don’t; she’s probably just nervous,’ I say.
Alec pulls a snarky face and disappears into the office.
Kiki’s stretching against a wall, shouldering her leg way above her head. Her tight auburn curls are shining like polished copper under the rays of sun thrown down from the skylights far above. Her brown skin is dotted with freckles from the summer, and her hazel eyes are glowing. She’s your basic goddess.
‘Kiki, your body is literally superhuman,’ I say. ‘And oh my God, your hair.’
She laughs and brings her leg down effortlessly. ‘Thanks. Had some highlights. Do you like it?’
‘You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,’ I say, hugging her tightly.
‘Thank you,’ she says with a small smile. ‘I feel good.’
I gawk at her. This is a huge change for Kiki; she’s never acknowledged a compliment about her appearance before. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s viewed her body as something to be improved on, rather like a pirouette or an arabesque. The toxicity of this place hasn’t helped, insidiously feeding her insecurities, reaffirming what she already thinks. A lot of the girls at Duke’s are the same. Miss Duke doesn’t care, as long as they look thin. It’s institutional, organized body-shaming, cooked up by the teachers, and fed to the students with a side of fear.
But something’s shifted since the summer for her. ‘You seem . . . different,’ I say appreciatively.
‘You know what?’ she says. ‘I feel different. Over the summer I had time to really think. I read a lot. Worked out how I feel about my body, not just what the industry tells me to feel, or what the teachers say. And you know what I realized? I like myself. Screw them.’
Hearing her say those words makes me so happy. I don’t think my smile can get any wider. Kiki raises her eyebrows at me, laughing.
‘What?’ I say.
‘I know that look. You want to hug me again.’
‘So much.’
‘Go on, then,’ she says, holding her arms out.
I squeeze her even tighter than before, until I hear her giggle.
‘You got strong over the summer,’ she jokes, as I release her.
I flex my non-existent muscles. ‘Been working out.’
Chortling, she swipes some papers from her bag. ‘Here, I got your timetable from the office,’ she says. ‘Let’s see if we’ve got anything together.’ She rips open the envelope and starts scanning through my lessons. ‘Let’s see .
. . Omigod. We’ve got Dan Coombes for commercial this year. This is amazing!’
‘Who’s Dan Coombes?’ Luca, Fletch’s best friend, comes out of Studio One. He smiles at Kiki’s excitement while Kiki continues eulogizing.
‘Only the best choreographer in the world, like, ever. He’s done all the big pop stars. Kylie, Little Mix . . . I think he even danced with Beyoncé in his early days. We’ve got him today!’
Alec comes out of the office corridor with an envelope in his hand. ‘Kiki!’ He throws his arms around her and spins her around. ‘Where have you been all my life? I missed you.’
‘Hey, Alec,’ she says, smiling. ‘I missed you, too. Good summer?’
‘Babe, dull as dishwater.’
‘Doesn’t your mum live in a French castle?’ she says suspiciously.
‘A very boring French castle,’ he replies, smirking while Kiki hits him on the arm. ‘Ouch! Hey, Luca. Omigod, the next time Nettie asks if Fletch can borrow your car, please say no. I can’t move in the flat now for vintage clothes.’
‘Sorry, Alec.’ Luca laughs, as Alec kisses his cheek. Luca hugs Kiki and me. It’s good to see him – being with all my friends again has made me realize how long the summer was. Time just flew at Fletch’s. ‘My taxi services are actually in demand at the moment, so don’t worry. Nettie has been one of many happy clients – Seb too, sadly.’
‘Where’s Seb going?’ I say.
‘Oh! I thought you knew,’ says Luca. ‘He’s gone to New York on a placement at Juilliard.’
‘Wow!’
‘Right? Miss Duke’s trialling a new scheme with several creative institutes. A few of the third-years are on it. I thought Fletch would have mentioned—’
‘Holy shit,’ says Alec, cutting him off loudly. ‘Leon’s decided to stop being frigid.’
‘Alec.’ I give him an exasperated glare. Kiki, Luca and I follow his gaze to the other end of the foyer where Leon’s deep in conversation with a tall third-year called Taro. Leon’s as smart as ever, his neatly shaved hairline framing his handsome face perfectly. He’s wearing a pair of new tortoiseshell glasses that, even from this distance, I can see complement his pretty eyes and smooth dark brown skin, and an outfit that is essentially jeans and a jumper, except that Leon manages to wear it like he’s just jumped out of Esquire. He and Taro are standing very close to each other, and Leon’s laughing at something Taro’s saying.
‘You need to lay off Leon this year,’ Kiki warns Alec.
‘Whatever are you talking about?’ he says. ‘I’m just surprised that Leon’s managed to pull quicker than I have, that’s all. I’d better watch out; he’ll be after my dance crown next.’
‘This is exactly what I’m talking about,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re always putting him down, Alec. It’s exhausting for him.’
‘A week sharing a flat with Leon and suddenly you’re the expert? I’ve known him for ten years!’ Alec snaps back.
Oh, no. Two minutes into the term, and those two are already at each other’s necks. But Kiki’s right. Alec is especially competitive when it comes to Leon.
‘Just give him a break,’ I say to him.
There’s clearly a retort on Alec’s tongue, but at that moment Miss Paige, the college head secretary, emerges from the office and starts shepherding students into the studio theatre for registration. By the time I look back at Alec, he’s staring at something or someone through the door to the office corridor, his face flushed. I crane my neck to see what he’s looking at, but I’m too short to glean anything over the sea of heads.
I nudge him. ‘OK?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Alec, transfixed, darts in the opposite direction to everyone else towards the office.
That was weird.
Kiki, Luca and I follow the herd of dancers, actors, musicians and stage management students all fighting to get into the studio. I look around for Fletch, but he’s not here. He and Michael must have a lot to talk about.
The doors are flung open and Miss Duke stalks into the room, her dainty dancer’s feet covering huge distances with every stride, her sleek dark bob a little greyer at the front than it was last year, or maybe I’ve forgotten. Her skin is just as pale, and she’s wearing her trademark red lipstick. She’s dressed in an elegant black suit, red heels, a cream blouse and a huge scarlet necklace. I can see everyone working hard to show their ‘best selves’ as she passes them: smiling gratefully, lowering their eyes, sucking their stomachs in, hiding their phones. This is a woman who demands perfection. Or at least, her version of perfection.
As she passes me, I don’t lower my eyes. Instead, I stare back at her defiantly. Last year I was a wreck, a ball of anxiety with no voice, on the brink of a breakdown and nearly thrown out of college. But this year’s different. I’ve found my voice and I’m not afraid to use it. I have questions about Mum, and Miss Duke has answers. She seems to recognize this, almost like she’s been waiting for it, and returns my gaze with a look of grim understanding. Then she moves on, and it’s like it never happened.
She comes to a halt at the front of the studio, the students gathered like an audience in the round. It’s so quiet I reckon no one’s breathing. I’d bet an afternoon in a recording studio with Lin-Manuel Miranda on it.
‘Good morning, students,’ she says, without smiling. ‘I am pleased to welcome the new first-years to Duke’s Academy of Performing Arts, the finest establishment dedicated to the arts in the country; the world, even. I need not remind you of the extreme privilege you carry just walking through these doors each day. Never take it for granted.’ She pauses for long enough for every student to know that she imagines them utterly ungrateful and unworthy of their place. I see a few wannabe showgirls who’ve been teetering on their tiptoes sink back to their real height of five foot six and a half, deflated.
‘Second- and third-years will tell you there is no coasting at Duke’s. Anyone not giving their absolute maximum will be removed with immediate effect –’ I imagine a giant hook bursting through the roof of college and winching out unsuspecting students; wouldn’t put it past her – ‘and I will see to it personally that you never work in this business again.
‘May I remind you all that you are to be impeccably presented at all times. This includes how you look after your body, notably during holidays and at weekends. The industry does not welcome fatties.’
Oh my God.
Looking around the room at everyone’s faces, they’re as shocked as mine. I can’t believe what I just heard. I mean, the body-shaming is big at Duke’s – everyone knows that. But it’s always been in an underhand way, often dressed up as health concerns – which isn’t any better but at least seemed to recognize that it was wrong and shouldn’t be said out loud. Now Miss Duke’s put it centre stage, stuck a spotlight on it and given us carte blanche to go along with it. She scans the room like Javert on the lookout for Jean Valjean, her eyes narrowing as they look for a victim. No one breathes; they know what’s coming. She’s looking for someone to humiliate.
I can’t do it. I can’t let it happen. I think about my first day last year, when I watched a grown woman crucify a third-year in front of the entire college and I didn’t say anything.
A second later I’m leaping out of the crowd and yelling, ‘Miss Duke!’
Admittedly it’s not the most well-thought-out move. Horrified, I realize I have no idea what to say next. Miss Duke turns, ambushed, her stunned face a mirror of my own at what I’ve just done. Kiki’s staring at me, astonished. A couple of people actually gasp, like they can’t believe it. I can’t, either.
‘Yes, Nettie?’ says Miss Duke, her composure recovered almost immediately, every trace of surprise erased from her face.
What do I say?
The studio door opens behind Miss Duke.
‘Well, Nettie?’ she says, ice in her voice. ‘I’m sure we’re all on tenterhooks to find out what you’ve got to say.’
‘It’s just that, er. . .’ Blood floods to my head. Shit, wha
t was I thinking? But everyone’s staring at me now, and I have to say something.
I’ve really messed this up.
‘Yes?’ says Miss Duke.
I look over her shoulder.
‘There – there’s a film crew behind you, Miss Duke.’
The crowd turns its head to the doorway, where a film crew has mercifully appeared. Miss Duke, clearly ruffled, looks round and, seeing a camera pointing directly at her, smiles instantly with no lingering trace of the previous two minutes on her face. She’s pure warmth.
‘Ah, Sam – do come in,’ she says. ‘You beat me to it. Students, I would like you to meet the newest members of Duke’s Academy of Performing Arts, from Three Ring TV. They are going to be making a high-profile docu-movie series about our fantastic learning establishment throughout the academic year here at the college. They may ask some of you if you would mind being interviewed. I am confident you will oblige; obviously you will be keen to show Duke’s in its best light. Sam, the director –’ a freckly white woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes in her mid-thirties raises her hand in greeting and flashes a blindingly white smile – ‘has asked that unless you are being interviewed, you ignore the cameras so they can get a true representation of what it means to be a student here. So, on that note, I will now pretend you’re not here.’
She twinkles at them; they grin back. The man with the camera puts his thumb up. There’s a new energy in the room, an invisible pulse of excitement. Still cringing at what I just did, I watch Miss Duke closely as she continues her speech.
‘As I was saying, the industry is not an easy place.’ I notice she doesn’t repeat the end of her previous sentence. She’s clearly not pretending they’re not here. ‘What I want to see from all of you –’ she smiles indulgently at us with a pride I’ve never seen before, like Mama Rose watching Dainty June perform – ‘whichever course you’re following, is raw ambition, drive and vitality. Ready for a new challenge. And always remembering your privilege.’
She sweeps out of the room, past the TV crew, who follow her for a parting shot as she clips up the huge spiral staircase in the centre of the foyer.
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