Dance Like No One's Watching

by Vanessa Jones

  Sam turns to her. ‘Wait – you’re the girl from the commercial class we visited, aren’t you? The amazing dancer.’

  ‘I mean, yeah.’ It’s a joke, but Kiki means it, which I love.

  ‘We got some great footage of you, too. John, stick to this one. The camera loves her.’

  Kiki grins at me excitedly. This is the moment she’s been waiting for. We take our places at the barre, trying to ignore the enormous camera lens four feet away, but it’s not easy when it’s sitting there like a fully grown Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors waiting to pounce.

  ‘Are you going to ask Miss Moore about the video of your mum?’ mutters Kiki while the crew deals with a lighting issue on the other side of the room. Kiki’s got this theory that Millicent Moore sent me the video, as a kind of revenge for last year, to prove that all the shit she was saying about Mum was true.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say grimly, glancing at the cameras. Miss Moore definitely knows stuff. I will ask her. Just not when my knees are shaking and there’s a camera in my face documenting it.

  Miss Moore sweeps in, her grey hair piled on top of her head in a severe bun, her pale face set in its usual frown from years of anger and dissatisfaction (think Mrs Danvers from Rebecca in a leotard, if that’s not too much of a stretch). She takes a cursory glance around the class, clocks me and scowls, the lines in her forehead now deep with loathing.

  ‘Antoinette, if you’re going to have the audacity to turn up to my classes again, at least make yourself half presentable.’ She stalks over to me, reaches behind my head and yanks out my tiny ponytail (my hair’s too short for a bun), shoving the hairband into my hands.

  Sam, seeing the drama with glee, signals to John to get rolling as quickly as possible. Amazing. Now Miss Moore gets to shame me on TV as well in front of the other students.

  We manage to get as far as allegro before Miss Moore stalks over to me again. ‘Your landing’s awful. It needs to be smooth; through the feet, using the plié. No wonder your thighs are wobbling five minutes after your feet hit the ground – although that could be because someone’s been at the biscuit tin over the summer?’ She smiles, like that makes it OK, and a few girls titter.

  Her comments don’t hurt me, but Kiki, whose worst fear last year would be a teacher saying something like that to her, raises her eyebrows at me in code for, You OK?

  I nod, but my blood’s boiling. I know it’s easy for me to resist the fat-shaming because I’m considered skinny, even in a place like this – there’s no doubt it makes life easier for me. But I’m not the only person in the class. I watch Kiki as she goes to pull up the top of her tights, like she used to when she was feeling insecure, but she stops herself and stands up a little straighter. It’s the first time this year that I’ve seen her hard-won self-confidence waver, and seeing her like this makes me want to run over to Miss Moore and rip her hair out.

  After the class, I approach Sam in the foyer. ‘You’re not going to use that, right?’

  ‘Nettie, don’t worry. This is all part of life at performing arts college – the tough love from the teachers, the grind – people love that stuff.’

  ‘I’d just rather not be humiliated on TV,’ I persist. ‘Or have young people seeing someone getting fat-shamed and thinking it’s OK.’

  ‘Well, that’s very responsible of you. But I think you’re being a little over-sensitive.’ She winks. ‘You’ll come out on top, don’t worry.’ With that, she turns and starts giving Anand some detailed instructions.

  Frustrated, I go and join Kiki, who’s already halfway up the stairs to the changing room.

  ‘She’s using it,’ I say glumly.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing,’ muses Kiki.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Might it not be a good thing to show the world what goes on here? The body-shaming? The bullying?’

  ‘Hmmn, maybe.’ I look at the time. ‘Gotta dash. I’m late.’

  I leave Kiki behind, grab my sheet music and a sweatshirt from my locker, and head straight across the corridor to the little music room that belongs to Steph Andrews, my vocal coach. She’s been away the first few weeks of term, and I’ve missed her. If it weren’t for Steph, I don’t think I’d have my voice back. She was brilliant last year, helping me through my vocal (and emotional) problems. Not only is she the kindest, most nurturing person you could ever meet, but full-on fierce, too – alongside her teaching, Steph’s still a West End legend. Her voice is a-mazing.

  I can hear someone playing a beautiful oboe solo next door, but the noise disappears as soon as I close the soundproofed door behind me, grateful that the cameras can’t hear or see me in here.

  ‘Hey, Nettie.’ She’s so tall and elegant, it always makes me feel like an actual four-year-old when I’m next to her. ‘Good to see you. Sorry I haven’t been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been back and forth down to Chichester, at the Festival Theatre. How are you?’

  ‘You were in Chichester?’ I say, unable to hide my excitement. ‘Fletch is there right now.’

  She smiles. ‘I saw him, actually. I was auditioning for Better Spent.’

  The thought of Steph seeing him suddenly makes Fletch feel closer, like he’s just around the corner, not miles away. I try not to think about how many times I scroll through our texts, remembering this summer. ‘The new Oliver and West show?’ I say. ‘Did you get it?’

  She puts a finger over her lips and gives me the tiniest of nods.

  ‘That’s amazing, Steph! Congratulations.’

  ‘It’s not common knowledge yet, so please don’t share that information,’ she says. ‘But yes, I’m very excited. It does mean I’ll be off quite a bit from February through to the summer, but I’ll make sure you’re still timetabled with me.’

  ‘Thanks, Steph.’

  ‘Anyway, enough about me. How’s the voice?’

  ‘It’s fine – no problems.’

  ‘That’s great. So, we’re on track.’ Steph looks through the sheet music I’ve brought with me. ‘What are you going to sing for your audition? You’re going for Chicago, right?’

  I pause. ‘I guess.’

  ‘I thought you’d be really excited,’ says Steph. ‘I had you down for a Roxie.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘The dancing?’

  I nod in response. ‘There are loads of better dancers than me on the MT course. I don’t stand a chance.’

  Steph swivels on her piano stool to face me and crosses her legs. ‘You’re right, there are better dancers. But you can work on the steps. The thing you should concentrate on is what you can bring to the role that they can’t. Play to your strengths.’

  ‘I guess . . .’

  ‘And anyway,’ she continues, ‘aren’t you friends with three of the best dancers at Duke’s? You’ve literally got free coaching on tap.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that!’ I say.

  ‘So, no more negativity,’ she says briskly. ‘You won’t last long in showbiz with that attitude. Right, what have you chosen to sing?’

  ‘Have you been able to see a bereavement counsellor over the summer?’ says Steph as she tidies up the sheet music after our session. I told her I’d go and see someone at the end of last term. So far, I haven’t. The holidays were too busy, and since I’ve been back at Duke’s, I haven’t had time. To be honest, the idea isn’t massively appealing. I’m not really up for talking about Mum’s death with a complete stranger. I just want to talk to people who knew her. But they don’t seem to want to talk to me.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say vaguely. ‘But I will. Speaking of Mum, though, someone sent me an odd video at the end of last term. I wondered if you knew anything about it.’

  I show her the clip on my phone. Steph watches, engrossed, as Mum careers straight into a young Millicent Moore, knocking her off pointe. Sadly, she’s just as shocked as I was the first time I saw it; I can tell she doesn’t know anything.

>   ‘Is that—?’ Steph stops herself.

  ‘Yup. Millicent Moore.’

  ‘I know you two have had your problems, but maybe you should ask her.’

  Not after today’s encounter. ‘I was hoping you might know something,’ I say.

  ‘Nettie, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I was only a kid when your mum was in her heyday. It wasn’t really on my radar. I presume you’ve tried googling?’

  ‘Yep. Nothing.’

  ‘Well, that’s odd in itself. But if you’re reluctant to talk to Miss Moore, Miss Duke’s your best bet.’

  The thought of approaching Miss Duke for a cosy chat about the past sends an involuntary shiver up my spine. But Steph has a point – she probably does know why Mum left the business and what happened to make her so secretive about it. Maybe I’ll just have to break out my playlist of empowering musical theatre (which is basically ‘Seize the Day’ from Newsies, ‘Take Me or Leave Me’ from Rent and everything ever sung by Anika Noni Rose), put on my big-girl pants and ask her.

  When I come out of my lesson, Luca’s leaving the adjacent practice room.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Luca,’ I say. ‘Was that you playing the oboe?’

  ‘Yeah. Among other things,’ he says. ‘Michael’s interviewing me for assistant MD on Chicago and I wanted to make sure I knew all the music parts. Hey – I was thinking about you this morning. It feels really strange in the flat without Fletch, and I can only imagine how you must be missing him. How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘Actually . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  Since Fletch left two and a half weeks ago, I’ve been trying to give it Cathy in ‘A Summer in Ohio’, being ridiculously upbeat whenever we message, telling funny stories about what’s been happening at Duke’s, saying that us being apart is going to make it so amazing when we finally get to see each other. And even when other people ask me how it’s going, I reply with something like, ‘Yeah, good, thanks,’ because it’s easier to do that than admit that I’m struggling. But the truth is, it’s tough.

  ‘I just miss him, Luca. Like, I sort of feel homesick, even though I haven’t gone anywhere. That probably sounds silly.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t.’ Luca smiles. ‘I miss him too, and we’re not even a couple. Well, maybe an Odd Couple, now that Seb’s not around. But you know what I mean.’

  I laugh. It’s a relief to talk to someone who gets it. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I guess it’s going to be weird for a while. I haven’t told Fletch I feel like this – I didn’t want him to worry.’

  ‘I get it,’ says Luca. ‘Hey – you know where I am if you ever want to talk.’

  I smile gratefully. ‘Thanks.’

  Fletch would be glad there’s someone looking out for me. I just don’t want him knowing I need that.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Hey.’

  Fletch’s smiling face on my phone is a welcome sight. He was supposed to come and spend a relaxed Sunday with me today, but when I spoke to him last night, he seemed so knackered that I told him to stay put and just chill. He sounded as relieved as I was secretly disappointed.

  ‘Hey. How’s the shed?’

  He reverses the camera to his feet, which are up on a pouffe. He’s staying in a summer house at the end of someone’s garden. It’s fine – he’s got a bathroom and a small kitchen area, but it’s still a wooden hut. ‘Cosy. I’m going to bed soon, actually. Got auditions all day tomorrow.’

  ‘That reminds me – Steph said she’s doing the workshop with you!’ I say.

  He smiles. ‘We’re so excited. I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have told me. ‘That’s OK – it was her news, and anyway, I bet you’re not allowed to say anything about anything at this stage.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s weird though – having stuff I can’t share with you. I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you, too.’

  When I finally get off the phone, I come out of my bedroom to find Alec lingering in the hallway.

  ‘Were you listening to me?’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you telling Fletch that Steph was doing the show with him?’

  Oh my God. He’s unbelievable. ‘Alec, that’s private stuff. If I can’t even have a conversation without you eavesdropping—’

  ‘When he said he was sorry for not telling you, you told him it was OK because it was Steph’s thing to tell,’ he presses on. ‘Nettie, that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you about Fletch leaving.’

  That’s not the same thing. At all. ‘We’re meant to be friends, Alec.’

  ‘Nettie, it wasn’t my place to tell you. I tried to get him to tell you; I really did.’

  ‘Apart from on the first day when you stopped him from telling me.’

  ‘That was right before you walked into a class where there was a camera crew waiting to ambush you! I overheard Sam talking about it and knew she’d be all over you. Nettie, I was trying to protect you.’

  This conversation’s way overdue, but now that it’s here, I’m not holding back. ‘Don’t come at me with your morals now. You could have told me.’

  He pushes his hair back off his forehead. ‘OK. Yes. I could have told you. But what kind of a friend would that make me to Fletch?’

  ‘I’m your friend, not Fletch. I don’t need you running around trying to protect me from my boyfriend, Alec.’

  ‘He’s not just some guy that I’ve only met twice, Nettie. We do have a relationship.’

  I pause. Shouldn’t I be pleased that Fletch and Alec get along so well? Am I projecting Leon’s version of Alec on to this situation, when in reality, what he did came from a good place – or is Alec just a shitty friend? Everything feels so tied up together, a big confusing knot of emotions and stories and versions of the truth, and it’s all being made worse by the ache in my stomach whenever I think about Fletch and the stress of being followed by cameras everywhere I go. And Mum – sometimes I think I’m using this quest to know more about her as a way of distracting me from the grief. As soon as one worry leaves my brain, another one’s right there ready to go, like a super-keen understudy. I need to step back and separate the strands.

  ‘I just wish you hadn’t got involved,’ I say.

  ‘Believe me, so do I.’

  I get it. Alec was in a difficult situation. But he could have at least told me that I needed to talk to Fletch, and then I could have asked him myself. I’m fed up with everyone thinking I’m this delicate little flower who can’t do anything for herself.

  ‘I don’t need protecting, Alec.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Nettie.’

  I can see in his eyes that he means it. He takes my hand, and I let him hold it. Friends make mistakes. If I can forgive Fletch, I should forgive Alec. I’ve got to let go of this now.

  ‘I forgive you,’ I say.

  Alec kindly spends the rest of the day helping me with my Fosse technique. Kiki keeps sending me handy hints, too.

  16:10

  Kiki:

  So remember what we said: tight centre, no turn out.

  I’m so scared