You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (4 page)

“The
Bolshoi? Really?” I said.

“Most
recently, yes. My spies tell me he’s from Warrington or Wigan or some such
hell-hole originally. But he escaped to New York and trained there, and then
the Russians snapped him up.”

I
broke my eye contact with Roddy and focussed on the far wall as I found my
balance in the first arabesque of the day, feeling my leg wobble and then
steady. I glanced around the studio again and located Jerome just as he relaxed
out of the pose and turned back to the barre.

Next
to him was the man who must be Felix. A head shorter than Jerome, he was
wearing a bright red down gilet over his black tights, and a knitted beanie
pulled down almost to his eyebrows. London might be freezing, but surely Moscow
was even colder – perhaps he’d come back to England in search of a bit of
sunshine?

But
before I could speculate further, Anna said, “Move the barres please, and let’s
come into the centre.”

Mel
and I sank to the floor. As we laced our pointe shoes, I snuck another glance
at Felix, just in time to see him unzip his jacket and pull off his hat,
releasing a shiny dark fringe that flopped over his face before he pushed it
back.

“What
d’you reckon?” I said to Mel. “Fit?”

“Short,”
she said. “You might fancy him, but you’ll struggle to dance with him.”

I
rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You smug cow.”

Mel
was my best friend and she didn’t mean her observation to sting, but it did. At
five foot seven and a half (God, I hated that half an inch), I was tall for a
ballet dancer – almost too tall. Too tall for a soloist, unless I was
exceptional, and I didn’t know yet whether I was. Too tall to dance pas de deux
with men who weren’t well above average height. Mel herself was a perfect,
sylph-like five foot four and could partner anyone. In that way, as in so many
others, she had the edge over me, and we both knew it.

“Come
on then, beanpole,” Mel said, standing up from the floor without using her
hands, as if pulled by a string. I followed her on to the floor, positioning
myself further back in the room than usual so I could take a good look at the
newest member of the company.

Being
surrounded by beauty all the time had inured me to it. I hardly noticed Roddy’s
perfect body, six foot three of pure muscle – only the fact that his left leg
didn’t turn out quite as far as the right. Mel, too, was conventionally pretty,
stunning, even – with her blonde hair, blue eyes and tiny waist, she was an
archetypal English rose. All the bodies in the room would have appeared perfect
to a random observer, I suppose – honed, supple and above all young. But I’d grown
so used to them that now all I saw was that Fabia was wearing a knee support,
Lisa had gained a couple of pounds, and Connor was going to have to shave off
what looked like several days’ worth of stubble before he put on his make-up
for the evening performance.

Felix
was different, though. I told myself it was because he was new, but I couldn’t
stop my eyes sliding towards him as we worked on our turns, and found myself
getting dizzy because I wasn’t keeping my eyes fixed in the direction I was
moving. I could have sworn he glanced at me, but then his eyes snapped back to
where they were meant to be and, unlike me, he didn’t lose his balance and his
line.

He
was beautiful. Now that he’d pulled off his woolly hat, I could see that his
hair was dark brown, almost black, and long enough to flop over his eyes. I
couldn’t see their colour across the room, but they were pale and bright – blue,
or perhaps green. His skin was pale too, almost sallow in the bright lights of
the studio, stretched taut over the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He
seemed never to stop smiling – a grin of pure enjoyment that made me suspect
that this class was just a bit of easy fun for him, not punishingly hard work
as it was for me.

“I
think you’re forgetting to breathe again, Laura,” Anna said.

I
felt my face turn scarlet, and retreated to the safety of my bag, where I
towelled my sweaty back and sipped water. This wouldn’t do. I needed to focus –
I, of all people, couldn’t afford to show myself up. I breathed, I concentrated,
I fixed my eyes on a point that wasn’t Felix, and I executed the sequence
perfectly with the rest of my group.

Then,
when I returned to the barre, I saw him watching me. His gaze was steady and
appraising, and when his smile amped up a notch, I smiled shyly back.

The
class moved on to jumps – the grands jêtés that wow audiences and leave dancers
gasping for breath. I found myself in the wrong place – I’d have to go in the
first group with Fabia and Tom, rather than hanging back with my friends for
the safety of mid-class mediocrity. I waited for the music to give us our cue,
then moved smoothly across the floor, imagining that the notes of the piano were
a spring lifting me upwards, wings holding me, a cushion softening my descent.

“Good!”
Anna said. “Very nice indeed. Just a little higher in the front leg, Tom.”

Sipping
water, I watched the other groups go through the same sequence. Mel was
text-book perfect, as usual, appraising herself in the mirror throughout and
earning a nod of approval. Lisa seemed rushed and anxious, hanging her head as
she walked back to join us at the barre. And the men, conscious of the presence
of a newcomer, were showboating around, putting more energy than was necessary
in a regular morning class into their jumps, aiming for the illusion of
hovering weightlessness.

None
of them, not even Jerome, was as powerful or as graceful as Felix. His
technique was perfect, but there was something else too – an exuberance, a
nonchalance, an impression that he was doing this just for a laugh and could do
far more if he put a bit of wellie in. He strolled back to the barre when he
was done as if it had been nothing at all, and Jerome punched him lightly on
the shoulder and grinned at him, but there was a hint of trepidation in his
smile. Jerome was thirty-four. His career was at its zenith – there was only
one way it could go from here.

Mine
wasn’t, though. I was twenty-one. I’d spent the past eleven years striving to
get where I was, and this was just the beginning. Of the twenty-five students
who’d entered the Royal Ballet School in our year, only Mel and I had made it
here. Promotion beyond the chorus was a dream, but it was a dream that seemed
to become less distant with every day that passed, every smile from a teacher
or director, every step I executed that made me think, “Yes!” I didn’t have the
world at my feet – not at all. But I had the sense that if I were to go just a
little further, just a little higher, there it would be, spread out in front of
me, ready and waiting. For a moment I imagined what I’d be like when I was
Jerome’s age, turning up to morning class because it was the right thing to do,
an example to set to the junior dancers, as well as maintaining my
by-then-flawless technique.

I
was jolted out of my daydream by Roddy saying, “God, I’m fucking Hank Marvin. I
want a double sausage bap and a fat Coke. Coming, Meltdown?”

“No
chance,” Mel said. “It’s freezing out there and I’ve got rehearsal in less than
an hour. I’m going to grab a yoghurt and a banana and check my costume for this
evening.”

“Laura?”
Roddy said. I heard my stomach give a great, mortifying gurgle at the prospect
of a sausage bap. As if – but maybe I could have a jacket potato. The menstrual
munchies still had me well and truly in their grip. But then I saw Jerome make
an unmistakeable gesture towards Felix and head towards the stairs leading up
to the roof. Like moths to a candle, several of the dancers shouldered their
bags and followed.

“I
think I’ll go out for a fag, actually,” I said.

In
the event, I met Zélide Campbell sooner than I’d expected. It was a typical
morning – typically hellish, that is. Owen cried buckets when I dropped him off
at nursery, and his piteous howls of, “Don’t leave me, Mummy!” were made no
less heart-rending by the knowledge that he’d be playing quite happily with the
other kids five minutes after I’d gone.

Darcey,
by contrast, came over all teenagery and ordered, “Don’t hold my hand, Mummy,
it’s embarrassing,” and stalked off ahead of me to join her friends in the
playground. She didn’t even let me kiss her goodbye. I was fighting back tears
as I turned for home, and didn’t see Amanda appear next to me.

“Hi,
Laura!” she said, in tones of faux surprise. “You’re late today.”

“Again,”
I said. “Mornings in our house are mayhem – I’m sure you know how it is.”

“I
find having a routine helps,” Amanda said. “And being strict about bedtime, of
course. When they’re tired it all goes to pot.”

I
wondered guiltily if she had some sixth sense that allowed her to envision the
scene in our house the previous night, with both children in floods of tears,
demanding to stay up until Daddy was home, and me taking the course of least
resistance and drinking wine while I read them their stories in the sitting
room.

“Yes,
well… It’s all still quite new to them,” I said. “We’ll settle in, I expect.”

Then
her mobile rang. She snatched it from her bag and answered.

“Thank
you for coming back to me, Lara. I’m sure you know why I’m calling. Yes, the
cake sample arrived. However, I asked for shocking pink icing, and pale pink glitter.
And that’s not what you delivered. It’s more a cerise. And the glitter’s too
dark against it, it barely shows up at all. Well, if there are limitations to
what you can achieve with paste colouring, Lara, you should have let me know
when I placed the order – or rather, didn’t place it, because I would then have
found an alternative supplier. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, it’s a bit late
in the day for that now. What do you suggest I do? Don’t you think you’re
making your problem my problem, Lara?”

She
unlocked her car and flung her Mulberry bag on to the passenger seat. I lingered,
not sure whether it would be rude to head for home without saying goodbye, or
ruder still to stand and listen, fascinated, to her conversation. I opted for
the latter.

“Lara,
I’ll have you know you came highly recommended on SWmums.com – a community in which
I am highly active. A reputation like that is entirely dependent on the
goodwill of your customers, as I’m sure you’re aware. A few bad reviews could
mean the end of your business. And I can make that happen quite easily. Not
that I expect to need to, of course, because I’m quite confident that you will
be delivering what I ordered, before close of play today, at no extra cost.
That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it, Lara? Yes, I thought so. You have the
address. Goodbye.”

She
ended the call, and uttered a sentence I honestly thought no one ever said in
real life. “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

Suppressing
a giggle, I said, “Having a party?”

With
a flourish, she pulled an invitation from her bag and handed it to me.

“It’s
Delphine’s sixth birthday on Saturday,” she said. “And I hope you’ll bring
Darcey? We’re having a Barbie Princess theme, all the little girls will be
dressing up and I’m hiring a pink marquee for the garden as a surprise. I had
to have words with the marquee company earlier though. They weren’t keen to set
up at night once Delphine’s in bed, even though that’s what I stipulated on my
order. I gave them a piece of my mind, let me tell you! The man said he doesn’t do
erections after dark.”

I
stifled a giggle. “I’m sure you persuaded him otherwise.”

“Oh,
yes,” she said. “One needs a firm hand with tradesmen.”

“I…
thanks very much,” I said, remembering that Jonathan and I had talked vaguely
about taking both the children to Legoland. “I’ll check the diary. I’m sure
Darcey would love it. It won’t be a problem if I bring Owen along too, will
it?”

Amanda
looked aghast. “Laura, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but it’s
girls only, I’m afraid. And even if it weren’t, we’re quite limited on numbers.
The seating plan, you know? And everything’s been planned for just fifteen
children – the party bags, the catering… And besides, you’ll want to be
socialising with the other mums, won’t you?”

About
as much as I wanted to eat my own hair, I thought. “He’s no trouble, honestly.
He’s very well behaved for three. But if it’s a problem…”

“I’m
awfully sorry,” Amanda said. “But it’s no siblings. I did mention it on the
information sheet I included with the invitation. I’d love to help, but it just
won’t be possible. It’s Delphine’s special day and I must have everything just
perfect for her. If Darcey’s not going to be able to come, you will let me know
as soon as possible, won’t you, so I can give her place to one of the children
on the B list?”

And
she swung her denim-clad bottom into her car and drove away, leaving me feeling
like a bunting supplier who’d delivered the wrong shape of triangles.

I
rummaged in my bag for my own phone and called Jonathan.

“Guess
what? We’ve been invited to Amanda’s daughter’s Barbie Princess party on Saturday. It
sounds like the seventh circle of hell, but she’ll love it and I can pick up
some tips for Darcey’s party next month. So can you take Owen swimming?”