You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (8 page)

Should
I wait until they came out again, I wondered. But I couldn’t bring myself to,
somehow. I was conscious that I’d failed, that I’d let her get something that
should have been mine – and even though I had no idea what it would have been,
I felt bitterly disappointed, and a bit ashamed of my disappointment. Besides,
I realised, I was very thirsty and also dying for a wee. It’s only a play,
Laura, I told myself – do get a grip.

I
turned back into the forest and tried to retrace my steps, realising that what
had felt like a headlong race had only in reality been a few yards. After a
couple of false starts, I found the village again, and beyond it the Theban
palace. And if I went back through the tunnel I’d find the bar and hopefully
the loos.

A
few minutes later I was perched on a tree stump sipping another plastic cup of
prosecco, examining a long scratch on my wrist that I couldn’t remember feeling
but must have sustained on my dash through the trees, and wondering what to do
next. It was nine thirty – there was only about an hour of the performance
left. I was tired and chilly and my ankle hurt, but far more powerful was my
regret at having missed out. I wanted what that woman had had – whatever it
was. The mysterious interaction with someone who was, as I knew only too well,
just a performer doing a job – but also not. Also a poor man under an
enchantment on a summer night when the bounds of possibility were stretching
and snapping. I wanted to know what would have happened if I had taken his
hand.

“Laura!”
Zé appeared next to me, drink in hand. “God, isn’t this totally fucking
amazing! How are you getting on? What have you seen?”

“I
saw the king and queen dancing,” I said. “I looked round the village thing, and
I saw an amazing pas de deux – I’m not sure who the characters were, they went
to sleep afterwards…”

“Hermia
and Lysander,” Zé said. “Fab! What else?”

“Then
I followed someone away from there, and I’m not sure what happened. I think I
fucked up. The donkey guy – Bottom, is it? – did a thing where he tried to hold
my hand, but I bottled it, and the other woman went instead.”

“You
missed the Bottom interaction! Gutting! I got Puck, it was mind-blowing. Look –
he gave me a spell.” She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a tiny glass
bottle, removed the cork and sniffed. I leaned over and sniffed too.

“What
is that?” I said. “It reminds me of… Something. But I can’t place it.”

“Mmm,”
Zé said. “They use scent a lot in their productions, it’s so evocative. But we
need to get back in there, Laura, come on! And next time you’re offered an
interaction, for God’s sake take it!”

I
gulped the last of my drink and stood up. I didn’t feel tired any longer – just
eager to see more, and frightened of missing out again.

“I’m
off,” I said. “See you in an hour or so.”

I
hastened back through the tunnel, suddenly confident once more. I knew where I
was going. I’d make my way back to where I’d lost Bottom, and see what would
happen there next.

But
I overestimated my knowledge of the set. I decided to take a short cut through
the palace, bypassing the rude mechanicals’ village, and soon I found myself
lost in the trees. The full moon was high overhead, but it seemed to have
moved, and anyway I’d been the shittest girl guide ever and if I relied on my
night navigation skills, in the absence of Google Maps, I’d never even find my
way home from the pub.

There
was still music, but it was faint and elusive. I tried to find its source,
dodging between tree trunks, only the occasional glimpse of another spectator
reassuring me that I hadn’t strayed off the set entirely. But I was beginning
to feel anxious – anxious and frustrated, aware that I was wasting time
wandering haplessly about and seeing nothing.

I
stopped, leaning against a tree, and wondered what the hell to do next. I could
go back, start again – but then I’d be seeing stuff over, not discovering new
things. And time was running out. Then I heard the faintest rustle behind me,
the sound of stealthy feet on a carpet of leaves. I was about to turn around
when a pair of warm, strong hands closed over my eyes.

I
wanted to scream, but, as happens when you try to scream in a nightmare, all
that came out was a sort of strangled gasp. I could feel gentle breath on my
neck, and for a second I thought that this was it, it had all gone horribly
wrong, I was going to be raped and murdered in the middle of a sell-out
immersive theatre production in South West London. The idea was absurd enough
to make me relax slightly, and as I did so, the hands moved gently away from my
eyes, but a blindfold was tied securely in their place.

“Come,
take hands with me,” a voice said. “Let your eyes be blind, lest you should be
afeared.”

The
hand that had been over my left eye moved gently down and fingers clasped my
own. I felt a strong arm encircle my waist. My eyes squeezed shut. I was led
away across ground that felt surprisingly smooth beneath my feet. My heart was
pounding; I was aware that my breath was coming in huge gasps, but I didn’t
feel frightened any more, only avid to know what would happen next.

I
was guided through hanging branches that felt like they might be a willow tree,
and I heard running water. For a moment my heart jumped again in my chest, and
I thought, fuck, he’s going to drown me. But there was something about the calm
assurance of my guide – who was just an actor, I reminded myself – that allayed
my fear with eagerness. I felt hands on my shoulders pushing me down, and found
myself sitting on something soft. My exploring fingers felt velvet, and then
hands smoothed my face, removing the blindfold and brushing over my eyelids,
and the smell of a garden on a summer night was suddenly everywhere.

“I
lay the love potion on my true love’s sight,” a voice murmured in my ear. “To
charm her eyes. And what next she sees, she will dote on in extremity.”

I
took another breath, the fragrance filling my senses, and realised there was
music playing now too. Part of me didn’t want to open my eyes; a more powerful
part couldn’t help it. And when I did, there in front of me was Oberon, king of
the magical wood. Oberon, in deepest green robes, a crown of oak leaves on his
head. Oberon, who I suddenly remembered I’d had a massive crush on at school
when I was eleven, thinking Demetrius and Lysander too laddish and gauche to
bother with. It was Oberon who lifted his elaborate, horned mask and softly
kissed my lips as the scent of flowers whirled around me. But it wasn’t really
Oberon. It was Felix.

For
the next couple of weeks, I followed Felix around slavishly, like a reality TV
contestant going, “Pick me! Pick me!” I tried to be subtle about it, studying
his habits and altering my routine ever so slightly so it coincided with his. I
didn’t move from my usual spot at the barre in morning class, between Mel and
Roddy, but when it came to the floor work I hung back, trying to find myself in
the group just before his, which he’d be watching while he waited for his turn.
I stopped buying my morning espresso at the canteen and settled for an
inferior, more expensive takeaway version from Pret, because I’d seen him
carrying their branded cups around with him and hoped I might bump into him
there. I went to Camden on my day off and bought a Metallica sweatshirt off a
market stall and wore it as a warm-up top, because I’d seen him in a similar
AC/DC one.

Still,
our paths remained resolutely uncrossed outside work. The only place where I
could count on finding Felix was on the roof, during every break, smoking
Marlboro Reds with the health warnings printed in Russian. Before, smoking had
been an occasional indulgence on a night out; now, I found my consumption
creeping up to two or three, then five a day, then more. I noticed myself
becoming slightly breathless when I ran up the stairs, but I wasn’t bothered – by
smoking instead of eating, I was losing weight, my body becoming leaner and my
line cleaner. A thin dancer, even one who wheezed after a series of grands
jêtés, was a good dancer.

And
a fat lot of good it did me, because I wasn’t the only one in Felix’s
entourage. The number of cigarette-smoking, Pret-drinking metal fans in the
company had increased exponentially since his arrival. The weight had dropped
off Lisa, too, and I noticed her casting resentful glares at me when I seemed
to turn up in the same place as her all the time, because it was the same place
as Felix. Even some of the soloists seemed to have succumbed to his allure – the
normally taciturn Briony, who rarely cracked a smile when she wasn’t on stage,
became positively skittish around him, chatting away and asking him for lights,
even when I’d seen her spark up a fag with her own Bic lighter just minutes
before.

Mel
and Roddy mocked me mercilessly. For Roddy, Felix was an object of envy, not of
desire.

“Poncy
git,” he said. “Okay, he can dance, but he’s got an ego the size of the
Kremlin. Good luck with getting a shag there, Laura – not that you aren’t hot
or anything, but you’ll have to take a number and get in line. Even if he does
every girl in the company it could be months before he gets round to you.”

“God,
Laura, you reek of smoke,” Mel said one night as we flopped on the sofa in the
flat after a performance of
Giselle
, working our way through a bottle of
Rioja to take the edge of our post-performance adrenaline so we’d be able to
sleep. “What are you trying to prove, hanging around Lawsonski like a dose of
athlete’s foot?”

“Don’t
call him that.” I dug her in the ribs with my elbow. “He’s the man of my
dreams. I’m allowed to have a crush, aren’t I? And besides, I think it’s
working – he smiled at me in class today.”

“Whoopee
twang,” Mel said. “He smiles at everyone. He’s a right Mr Happy, that one. Mr
Happy Lawsonski. If you want him to notice you, you’d be better off getting
Marius to notice you first, so he gives you a good part. Lawsonski knows which
side his bread’s buttered.”

“I’m
not sure I want Marius to notice me,” I said.

We
paused, and exchanged a mutual shudder at the idea of shagging Marius, the
company’s all-powerful Creative Director, who terrified and fascinated us in
equal measure. His lean, black-clad figure had a way of appearing in our
peripheral vision just when we’d fucked up a step, were corpsing with laughter
or were shovelling doughnuts into our faces after a particularly brutal class. Being
acknowledged by him, even if only with the smallest nod, could mean we were
about to shoot stratospherically through the ranks to stardom – or it could
mean we’d been found wanting and our card was marked.

“I
do,” Mel said.

“What?
You never fancy him.”

“Marius?
Good God, no,” Mel said, but there was something about her tone that wasn’t
quite convincing.

“Mel
and Marius, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s…” I began.

“Oh,
fuck off, Laura.” She lobbed a cushion at me, just as she always did when I
teased her, but she sounded seriously annoyed, so I changed the subject.

“Speaking
of bread, do we have any in? I’d kill for a piece of hot buttered toast.”

“There
are some Ryvitas in the kitchen, I think,” Mel said. “Want one?”

“Nah.”
I poured more wine into our glasses, half-heartedly mopping up the bit that
splashed on to the sofa with my sleeve. It was so stained already, a bit more
damage would make no difference to our chances of seeing our deposit when we
moved out – if we ever did.

We’d
been living in the flat for three years. When we first saw it, we’d been so
elated at the prospect of living round the corner from work – work! Actually
being paid to dance! Having made it into the company! – that we’d happily
ignored the damp, the intermittent hot water and the mouse we’d seen scurrying
along the skirting board on our first night there. It was only a matter of
time, we told ourselves, until we were promoted, or one of us was, and then
we’d move somewhere better, together like the Three Musketeers, sharing our good
fortune.

But
we were still waiting. We’d seen our contemporaries move on, some promoted,
some decamping to other companies and even other countries, some giving up
ballet altogether and training as dance teachers, finding modelling work, or
just quietly vanishing.

“But
we’re still here,” I said. “That has to be a good thing, right?”

Mel
knew me well enough to read the thought behind this random remark.

“Sure,”
she said. “You’re only twenty-one. Heaps of time yet. Only freaks make soloist
at our age.”

“Freaks
and naturals,” I said gloomily, draining my glass. “Is there another bottle?”

“Best
not,” Mel said. “Marius is coming to watch morning class tomorrow, remember?
You don’t want to be stinking of booze as well as fags.”

“I’ll
shower before bed,” I said, contemplating the prospect of ten minutes under a
trickle of water with enthusiasm as lukewarm as it would be. I levered myself
off the sofa, assessing a new click in my left hip, twin to the one in my
right.

“See
you later,” I said.