Dance with the Billionaire (2 page)

But as soon as it’s over, I crash back to reality, and all I can feel is anger. Anger and disgust at how a creep like
Dylan Campbell
has somehow found his way inside my head.

You can do this, Julia
.

That’s what I tell myself as I walk across the beautiful city campus of the Eldridge School of Dance, trying to keep my back straight and my head held high, hoping that if I
look
like someone who’s confident and believes in themselves then maybe I will actually become that person, too ...

As I make my way past the large sparkling fountain, trying to find rehearsal room six, where the auditions are being held, I size up all the other students standing in groups, laughing and chatting happily without a care in the world. I just hope that one day soon, I can be one of them, too.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer. Sure, I was always the best in the little amateur classes I went to at the youth club back home in Jersey. My teachers even encouraged me to attend summer schools – the kinds of places that might prepare you for something like this. But like I said, my family didn’t have the money for that kind of thing. Nobody even told me what a ‘scholarship’ was. I wonder how differently my life might have turned out if they had.

Because if I ace this audition, that’s what I get: a full scholarship to study here.

Otherwise, there’s no way I can afford to attend this place. The fees are just too much.

Imagine: being able to dance
all day
. I’ve always loved it
sooo
much. I’ve always loved that feeling of freedom – of grace. It’s the closest you can get to flying.

I finally find the right corridor. There’s a sign pointing the way to room number six, but the biggest giveaway is the line of girls, all thin, all toned, all beautiful, and all dressed in expensive, brand-new dancewear, looking totally at home here already as they stretch and limber up.

I take my place at the back of the queue.

After only a few seconds, a woman holding a clipboard comes up to me.

“Name?” she says.

“Julia Tate,” I say.

She crosses my name from the list then walks off. 

I smile at the girl stretching out next to me, but she shoots me an unfriendly glance and turns away.

Bitch
, I think.

Then I remember. This is a competition. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to
beat
these snooty bitches. And I’m gonna do it. They may have had hours of fancy dance lessons in fancy academies, but they’ve never had to hustle like I have.

I’m gonna
own them
. 

§

There’s always this pause, just before you start dancing, when time slows right down, and you can feel every little part of yourself: the beat of your heart, the air in your lungs, even the tiny hairs on your skin standing on end.

And in that pause, as I stand there in front of the audition panel, about to perform, I check out each of them in turn.

To the left, a guy in his late twenties or early thirties maybe, asymmetric bleach-blonde hair and neon pink glasses. I know the type. Next to him, a woman who must be in her sixties. She’s rocking a severe white bob. I can tell she’s the kind of woman who’s always been fashionable, without ever having to try. And sitting to the right of her is Maurice Ryman.

Back in the day, so I’ve been told, he was kind of a big deal. He looks a little older than in the photos I’ve seen of him, his hair a little greyer, his skin a little more tanned, but it’s definitely him. I knew he worked here, but I didn’t know he was going to be on the audition panel.

“Well, Miss Tate,” he says, busting me out of my trance. “If you’d like to begin?”

I give a nod to the assistant, who hits the play button on the stereo, and then I’m dancing – spinning, pirouetting, jumping – giving this panel all of my best, baddest moves. I dance like my life depends on it, and you know what? It kind of feels like it
does
. After all, this is my final shot – my only chance at this scholarship. I really fucking
need
this.

And as always, as I move to the music, I feel that energy and joy flow through me, too. Even at a high-stakes audition like this, it’s still happening: that magic, that feeling of total release, of complete freedom.

Before I know it, the last note of the song has sounded, and I’ve landed my final move.

I dare a quick glance up at the panel, but their faces give absolutely nothing away.

And as I’m getting back to my feet, it’s Maurice Ryman who finally says something, his tanned face breaking into the tiniest of smiles. “Very good, Miss Tate. You have good technique and a great figure. You’ve obviously worked extremely hard for this.”

“Thank you,” I say, still catching my breath.

I can’t believe he’s just complimented me. I mean, he’s danced all over the world, for some of the best companies. If
he
thinks I’m good, then surely I must be in with a chance, right?

“We’ll be in touch,” he says with a final enigmatic smile, his eyes catching mine, as if he’s tying to tell me something.

§

I’m woken up the next morning not by my usual alarm, but by my cell phone chirping loudly on the little table next to my single bed. It’s a local number, but not one I recognize.

“Hello?” I answer, trying not to give away the fact that I was fast asleep just a moment ago.

“Julia, this is Maurice Ryman calling.”

Holy crap. This is it.

“I was wondering if you were free to come into the school today?”

“Of course!” I blurt out.

“Great,” he says. “My office is on the upper floor, room 201. How does 2pm sound?”

“It sounds great!” I reply, too excited to play it cool.

I’m waiting for him to say more, to tell me I’ve got the place, but instead he just says, “Fantastic. I’ll see you then,” and hangs up the phone, leaving me sitting there in bed, my hair all crazy angles from sleep, suddenly wide awake and buzzing with excitement but still so unsure what this means.

Have I got the scholarship or what?!

Why the hell didn’t I just outright ask him?

I guess I’ll find out this afternoon.

As I get out of bed and head towards the bathroom, I tell myself it’s gotta be good news. It has to be, right? I mean, why would he ask me to come in if I
hadn’t
got the scholarship ...

§

I walk down the long, wood-paneled corridor passing what seems like hundreds of office doors until I reach the one I’m after, double-checking the name panel:
Maurice Ryman
. I can hear music coming from inside, it’s classical, I’m not sure what, and when I knock there’s a pause and then the music stops.

A moment later the door opens, and there he is, dressed in a cream linen shirt, a few buttons undone, his tanned chest visible beneath. For an older guy, he’s in great shape. He no longer dances professionally but he still teaches a lot of classes here.

“Julia!” he says warmly when he sees me. “Come in ...”

I follow him into the small office, which is crammed with books and papers. The walls are covered with framed posters from some of the many productions he’s danced in over the years – Paris, Rome, Tokyo; he must have been
everywhere
.

As I excitedly scan the pictures, I think:
Maybe that could be me one day, really seeing the world ...

I take a seat as he closes the door, and then he heads back around behind his desk and sits down, staring straight at me, resting his clasped hands on the desk in front of him. His face grows serious, and I feel like he’s gonna tell me that I
didn’t
get the place after all.

But then why did he bring me all this way? Couldn’t he just have told me that over the phone?

As if he can read my mind, he says, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to keep you hanging on any longer, Julia.
You
want to know whether or not you got the scholarship place, right?”

I nod. I’m so nervous I can even feel my hands getting clammy. Gross.

“Well, I’ll just tell it to you straight,” he continues. “After much discussion amongst the panel, and while we all thought your performance was excellent, I’m sorry to tell you that you
didn’t
get the scholarship. You’ve really got something, Julia, you’re very talented, but at the same time, you’re not quite there yet.”

That’s it. Game over.

He leans forward in his chair. “It just felt like you were holding something back,” he continues, “like there was something
missing
from your performance.”

I feel my face fall, and the hot sting of tears in the corners of my eyes.

Don’t cry in front of him.

And I feel a stab of anger, too.

Why the fuck did you invite me all this way just to tell me that? Why the hell couldn’t you have just told me over the phone, or an email, or a text even? Did you want me to cry in front of you – is that it? What is it with guys lately?! Is it Fuck With Julia’s Head Week or something?

“But don’t worry,” he continues, his face softening. “It’s not all bad news ...”

“I don’t understand,” I say, desperately fighting back the tears. I mean, this
is
bad news. This is like the worst news possible.

“Like I said, your performance was good. And what’s missing? I hope we can work on that, together. Although we can’t offer you a scholarship, we would be very happy to offer you a place here at Eldridge ...”

At this, he takes out a manila envelope from a drawer in his desk and hands it to me.

“Now, this would be a
paid
place, meaning you would need to find the funding to cover your tuition fees and other expenses, but we would all like you to consider it, Julia. You’re a very talented dancer, and we’d love to have you here at the school if you could find the funding. I’m sure with savings, maybe an evening job and some help from your parents, a reduction in your clothes budget even, you could cover it? Most of our students find some way to manage ...”

“Thanks,” I say, kind of stunned and confused, clutching the envelope awkwardly.

Most people find some way to manage, do they? That easy, huh?

“That package contains all the information about our Contemporary Dance course, including how much you’d be expected to pay in course fees. Please, think it over. But I’m afraid you haven’t got long to decide, a day or two at most. So you’ll need to let me know your decision
as soon as possible
. As I’m sure you will understand, these places are like gold dust.”

And then I say it, the words just leaping from my mouth as if they have a life of their own:

“I’m in! Sign me up.”

“Julia, that’s fantastic!” he says. “It’s great to have you aboard ...”

He offers me his hand, and when I stand to shake it, my legs feel all wobbly and my head’s reeling.

What have I done?

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“I’ll let the admin department know. They’ll be in touch with you for payment soon. Classes start in two weeks.”

§

I walk out through the main doors to the school, stepping into dazzling sunlight, then stumble through the campus, still trying to take it all in.

What the hell did you just do?

I take a seat on the lawn and slip the course brochure from the envelope, flipping through it, looking at all the photos of happy students and reading the descriptions of the classes I could be taking. Of course, it all sounds amazing, just what I’ve always dreamed of. But then I turn to the back page, where the course fees are outlined, and my stomach lurches.

Each
semester
costs over fifteen thousand dollars in tuition fees alone. And it’s a three-year course. That’s over thirty grand per year, and that’s before I factor in my living costs.