This Much Is True (30 page)

Yeah, after that, it was dark and scary and when I came back to reality and discovered he was on top of me and taking things further than I actually found myself willing to go, in that frozen moment of panic, I didn’t exactly recognize myself any longer. I managed to push myself out from underneath him and brought things to a decided halt. After that, things went from bad to worse. Thank God, I can avoid the bar he frequents. His choice words for me wouldn’t be as pretty-sounding as they were when we almost hooked last night. Luckily, the Upper East Side contains plenty of bars and plenty of Jacks.
Lucky me.

My reason for making the appointment with Dr. Shimmer became vital after what transpired last night. I’m now convinced that reliable contraception will make all my problems go away—well,
most
of my problems will go away. These will disappear as it relates to attacks of panic. I’m realistic, after all. I freaked out with Jack because I didn’t trust a condom. An IUD will solve these unforeseen inhibitions about random sex. I’m sure of it. My panic attack had nothing to do with Linc.
Nothing
.

I break away from my reverie to find Dr. Shimmer regarding me closely.
Too close.
I manage a little smile again and hope I portray the easygoing
I-don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world
Tally. I don’t; right?

“So…Is everything okay? We can still try the birth control pills for a couple of months if you want.”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “Messing up with birth control pills is what got me into trouble in the first place. This is good. I read the pamphlet if that’s what you’re worried about. I want this.”

“No. I know you did. We’ve talked about it enough. They’ve improved these devices a lot. There are risks. We’ve discussed them.”

I nod.

I nod and smile.

Nod and smile.

“Are you okay?” She’s still looking at me.

“I’m great.”

“One more nod and smile and I won’t believe you.”

I stop kicking, smiling, and nodding.

“Better.” She gives me a stern look and then sighs. “So. How are things?” She writes down some number on my chart and glances through the rest. Then she frowns. “You’re eight pounds under your starting weight with us. How did you do that?” She gets this quizzical look along with this easy expectant smile—like we’re old friends just having a chat, as if I can tell her anything.

It makes me wary. I just want the IUD, so I can get out of here and move on with my life all on the same day.
Shit. What would Holly say?
I lick my lips, stalling for time and try to remember some innocuous charming thing my twin would have said in the situation. “I feel really good. I’ve been training quite a bit and running.”

I run five miles a day every day and train three times as hard as everyone else at the dance company.
I feel great.
A lie I tell everyone I know—from my parents to Marla to Sasha Belmont. For the most part, Sasha Belmont, NYC Ballet’s artistic director, has been great to work with, but she’s a perfectionist and a former prima ballerina like Tremblay. She doesn’t say too much to me. She seems to be in awe of the implied influence and power I seem to have wielded over Allaire Tremblay, who so effectively ushered me into NYC Ballet’s competitive dance program to the head of the line. Sasha seems to still be trying to come to terms with the expediency with which my contract came together or, at least, attempting to better understand all that must have gone down in light of Tremblay’s direct sponsorship of me with the head ballet master at NYC Ballet. Tremblay isn’t here to explain it, and I’m unwilling to elaborate. I do my best not to disappoint Sasha Belmont and to ensure she’s got the star that Tremblay both promised and delivered. I do everything at an above-and-beyond level of dedication. I’m intent on perfection. Yet Sasha Belmont utters the word
again
as often as Tremblay did. She wants a perfect performance. And I’ll give her one or die trying.

Again.
How I hate that word. Again. Do it again. Again as to imply it wasn’t perfect, so start over. Again, because you messed up the one-two count for everyone.
Miss Landon, can you please try to keep up with your peers?
Again. Do it again.
Again.
How I hate that word and Tremblay in so many new ways now. I know I made the deal, but now I hate myself for it and her on this inexplicable level for manipulating me with her power. She always knew what she wanted and what I wanted, or rather, what I was willing to do for what I thought I wanted.

I do want it, don’t I?

Allaire Tremblay had it all figured out long before I did. She was way ahead of me. It’s only taken me a little over three months to catch on.

“Are you eating enough?” Dr. Shimmer asks.

“I could eat a little better.”

“Give me a typical day’s worth of meals. What do you eat?” She gets this unrelenting look while I get even more uncomfortable.

Can we just get on with this?

“A typical day?” I stall. “A yogurt in the morning. “With nuts, walnuts or something.” Not true. I skip meals every other day. I never eat nuts. They’re too high in fat to ever cross my lips. I can’t afford that. “Salad at lunch. With some kind of protein.” Dr. Shimmer winces a little. I think she knows I’m lying by this point. I’m caught in between not knowing if I should proceed with the telling of this lie or just stop talking. “An apple or a banana. Oatmeal for dinner. It’s quick. It’s faster. There’s not a lot of time what with all the dance classes and rehearsals…” I stop talking somehow knowing I’ve already blown it.

She steps back and starts writing down something on my chart. After a long four minutes of self-inflicted silence while I continually remind myself not to open my mouth again to utter another word, Shimmer looks up. Her left brow furrows. “That’s six hundred calories a day, and I’m being
generous
.”

I stay with the silence. I embrace it.
I need that IUD.
Well, check that.
How bad do I need it?
It’s not like I have time for sex anyway, and I don’t need another repeat of a Jack from a bar and the promise of fun, which ends up being anything but a good time. I shift my legs from the uncomfortable
help-me-out
position and cleverly cross them at the ankles. I dig in for the long haul even though I’m obviously in the weaker position because I’m still naked under this completely unattractive patient gown. Shimmer is the doctor, and she holds all of this power over me as it relates to contraception. I fold my arms across my chest and give her the
try-me, defiant
look.

Still.

An IUD would be nice.
I could do whatever I wanted, and ensure
that situation
never happens to me again.
Cara’s become a situation.
I wince.

“What’s going on with you, Tally?”

“It’s highly competitive.” I shrug my shoulders as if it’s not a big deal. “It’s a dancer’s world. There’s always somebody there who is just waiting to step into your coveted role. After you get to the principal level, you get two understudies whose sole goal in life is to see you fail or fall. That’s the way it is. But you do it, if you love it enough. If you’re willing to sacrifice anything and everything and everyone for it, you do it. That’s the way it is. You have to maintain a certain weight to do the lifts and to jump higher than everyone else. You have to eat enough to maintain your stamina and your muscle but not enough to where anyone will complain about your weight when they lift you. You have to sacrifice just like everyone else, sometimes more. And when you screw it up, the way I almost did—by getting pregnant in the first place, going through with it, and then just trying to make it back and be more perfect—well, it is what it is. I have to pay twice as much for that decision, and I still count myself lucky. Allaire Tremblay helped me make it to New York City Ballet. I can’t blow it now.” I take a shaky breath and wince at the truth I’ve just exposed in my little impassioned speech.

“Allaire Tremblay?” Dr. Shimmer asks in awe. “I went to one of her performances once. A long time ago. She was such an incredible dancer. I was sixteen when I saw her dance.”

“She adopted Cara.”

“Oh.” Dr. Shimmer’s brow creases. Her lips part as if she has something else to say.

“She’s back in San Francisco. With Cara.”

Silence.

Nervous by her lack of a response and hoping to get her to better understand, I go on to ensure she does. “She was temporary director at SAB, the School of American Ballet? And she’s the one that ensured I got the internship and was invited to join New York City Ballet with Sasha Belmont. It’s a lucrative contract. In this industry, three years is virtually unheard of, and it’s all because of Tremblay’s connections and
support
.” I choke on the last word.
Easy, Tally.

“And your
talent
,” Shimmer says. “Sasha Belmont is amazing. She’s a good friend of mine from school. Yes, she’s amazing, exacting, driven, but she wouldn’t do anything she didn’t see as being for the good of the ballet company. I hear she’s leaving for Europe soon.”

“Yes, I’m going on the tour.”

“Wow.
Tally
.”

“We leave in a month or so with performances in Milan, Rome, and Paris, over the summer and into the fall. It should be fun. It means…everything.” My pulse races out of control in reaction to the surprising turn this conversation is taking. “It’s all I’ve got.” I try to smile but find myself struggling to breathe. I look away from Shimmer needing a break from her constant scrutiny and subtly swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand.

“You did the right thing, Tally. You need to believe that. Your baby is fine. She’s cherished and loved. Allaire Tremblay will take good care of her; I’m sure of it. You’re doing well, too. You did the right thing.
You did.
Believe that. Believe in yourself and your choices. I do.”

There’s this little shared silence between us. I incline my head as I look her way. She nods.

“You’re doing great, Tally. I’ll get the IUD packet. It’s a relatively painless procedure and takes about five minutes. So, I’ll be right back.” Dr. Jane Shimmer gazes at me and smiles—it’s a Barbie type of smile that almost takes my breath away. I’m automatically reminded of Holly, for some reason.

Why can’t I be happy like Holly? Why can’t I be more generous with myself? Why can’t I try?

I finally take a breath when she leaves the room. Then, relief overwhelms me—relief that I spoke the truth for once. Relief that somebody knows what I’m going through. Relief that Shimmer supports my decision, and she supports
me,
for that matter.

A modicum of unexpected joy follows because I’ve told her the truth.
Me.
Tally Landon said something that was true. It feels good. It feels right. Maybe I’ll actually move on from here. Maybe I’ll actually get my life back together just like I planned. Maybe I’ll stop thinking of Cara and Linc every waking minute of every single day and actually move on from here.
Maybe.

* * * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tally ~ This price for fame

“Y
ou called this meeting,” I say with open defiance. “What do you want?”

I eye Kimberley Powers with this unchecked disdain and inevitable wariness. It’s probably unfair to blame her for Linc’s obvious choice over a year and a half ago, if one we’re going to get technical or maudlin or both equally, which I am. It’s true, by the time I met up with Kimberley Powers at the small little café that has become our joint—our hangout—as Marla used to say, I’m in a foul mood. Rehearsal ran long. I’m burned out and in need of a well-deserved break. The lead for The Nutcracker hurt her ankle so just after a successful season in Europe, I was asked to step in, expected to step in. I wanted to step in, didn’t I?

It’s just that I am so tired after this long year that I really can’t wait until it’s over. After rehearsal, the ballet master asked me to stop by his office where he proceeded to carry on a one-sided conversation about a few of my missteps during rehearsal. It was a long twenty minutes about my obvious mistakes and his overreaching concern for a general lack of focus on my part and my sub-par performance.

Then one of his assistants interrupted with a
“Talia, you have a visitor”
reprieve—a reprieve that didn’t last long once I saw who it was. Kimberley Powers, publicist extraordinaire, who, invariably, I could blame for wrecking my relationship with Lincoln Presley which, if one were being exact and honest, isn’t really true. But I’m not one for honesty anyway. And right now? I don’t give a shit about the truth or Kimberley or even Linc, for that matter, because it’s been a long year.

Against my normal modus operandi, I order a hamburger and a salad and proceed to pick my way through this late-night meal while Kimberley sips at her coffee—black, no cream, no sugar—and scrutinizes me rather intently. She’s most likely an older version of a future me in many ways. There’s a large part of me enamored by her directness, so I can’t help but like her. I need a soul sister. Marla’s been preoccupied so our phone conversations have been short and infrequent.
Although…right now?
Kimberley Powers poses a threat to me in all kinds of ways that she doesn’t even have a clue about, and I have to constantly remind myself of this fact during our conversation.
She’s the enemy. She’s the enemy with direct ties to Linc
. And I can’t even think about Linc right now. There’s too much at stake and too many secrets at this juncture.

“How are you?” Kimberley asks.

“I’m good.” I force a smile at this lie, stall for composure by sipping iced water in front of me, and make a point of openly ignoring her penetrating jade-green gaze with a careless shrug. No, I just smile like Allaire Tremblay’s taught me to do all those years ago. “
Smile through the pain.”
It’s what Tremblay always said. I do it now.
The pain is everywhere.

Kimberley Powers is stunning. She’s got this long, dark auburn hair. Her green eyes just pop with the designer turquoise and white outfit she’s wearing. I’m a little self-conscious in my status quo of black T-shirt and jeans. Even my fur-lined winter black wool coat seems a weak attempt at being fashionable.

Within minutes, it’s pretty obvious that Kimberley is the center of attention wherever she goes. This restaurant is no exception. Twice now, the waitress has come by with a proffered drink from some male patron sitting at the bar, intent on sending his admiration directly her way. Twice, Kimberley has leaned out of the booth and openly indicated her thanks with a little wave of her perfectly manicured hands to these earnest appreciative strangers.

She sips at one of the drinks like a queen would signal gratitude to her peasant people for their small kindnesses. I kind of laugh taking it all in, wishing I could take a sip from one of her gifted margaritas, too. Eventually, she slides one of the fluted glasses over to me in salutation and gets this secret smile—the
I-hope-you-have-fake-ID
smile.

I nod in acquiescence, confirming for both of us that wistfulness is an uncontrollable visible notion. I have it and somehow Ms. Kimberley Powers has picked up on it. And I have to be careful. I have to be very careful here.
She has direct ties to Elvis. Careful, Tally.

“Your reviews are good. So how long did it take before New York City Ballet’s finest offered you the position as the lead?” Kimberley asks with playful interest.

“Not long. You have to have recommendations…from the right people. Mine were…unexpected, but they helped tremendously this past year.” I play with the edge of my water glass, twirling the contents back and forth. I’m a little unsettled. There aren’t too many people who understand how the dance world works so I do my best to hide my surprise that Kimberley Powers seems to have a vague idea on how things work.

“I’m sure Allaire Tremblay pulled some of those strings.” Kimberley waves her left hand around the restaurant as if by doing so it would somehow make this true.

“She did. I’ve been the lead through most of the European performances this year. It’s a three-year contract virtually unheard of…” I frown because, despite my best efforts to remain detached and unaffected by what’s been transpiring with this conversation; I’m combating this constant worry in keeping it all together in front of Kimberley. With Tremblay safely ensconced back in San Francisco with Cara, I naively thought things would end there. The deal was iron-clad on both sides for me and Tremblay. What I failed to anticipate were all the questions about my dance career and this contract and even the ties indirectly to Allaire Tremblay and Sasha Belmont. No. I didn’t exactly think all of that through, and it’s catching up to me now by the intrigued look on Kimberley Power’s face.
Careful.

“Three years. Impressive,” Kimberley says. Her eyes gleam this jade green. “The NYC Ballet is one of my clients. Sasha’s a good friend of mine. She likes you. She says you’re very good. We go back a ways,” Kimberley confides and gets this secret smile. “So really, Tally, who did you sleep with to rise to the top so quickly?”

She says this like we’re old friends, and I should be willing to tell her. I take a shallow breath and cajole myself to tread carefully and play it cool. I need to end this conversation before it even gets started. I give her one of those meaningful winning smiles—the kind Marla and I used to exchange when we were out at a party. I think of Jack from seven months ago. I should go see Jack right after I’m through here and exorcise the last memories of Lincoln Presley right out of my system forever. “Other than the baseball player?” I sigh and then laugh at her surprised face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anyone, but I plan to remedy that soon enough. His name is Jack. ”

I look at her intently to ensure she knows where I’m going with this.
Where am I going with this?

“I’ve been focused on my career and dancing my little heart out. But enough with being the good girl. Look,” I say with a sobering look. “I’m just trying to move on here.”

“Aren’t we all?” Kimberley sort of laughs then. I eye her carefully as she takes a sip of one of the margaritas and gets this sympathetic look. “He wanted to come. He had these naive plans about coming to New York and seeing one of your performances this year and last.” She frowns a little.

“And you talked him out of it.”

She nods. “Time. Has. To. Pass. This is a serious situation and the two of you
independently
just don’t seem to understand that.”

Her eyes glint.
She’s serious.
“I get it. Take your lecture up with Elvis. It was a one-time thing. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you? Have you, Tally? I mean, if that’s true, why aren’t you seeing anyone?”

Is she checking up on me?
I sip the margarita to buy time and decide how to answer. “I’ve been dancing my ass off this whole year and last. It doesn’t really leave time for anything or anyone else. Ask Sasha if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she says slowly. “I just don’t quite…get it. I mean you are a star in your own right. Sasha has ensured me of that. She wants me to work with you in fact. She wants to ensure I give you that extra star quality treatment that I give to all my special clients.”

“I don’t want to be one of your special clients. Besides, isn’t that a conflict of interest with
him
?”

She raises an index finger to her lips after I almost say his name. “Separate problem. Separate client. It’s probably better that I manage the two of you, so I have an idea of what’s going on--separately, of course.”

“Of course.” I give her a somewhat resentful look for her insinuated interference in my life and my career. She isn’t going to go away. She’s made that clear. I sigh.

“So. A client. And friends.” She smiles wide and then it fades. “We’re good, right?”

“Do I have a choice?” I glare at her not enjoying the manipulation that both this conversation and our relationship seem to be taking.

“No. Not really.” She laughs. “As I said, the NYC Ballet is a client of
mine
. You’re part of the package. That’s how it works out.” She studies my face intently. “So, what did you give up to get here, huh?”

“Everything,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” She gets this thoughtful look. “That’s what I thought,” she says again.

We share this long protracted silence between us. I allow myself to smile a little and think of Linc. I envision his earnest face when he cooked me dinner that one night and how sexy he was when I watched him sleep and how much I still miss him. I hold my breath and finally swallow and incline my head toward her. “So.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How is
Elvis
?”

“Good one. Catchy. No one will know who we’re talking about. I’ll call you Priscilla.” Kimberley laughs outright.

It’s so perfect and disarming that I eventually laugh, too; but then I’m nervous. To cover it up, I take another swig of the margarita and enjoy the alcohol as it burns my throat all the way down. “So. Not over him after all.” She says after a few seconds of observing me. “He misses you, too.”

She seems intent on gauging my reaction at every turn, and her blatant honesty catches me off-guard. This time I choke on the sweet-n-sour taste of the margarita because I gulp it a little too fast. In the next few seconds, I swipe at my eyes having forgotten all about the salted glass rim. It definitely stings when it makes contact. Soon, I’m dabbing at my watery eyes with the wet corner of a napkin in a vain attempt to hold back the tears that now mysteriously threaten. I laugh at my blunder while Kimberley takes it all in—assessing and evaluating my every move, my every reaction. My hands shake even as I strive for the control of a twenty-five-year-old but still struggle against the reality of having just turned nineteen a few months ago but going on thirty. I wish Holly were here because my sister would know what to say. Holly could handle Kimberley Powers. Holly would have charmed her into submission. Normally, I could do these things on my own. But tonight? It all proves to be too much.

The truth is that I miss Linc, and I find myself telling her this even though in the back of my mind, there is this small part of me constantly chanting:
you can’t trust anyone and nothing lasts. Nothing.

“I miss him. It’s silly.
Really.
We probably spent less than twenty-four hours together in total, but he was great. You know? I liked him. And I don’t normally like anybody for long.”

“It’s just a little while longer. Your birthday’s in another eight months. I suppose at twenty if you guys met up; it wouldn’t be so bad,” she muses.

“It’s not that simple. He broke up with me and—”

“He broke up with you because I told him to. Because you were seventeen at the time, and he was twenty-two. Seventeen-year-olds and twenty-two-year-old guys with their star on the rise do not mix. Capiche?”

For some reason, I decide to mess with her. “Does he always do
exactly
what you say?”

“All he has is baseball,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Do you know anything about his life? His dad? Who he is? His mom? His older brother? What happened to them?” Her voice shakes.

I make a mental note to check out this part of Linc’s story even though I promised myself long ago I wouldn’t do this.

“His dad was a baseball player,” I say slowly. “His mother died when he was younger. You were Elliott’s fiancée. That’s about all I know.” Kimberley gets this tormented look and looks momentarily taken aback. “I’ve been busy. I have a lot going on. I really haven’t had time to
Google
Lincoln Presley,” I whisper his name and try not to sound too defensive, but I know I do.

Kimberley leans toward me and talks softly. “His dad is Davis Presley. Yes,
that
Davis Presley. The famous pitcher for the Giants from about fifteen years ago.”

“Oh.” There’s this awkward silence. I’m intent on not being the one to fill it. I dig my nails into my palms to keep from saying anything more.

She takes a sip of her drink, sighs deep, and looks at me. “So, they were one big happy family. Davis married Cara Sanderson, the actress, before he hit the big time with the Giants and she with Hollywood. They were young and in love, and they had two sons, Elliott and Lincoln, and they all lived in L.A.” Kimberley gets this faraway look, and her voice goes soft. I lean forward to catch her next words because, all at once, I can barely hear her and another part of me is dying a little that Linc’s mother’s name was Cara.

“I was…your age. I’d just gotten this great PR internship my freshman year in college at UCLA. Davis was my first client.” She tries to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. “Life was good. For everyone. I met Elliott in one of my first meetings with his dad. He was destined to be a star baseball player just like his dad. He was twenty. I was almost eighteen. We fell in love within the first five minutes of meeting each other.” She shakes her head side-to-side. “I resigned the account and gave up my internship because the firm felt there was a conflict of interest.” She shrugs her shoulders and gets this anguished look. “I didn’t care. I was in love. Elliott meant everything to me, and I’d follow him anywhere.” She stops talking for a few minutes and swallows hard. She seems to be having trouble catching her breath.

I’m still reeling from the fact that Lincoln Presley’s mom was the famous Cara Sanderson and I’ve inadvertently named our daughter after her without knowing any of this. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Kimberley misinterprets my distressed look.

“I know I came down hard on your relationship. I feel bad about that.
I do
. Linc had always been the dreamer. He had different aspirations. He was a bit of a rebel. He looked up to his big brother Elliott, who everybody loved, including me obviously. We’d been dating for six months, making plans for our future even though Elliott was focused on baseball and had just done a tryout for the Red Sox.” Her tone gets more wooden. “His dad couldn’t make the trip; he was transitioning over to work for ESPN and getting inducted into the Hall of Fame. So, Cara went with Elliott to the tryout in Boston. On their way back to the Boston airport to catch the flight back home to L.A., they were both killed instantly in a head-on collision.”