You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (32 page)

Back
in my dressing room, I put on the gorgeous rose-pink costume I’d wear for my
first scene. It was a perfect fit – it had been made for me, and the final
adjustments had been completed just the day before. I laced up my pointe shoes,
tying the ribbons securely around my ankles, and took a last look in the
mirror. I was ready – the transformation was complete.

All
through the building, I knew, my colleagues would be going through the same
process. Alongside the stage manager’s calls over the tannoy, I could almost
hear the buzz of anticipation building. It was opening night of one of the most
popular shows in our repertoire – everyone would be nervous, terrified,
excited, but entirely focussed on their own performance. At that moment, I
realised, nobody gave one single fuck about the spat between the two principal
dancers or the rumours about Marius and me.

The
thought gave me the courage I needed to leave the bolthole of my dressing room
and make my way to wait in the wings.

I
heard the roar of applause that signalled the conductor’s arrival in the
orchestra pit, then a second, quieter wave of appreciation as the curtain went
up and the set was revealed – true enthusiasts know that one should clap for
the conductor, but never for the set.

I
felt a warm pair of hands of my shoulders and started, then heard Roddy’s voice
whisper in my ear, “I’m on. You’re going to be fabulous. I love you, and so
will everyone else after tonight.
Merde
.”

“
Merde
,”
I whispered back.

The
first scene – the princess’s christening, at which the fairies bestow their blessings
on the baby, the evil Carabosse arrives and curses her with death on her
sixteenth birthday, then the powerful Lilac Fairy mitigates the curse to a
hundred-year sleep – seemed to pass in seconds. I felt none of the paralysing
stage fright I’d experienced before performances in the past – I was strangely
calm, keyed up and eager to get out there on to the stage and get through my
first big scene, the horribly difficult Rose Adagio. When my musical cue came,
I stepped out on to the stage as poised and eager as any princess making her
debut.

All
the notoriously perilous balances went without a wobble. Jerome, then Roddy,
then Stav, then Tom held my hand in turn, letting me find my balance before
releasing me to stand alone, perfectly still, my entire body hovering over the
toes of one foot. I could feel my muscles burning with the effort of it, but
they didn’t let me down, and I knew my face kept its radiant smile throughout.
If I hadn’t been confident of my performance, the roar of approval from the audience
told me I’d nailed it. I was on my way to becoming a star.

My
thighs were trembling with fatigue and my feet felt like they’d been dipped in
acid, but I was hardly conscious of my body at all as I left the stage. I was
floating on a wave of elation and success, made weightless by the bubble of
triumph inside me.

Then
I saw Mel and Felix, and my joy shattered like the Christmas bauble Owen would
squash between his clumsy toddler’s palms years in the future. The two of them
were standing together in a corner, Felix already in his costume for his grand
entrance after the interval, Mel in her lilac tutu, her face masked with
make-up, her hair pulled tightly back behind her perfect, delicate face. Felix
was looking slightly absurd as male dancers always do until they start to move.
His legs in the thick white tights, perfectly muscled though they were, seemed
frail and vulnerable under his elaborate brocade jacket, and the bulge his
ballet belt created between them was a crude parody of the maleness I knew when
we were together, naked in bed.

But
it was his face I looked at – his dear, familiar face, normally so animated,
laughing or about to laugh. He wasn’t laughing now − his head was tilted
downwards as he listened to Mel.

I
watched them for just a few seconds before they saw me, but it was enough. I
knew what she was saying to him, what she was doing. I knew that she was
nurturing the seed of doubt and mistrust she’d planted, pouring shit on it so
it would grow into a horrible, destructive plant with roots strong enough to
destroy the fragile foundations of love Felix and I had built.

I
hurried over to them, but I was too slow on my tired legs. Felix glanced over
to me, his face haggard with sadness, then turned away. There was no time for
me to talk to him – he was about to go on stage again and, unlike Mel, I wanted
him to have maximum focus for his big solo.

Whatever
Mel had said to him, it didn’t affect him on stage. It would be exaggerating to
say I never loved him more than when I watched him dance – this was the man who
reduced me to a quivering jelly in bed, over and over again – but he was
dazzling to watch, graceful and powerful, his technique so perfect and sure
that he was free to bring real expressiveness to the role.

I
stood in the wings and watched as the Prince’s companions disappeared into the
forest, leaving him alone. The lights dimmed and Felix danced alone on the
darkened stage, every movement expressing his loneliness, frustration and
longing. I could have watched him forever, but all too soon my own cue came and
I was back on, dancing the image of Aurora, summoned by the Lilac Fairy to
persuade the Prince to break the spell of sleep.

Somehow
I got through the scene, even though Mel was looking daggers at me and Felix,
who should have appeared enraptured by my beauty, refused to meet my eyes at
all. As I danced, I felt my confidence ebbing away. Even though I knew the
steps perfectly, I found myself ending up in the wrong place several times. My
balance was off, the footlights dazzled me and I forgot to spot properly in my
turns and got dizzy and disoriented.

At
the final moment when Felix was supposed to wake me with his kiss, he still
didn’t meet my eyes, and his lips didn’t make contact with mine.

There
was applause for me afterwards, of course, but it wasn’t the rapturous
outpouring of appreciation I’d heard after my first solo, and I knew that even
if the audience hadn’t noticed the technical faults in my performance, they
could tell that something wasn’t right.

When
the scene ended and the curtain came down for the interval, I ran to my
dressing room in tears. Roddy was there, waiting for me, ready to wrap his
comforting arm around my shivering shoulders and towel the sweat off my back.

“I
can’t go back on,” I sobbed. “It’s awful, he hates me. We can’t dance together
like this. I don’t know what Mel’s been saying to him, but be believes her, not
me. I’m going to fuck it up, I know I am.”

“You’re
not going to fuck it up,” Roddy said. “Come on, Laura. You’re a professional.
This is your big night – the only person who can spoil it for you is yourself.
Man up, change your costume, drink some water and get back out there and knock
their socks off. You can do it.”

“I
can’t.” My teeth were chattering so I could hardly get the words out. “I
screwed the last scene up so badly.”

Roddy
wrapped a clean towel around me. “You’re freezing. You know we aren’t supposed
to get cold. Never mind how you dance, you’ll be in all kinds of shit if Anna
catches you in here shivering.”

I
managed a feeble smile. “Will you talk to him, Roddy? Find him, and tell him
that what she’s saying isn’t true?”

“Okay,”
he said. “But only if you promise to get your kit on for the next act, fix your
face, and get out there and do your job.”

“I
promise,” I said.

“Good
girl.” Roddy hurried out, slamming my dressing room door behind him. His tough
love approach was what I’d needed. I sipped some water, cleaned off my smudged
eye make-up and reapplied it, and stretched the tightness out of my thighs and
calves. I forced myself to breathe deeply, to focus, trying to isolate my fear
and sadness again, deep inside me where they wouldn’t get in the way. It didn’t
work as well as it had before. The confident princess I’d managed to find
within myself before had retreated again, replaced by a frightened girl unequal
to the challenge she faced.

But
Roddy was right – I had a job to do. Whatever happened between Felix and me,
this was the defining moment of my career. If I wasted this opportunity, I’d
never forgive myself.

Somehow, I found the strength to pull on my magnificent finalé
costume, pin the sparkly tiara to my hair and walk back out into the corridor
with a smile on my face.

When
I passed Mel, I ramped the smile up a notch and said, “You danced brilliantly
earlier.” It wasn’t true – she’d seemed wooden and lacking in sparkle, but the
look on her face, as if I’d slapped her with a sweaty pair of tights, was worth
it. Suddenly, my smile felt genuine.

The
final pas de deux in
The Sleeping Beauty
is relatively simple, at least
compared to the agonising difficulty of the earlier scenes. I knew I’d have to
be absolutely precise, but the choreography held no terrors for me. And Roddy
had promised to locate Felix in the interval and speak to him, and he’d know
there was nothing between Marius and me, that I loved him and was faithful to
him. In less than an hour, it would all be over – I’d be taking my curtain
calls, holding the red roses Sadie always sent me on opening nights, smiling
into the faces of the audience, who I’d be able to see for the first time. It
was all going to be all right, I told myself. I just had to get through this
final scene, do my very best – which was, as Roddy said, only doing my job.

I
waited to make my entrance, still smiling, and when the music told me it was
time, I glided out on to the stage at exactly the same time as Felix made his
entrance from the opposite wing.

I
could see straight away that Roddy’s mission hadn’t been successful. Either he
hadn’t been able to find Felix, or Felix hadn’t been willing to listen. His
face was stony and set. I felt my own smile waver, and for a second I
wanted nothing more than to run off stage, run all the way to my dressing room,
hide there and cry.

But
I didn’t. I moved into the familiar sequence of steps, feeling my muscles doing
what they’d been trained to do, even though my mind was in a turmoil. I swept
my arms into the choreographed gestures that meant, in the language of ballet,
“I love you.” Felix’s arms echoed mine, but there was no love in his face – none
at all. When he touched me, I could feel his hands almost flinching away from
contact with mine. He didn’t support me for long enough for me to find my point
of balance, and I wavered and almost fell.

“Please,
Felix,” I hissed through my smile. “Please don’t do this.”

Almost
imperceptibly, he shook his head, but if he said anything I didn’t hear it,
because I’d moved away, instinctively obeying the music.

We
moved into the series of lifts – frightening for any dancer, but I’d loved
doing them with Felix, because I trusted him so completely. Even though,
strictly speaking, I was too tall to partner him, he was so powerful he lifted
me effortlessly, making me feel as if I was flying.

It
didn’t feel that way tonight. His hands on my waist felt unsteady and insecure,
and the upward momentum of his arms was slightly out of time with the spring of
my legs.

It
was on the third lift that it happened. Somehow, we’d got through the first
two, but this time I jumped more powerfully, he thrust my body higher into the
air, and I felt my weight tip too far backwards, his balance falter, his hands
slip away from my body – and then I was falling, the lights a blur as I tried
to land safely and failed.

Over
the music, over the horrified gasp from the audience, I heard a sickening
crunch as my ankle shattered.

For
one mad moment, I thought I could get up and carry on dancing. There was pain,
certainly, but it didn’t feel all that much worse than pain I’d danced through
before – not then. Then I saw Felix’s face. He was chalk-white with shock – almost
green under his make-up. He was looking, horrified, at my left leg.

I
looked too – I wish I hadn’t. My foot was twisted to an impossible angle. A
dark pool of blood was spreading over the floor and soaking my white tights.
For a moment, I didn’t understand where it had come from – had I scraped myself
against something? Then I saw the shard of bone, a different white from my
tights, that had torn through the fabric as well as my skin, and I understood
what had happened.

With
that realisation, the full force of pain hit me like a punch to the face and,
almost immediately, I blacked out.

All
the dozens of times I’d been on flights before, the ban on phone use had seemed
an inconvenience at worst and a welcome respite from the buzzing electronic
summons of my mobile at best. Now, it was torture. There was no way for me to
contact Sadie get an update on how Darcey was for seven long hours – seven
hours for which I was completely unable to sleep, to watch the inflight
entertainment or to read the magazines I’d automatically bought at the airport.
All I could do was stare at the satellite flight tracker, willing the tiny
aeroplane-shaped icon to hurry the fuck up and get me home to my daughter.

I
refused both the beef curry that was served an hour after take-off and the
wilting chicken wrap they gave us before landing, and, although I would have
loved to take full advantage of the bar service, I resisted – I’d need to drive
at the other end.