friends, on and off, for twelve years, since the day we had arrived with braces, plaits and flustered mothers at Brackenbury House in Manchester to begin the arduous years of training necessary to become dancers. At this moment the friendship was definitely off.
‘No.’ I seized the foot that was beginning to throb and stretched up the adjoining leg so that my knee was close to my ear, just to show her that everything was still in working order.
Bella hooked one heel over the barre and leaned forward to put her chin on her leg so that I could not see the hunger in her eyes. ‘You’d better get some ice on it.’
‘Good luck for this evening, Marigold darling.’ Lizzie, who had remained a staunch friend despite a stalling of her career due to a wobbly technique and the refusal of her insteps to be sufficiently pliant, put her arms gracefully round my neck. Her fair hair, which escaped her headband to spring into tight ringlets, tickled my cheek. Unlike everyone else in the company, she was not desperately ambitious and was content to remain in the corps de ballet. ‘I’ll hold my thumbs for you. I know you’ll be wonderful.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m going to need it.’
‘Bella’s a bitch,’ she whispered in my ear. Lizzie was as violent in her hates as in her loves. ‘Don’t let her jinx things for you.’
‘It’s only a workshop,’ put in Bella, who had no doubt heard the whispering though not what had been said.
‘Ah, tonight, maybe, but on Friday it’s the real thing.’ Lizzie executed a hasty entrechat quatre to express her excitement, ‘and I for one can’t wait to see Marigold’s name in lights.’
The workshop was in the nature of a dress rehearsal before an invited audience. Had Lizzie and Bella known it, a very great deal rested on this evening’s performance and now, when I thought about it, my stomach did a jeté battu followed by a ballotté.
‘Marigold! Venez ici!’ Madame was beckoning imperiously. ‘Lizzie! Zat was an entrechat quatre comme un poor old cripple woman wiz ze ’ob-nailed boots. Alex, come ’ere also.’
Alex and I skipped across to the spot designated by her pointing finger. I was conscious of pain rippling up from my foot into my ankle.
‘We ’ave decided. At last ze agreement!’ Madame spread her fingers and looked heavenward. From the slam of the studio door as Orlando went out, I guessed that agreement had little to do with it. ‘Ze enchaînement we cut!’ She made a slicing movement with her hand. ‘Instead for five bars we ’ave a pause – when you two act like crazy wiz your eyes. It will be un moment of consequence ze most dramatic. You express to ze audience all ze love, all ze regret, all ze sorrow …’
Alex’s face obediently mirrored these emotions while Madame talked. I tried not to think about my foot and instead envisaged the apple, cheese and yoghurt that awaited me. I was absolutely starving. After Madame had decided to her own satisfaction how our limbs should be disposed during this pregnant moment of eye-acting, we were free to go.
‘Fancy coming down the Pink Parrot after the performance tonight?’ asked Alex as we made our way down the corridor towards the canteen. ‘It’s Dicky’s birthday and he’s promised to stand us drinks for as long as his grandmother’s cheque holds out.’
‘How kind of him. Yes, I’d love to if—’
A hand gripped my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Alex, but I’ve already made plans for Marigold.’ Sebastian Lenoir slipped his arm through mine so that he was walking between us. ‘And I’m in a hurry.’
Alex slid away up the stairs to the canteen.
Sebastian was the director of the Lenoir Ballet Company, or the LBC as it was generally called. What he decreed, no one even thought of contradicting. Madame was the only person who from time to time stood up to him, but she always had to admit defeat in the end. Sebastian never raised his voice, but he saw no reason to make concessions to anyone. He would wait patiently, impassive faced, while Madame argued, pleaded and occasionally raved, before lifting and dropping his shoulders – a gesture which seemed to say ‘tiresomely a ballet company must have people in it’ – and replying, ‘All right. Now we do as I say.’
In many ways Sebastian was an ideal director. He had trained as a dancer, then worked for ten years as a choreographer, so he had a thorough knowledge of the business. It was largely thanks to Sebastian that we were, in the opinions of those who counted, the third most successful company in England. It was not impossible that we might one day improve our rating. His hair, black with a silver streak, was swept straight back from a high brow that looked noble until you came to know him better. Often people suspected him of dyeing it in emulation of the great Diaghilev but, having had frequent opportunities to examine it close to, I thought it was probably natural, since it never showed signs of growing out. On his handsome sardonic face was usually an expression that could scare you half to death. He certainly frightened me, even though I was beginning to know him quite well. For the last twelve months we had been lovers.
‘Come into my office.’ He steered me through a door into a room that was as elegantly shabby as the rest of the building. The LBC was housed in a row of unrestored Georgian houses in Blackheath. It lacked central heating, but the dancers warmed themselves by their exertions, and in Sebastian’s office there was a grate where logs burned through the winter. He had hung drawings by Gainsborough, Lawrence and other eighteenth-century luminaries, lent him by an art-dealer friend, on the flaking walls. Curtains of faded green silk hung at the windows. There was about his quarters a rich beauty which was reflected in all his tastes.
Money was the end to which all Sebastian’s efforts were directed. He needed it to entice gifted dancers, choreographers, designers and costumiers. He had to find money for travelling expenses for the touring part of the company, for publicity, for bribes, for paying people off. The acquisition of money was germane to all his decisions. I imagined that he thought of little else by day and probably dreamed about it at night. Yet no one could have accused him of personal extravagance. He wore his father’s old Savile Row suits and ate sparingly unless someone else was paying for it. As he seated himself languidly behind his desk and picked up the mother-of-pearl penknife he used to open letters, he had the negligent air of a country gentleman with comfortable estates and an agent to see to the horrid necessities. He tapped on the mahogany surface before him with the closed knife.
‘I hear Miko Lubikoff is coming to the workshop tonight.’
‘Is he?’ I aimed for something between mild interest and surprise in my tone to disguise the apprehension that seized my innermost parts. Miko Lubikoff was director of the English Ballet, the company whose reputation stood higher than the LBC’s and lower than the Royal Ballet’s. ‘Goodness!’
‘You didn’t know? Everyone else in the company seems well acquainted with the fact. Why should you be an exception, I wonder?’
‘Now I think of it, perhaps Alex did mention …’ I sort of hummed the rest of the sentence away.
‘Alex?’ A slight frown appeared between dark symmetrical brows. ‘Don’t pretend you think Miko is interested in him.’
‘Oh, no!’ In my eagerness to exonerate Alex I was perhaps too emphatic. ‘I-I mean, perhaps Miko just wants to see what we’re doing – there hasn’t been a new production of Giselle for ages … I expect he gets awfully bored with seeing the same old dancers—’
‘Miko does not allow himself to be bored. Nor –’ he sent me a glance that was distinctly unfriendly – ‘do I.’
I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look insouciant, though I was certain that the rapid pulse in the hollow of my throat must be visible from a hundred yards.
He stroked the smooth handle of the knife with long fingers. ‘I suspect he’s coming,’ he put his thumbnail into the slot provided for the purpose and brought out the blade, ‘because of you.’
‘Me? I don’t suppose