Dancing Daze (18 page)

Claire stares at her. “Really? You’d do all that for me?”

“Yes. Ballet has been good to me. I’d like to give something back, and we Irish ballerinas have to stick together. Without Maria’s support, I’m not sure I would have made it either. Besides, I miss talking about dancing. My husband and son don’t have that much interest.” Ethel’s still holding Claire’s hand and now she clasps it with her other hand and squeezes tight. “Claire, all this bullying has made you doubt yourself and your ability to dance Juliet, am I right?”

Claire nods silently, her eyes glittering with tears again.

“You must try to remember who you were before you started having these thoughts,” Ethel says. “Find a way back to that excited, passionate teenager who has just been accepted into one of the best ballet academies in the world. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll give it my best shot. I want to dance, Ethel. I want it more than anything else in the world. I’ll die if I can’t dance. But it’s just been so hard . . .”

Ethel nods. Now there are tears in her eyes too. She releases Claire’s hand and sits back in her chair again. “I know, my dear. Believe me, I know better than anyone. So, let’s exchange mobile numbers, and in the new year we can arrange your first Hungarian lesson, OK? And you can tell me all about dancing in front of the home crowd. It’s something I never got to do, unfortunately. The Budapest Ballet Company made it to London, but never to Dublin. Until then, Claire Starr, Irish Ballerina
extraordinaire,
I want you to be the best Juliet you can be. Give it everything, understand?”

“I will,” Claire promises. “And Ethel? You were an amazing dancer, one of the greats. I watch your DVDs all the time. No one has ever come close to your Juliet.”

Ethel lifts her chin and beams. “Thank you, my dear. I was rather fabulous, wasn’t I? And you will be just as good one day, maybe even better. Have faith, Claire.”

We walk Claire back to her digs, stamping footprints into the fresh snow, which is falling in big swirling flakes. Claire doesn’t stop smiling once.

“Olga Varga,” she keeps saying. “I can’t believe we’ve just met Olga Varga — Ethel, I mean. And she’s offered to give me Hungarian lessons! Was I dreaming? Did that really just happen?”

“Abso-doodle-lutely,” Clover says. “And you heard the woman. She thinks you could be just as good as her one day.”

“She was just being kind,” Claire says.

“She didn’t seem the ‘just being kind’ type,” Clover says. “In fact, she reminded me a lot of a certain someone, a certain rather determined Irish Ballerina.”

Claire laughs. “I should be so lucky. Olga Varga’s a living legend. And I can’t believe she was bullied too.”

“It all sounds horrible, Claire,” I say. “The kicking and everything. Are you all right?”

She sighs. “I will be. Ethel’s right. I have to stand up to them. I can’t throw everything away just because of one stupid jealous cow.” She shakes herself. “But let’s forget all that now. I could murder a hot chocolate. And then I’m going straight home to write down every single word of what just happened in my diary before I forget. It’s been quite a day.”

I almost stop in my tracks. Of course! I’ve been so stupid. The diary doesn’t hold the solution to Claire’s problem. It
is
the solution.

“How long have you been keeping a diary?” I ask her, trying to keep my voice light.

“Since I first arrived in Budapest, why?”

“You know what Ethel was saying about remembering who you used to be? Well, if you read your diary backward, it will do just that. It will take you back in time, day by day.”

Claire stares at me, her eyes bright, and for a second I think the game’s up. But then she just smiles. “You know something? That’s a great idea, Amy. I’ll read my diary. But not backward. I’ll start with my first week in Budapest. Ethel is right. I was unbelievably excited. I wanted to dance so badly — to be the best prima ballerina the world has ever seen. As good as Olga Varga, in fact. And I knew I had the talent to do it. I wouldn’t have let anyone stand in my way, and certainly not an overacting pig of a dancer like that Zsuzsanna Hommer.”

While Claire is standing at the counter of the coffee shop — she insisted on paying as our reward for the Olga Varga discovery — Clover is looking at me, a huge beam of a smile on her face.

“Why are you grinning at me like a lunatic?” I ask.

“You did good, Beanie. I know you still feel guilty about reading Claire’s diary, but don’t. It was the right thing to do.”

“The end justifies the means?” I say.

“
Exactement,
Bean Machine. You can now delete the file and erase all trace of what you were up to. And, of course, your secret is safe with me.”

As I smile back at her, I feel the guilt fall off my chest and spin in the air like a Hungarian snowflake.

“I can’t believe we’re back in boring old Dublin already,” I moan, stepping onto the Aircoach at Dublin airport behind Clover. It’s Sunday, early evening.

“I know, but I am looking forward to wearing my own clothes for a change. Kudos to your mum for tracking down my bag,” Clover says. “Although I’m growing kind of fond of this Puffa jacket. It’s Budapest blingtastic.”

“It sure is —” I’m cut off by my mobile ringing.

“Amy, you’re back,” says the voice at the other end of the line. It’s Dad. “Did you have a good time? How was Budapest?”

“It was fab,” I tell him. “We soaked in the baths and ate loads of chocolate cake, and we even got to see Claire dancing. So what’s up with you, Poparooney? Any news?”

“Yes, actually, that’s why I’m ringing. I thought you’d like to know that Gracie’s first tooth has just come through. She now has a tiny tooth in the middle of her bottom jaw.”

“Cute,” I say. “Is she crying a lot? Evie always cries when she’s teething.”

“All the time,” Dad says. “Last night Shelly had to get up —” He stops abruptly. “Hang on, I just heard the doorbell. Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.”

I hear voices and then a woman shrieking, “Yes, yes, yes!” What on earth is going on in Dad’s house?

Finally he comes back on the line and says, “Amy, I have to go. I’ll ring you back later.”

“What’s happening?”

“You won’t believe this, but a man just arrived at the door, looking for Pauline. Then as soon as he saw her, he dropped to one knee and proposed, right on the doorstep. You probably heard her shrieking yes.”

I gasp. It looks like my Send-Pauline-Packing plan may have worked. “No way!”

“I’d better go, Amy. Shelly looks like she’s in shock. I guess it’s not the ideal way to discover that your mum has a boyfriend.”

OK, that
wasn’t
part of the plan. “Ring me back as soon as you can, Dad.”

“I will.”

As soon as I click off the phone, Clover pounces. “What’s going on, Beanie?” she demands.

“I think I’d better start at the beginning. You know how much Dad loves living with Pauline . . .”

Clover snorts and rolls her eyes. “Not!”

“Exactly. Well, I decided I’d try to help him get rid of her. And anyway, Pauline’s miserable over here. She misses the sun and Dean, her boyfriend in Portugal. So I sent Dean a message on Facebook, saying how much I, well,
Pauline,
missed him. I found out her e-mail address and password when I was over at Dad’s place one evening.”

“And?” Clover says impatiently, her eyes wide.

“Dean sent her a lovely message back and a poem he’d written for her called ‘My Achy-Breaky Heart Belongs to Pauline.’ I waited for a few days to see if she’d reply, but she didn’t. She mustn’t have spotted the message and I didn’t want him to think she’d changed her mind or anything . . .”

The edges of Clover’s mouth twitch. She clutches my arm. “Please put me out of my misery. Tell me you sent him a poem back, something really smoochy.”

My cheeks flare guiltily.

Clover hoots with laughter. “Beanie, you so did! Coola boola. What was it, Shakespeare?” Her eyes are twinkling.

How did she guess? “Yes. I sent him one of Shakespeare’s sonnets about ‘the marriage of true minds,’ and a poem by a man called Robert Burns about love being like ‘a red, red rose.’”

“Ha! Good woman. And don’t tell me, Dean is at your dad’s house now, looking for Pauline.”

“He’s gone one better! He just proposed to her, right on the doorstep.” My mobile rings again. “Hang on. It’s Dad again.”

“Amy, are you there?” Dad sounds in a bit of a state.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Has Pauline decided to stay in Ireland?”

“No, she’s going back to Portugal with Dean. He’s already booked them both on a flight this evening. He says he has to get back right away to keep an eye on his pub. No, it’s Shelly.”

“Is she upset about Dean?”

“No, in fact she’s excited for her mum about that. She’s a bit shocked, of course, but she says she’s thrilled to see her mum so happy. It was when she realized that Pauline was leaving immediately that she got upset. I think she blames me. She says if I’d made Pauline feel more welcome, she might stay a bit longer and help with Gracie. Shelly says she can’t cope without her mum because I’m so hopeless at baby stuff and I’m always at work and she’s exhausted from doing everything by herself. I’ve tried to explain that maybe I’d be more inclined to come home early if Pauline wasn’t around all the time, but she just stormed off. She’s even talking about going to live in Portugal with Pauline and taking Gracie with her. And I think she’s serious.”

Yikes, I hadn’t anticipated that!

“And now Shelly’s shut herself in our bedroom,” Dad goes on, “and she won’t talk to me. From the noise inside, I think she’s packing. What am I going to do, Amy? I’ll die without Shelly and Gracie. They’re my life.” I’ve never heard him so upset.

My stomach sinks into my Converses and I start to feel a little faint. What have I done? I was trying to get rid of Pauline, not Shelly.

“Dad, we’re just going into the tunnel,” I say, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. “Can you hear me? . . . . No signal . . . Ring you back.” And then I cut him off.

Clover is staring at me. “Tunnel, Beanie? What tunnel? What’s going on now? You look like you’ve seen a banshee.”

“I’m in troublesville, Clover. Deep, deep
merde.
Shelly’s talking about moving to Portugal with Pauline and taking Gracie with her!”

“What! She can’t do that. Dublin is Gracie’s home. And Shelly’s crazy about Art. Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. But I have to do something, Clover. I have to help Dad. He can’t lose Shelly and Gracie, he just can’t.” My heart is hammering in my chest.

Clover says nothing for a few minutes. Then she pats my hand. “We’re not going to let that happen, Beanie. Don’t you worry, we’ll think of something.”

Dad is so relieved to see us on the doorstep, he nearly weeps. “Please tell me you’ve come to talk Shelly around,” he says in a low voice. His face is gray, and I’ve never seen him look so worried.

Clover nods. “Yes. If we can.”

“Thank God. If I lose my girls, I don’t know what I’ll do. Please do everything you can to make Shelly understand, OK? If she’ll only talk to me . . .”

And for the first time ever, Clover gives him a hug. “We’ll do our best, Art. But if we manage to get Shelly to speak to you, you have to promise to be a better dad to both Amy and Gracie.”

“And Shelly’s right. You do have to help with Gracie more, Dad,” I add. “Where is Gracie, anyway? Is she OK?”

“She’s fine,” Dad says. “Dean’s giving her a bottle. He’s very good with babies, despite all the tattoos. Pauline’s upstairs packing.”

Clover smiles gently. “I can’t wait to meet this Dean dude, but first Shelly. We’ll do what we can, Art, OK? Promise.”

Dad nods, his face still ashen.

I follow Clover up the stairs. Clover knocks on Dad and Shelly’s bedroom door, and we both listen carefully. Nothing. She tries again. “It’s Clover and Amy, Shelly,” she says. “Can we come in?”

Silence.

“Please?” I say. “It’s important.”

The door opens a crack, and Shelly’s blotchy face appears. “I know your dad sent you, Amy, and you can tell him, nice try but it’s too late,” she says, her voice cracked and breathy from crying. “My mind’s made up. I can’t look after Gracie on my own. I’m scared I’ll do something wrong. I had no idea babies were so difficult. And Art’s no use. If Mum leaves, I’ll have no one to ask about rashes and coughs and teething and stuff. I can’t do it alone, so I’m going to stay with Mum in Portugal until . . . until . . .” She starts crying. “I’m sorry, Amy. Really I am.”

“Won’t you just talk to Dad?” I beg.

“No. I have to go now.” And the door shuts.

Clover and I look at each other. “What now?” I ask.

“There’s only one person who is going to change Shelly’s mind,” she says in a low voice. “And that’s Pauline. We have no other option.”

I wince. “I wish it wasn’t true, Clover, but you’re right. Let’s do it now before we chicken out.”

Clover crosses herself and starts walking up the small flight of stairs toward Pauline’s room. This time when Clover knocks, the door swings open immediately.

“Yes?” Pauline looks at us suspiciously.

“Can we talk to you, Pauline?” Clover says. “In private.”