Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

Once inside her house, she saw from the answering machine’s blinking light that she had a phone message. She played it and smiled as Niles’s voice filled the room. He was still up, working, and told her to call when she came in.

She punched his number into the phone and took a seat on the couch. Odette, her cat, came trotting toward her with a sleepy meow. Alice patted the spot beside her and Odette leapt onto it. “Hey, lover boy,” she said into the phone when Niles picked up.

“Hello, beautiful. You calling from home?”

“I am.”

“How was the event?”

“It was something else. Very impressive digs. The catered food was out of this world.”

“And how’d it go with the business?”

“I’d say it went well. Except for Gil’s date. Her presence, well, it sort of got in the way of the business angle at one point. Like, seriously in the way.”

“Whoops.”

Emotions now safely tucked away, she was able to talk about Lana dispassionately. “The poor girl. She’s young, pretty, but was so out of her league there. Gil sort of blew her off by the end and she just didn’t know how to deal with it all. I had to get her out of there before things turned bad. She was really upset, so we stopped at Denny’s for coffee and a chat.”

“That was nice of you.”

“Oh, well, it’s not like you were here for me to rush home to, anyway.” She stroked Odette’s silky fur. “So, what time can I expect your company tomorrow? Should I do the early yoga class, or are you coming up after lunch?”

“Well, the thing is.” A tired exhale punctuated his reply. “I’m not going to be able to come up tomorrow after all, sweets. A whole section of this report, engineering’s data on the presentation, blew up in my face today. I managed to get a hold of a few of the guys and we’re meeting tomorrow in the office to get to the bottom of it.”

Shit.
Shit.

“Niles,” she said, trying to sound reasonable, “you’ve been working all weekend already. Can’t it wait till Monday morning?”

“Monday morning is when I’m supposed to be presenting these results to my boss. It has to be done before then. I hate it too. I really do.”

She felt too crabby and disappointed to reply.

“Hey,” he said a moment later. “You still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s what you said Friday night when you cancelled. In fact, tomorrow was supposed to be the makeup for that.”

“It won’t always be like this. It’s just…”

“I know, I know. ‘Things are just busy right now,’” she mimicked. How tired she was of hearing that. How tired of everything she felt right then.

“I told you I’m sorry. I meant it.”

She could almost see the determined set of his face. He was not the type to get deterred or derailed by someone else’s opinion, even their disapproval. It was one of the many things she admired about him. He was no pushover. He knew what he wanted and he quietly pursued it, maintaining a sense of focus, of ethics and decorum in the process. He was nothing like Gil.

Thank goodness.

Sensing her moodiness, he changed the subject. “Gil’s date, the dancer. Watching her seemed to unsettle you on Monday, after you’d been sent over to the studio.”

“No it didn’t,” she said, realizing too late Niles was merely repeating to her what she’d told him on Monday night. Damn. Caught in her own lie.

“What I mean to say is,” she continued, “it was a jolt, that’s all. Like seeing a friend from high school and it’s just been too long and you have nothing more in common, so it’s uncomfortable. Like that.”

“So being with her tonight has nothing to do with the fact that you’re sounding a little, um, shrill right now?”

“I am not sounding shrill!”

Niles, to his credit, did not comment on the shrill nature of her reply.

“Look,” she said. “I know what you’re getting at. But the whole ballet dancer aspect of my life is ancient history. I’m over it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Can we just fucking drop it?”

She’d never spewed out an obscenity or a harsh retort to him like that before. Another first between them.

“Alice,” he said in that soothing, put-out-the-fire voice of his. “Do you want me to come up? I can be there in thirty minutes. I’d have to leave early in the morning, but I’ll come up if you want me to.”

The tightness inside her eased. This was what she’d been longing to hear. Except that he was offering it to placate her, not because it was what he wanted. This was not the way she wanted to woo him to her bed.

“No, that’s okay,” she forced herself to say. She apologized for the sharp tone, for the funk that had come over her, that had now passed. She was over it. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Sorry to have bothered him in calling so late.

“It wasn’t a bother. I’m always glad to talk to you.”

“Call me, tomorrow night?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“And Montserrat told me to tell you not to pull any cancellations on her for her Monday night dinner party. She leaves on Tuesday for an East Coast tour.”

“I promise you, this time I won’t let you down. I swear.”

“Okay. Good night.”

After they’d disconnected, she sat there, stroking Odette’s silky fur. What a load of dark adrenaline running through her. Unprecedented. Good thing it was a one-time occurrence, and fading away even now.

All was well. With a sigh she rose, gave Odette one last pat, and headed upstairs to bed.

She smelled the man before she saw him, as she stood at the counter of her neighborhood store, buying a muffin, banana and hot tea. It was the smell of the streets, a cocktail of unwashed clothing, urine, the sickly sweet smell of metabolizing booze. It was a difficult smell any time of the day, but on a Sunday morning it was particularly rank. She turned and saw the man, middle-aged, unshaven, brown hair in wild disarray, wearing an ancient, torn parka and tan trousers that were stained down the front with something wet. What, precisely, she didn’t want to know. He took a few more shuffling steps and crashed into the potato chip display stand, which tipped precariously.

The store owner, a scowling Pakistani, shouted at him from behind the counter. The man backed up and took a lunging step toward Lana, who recoiled.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he slurred with a grin, as if amused more than offended by her disgust, her unease. His beery breath wafted over to her in a great wave.

“Get out of here, sir,” the owner said in a clipped, tight voice.

His son, coming from the back room, was more verbal. “What did I tell you just last week, Coop? Out you go. Stop scaring the customers. Shoo. Now!”

Lana watched the man shuffle out. He was one of the street people who congregated between her apartment building and the adjacent liquor store. She’d sometimes toss a few coins into the hat he’d set out but she preferred to steer clear and avoid eye contact. Conversation was out of the question; she wouldn’t have known what to say to someone so down and out.

She paid for her items and took them to the back of the shop where there were a few scuffed Formica tables and chairs. She felt awful this morning; after last night’s catastrophe she’d stayed up to watch late-night and late-late night-TV and had consequently overslept. She’d only had time to get dressed, throw what she needed into her dance bag and head out. The shop, fortunately, sold bakery-fresh bran muffins. She sat and ate her muffin, her banana, even though she was too nervous to feel hungry.

It was their first actual rehearsal for
Autumn Souvenir,
following the introductory rehearsal ten days earlier. Denis Rousselot, the stager, would be working concurrently with the two casts of leads. He wanted the second cast to be there, but to remain in back while he focused on Lana and Javier first. This in itself wasn’t unusual; Lana had often been part of a second cast, relegated to the back. First cast, as well. But the prospect of the attention here, these days, with everyone assessing her critically, unfavorably, cut her breath short with anxiety. Denis was Paris Opera Ballet-trained, had spent the majority of his career there, and was accustomed to working with performers of the highest caliber. Would he, too, eye her critically, unfavorably?

But he’d chosen her, she reminded herself. He’d decided that she embodied exactly what Benoit Moreau, the French choreographer, now in his eighties, had intended. Denis had been part of
Autumn Souvenir’s
1988 premiere, handpicked and trained by Moreau himself. He’d performed the male lead a half-dozen times with the Paris Opera Ballet, and since retiring, had staged the production internationally twice that amount. He was as accomplished and terrifying as Anders Gunst in some ways. She dared not let either of those men, or her partner, Javier Torres, down.

Enough sitting and fretting; it was stressing her out. She wrapped up the last of her muffin, tossed out the banana peel, grabbed her tea and headed out.

Market Street was calm in the aftermath of Saturday night’s revelry. The air slapped her face as she walked. It was fresh, bracing, the sun beginning to peer through as it burned off the morning fog. Her footsteps grew slower as she approached the WCBT building, quiet and all but deserted on a Sunday morning. Inside the building, just past security, she consulted the day’s rehearsal sheet tacked on the bulletin board and saw that Denis was holding his rehearsals in the second floor studio. She headed over, her heart thumping louder with each step. Closer to the room, she heard voices. She peered in.

Denis was talking with the four female corps dancers who’d just finished their rehearsal with him. Ben was there, too, but on the phone, engrossed in conversation. She recognized Courtney and one of her close friends, Gabrielle, a tall dancer with wide green eyes that seemed too big for her face, lending her a permanently startled expression. They were easing off their pointe shoes while chatting with Denis. The accompanist was collecting her music, preparing to leave.

Otherwise, no one. She’d been expecting a crowd, and instead there was this. Denis looked up at Lana, perplexed. “Hello, what are you doing here?” he asked in his French-tinted English.

It was like something out of a bad dream. “I’m on the schedule,” she said. “Javier and I. The two casts of lead couples, right?”

“Didn’t one of the girls here call you? They were supposed to call you.” He directed his frown to the women.

“I called Javier, like you said,” Gabrielle said. “And he called the other couple.”

“I did call her,” Courtney said to Denis. “Her voice mail picked up. I guessed maybe she was already on her way here.”

“Well, why didn’t you call her earlier?” Denis snapped.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have her number on me. I had to go hunt down the roster and when I came back, you were shouting at me to pay attention. I called when I could.” She flashed an apologetic glance at Lana. “Sorry.”

Lana pulled out her phone and sure enough, a missed message. Likely when she’d been walking down Market, where the street sounds had overridden the phone’s chime.

Denis turned to Lana. “I’m sorry to do this to you. This is a rarity, I promise. Something has come up and I can’t remain for the second rehearsal. We’ll plan on meeting on Tuesday afternoon, though, yes? I am sorry you had to leave your home on a Sunday morning for nothing.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. No problem at all,” Lana said.

Disappointment engulfed her. She didn’t want to go home. Not when all those terrible thoughts and the memory of what had happened last night were there, lying in wait for her to enter the room, where they’d swoop down and suffocate her. How ironic, that she’d been dreading this rehearsal, all but wishing it away, and now it was gone, with nothing to protect her.

She stood there, unsure of what to do next, even as everyone around her moved busily. Ben, still on his phone call, offered Lana a distracted smile and wave. The female dancers ignored her.

“All right,
je vous laisse, mes filles
,” Denis said, shouldering his bag and picking up his empty coffee cup and joining Ben, who was now heading out the door, still on the phone. “I am, as you say, out of here. I’ll see all of you on Tuesday.”

“
Au revoir
, Denis,” Courtney trilled. One of the corps dancers followed the two men out as Courtney gathered her things and turned to Gabrielle. “Ready?”

“Just about.” Gabrielle finished wrapping the pink satin ribbons around her pointe shoes, tucking in the tips. She stowed them into her bag and eased into her sandals. “You joining us?” she asked the other corps dancer.

She smiled, pleased. “Sure, why not?”

Gabrielle hesitated and turned to Lana. “We’re going out for a coffee. Do you want to join us?”

She heard the reluctance in Gabrielle’s voice, the way the other two averted their eyes, busying themselves with arranging the contents of their dance bags. “Gosh, thanks,” Lana said. “But I think I’ll just head back home. Stop in on a friend who lives nearby.” She envisioned Coop, shuffling over to his spot, his bedroll, by Lana’s building. Her good friend Coop.

“Well, okay,” Gabrielle said, and the relief from the corps dancers was palpable. “Have a nice visit with your friend.”

“I will. See you guys in class tomorrow morning.”

The street people were up and about by the time she returned to her street. A grizzled black man hunched in a grimy jacket called out for spare change in a voice that sounded accusing, almost like a challenge. Another man stumbled past, raving and muttering to himself about the motherfucker who’d pay, he’d
pay
for that, man, that
motherfucker
would
pay.
The last bit, shouted out as his eyes darted about wildly, caused the pedestrians to create a wide berth around him.

Coop, more lucid now, was standing by his bedroll in front of her building. He’d changed his trousers, she noticed, and combed his hair. He caught her glance and nodded at her, which she found disconcerting.

“It was a chilly one last night,” he said to her. “That wind.”

“It still is pretty chilly,” she agreed. A burst of altruism came over her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee to warm you up?” She gestured to the store he’d been kicked out of earlier.