Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

It was over, then.

The new soloist for the West Coast Ballet Theatre arrived on the first Friday in August and by Friday afternoon the buzz of gossip and speculation had risen to the organization’s administrative level. Alice heard two girls enter the ladies’ room talking, as she huddled in a faux-suede armchair on the lounge side, clutching a letter addressed to Alice Willoughby, associate director of development, and contemplating the terrible news contained within.

The girls turned right, toward the sinks, without looking in the direction of the lounge. “But how could you have not seen her?” one of them was asking in a high, girlish voice. “She was here last spring for those two days, for her audition.”

“That must have been the week I was so sick and missed company class a few times. But nobody made a fuss about her at the time."

"Because we all thought she was auditioning for the frickin’
corps
, not for a soloist position."

"What’s she like?”

Alice leaned forward and caught the girls’ reflection in the corner floor-to-ceiling mirror. Ballet dancers. If the leotards and tights hadn’t given them away, the hair, slicked back and corralled into a bun high on the backs of their heads, would have. High-voice was a pretty, dark-haired girl who hoisted herself onto the Formica counter before replying.

“Oh, God. She’s a perfect nightmare.”

“Skinny?”

“Well, duh
.
”

“How are her legs?”

High-voice sighed. “Up to her armpits.”

“Feet?”

“Banana arches.”

“Extensions?”

“Effortless. Obscene.”

“Bitch,” the other girl muttered.

“No kidding.” High-voice twisted around to study her face in the mirror above the sinks. "And she was a soloist, in Kansas City, where they only have a thirty-five-week contract. You’d think corps de ballet here with us, right?”

“Totally!”

“Oh, why did Anders change his mind? A soloist. God.”

“Wonder who she slept with to make
that
happen?” The other girl gazed around, scanning the room, the textured beige walls, as if the answer might be written there. Instead she caught sight of Alice’s reflection in the corner mirror. She stared, horrified, then gave her friend a nudge.

“Poor Gabrielle,” High-voice was saying. “She was so sure she’d get the… Ow! Why are you poking me, Charlotte?” She caught sight of Alice, as well, and her next words trailed off.

Alice approached them, setting the letter on the counter to wash her hands. “Well, hello there,” she drawled. “Bet you’re glad to see I’m not the new girl.”

She could sense their relief, mingled with embarrassment. “It was just that…” High-voice began, but Alice waved away her words.

“Don’t worry, I understand.” She soaped her hands, meeting their eyes in the mirror. “I’ve been around for a long time. I’ve seen and heard it all.”

The girls smiled, relaxed. She guessed they were corps dancers, the lowest level on the hierarchy, who’d taken company class earlier, not bothering to change from their skimpy leotards and tights. In that peculiar way dancers had of wandering publicly, confidently, in a state of near-undress, they made Alice feel like the anomaly, overdressed in her business attire, bursting with flesh next to their quivering whippet thinness, their dance-ness.

A pang shot through her, not unlike the twinges of pain her knee still gave her. She drew herself taller and allowed a note of chilliness to enter her voice as she reached for a paper towel. “What brings you girls to the administrative level?”

They reacted accordingly, eyes wide, laced with unease. “It’s all right to use this restroom, isn’t it?” one girl asked.

“Of course. What a silly question!”

“The other restroom was so crowded,” the other added. “Last day of the school’s summer intensive, all those kids acting hyper and emotional.”

“Yes, indeed.” Alice paused to scrutinize her bobbed chestnut hair in the mirror, smooth it into place. “And of course the company members are returning in full force this week, right?”

They both nodded eagerly. “Oh,
everyone’s
here now,” High-voice exclaimed.

“So it would seem. Even the new girl.”

Before they could stutter another apology, she turned, picked up the offending letter and headed toward the door. “Have a nice day,” she called over her shoulder.

As for her, thanks to the news she now had to share with her boss, her day was screwed.

The opportunity to discuss the bad news came up quicker than expected. She encountered Gil striding down the hallway just as she was returning to their offices. “Alice,” he exclaimed, “that’s no expression for a Friday afternoon.”

He flashed her a grin, looking like a kid, which was no great stretch as he was still in his twenties. He was the boy wonder of the WCBT: a surprise hire for director of development three years earlier at the tender age of twenty-six, uncommonly successful at his job, a master of charm and persuasion. He still had the high coloring of a boy, as well—cherry lips, smooth complexion, his wide blue eyes an unlikely match with his glossy black hair. Office eye-candy. He knew this and cheerfully exploited it whenever it suited his needs.

“Why the down face?”

On impulse she thrust the letter at him. “Here’s something that might kill your TGIF glow. From the Prescott Foundation.”

She watched his expression as he scanned the letter. When he winced, she knew he’d gotten to the part about the foundation’s regret in being unable to match the previous three years’ contributions of $200,000, but they were pleased to award the West Coast Ballet Theatre $10,000 for the following year.

He finished the letter and looked up at her. “Well, shit,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered. “I should have seen this coming.”

Gil shook his head. “Don’t beat yourself up. I didn’t see it coming either. I had lunch with one of the board members a few weeks back and he led me to believe we were still in good standing. And we are, really. It says here that they look forward to returning to a bigger award next year.”

She was too disheartened to offer further reply.

He studied the letter again and flipped it over, just as she’d done, as if hoping to find a
Just kidding!
postscript on the back. He sighed. “The worst part is that I have a meeting on Monday morning with Charlie and the board of directors. Things were looking so good for next year. This is going to put us way under forecast.”

“Can you pretend like we haven’t gotten the letter yet?”

Gil shook his head. “They might have copied Charlie Stanton.”

“How about we sort of stretch the truth on the proposals that are out, the ones I’m almost sure will be a go?”

“No. The best thing at this point would be to come up with a new lead. A strong one.”

“By Monday?”

“Sure.”

“Well, gee.” She consulted her watch. “Two o’clock. That gives you roughly three working hours.”

He smiled. “I’ve had bigger challenges thrown at me.”

Something in her began to feel the tiniest bit better. “Okay, boss. Let me know if I can help.”

“I will. Don’t go anywhere.”

He set to work immediately. Over the next ninety minutes, she overheard him on the phone, networking with friends, business associates, service personnel, local receptionists—anyone who might serve as a point of contact for reeling in a bigger fish. He regularly checked with the city’s hotel concierges to find out what group was in the hotel, who’d stopped in the lounge for a drink. Today that avenue paid off. She heard him speaking more enthusiastically and after he hung up he emitted a loud whoop.

Moments later he was at Alice’s office door, shrugging into his suit jacket, clutching his BlackBerry and keys. “Let’s go,” he said.

She looked up from the report she was editing. “You did it? Like that?”

“It’s big, Alice. Big, big, big.” He grinned at her, then made shooing motions with his hands. “Come on, already. I can’t guarantee how long he’ll be there.”

“Where? Who?”

“The lounge at the Ritz-Carlton. The who? Only Andy Redgrave.”

Her mouth formed a silent O.

He chuckled. “Yes. My sentiments exactly.”

“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s do it.”

The Redgrave Foundation, like its eponymous billionaire founder, was notoriously elusive and difficult to conduct business with. But its allure was irresistible: five million dollars of its considerable funds reserved for the California arts annually. Last year the San Francisco Symphony had received $1.2 million. The WCBT had received a form rejection.

Gil’s plan now, he told Alice as he drove, was to wander in, strike up a conversation with Andy and bring up the name of a friend of a friend he’d dug up. Andy was a theater person—Gil’s former domain, where he still had influential friends. This mutual friend was a sure connection, Gil insisted.

“So why am I here?” Alice asked.

“Well, you’ll be Plan B.”

“What is Plan B?”

“That part I haven’t figured out yet.”

She clutched the door handle tighter. “Jesus, Gil. I don’t know about this.”

“Trust me here,” he said as they pulled up along the Ritz-Carlton’s front drive. As a team of valets hurried over to their car, Alice drew in a deep breath. She had to trust him; there were no other options at this point.

The lobby was predictably opulent, replete with chandeliers, marble floors, elaborate vases of flowers. Half a dozen staff members stood at attention, poised to offer immediate assistance to guests. Alice took a seat on a cream brocade settee just outside the lounge as Gil went on in. A few seconds later she picked up his soothing baritone. A murmur of conversation followed and, to Alice’s relief, a rumble of laughter. She waited another minute, rose and entered the lounge.

Gil spotted her and waved. Beside him sat Andy Redgrave. Early forties, Alice guessed, lean, receding silvery-blond hair, elegant in a fitted charcoal suit, looking every inch the powerful billionaire player. He was not handsome in the same way Gil was; his face was too angular, but it served to highlight his posh bearing, the arresting nature of his pale blue eyes.

Gil made the introductions. Alice accepted Andy’s offer to join them for a drink, a glass of white wine the server produced even before she could settle into her high-backed leather chair. Sipping her wine, she listened to the others talk. The two men across from Andy remained largely silent, listening to Gil recount an anecdote about Gil and Andy’s mutual friend.

"So, we both know Joel," Andy said afterward. "I've just learned Alice is your associate. But I didn’t catch what organization you two work for."

He hadn’t told Andy yet. She couldn’t believe it. Her toes curled in fearful anticipation.

"The West Coast Ballet Theatre Association." Gil offered Andy his most winning smile.

"In what capacity?"

"Oh. That would be development."

Andy's own smile faded. “I hope you’re not here to try and talk business.”

“Not in the least,” Gil assured him. “We know your organization’s submission guidelines.”

“Good. Because otherwise I’d feel compelled to ask you to leave.”

“I can fully appreciate that.” Gil kept his tone confident, but Alice saw behind his eyes the first flicker of insecurity.

It was time for Plan B.

Fast.

“Actually,” Alice blurted out, “Gil and I are here to settle a bet. He didn’t believe me when I told him my great-great-grandfather and yours might have done business together.”

Gil stared at her, baffled.

Andy looked her way as well. “Your great-great-grandfather. And he would be…?”

"Elijah Whittier.”

"Ah. Railroads."

Alice nodded.

Andy cocked his head at her. "What did you say your last name was?"

"Willoughby."

"As in James Willoughby?"

"No. Thomas."

"I don't know the name."

"Neither did my mother's family." Alice offered him a conspiratorial grin. "But she married him anyway."

The corners of Andy's mouth lifted as he raised his highball glass and took a sip of his scotch. “Well, Gil,” he said after he’d set the drink down. “It would appear you lost the bet. So what do you owe your associate?”

“A drink.” Gil’s eyes latched onto Alice’s, transmitting pure, unadulterated gratitude. “A big one.”

Gil hadn't conceded the game, however. He worked the conversation back to Chicago, to the mutual friend, mentioning how he’d helped Joel's brother create and run the Haberdasher Street Repertory Theatre.

"Good troupe they've got there in residence right now,” Andy commented.

"Agreed."

"Who do you think is the better actor, Bryce Hamlin or Hodge O'Connor?"

"It depends on whether you're talking about the dramatic roles or all-around versatility. Or sex appeal."

"Which do you think most lends itself to an actor's success?"

"Oh, sex appeal,” Gil said. “Face it. Sex sells."

Alice winced.

Andy, as well, looked taken aback, even disdainful. "Sex…”

"Sex," Gil repeated. "An unmistakable facet of life. And what's theater if not an elaboration of the core stimulus that drives us? A vicarious release of all those subconscious desires every human carries down in them. Desire for power. For sex. For domination. Being dominated."

Silence. Alice saw the account flash before their eyes and disappear. She hardly dared look in Gil’s direction. But when she stole a glance a moment later, he was smiling, calm, regarding Andy expectantly.

Andy sat back in his leather armchair, his hands coming together to form a steeple. "I think that's a provocative perspective.”

"Good theater is nothing if not provocative. Art in general. As it should be.”

Andy mulled over this without replying. He reached for his glass, took a sip of his scotch and glanced at his Rolex. Alice's spirits sank. They’d been dismissed. Andy confirmed this when he stood a moment later. The two men accompanying him scrambled to their feet as well.

"I'm afraid we must take our leave," Andy said.