Pirouette (10 page)

twenty-two

It was almost midnight when the car turned into the driveway of Hannah's sprawling Armadale home. A single lamp lit up the entrance to the front door, but they drove past it and entered the house through a door off the garage. A large, barking Labrador jumped up and slobbered all over Simone, sending her toppling into Manfred.

“Kimmy missed you,” said Vanessa, laughing. “He was such a misery bag after you left.”

“Calm down, boy,” Manfred boomed cheerfully, “or you'll knock her over.”

Simone reached out a tentative hand to pat the animal. Then, realizing that Hannah would probably match the canine's greeting with equal fervor, she put both arms around him and ruffled his fur.

When the dog had settled down, Simone saw she was in an open kitchen that spilled into a large and comfortable living room. Despite the barking, laughing, raised voices, TV blaring, and door slamming, Hannah's brother Adam was asleep on the couch.

Following her gaze, Vanessa said, “He was determined to wait up for you. I just knew he wouldn't last—not after riding his bike and swimming all day.” Her expression was soft, her voice filled with affection. Then she turned her attention back to Simone, who was still surveying her surroundings, taking in the size of the room and the fact that it was warm and welcoming. “Home always looks different when you've been away.”

“It does,” Simone agreed.

“When things are too familiar you just stop seeing them, but time away makes you open your eyes.”

Simone gave Vanessa a wistful smile.

“So, how was Candance?”

“Uh … great!” said Simone.

“You haven't said a word about it, and I thought you'd be talking our ears off.”

Simone chuckled. She could just imagine Hannah talking their ears off.

“Are you hungry, darling? Did you eat on the plane?”

Simone shook her head. Now that Vanessa had brought her attention to the subject of food, she realized that the pleasant aroma she'd noticed before was in fact the smell of freshly baked cake.

“No you're not hungry, or no you didn't eat on the plane?”

“Both,” said Simone.

“I spent the afternoon baking. You've got a choice be-tween poppy-seed swirl, orange cake, and pecan pie.”

Simone shook her head. “Thanks, but … maybe tomorrow.”

“No to cake? You must be even more exhausted than you look. Why don't you go up to bed?”

Simone nodded, then mumbled good night. Manfred picked up Hannah's suitcase and crossed the kitchen in just a few strides. Half in a daze, Simone followed him down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into Hannah's room. He put the suitcase down with a flourish and a “There you are, Ma'am,” and once again Simone was enfolded in this giant's embrace.

And then Manfred was gone, leaving behind his lingering scent. Simone was alone in Hannah's room.

It was about three times the size of her room at home, and far more luxurious. Wall-to-wall-carpet—the same rich green carpet that lined the staircase and the upstairs hall—covered the floor, and the walls were painted lemon and white. The curtains too were lemon and white, with a delicate pattern of tiny green leaves. Five shelves and a massive desk took up almost an entire wall. One shelf housed textbooks, including some French ones. There were also a few books in a language Simone didn't recognize. Possibly Hebrew. A couple of those seemed to come with translations. She pulled one out and looked at it. The English title on the front said
The Jewish Book of Prayer
. The foreign language title was on the back, except that the front seemed to be where the book ended, and vice versa.

She put it back and looked at the books on the other shelves. Most were novels, and many bore the imprint of Seagull Press. Simone ran a hand along their spines, avoiding the temptation to read their titles or she'd be up all night. She sat down for a moment at Hannah's desk, which was covered in knickknacks, photos, and souvenirs. Not for the first time, she wished she'd shared her sister's life.

Pushing that thought aside, she began to unpack. Hannah's wardrobe was in a state of chaos. Simone emptied all the drawers and closets, then folded each item individually. Half an hour later, the wardrobe bore a passing resemblance to her wardrobe at home, and Simone felt a little calmer.

She showered in Hannah's ensuite bathroom and put on Hannah's baby doll pajamas, which were crumpled but clean. Then she slipped into Hannah's bed, which was bigger and more comfortable than the one she was used to. The lacy white quilt cover, with its pink satin trimming, had a matching pillowcase, and Simone thought they were very pretty. She rested her head on the plumped up pillow, clutching Hannah's iPhone.

A handsome Hollywood actor smiled down at her from posters on the wall above. Suddenly Simone was hungry and wished she had accepted a slice of cake. She wouldn't go downstairs and ask—not when she'd have to confront Vanessa and Manfred again. Not that Hannah's parents hadn't been wonderful. It was just that keeping up the pretence was a strain, and now she needed some time alone.

A little while later, footsteps and murmured voices passed her door. Manfred and Vanessa were going to bed. Soon the strip of light under her door went dark.

At last, the house was completely quiet, and when Simone
was sure that everyone had gone to sleep, she rang the familiar number of her own mobile phone.

“Sim! How are you? I've been waiting ages for your call.”

And although it had only been a few hours since she'd last seen Hannah, Simone almost cried because it felt so good to hear her voice.

twenty-three

Hannah opened the bedroom door and peered along the narrow hallway, wondering whether Harriet was already up. The bathroom door creaked open and Hannah withdrew into the bedroom just as Harriet emerged. She held her breath and listened, waiting till the sound of footsteps passed her door. Then she grabbed a pair of Simone's shorts and a T-shirt and hurried into the bathroom to shower and change, not yet comfortable enough in her new surroundings to laze around in her pajamas until after breakfast, as she would have at home.

By the time she entered the kitchen, Harriet had gone to work. She'd left a note on the kitchen table:
Back by six. Call if you need anything. Love, Mum.

Perfect. Hannah could explore the house and neighborhood openly, with no interruptions. As she hadn't eaten anything since leaving Canberra the night before, she'd start with the kitchen.

Dishes were stacked neatly in the kitchen cupboards, along with glasses and mugs, pots and pans. Cutlery was in the top drawer under the sink, and food was in a cupboard beside the fridge—two boxes of cereal and one of oats, a few tins of tuna and sardines, two cans of baked beans, a tin of rice cakes, one unopened jar of pickles, a box of tea bags, and a jar half-full of instant coffee. Next to the microwave was a bread bin, containing a single loaf of whole-grain bread.

The closest thing to sugar was a pot of honey. There were no cookies or cake, and no flour for baking. Hannah opened the fridge, hoping its contents would be generous enough to make up for the lack of a decent pantry, but it held nothing but a carton of milk, a half-finished container of cottage cheese, plain yogurt, six eggs, and half a melon.

There was something frugal—stingy, even—about this kitchen, Hannah concluded, remembering the well-stocked pantry at home. She let out a small sigh of resignation and helped herself to a serving of Sultana Bran and a slice of melon, then washed her dishes, returned the kitchen to the immaculate state in which she'd found it, and wandered over to the living room.

She hadn't seen this room before. In contrast to the kitchen—with its sparse furnishings and nothing but a rather ordinary calendar hanging on the wall—this room, though small, was densely furnished, with comfortable couches in muted florals on a thick cream carpet. But what really caught Hannah's attention were the magnificent photos, which covered almost every available inch of wall space. All were of Simone in full dance costume, mostly in some sort of dance pose—an
arabesque
, an
attitude en pointe
, a
relevé
with her arms in fifth, a
grand jeté
in which she seemed to be flying.

That could be me,
Hannah thought as she studied a particularly beautiful photo of Simone leaping through the air, legs stretched and toes pointed, arms soft and head erect.
They could all be me
.

In fact, if she hadn't known better, Hannah might have thought they were her. She felt a pang of envy, and wished she could believe that she too were capable of such perfection.

In some of the photos, Simone looked as if she were about to go onstage, or had just finished a performance. In every one of them, her face was made up, her hair was immaculate, and she was artfully positioned for the camera.

The photos spanned several years. There were older ones, taken when Simone was five, six, seven years old—a cute Simone in tap shoes, a mini-skirt, and missing teeth—and later ones, when she was perhaps nine, ten, eleven years old. In many of them, Simone held a trophy of some sort, or wore a medal around her neck. In the photos taken in recent years, Simone held nothing but the occasional bouquet of flowers. The trophies must have stopped when she'd started training at the VSD, where students weren't allowed to compete.

Hannah circled the room again, taking a closer look at each photo in turn. The more she looked, the more it seemed that something was wrong with the overall picture. At first she couldn't work out what it was. But the realization gradually grew on her … there wasn't a single photo of the real Simone. No snapshots of birthday parties, Christmas parties, family gatherings. No photos of her at the zoo, in the country, on a mountain, at the beach. The entire room was like a shrine to dance—with no sign of Simone having a life apart from dancing. Talk about having ballet shoved down your throat!

Hannah was beginning to understand a little of what Simone's life must have been like. Suddenly, she was overcome by an overwhelming sadness for her twin.

She made her way to Harriet's bedroom and paused. Then, with a stab of guilt, she opened the door, hoping to find photos of Simone astride a horse, on a bike, stuffing chocolate cake into her mouth, or yelling as she rode the Ferris wheel at Luna Park.

Harriet's room was as neat and tidy as the rest of the house, with a double bed in the center, a couple of Renoir prints on the walls, and two photos on the dressing table. One was of Simone as a baby. The other was of a much younger Harriet with a good-looking man. They had their arms around each other and even though they were looking into the camera and not at each other, you could tell they were happy. This must be the fiancé who had died.

Hannah opened Harriet's wardrobe, revealing clothes folded so professionally they could have appeared in an ad for
Home Beautiful
. The closet next to it contained nothing but costumes—possibly every costume Simone had ever worn—that hung in order from biggest to smallest. Next to them was a set of drawers … which might contain the kinds of photos she was looking for.

Hannah hesitated. It was bad enough entering Harriet's room. Did she really have the right to rifle through her personal belongings?

The phone rang and Hannah jumped. She closed the closet doors and ran to the kitchen to answer the call.

“Simone, I'm glad I caught you,” Harriet said. “I forgot to tell you the washing machine was fixed last week, so you can do your laundry.”

Hannah stared at the phone, too stunned to speak.

“Simone, can you hear me? Are you there?”

“Yes, but—”

“Sorry, got to go. Just thought I should let you know so you won't have to lug your stuff to the Laundromat. You'd better get the washing done today, what with school starting tomorrow. See you tonight, then.”

The line went dead, and Hannah was still staring at the mouthpiece. Had she misheard? Or did Harriet actually expect her to do her own laundry? Hannah had never used a washing machine before. Her mum had always done laundry for her.

A scene from the movie
Just My Luck
popped into her head: Lindsay Lohan trying to work the washing machine, flooding the room with soap and bubbles, losing her footing on the slippery floor and practically drowning …

Hannah buried her face in her hands, wishing she hadn't answered the phone, but it was too late now. She took a deep breath and tried to stem her rising panic. She'd call Simone and ask for instructions. How hard could it be?

twenty-four

Even after speaking to Hannah on the phone, Simone had lain in bed in a mild state of anxiety, and it was hours before she'd fallen asleep. She woke to the sound of voices calling—or was it a radio blaring? It was a little after nine o'clock.

She opened the curtains. Below her was a garden, and next to it a patio with a white fiberglass table and six matching chairs. The sky was very blue and clear. Simone opened a window and a warm breeze wafted in.

It was Monday, she remembered, the only day she had to familiarize herself with her new surroundings before the school year began. She dressed quickly before heading downstairs.

Vanessa was in the kitchen making pancakes, and Adam was sitting at the table, tucking in. His face lit up when he saw her. “Hey, sis!” he said with a grin.

“Hey, Adam!”

Kimmy bounded over to Simone with a joyful bark, springing up to lick her cheek.

“That dog spent a whole week moping after you left,” Vanessa said. “I can't say I blame him. All of us missed you.”

Simone glanced shyly at Hannah's mum. “I missed you, too.”

“How many pancakes, sweetie?” asked Vanessa. “One or two?”

“Just one to start with,” said Simone.

Vanessa slid one large pancake onto a dinner plate and set it down in front of Simone, then brought her own plate over and sat down to join her.

“So,” said Vanessa, “tell me all about Candance. I know you're dying to.”

“Uh … ”

“What were the other dancers like? Meet anyone interesting?”

Simone doused the pancake with maple syrup. “Yeah. The other dancers were really friendly.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and suddenly Vanessa was staring at her ears.

“What?” said Simone, beginning to panic.

“You got your ears pierced,” said Vanessa. “We agreed that you wouldn't. Not until you turned eighteen.”

Simone put a forkful of pancake into her mouth and chewed slowly, stalling for time. She wasn't sure how she'd explain the pierced ears, even though Hannah had warned her that Manfred and Vanessa would disapprove.

“
You
agreed,” she said at last, in what she hoped was Hannah's carefree tone. “I never promised.”

“But—”

“You were worried my ears would get infected, right? But look, I'm fine.”

“Your father thinks it's mutilation … ” Vanessa began, but the telephone rang and she went to answer it.

“Good one, Hannah,” Adam said, giving her a thumbs-up with a devilish smile.

Simone stuck her tongue out at him as she'd seen Hannah do in one of her photos. Then they were making faces at each other, and laughing, and it occurred to Simone that having a younger brother might be fun.

When she'd finished eating, she put her plate in the sink, and while Adam tucked into another pancake, Simone went to explore.

The house seemed different in the light of day. Large windows looked out onto the same well-tended and luscious garden she'd seen from her room. And inside, the furnishings were cozy and inviting, the colors around her rich and warm. There was a spacious lounge-dining room off the kitchen-family room, and beyond that a large study in which stood two desks—one each for Manfred and Vanessa?—as well as a TV and stereo system. But what drew her the most were the three walls lined, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves, all of which were full of books stacked tightly together.

Simone had never seen so many books in a private home. She stood for a moment, admiring them, before heading upstairs, where she poked her head into each of the bedrooms—Manfred and Vanessa's, Adam's, and one she supposed was a guest room. Another door off the upstairs hallway led to a bathroom, where Adam had left dirty clothes and a sopping towel on the tiled floor.

Resisting the distinctly un-Hannahlike impulse to tidy up, and grateful that she didn't have to share a bathroom with him, Simone returned to Hannah's room and grabbed Hannah's bag before heading downstairs.

“If she asks,” she said to Adam, not quite able to call Vanessa “Mum,” “tell her I've gone for a walk.”

“Okay,” said Adam.

As the front door closed behind her, Simone felt herself relax. It was a relief to be outside and on her own.

She found herself in a curving, tree-lined street where large old trees rose majestically from generous boulevard strips and dipped their heads to form a canopy over the road. The houses—built in a mix of styles, some old, some new—were huge compared to those she was used to, and now and again she passed a grand and sweeping mansion. In between the larger streets ran short, narrow ones, devoid of boulevard strips. Here were rows of shoe-box homes, as small as those in North Fitzroy and not unlike them.

Simone was still exploring the neighborhood when Hannah phoned.

“Sim, you've got to help me.”

After Simone had calmed her down and talked her through the process of doing the laundry, she apologized for about the twentieth time. “I'm sorry I didn't mention it,” she told Hannah,
“but how should I know you'd never done a load of laundry? By the way,” she added, “your mum noticed my pierced ears. She wasn't pleased.”

“I warned you,” said Hannah.

“Do you think she'll still be mad when I get home?”

“I doubt it,” said Hannah. “My parents are good like that. They might get mad for a minute, but they let things go.”