Running in Heels (6 page)

Babs squeezes my arm and adds in a softer tone, “Come on, Nat. You know I adore you, and I hate to see you upset. But what do you expect me to say?”

I make a face and scan the room for a large purple hat, as she has obviously ordained herself archbishop without telling me. Even my mother in collaboration with the pope wouldn't have the gall to come out with a sermon like that.

I blurt, “My life's just fallen apart!”

Babs clunks her mug onto the table. “Your life hasn't ‘just fallen,' ” she says. “You dropped it.”

I want to speak but the words are gummed to the roof of my mouth. I stare at my bitter tea in its brittle new Wedgwood Jade thimble-size cup and wonder how to run away and retain dignity.
To my amazement—I assumed she'd carve an
A
on my forehead and cast me out before I contaminated the marital home—Babs rises, bends, and hugs me. I clutch her.

“Give Saul time, Nat,” she murmurs. “He might come round.”

I nod and scream inside, “I don't want him to come round! I want Chris! I don't want you to be married either!”

What a brat. I tell myself not to be so silly and selfish. I
am
pleased for her. I'm just gutted for
me
. I smile at Babs and say, “You're right. Thank you. And by the way, the new kitchen looks great. I, I like the way you've framed your seating plan.”

“Arr! Do you? You sweetheart.” Babs beams, and for a second she's my old Babs again. Next thing I know, she's trapped my shoulder in an iron squeeze, vanished and reappeared in the time it takes me to dab my eyes, and announced, “Andy'll give you a lift home. You're on his way.”

I don't want to go home and I don't want a lift from Andy. Yet here I am, rattling down Elgin Avenue in a tatty blue Vauxhall Astra, hoping no one sees me, and indulging Andy's schoolgirl take on romance, which I'll bet he purloined from an aged copy of Australian
Cosmo
. Here it is in all its glory:

“I reckon you should treat a new bloke like high-risk stock—you know, imagine your emotions are your savings. The best strategy is to invest 10 percent. Invest all your savings instantly and you're stuffed!”

He's been talking nonsense since Babs waved us off. I knew I was in for a long ride when he said, “So, Natalie. What do you do to relax?”

What a stupid question! “I go abroad for two weeks every summer,” I replied. (I wanted to add, “although Simon has recently pinched my hunting partner.”) Cue a lecture—if you can believe this—about
yoga
. Blimey. Being dumped by his fiancée really has hit him hard. And after nine minutes on the wonder of Sivananda yoga (apparently it's not all about humming with your legs crossed), he suggested I find a relaxation technique—if not yoga, something “to take you out of yourself.” I'd barely grappled
with this affront when he said, “I've got this picture in my head of you, Natalie, of when I last saw you. It must have been about four years ago. A load of us went go-carting with Babs, remember?—you were insane! You were going to be first round that track at all costs, and I can just
see
you, this blur in a white helmet and green overalls, screaming with laughter as you made the finishing line, and then running away from Babs, who was trying to spray you with diet Coke, you were a fast runner, and now, and now…you're a different person. You seem so
muted
.”

So I reminded him that I'd just been involved in a multiple relationship pile-up and he had the gall to come out with the line about “high-risk stock”!

I look at his tanned face side-on and marvel at his short memory. So, St. Andrew, I want to say. You don't remember. Babs's fifteenth birthday party, kissing me numb in your parents' linen cupboard (I've not looked at linen cupboards in the same way since), mumbling a stream of testosterone-fueled rubbish about me visiting you at college, you'd write, you'd phone, we'd go out, I'd stay over, I was so shy, but god I was gorgeous—I was fifteen, I
believed
you!—and so I waited and dreamed and planned my dress, and silence. I couldn't tell Babs and I couldn't tell Tony. Thanks, Andy, you lying git. That snog-and-go reverberated in my head for years. High-risk stock. I reply, “I think that's so wise.”

Andy looks at me and laughs. “No you don't,” he says—all green eyes and perfect skin. “What's wrong, Natalie? You've been giving me the evil eye since the wedding.”

I WAS SUCH AN
EASY
CHILD, AS MY MOTHER NEVER
tires of boasting to the dentist, the lady in the bank, Mrs. Parekh in the corner shop, the man in the post office, her fellow
receptionists at the doctor's office, and a great many other people who couldn't give a toss. Tony—surprise!—was the difficult one, the baby who screamed so long and loud that my mother would often shut him in the front room and run to the end of the garden to stop herself from hitting him. Naturally we don't talk about that, but I was told it once by an indiscreet relative. I suspect that my mother harks back so persistently because my failure to marry and spawn and shin up the career ladder without chipping my nails makes me less of an easy adult.

If she could see me right now she'd be more disappointed than ever. A perfectly good son-in-law has been wasted and instead of hurling myself on a burning pyre, here I am scuttling to the studio to watch Melissandra rehearse with a full-beam smile on my face because the man who displaced my prospective husband, the man who my great friend assured me was more likely to donate his penis to a sausage shop than call me, the man who constitutes a blatant misuse of my horizontal resources has just called me (better three days late than never) and we are meeting tonight. So there. Altogether, today is turning out to be an excellent day. The Italian State Tourist Board press office responded to my fax, and while the essence of their response was “pay for your own bloody jollies,” they were kind enough to pass on the number of L'azienda turistica di Verona. I am researching flight details and hotels and liaising with the
Telegraph
picture desk. Matt is delighted and I am teacher's pet again. His pleasing verdict on the Saul and Chris saga was, “A person who dislikes animals is one step away from a serial killer.” (Saul was frightened of Paws.) Then he advised me not to call Chris until my scab cleared. But Chris called me and we are meeting at Poncho at 10:30.

Normally I wouldn't be seen in a body bag at Poncho—it makes Taco Bell look like the Met Bar—but I didn't want Chris to think I had nowhere to go on a Friday night. The party is a welcome back party, organized for Andy by his pal Robbie. Andy invited me—a sympathy invite—when I was captive in the Astra. I didn't have the nerve to refuse. (I didn't have the nerve to refresh
his memory either.) I'm going because Babs is going. Presumably Simon will be there too, so at least Chris will know someone. I didn't tell Chris it was karaoke, but I did say that my brother Tony—vice president of marketing at Black Moon Records—might turn up, and Chris said it sounded “boss.”

The only monster blot on the landscape, I think, as I slink into the studio to meet Mel as arranged, is this scab on my face. I feel the urge to hack off my chin with a knife. I wish it was fancy dress, I could go in a yashmak. I sit on a chair by the pianist, and gaze at the dancers. I want to leap up and shout, Oh my god, you're so clever! I will never get over the beauty of classical ballet. I've seen
Swan Lake
—technically known as a “grind”—fifty times and at the first flutter of a feathered tutu I dissolve. When I first joined the company, I watched class and asked Matt to identify the god in the head scarf. He replied, “I have a rule: ‘Don't shag the payroll.' ” Like I have a choice. Dancers aren't generally keen on civilian bodies. As Julietta reportedly said, “Once you've driven a Benz you don't want to drive anything else.” I watch Oskar now, fiddling with his head scarf in the mirror. This week, the company is rehearsing for spring. Mel is sitting on the floor in what looks like a baby “onesie,” cutting up plasters and sticking them on her callused toes. Her feet are ugly. It fascinates me, the mess and tears and pain behind the cool serenity of this purist art. Dancers are the only athletes who can't show the viewers how much it hurts, and I'm in awe of their power and poise.

Then the artistic director swishes in and orders everyone to “Get your junk off.” The AD is slightly more feared than a vengeful god and the dancers scurry to remove their layers. You can always tell if they're feeling fat by what they wear to class. Some days it's like walking into ski school. The
répétiteur
—whose job it is to breathe life into a production and betray people to the artistic director—is already taking the principal couples through their paces.

Today, the
répétiteur
has the Herculean task of translating into
English the instructions of Anastasia Kossoff—former star of the Kirov—who is “staging” our presentation of
Romeo and Juliet
. Anastasia is sixty-seven with a body like a wasp, and will never be able to infuse these British pears with even a breath of her genius. The problem is, she literally scares them stiff. Mel scampers into place—“Sorry, sorry!” The AD watches like a bird of prey.

The pianist plays, the dancers dance themselves dizzy, and Anastasia starts shouting: “It looks like you working! Here”—gracefully executing the step herself—“is dignity,
here
”—mimicking the dancers like a stiff wooden puppet—“is not dignity! Use grace! Not jerky! Urgency! I not see the shape of your arcs! Can we do the
écarté
step again! Control!”—the sweating, panting principals stare dejected as she demonstrates—“Softly, soft…come up! Come up! Control yourself! Squeeze, squeeze, now carry yourself! Carry, carry, little
ronde de jambe
, small, huh? On the top of the ground! As this goes forward, this goes out but not too much! Yah! Okay, lez go, don't drop that! How”—she turns to the
répétiteur
—“do you explain this in technique?”

Forty excruciating minutes later, the class is dismissed. Mel looks crushed, and I ache for her. Ballet is all about correction. And all ballet dancers are perfectionists. It's not what you call a horse-and-carriage partnership, and it's no mystery that most dancers are a mash of desperate vanity and low self-confidence. As Mel passes the AD, he murmurs, “Nice try, darling.”

She is wan as we walk to the corner café. I hate to say it, but her dancing today was less than wonderful. She did not—as they say in ballet—“move big,” and she stumbled twice. And although she has the frame of a spring onion, her thighs looked pappy. Suddenly she blurts, “Oskar is holding me back! He's just not there on the lifts! He's dancing like a plank with rigor mortis!”

I am not about to skewer my baby friendship with a principal dancer by disagreeing. I present a consolation prize.

“Poor you,” I say, “but guess what?” I cross my fingers. “I've spoken to
The Sun
and they want to do a feature on you!”

Mel does a bunny hop of joy. “When?” she gasps, squeezing a lifetime of hope into one short word.

Even as I smile, my heart flips uneasily. But I ignore it. That's what you get for selling your professional soul to the devil. Anyhow, it's worth it to see the look of gratitude on Mel's face. In her world right now I am number one. I tell her it will be this Sunday, and it's for their Health and Beauty section. “They're going to compare your fitness with a rugby player's. So that should be a laugh, and they'll take gorgeous pictures of you in a tutu, with the hunk, and there'll be a shoot, with a hair stylist and a makeup artist, and
The Sun
has so many readers you'll be even more famous than you already are!”

Mel's toothy grin lights up her face. We sit in the café and she buys a Mars Bar and a Coke.

“This is the first thing I've had to eat in two days,” she announces.

“Oh!” I say. “How do you feel?”

Mel smiles again. “High as a kite.”

I think of when a visiting nutritionist told a junior soloist to eat more or reap the whirlwind aged forty. “Forty!” she scoffed. “Who cares about forty? I'm not going to live that long!”

I smile tightly and try not to wonder if my
Sun
story is actually a good idea. I
should
have okayed it with the AD, but I haven't and I know that Matt assumes I have.

“You know,” I say softly, “you should eat.”

Mel frowns. “Natalie, my thighs are enormous. And my legs are short, and I've got no neck—I can't
afford
to eat like a horse!”

I didn't say, “eat like a horse,” I said “eat.”

“I want to see bone!” she adds, quoting a late revered choreographer who married four of his ballerinas. (In this industry there's a quick turnover.) I sigh. Mel's insecurity is exhaustive. Last year, one of the GL Ballet guest artists was a twenty-three-year-old Serb, a wonderful lyrical dancer, though a tad stocky compared to, say, a bamboo stick. Mel watched her dance Odile
in
Swan Lake
in a black tutu and scoffed, “I bet she thinks black is slimming. You might as well ink in the white bits on a killer whale.” I know that makes her sound mean, but she isn't—just scared. Mel reminds me of a dog that's been ill-treated—everyone is a threat until they prove they can be trusted, and then she becomes sweetly, irrevocably fond. I see the café owner glance at us, and foolishly, I feel proud to be seen with her. When I was small I confused ballerinas with fairies—beautiful, mystical creatures in pink and white and able to fly—the breathless sum of my little girl dreams. I've never outgrown that awe.

Mel grips my hand. Her mood has bounced from stormy to sunny. As we chat she darts from this to that like a tiny tropical fish, confiding that she is bored with Oskar and wants to have a fling with a civilian, that the new ballet mistress is a total bitch and once made a senior soloist dance with a broom tied to her back so she'd stand up straight, and that—dramatic pause here and hoarse whisper to maximize impact—while Anastasia seemed pleased with Julietta today, yesterday she was overheard saying, “There's nothing wrong with your dancing, have you tried not eating?”

“Really?” I gasp. Julietta has a Formula One metabolism. Her “problem”—if you can call winning the body lottery a problem—is keeping her weight
up
. While Mel chain-smokes and chews gum, Julietta carboloads and remains sculpted. Matt says she doesn't yak it up either. I can't believe Anastasia would say such a thing.

“Well, that's what
I
heard,” purrs Mel.

 

T
hree hours later, snug in a cozy purple room and allergic to silence, I repeat this piece of gossip to a charming stranger at Andy's party. He says he's called Jonti and feigns an interest in ballet. He asks a brisk stream of astute questions, then wanders off. It
was
something I said. I look around, and see Andy talking to a short, muscular guy encased in an FBI jacket. He must be a detective. I swirl my wine and peruse the karaoke brochure. Entertaining
though this is (“Goldfinger” and “Footloose” are two of my favorite songs, I'm afraid), I wish I hadn't been so prompt. No matter how long I loiter in the street fiddling with my mobile phone, I am always the first to arrive at parties. I think I caught it off Saul.

“Natalie.”

I look up. Andy is waving me over. I can hardly disobey, although I imagine mouthing
Me?
and legging it. He looks all right with a tan but does himself no favors with a shirt apparently made from scraps of curtain.

“What did you say to Jonti to make him disappear like that?”

“I have a knack,” I say.

Andy doesn't get it. He grins, and asks if I want a drink. “Natalie, meet Robbie.”

FBI man grips my hand and squeezes.

“Natalie is a big friend of my sister,” explains Andy, as the blood makes a slow return to my fingers. “And Robbie is a small friend of mine.”

Robbie rolls his eyes at Andy and says, “Gimp Boy is jealous of my superior muscle tone.”

Andy snorts. “Jealous? You've got arms like my nan!”

I try not to smile until Andy walks off to greet some guests.

“So will you be singing for us tonight?” says Robbie.

“I'd love to,” I reply. “I really would. But I wouldn't be so cruel. I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket!”

Robbie laughs. “We could sing together if you like. My voice is so bad it would divert attention from yours. We could do something easy. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody'?”

I laugh. I am a foot taller than Robbie and can see that the crown of his head has one hair per five follicles. But while he is no oil painting—or finger painting even—there's something about him I like.

“What do you reckon,” he says, rummaging in a pocket and producing a small pale green object. “It's for Andy to put on his dashboard.”

I admire it. Robbie grins. “You're joking. It's a fluorescent Virgin Mary, it's rank!”

It emerges that Andy and Robbie compete to buy each other disgusting presents. Andy now has four china shepherdesses, a commemorative plate, an alien baby in a jar, and a cut-glass vase adorned with gold leaf. And Robbie is the proud owner of the Windsor Gentleman's watch, a pine woodpecker door knocker, a fake rabbit head on a plaque, a large green plastic iguana, and a life-size metal Doberman pinscher. I am laughing, when a voice like nails down a blackboard inquires, “Natalie, who's your friend?”

I hang on grimly to my smile. Frannie at a party. Weedkiller on a lawn. Then I recall that Frannie
half
extended the hand of friendship this week and that I turned her down. I smile properly. “Frannie! Great to see you! This is Robbie, a small friend of Andy's. Frannie is—”

“A close friend of Andy's sister,” says Frannie. Robbie stretches out a hand. He doesn't know that Frannie sees the handshake as “a literal male stronghold” and has perfected a squeeze that would crush rocks. I watch, terrified. Someone could get hurt. Then Robbie squawks, “I surrender!” and Frannie
giggles
.