Slave to the Rhythm (37 page)

He looked a little abashed, and withholding a grimace, I let him in.

Ash was still irritated, and his dick was in danger of trying to shake hands with our visitors. I sent him to shower while I made coffee, and Lord knows, I needed some, too. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen window, horrified by the red patches on my cheeks, chin, neck and chest—and wild, wild sex hair.

My heart was thumping, and not just from the last half an hour. The Immigration Service only made impromptu house calls when they suspected a sham marriage. I wondered who had reported us. Would Collin have been so vindictive? Even though things had ended badly between us, I didn’t want to believe that.

The man, Phillips, eyed me suspiciously, but his colleague seemed more sympathetic. Maybe it was a version of good cop/bad cop, or maybe her mood had been improved by seeing a mostly naked Ash first thing in the morning—it always worked for me. But I wished that Ash and I had thought to discuss what to say if this happened. I’d been such a fool.

I served up the coffee, taking several gulps of the steaming brew, then turned to head for the shower, but Moira, as she asked me to call her, was admiring some artwork in the living room. Too late, I realized that she’d delayed me just long enough that Ash was already dressed and out, giving us no time to confer. She smiled benignly as he passed.

I sighed, taking myself off to shower and dress, quickly returning to the living room where Ash sat looking surly and on edge.

“And we’ll want to interview you separately,” concluded Mr. Phillips, after explaining the process.

Ash shot me a quick look, but what could I say?

Ms. Walsh accompanied me into the bedroom, and Ash was left with Phillips.

“Oh, what a pretty room,” she exclaimed as I hurried to straighten the sheets and smooth out the quilt. “You do have some lovely views.”

“Yes, thank you. It’s why I chose this apartment.”

“And you didn’t know Ash then?”

“No.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Six years.”

“And how long have you known your husband?”

“Three months.”
Nearly.

She tapped her pen against her notepad. “That was a short engagement.”

I didn’t reply.

“What does your family think?”

I was cautious, wondering how much to say.

“They like Ash, but they would have preferred a big, family wedding.”

“But you didn’t do that?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“I have three older sisters. For each of their weddings, my Mom went completely over the top. That’s not me. Or Ash.”

“And how did you meet?”

I took a deep breath and launched in. By the time I finished, Ms. Walsh’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath her bangs.

“Extraordinary!” she muttered. “Just extraordinary.”

She was right about that.

I thought maybe the questions were at an end, but I was wrong.

“Does he have a pet name for you?”

I blinked, surprised.

“Well, yes. It sounds like ‘moy suncheck’ but I don’t know what it means. He won’t tell me.”

She frowned at that, but wrote it down anyway.

The interview gradually became more personal: what color toothbrush did Ash use; what side of the bed did he sleep on; did he like the light on or off during sex; what position did he prefer.

Anger at the intrusive nature of the questions began to build inside me. And it felt like punishment. My government really wanted to know this?

“Mrs. Novak, if you could answer, please?” Ms. Walsh asked gently but firmly.

“He sleeps on the left,” I said tightly. “Sometimes we keep the light on, sometimes we don’t. And we enjoy a variety of positions.”

My cheeks were scarlet. I felt violated and dirty as she noted down every word.

Ash

The questions were weird. He wanted to know who took out the trash and who bought the groceries, who cleaned the apartment, who did the vacuuming. He started to get annoyed when I answered almost everything, “We both do,” but it was true.

“Do you have lamps in the bedroom?”

“Laney has one on the bedside table.”

“But you don’t.”

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t read much.”
And reading English was hard work.

He gave a dry laugh. “You don’t read much, although she writes for a living; and she doesn’t dance, although that’s your profession. Exactly what do you and your wife have in common, Mr. Novak?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. On paper, we had nothing in common. But we never ran out of things to say to each other. There were no uncomfortable silences with Laney—just silence, and that was peaceful.

“She likes listening to music, too,” I said weakly.

“Hmm. And which side of the bed does your wife sleep on?”

What the fuck?
I took a deep breath. “The right.”

He wrote something on his form.

“When you are intimate with your wife, does she like to have the light on or off?”

I folded my arms across my chest.

“None of your business!”

He peered over his glasses at me.

“You do realize, Mr. Novak, that we have every reason to believe that your marriage to Miss Hennessey was to obtain U.S. citizenship? The odd circumstances that you yourself have described, the haste with which you married: these questions are valid. If you cannot answer them, we will be forced to draw our own conclusions. It is in your best interests—and hers—to answer plainly.”

I stared up at the ceiling, furious and impotent. He was just like Sergei, but without the psychopathic violent streak. And he wore glasses.

“Lights off.”

Laney didn’t like her body. She thought she was too thin, too shapeless. But she was all woman to me.

“And what position does she prefer?”

I clenched my teeth and refused to answer.

He sighed. “This is my last question, Mr. Novak.”

“All of them!” I grit out.

I stood up and walked into the kitchen. I couldn’t stare at his smug face for a second longer without wanting to punch it.

At that moment, Laney walked out of the bedroom, looking pale and upset. I wrapped my arms around her in silence as her small hands gripped my t-shirt tightly and she rested her head against my chest.

“We’ll be in touch,” said Phillips as they left.

I swore loudly and Laney turned away to fall onto the couch, her hands covering her eyes.

For the next few days, we were both on edge, expecting a phone call, letter, or another personal visit from the Immigration goons (my new favorite word that I learned after watching re-runs of ‘Breaking Bad’). And each evening I had to go to the theater and do my best to entertain an audience that seemed to be shrinking fast.

We were all waiting for the axe to fall, so when Dalano and Mark asked everyone to come in ten minutes early, I had a good idea what they were going to say.

We gathered in a circle on the empty stage, Sarah leaning against my shoulder while Dalano hushed everyone then cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for coming in early. I have some bad news. Ticket sales have not been going great. Those asshat reviewers don’t know class when they see it. Mark has done an amazing job of choreographing you,” and he turned to smile sadly at his boyfriend, “but launching just before Christmas—which was the theater’s choice—has worked against us. We’re going to have to take a break, so our final show for now will be Christmas Eve. I know this will be a shock to all of you, and we hate having to say it, but I promise you all from the bottom of my heart that this is
not
the end of
Broadway Revisited
and we will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.”

He took a deep breath while we all stared at him stonily.

“I feel so much love in this room tonight, and I’d like to thank you for all for being a part of this amazing vision. We’re ahead of our time,” and he gave a small laugh. “I’m expecting you all to dance your asses off and prove the critics wrong. Break a leg.”

Nobody clapped, but Dalano and Mark didn’t seem to notice as they stared into each other’s eyes.

We all headed for the dressing room and after I’d shaved, I sat next to Sarah while we started on makeup. I could do mine in three minutes: gel eye liner, foundation, bronzer topped with powder, finish with mascara and lip gloss. It wasn’t my favorite part of being a dancer, but I’d been doing it for years and it didn’t bother me. Although if you’d asked me when I was 14, you’d have gotten a different answer.

“I booked my flight back to London a week ago,” Sarah said while she dotted concealer under her eyes.

“Yeah? Are you coming back to Chicago after?”

“I doubt it. Well, I’ll go wherever I get hired. A friend of mine from RADA works at the Sydney Opera House, and she’s always trying to get me to visit. Maybe I will—some winter sun would be fab. What about you?”

I shrugged. “Look for another job, I guess.”

“You should give London a try, Ash,” she said, smearing foundation across her smooth skin. “My friend Paula told me that there’s a couple of shows that are hiring in the New Year. You wouldn’t even need a work visa as Slovenia is part of the EU. Laney could come with you. She usually works from home, right?”

I couldn’t help laughing, and Sarah gave me a confused look. Wouldn’t it be ironic that I’d married Laney for a green card, but if I worked in Europe it would be the other way around—she’d be able to work in Britain because we were married.

“You’re a weirdo,” Sarah said, throwing a powder puff at my head.

She was probably right. But what she’d said gave me a few things to think about. It made a change from worrying about whether or not I’d get kicked out of the U.S.

The show stumbled on with an audience of fewer than fifty people in a theater that held 500. There was nothing worse than dancing until your heart was ready to burst, and hearing only thin and scattered applause. But we kept smiling. We painted on our fucking smiles every night and danced until our feet bled.

I woke up on Christmas Eve with a strange feeling, ominous like a storm brewing, like someone had stolen my breath. My heart thumped wildly, but nothing seemed out of place and Laney was sleeping silently beside me.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and headed to the bathroom. I stared in the mirror, wondering what life was going to throw at me next.

I’d tried to compartmentalize everything, trying to forget about what had happened in Vegas, about Sergei, even about my friends. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes I felt like I’d go crazy with all the fractured parts of me falling apart like broken glass.

The woman I’d left in bed had helped me in so many ways. I’d be grateful to her forever. She held me together and stopped me from shattering—I didn’t even know why.

I’d wanted to buy her a really great Christmas present, and I had thought about getting her an engagement ring to go with her wedding band, but that didn’t feel right and I wasn’t sure she’d want it.

Instead, I’d bought 100 of my favorite songs and secretly downloaded them to her phone. They all meant something to me—and I hoped they’d mean something to her.

I splashed cold water on my face but avoided looking in the mirror. It was easier that way.

Laney was still sleeping when I walked back into the bedroom. I stared down at her, a small frown on her face. She’d been limping for two days now and we both knew she had a flare-up coming, she just didn’t want to admit it. Or rather, she wouldn’t let it stop her from going on with her life.

She lived with restrictions and limitations; there were things she couldn’t do, shouldn’t try, would never do, but she had the biggest, most open heart of anyone I’d ever met. She was remarkable in so many ways, but she didn’t see that about herself.

She’d opened her home to me when she barely knew me. But she always trusted me and looked out for me when I knew that everyone was telling her to stay back, be wary.

In a world where it was easier to look the other way, she actually gave a shit about something other than herself.

She’d saved me, and I’d repaid her by turning my back on my friends and trying to carry on with my life. I’d done nothing for Yveta, or Marta, Galina, or Gary. And the girl—that nameless kid who haunted my dreams and was forgotten in daylight—I hadn’t saved her either. I could pretend all I liked, but the only person I’d saved was myself.