You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (7 page)

“I’m
already regretting it,” I said, lacing up my trainers. “She didn’t say anything
about dance.”

“Don’t
be daft, Laura, you’ll love it.” There was a splash from the bathroom, and a
gale of giggles from Darcey. “I’d better get back and see what those two are up
to. Probably causing a flood. Have fun.”

“Thanks,”
I said. “No idea when I’ll be back, or in what state. Probably with my head
swapped for a donkey’s. Bye, Darcey, bye Owen – Mummy’s going out.”

How
hard could it be to transform a park into a sylvan grove anyway, I thought
sullenly as I hurried through the streets. Battersea Park was about as sylvan
as it got – mud and all. And why hadn’t Zé said anything about dance? She’d only
mentioned theatre. If she’d said dance, I wouldn’t have gone. Oh well, it was
too late – there was no backing out now.

“There
in five,” I texted hastily, making my way along the path to the bandstand,
joining a small throng of people heading in the same direction. They all seemed
delighted at the prospect of the experience that lay ahead of us.

“Oh
my God, I am, like, gibbering with excitement,” I overhead one woman say. “It’s
my tenth time at this. It’s bankrupting me. How many times have you been, Stu?”

“Only
twice,” her companion said. “I’m not as well connected as you, I guess.”

“It’s
not about being well connected!” she protested. “It’s about giving Flight of
Fancy a fat donation every year – tax-deductible, fortunately – and getting
priority booking before tickets go on general sale. I’ve got another twelve
shows booked after tonight and I’m worried it won’t be enough. Do hurry up,
we’ve only got twenty minutes.”

And
she dragged the unfortunate Stu off into the crowd, leaving me shaking my head
in bemusement.

Of
course, I’d encountered my fair share of obsessives when I was dancing
professionally. There was one old gent who sat in the same seat in the front
row for an entire fortnight, and sent two dozen pink roses to my dressing room
each morning when we were doing
Manon
– and I wasn’t even a soloist;
that was nothing compared to the adulation some of my colleagues received – Jerome,
Mel… But I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to find Zé and get this thing
over with, and go home to my proper life.

It
wasn’t hard to locate her, even in the mass of people gathered around the
bandstand – there must have been two hundred or more, I reckoned, all standing
about drinking prosecco out of plastic flutes and chattering excitedly. But
even in the twilight, with only huge ropes of silvery-blue fairy lights for
illumination, Zé stood out. She was wearing a shocking-pink cropped leather
biker jacket over black jeans, and her lipstick was bright fuschia too. The
combination would have been absurdly over-the-top on just about anyone else; on
her it was effortlessly stylish.

“Laura!”
she hurried over to me, kissed me, and handed me a glass of fizz. “I can’t
thank you enough for coming, honestly, I was mortified when bloody Rick
cancelled on me. You don’t get the chance to see Flight of Fancy’s
Dream
and bail at the last minute, the fuckwit.”

I
wondered again what was going on in their marriage – whenever she mentioned
Rick it was with coolness at best, contempt at worst. Then, in spite of
myself, I felt the air of excitement infect me, too. Zé’s normally pale cheeks
were flushed, and she was talking even more than usual.

“So,
the idea is to split up, do your own thing, explore the set and see whatever
scenes come your way,” she said. “If you get lost, you can make your way back
here and have a drink and a sit-down, and we’ll meet up here afterwards, okay?
We just need to go through there” – she gestured towards a pair of marble
pillars that, although they were obviously part of the set, were coated with
moss and lichen and looked like they’d been there for centuries – “and they’ll
check our tickets, and then we’re on our own. Did you see
Out to Sea
last summer?”

“No,”
I said. “I didn’t.”

“Of
course, it wasn’t in London, it was in Newcastle, of all places,” Zé prattled
on. “Stunning setting, of course, but my God, the wind! My hair was totally
fucked.”

She
grinned and clicked her plastic glass against mine, then her smile was replaced
with deadly seriousness. “Look! We’re going in! Come on, I’ll see you on the
other side, and remember – if you see something that looks interesting, stick
around and watch, and if you see a character who fascinates you, follow them.
They’re all in masks, as well as in costume. And switch your phone off if you
haven’t already, and remember there’s no talking once we’re through the
pillars, they’re brutal about chucking people out who they think are being
disrespectful.”

She
grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the entrance, abandoning our
half-finished drinks on the way. A robed steward checked our tickets and
reminded us sternly about the talking and phones. The audience filed between
the pillars, through a kind of dazzling curtain of brightness created by
powerful spotlights aimed towards the ground. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to
adjust – but as soon as they had, I was plunged into absolute darkness and Zé
dropped my hand and vanished.

We
must be in some kind of tunnel, I decided, brushing my hand against its sides –
hessian, maybe. Then the person behind me trod on my heel and I continued
blindly on, feeling my way, unable to see where I was going. There was music, I
realised, eerie and soft, only audible now that the babble of conversation had
ceased. I moved towards the source of the sound, and as I did so I noticed the
darkness diluting slightly, a faint glimmer of green appearing ahead. The
person behind me pushed past me, and I felt a sudden surge of adrenalin – who
the hell did they think they were, trying to get there before me? I pushed
back, dodged in front, and found myself hurrying, almost running, towards the
light.

I’ve
never been much of a reader. We ‘did’
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
at
school, but that was long ago – long enough ago to make me feel seriously old.
But not quite as old as I felt when I remembered how long ago it was that, aged
eight, I’d danced a fairy in a production staged by my ballet school.

Anyway,
it was all pretty much in the distant past, and my recollection of the plot was
shaky to say the least. So when I emerged on to the set, I was surprised to
find it all coming back to me – dimly at first, then more clearly. Here were
the king and queen – Theseus and whatever-her-name-was – and their masked
retinue, in flowing gold and silver robes, in their palace. The breathless
review Jonathan had read to me didn’t exaggerate – the set was stunning. Marble
pillars soaring up into the darkness, twined with ivy; flaming torches
illuminating the walls; a fountain splashing in the centre.

Around
me, the audience was dispersing, some moving around to get a better view,
others hurrying off into the darkness to find – what? I had no idea. I’d wait
here for a bit, I decided, and see what was going to happen.

The
volume of the music increased, and the king and queen began to dance. I took a
deep, trembly breath and watched, feeling unaccountably afraid. If they were
shit, I’d be devastated. If they were good, it would be even worse. And I
realised within a few seconds that they were very good indeed. I could hardly
bear to look – but I couldn’t look away, either.

As
the lead woman moved across the stage, seeming almost to float, I felt
physically sick with envy and regret. Look at her, with her honed, supple
limbs, her command of the audience and the choreography – her career. That
could have been me, I thought – that was me. But not any more.

As
the routine came to an end and more characters entered – two of the four
lovers, I thought vaguely, unable to remember their names or what they were
doing there – I realised my cheeks were wet with tears. I dug in my pocket for
a tissue and blew my nose as quietly as I could, hoping that if anyone noticed
they’d assume I was moved to tears by the beauty of it all. But no one was
looking at me – everyone was entirely absorbed in the scene.

I’d
wander off and explore, I decided, see more of the set that had received such
rave reviews, and try not to look too closely if I came upon any more dancers.
I skirted around the palace building and headed towards another island of light
in the trees. Some of them were real, I noticed, but the fake ones were so
skilfully constructed, so subtly blended into the natural parkland, that it was
almost impossible to tell the difference, to separate artifice from reality.

I
arrived at a clearing where another stage had been constructed – a rough wooden
affair this time. Presumably this was where Quince and his friends would
rehearse their play, about which I could recall no details whatsoever. I
remembered finding those bits tedious and unfunny during those long-ago English
Lit lessons. But the detail was meticulous. An entire village had been
constructed around the stage: there was a carpenter’s shop, the floor scattered
with shavings, which even smelled of freshly sawn wood. There was a wagon hung
with metal pots, pans and cups that rattled as I brushed past, making me start
guiltily. The tailor’s workroom was festooned with apparel in various stages of
repair. I pushed through them, feeling the coarse fabric brushing my face and
breathing in the musty scent of well worn clothing. The hanging garments became
denser, and I wondered if I ought to turn back, but something made me carry on
– I remembered the wardrobe that led to Narnia in another long-ago story, and
pushed the walls of fabric aside, finding a path to the other side.

I
emerged into another clearing, lit by a full moon, smelling headily of flowers.
How the hell did they do this, I wondered fleetingly – and more importantly,
where was I? I’d lost my bearings entirely, and lost all sense of time, too. I
paused, inhaling the cool, fragrant air. The sky above me was darkening to a
deep indigo, and I could see stars. Was this real twilight or a clever lighting
effect? It was impossible to tell.

I
heard a swelling burst of music and the light of the moon seemed to concentrate
on the space between two trees. Almost of their own accord, my feet carried me
towards it, and I found myself suddenly joined by about twenty other audience
members, who’d appeared seemingly from nowhere. I’d nearly forgotten, I
realised, that this was a show, and not some kind of alternate reality I’d
stepped into, or a fragment of a dream.

A
masked man and woman appeared in the moonlight. There were two pairs of lovers,
I remembered sketchily, and they were all in love with the wrong people, before
it all somehow got sorted out. These must be two of them. I waited, watching as
they danced together. Even though I was shoulder to shoulder with other
spectators, it was easy to forget they were there – there was nothing but me,
the music and the dancers. I couldn’t even hear the man next to me breathing.

The
dance – it was part dance, part seduction, tender and erotic – must have lasted
a few minutes, but it felt like just seconds before the music became slower and
softer, the two lovers lay still in each other’s arms, and a cloud passed over
the moon – or the spotlight that served as a moon. Immediately, the audience
broke up and moved away, one woman actually sprinting off between the trees. I
recognised her from earlier on – the woman with the friend called Stu, who’d
seen the production over and over. Where was she going? She seemed to know – she
must be on her way to somewhere or something specific. I followed her, also
breaking into a run.

She’d
bloody better know where she was going, I thought, a few breathless seconds
later – we seemed to be heading deep into impenetrable forest, dodging between
tree trunks, real and artificial leaves brushing my face, fake and genuine
roots catching at my feet and threatening to send me flying. Thank God for Zé’s
warning and my sensible trainers. Abruptly, the woman stopped and so did I,
just in time to avoid crashing into her. She pushed her hair off her face and
glanced around, catching my eye and giving me an unfriendly scowl. Whatever she
was waiting for, clearly she expected to have it all to herself.

I
retreated a step or two and waited. It was dark and silent – there was no hint
that anything was going to happen. Then I spotted a figure in the shadows – an
actor, or another spectator? Or something else? I looked closer, trying to make
sense of the unfamiliar, distorted form. Of course, it was the bloke who got
turned into a donkey. Bum something? I wished I’d had time to look up the plot
on Wikipedia and make more sense of what was going on. Bottom – that was it!
His absurd head tilted towards us, and he shambled in our direction, tripping
over a fallen log on his way.

I
heard the woman, who was standing a pace or two in front of me, give a little
gasp of excitement. She shifted a little, blocking my view. I shifted the other
way; so did she. Bottom paused in front of us, and reached his hairy mask forward,
making snuffling sounds. Then he reached out a hand to me.

I
hesitated for just a second, my fascinated need to know what would happen if I
followed him overpowered by fear of the unknown. But a second was enough for
the other woman to grab the actor’s outstretched hand and be led away into the
darkness. I followed again, even though I could sense that it was the wrong
thing to do, that I’d missed my chance. And sure enough, when they disappeared
into a thicket of what looked like birch trees, I heard the unmistakeable sound
of a lock clicking shut.