You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (9 page)

“Laura,”
Mel said. “Just a second, before you go…”

I
paused, a sinking feeling in my stomach. She was going to say Felix had asked
her out. Or something else – something worse.

“I
didn’t want you to find out tomorrow with everyone else,” she said. “But it’s…
They only told me today. I’ve been promoted. First Artist, from tomorrow.”

“Mel!
How did you keep that quiet all day? When did you find out? My God, that’s
incredible, I’m so made up for you.”

I
bent over and gave her a hug. I was pleased for her – of course I was. But I
was also horribly, bitterly envious. The jump from being a mere Artist, as we’d
been since we joined the company, to First Artist wasn’t huge – it didn’t mean
masses more money or starring roles or anything like that – but it meant Mel
was being considered for better parts, perhaps even for understudying a soloist
some time soon. It meant she was highly thought of – more highly thought of
than me.

“I’m
going to be a cygnet,” she said, starting to giggle. “I can’t believe it! I
thought it was never going to happen and now it has.”

“It
has,” I said. “And you bloody deserve it too, you work so hard.”

I
sat down again, even though what I really wanted was to go to bed and try to
sleep, try not to think about it. “Tell me everything – what did they say?”

Mel
put her feet up on the sofa, hugging her knees. “God, it’s freezing in here. I
swear, my entire pay rise is going to go towards having the heating on more
often. Anna called me in – you know what she’s like, I was terrified I was
going to be sacked, and the way she started it really sounded like that. She
went on and on about the importance of good technique, how that underlies
everything and without it there’s no point carrying on – you know, the usual
lecture. And I stood there saying, ‘Yes, Anna. I understand,’ over and over,
and trying not to cry.”

“Then
what?”

“Then
she said she hoped I’d take on board her comments, and I realised I wasn’t
going to be sacked, because what would be the point if I was. And then she said
she’d expect me in rehearsal room eight for
Swan Lake
tomorrow
afternoon. And I said, ‘But that’s the cygnets, isn’t it?’ And she said yes,
and that I could pick up the official letter about the promotion on my way out.
And then I did cry – I felt like such a div.”

“I’m
sure everyone cries,” I said. I needed to be more enthusiastic, congratulate
her again – but I couldn’t find the words. I was saved by the sound of Roddy’s
key in the door and he came bursting in, carrying a bunch of yellow roses.

“Mellifluous!”
he said. “What’s this rumour I hear?”

“How
the hell did you find out?” Mel said.

“I
keep my ear to the ground,” Roddy said, thrusting the flowers at Mel. “I may
have nicked these from Briony’s dressing room. She’s knee-deep in bouquets,
she’ll never miss them. Congratulations, darling girl, you’re on your way to
stardom!”

“In
my dreams,” Mel said, but she was all pleased and giggly.

“Come
on, let’s crack open a bottle,” Roddy said. “Oh – you already have. You’re way
ahead of me. Another bottle, then.”

“I
don’t think we should, really,” Mel said. “I was just saying to Laura, Marius
is coming to class tomorrow and… you know.”

“You
don’t want to turn up with a hangover on your first day as a First Artist,”
Roddy rolled his eyes. “Suck-up. Fair enough, though – it is nearly one. Have
you girls eaten?”

“I
had a salad earlier,” Mel said.

“I’m
not hungry,” I said. “I was just going to shower and go to bed, actually.”

“I’ll
brush my teeth while your water gets hot,” Roddy said. “I know you, you take
hours in there.”

“I
suppose it’s too late to ring Mum,” Mel said. “God, I’m too wired to sleep
though. I need to get my shoes sorted for tomorrow.”

She
picked up her bag and went into her bedroom, her shoulders drooping with
tiredness.

Roddy
and I collided with each other in the bathroom doorway. He put his arms round
me and gave me a squeeze, whispering, “It sucks, Laura, I know.”

“It’s
cool,” I said. “I’m thrilled for Mel.”

“Course
you are,” Roddy said, sticking his tongue out at me. “By the way, Lawsonski was
asking about you in the pub.”

“He
was?”

“Mmhm.
‘But who is ziz gorgeous girl, ze quiet one, who follows me everywhere I go and
who smokes like ze chimneys in Siberia would smoke if zere was coal to keep ze
peasants from freezing to death? I fear she is spy sent by ze KGB,’ he said.”

“Piss
off,” I said, giggling in spite of myself. “He doesn’t talk like that.”

“So
I said, ‘Why, Lawsonski, zat – sorry, that – is the fair Laura Braithwaite, my
dear friend and flatmate. Sadly she is betrothed to a high-ranking Kremlin
official, and if you so much as sniff her sweaty pointe shoes you will be sent
to the gulags forever.’”

“Roddy,
don’t be such an arse!” I said. “What did he really say?”

“Okay,
fine. Don’t let me have my fun,” Roddy said. “We were having lunch and he said
he’s looking for a flat – he’s being put up in some dodgy digs at the sec – and
he asked about my living arrangements. So I said I paid an extortionate amount
to share with the two of you, here, and he looked glum, and then he said, which
of you was the short blonde and which was the tall mousy one with the amazing
legs.”

Being
described as having amazing legs slightly took the sting out of being called
mousy, but only just – amazing legs were, after all, a quality every single
woman in the company possessed, and hardly a distinguishing feature.

“Then
what?” I said.

“Aww,
not much,” Roddy admitted. “Keep up the stalking though, he’s noticed you.”

The
next afternoon, as I rehearsed with the rest of the Corps de Ballet, going
through the already-familiar steps over and over until they were perfect, I
found my mind drifting away from my work to the upstairs rehearsal room where
Mel was working with Briony, Francoise and Steph. I knew I should be happy for
her, and I was, but my happiness was tainted with envy, and with anger at myself
for feeling envious. Mel hadn’t got this through luck or nepotism, but because
she worked bloody hard, relentlessly hard. She was talented, she took direction
well, she had an innate musical talent that I lacked. Did all those things mean
she was destined to be more successful than me, always? Did it mean I’d never
catch up? I felt my self-confidence, never particularly solid, becoming even
more shaky. Were she and Roddy talking about me, pitying me? My own self-pity
was hard enough to deal with, without the imagined sympathy of others.

But
I needn’t have worried, because if there was anything on Mel’s mind other than
her own performance, she gave no sign of it over the next few days. She talked
incessantly about the show, how challenging it was learning the dance with just
two weeks to go before opening night, how brilliantly Felix was understudying
Jerome, how exciting and original Marius’s interpretation of the dance was.

It
was the coldest, wettest spring I could remember, and the weather reflected my
mood. Getting out of bed, braving the freezing flat and the rainy, blustery
walk to work became harder each day. I felt as if I hadn’t seen the sun in
months. Everyone had colds – our stage make-up had to be slathered on each
night over red, flaking noses and chapped cheeks. Jerome came down with flu and
missed two days’ rehearsal for the first time anyone could remember, and
speculation was rife over whether Felix would get his starring role after less
than a month with the company. I desperately hoped he would, but if he felt the
same he gave no sign of it – when I hovered on the outskirts of his group as we
smoked on the roof, he seemed exactly the same as normal, careless and larky.
Despite what Roddy had said, he paid me no more attention than usual, only
greeting me with a casual, “Hey there,” and offering me his lighter. He didn’t
even seem to have remembered my name.

On
Sunday, our day off, my longed-for lie-in was interrupted by the actors who
rented the flat upstairs crashing home pissed after an all-nighter. I checked
my watch – it was seven thirty, far too early to get up, but sleep refused to
reclaim me. Reluctantly, I threw off the duvet and went in search of coffee.

Mel
was on the sofa watching telly, cocooned in a blanket.

“Hi,”
I said. “You’re up early.”

“I
couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I’ve got the most awful headache and my throat
hurts.”

“Oh
God, you poor thing. Would you like tea? Paracetamol?”

“I’ve
already taken two. Shit, Laura, I feel grim. I should go back to bed, I
suppose, but that would be…”

“I
know,” I said. That would mean admitting that she was ill, allowing the
possibility of becoming iller still. “I was going to go out. Get a coffee,
maybe go for a walk, do some shopping…”

“I’ll
come,” she said. “Take my mind off it. At least it’s not fucking raining.”

“I’ll
see if Roddy’s up,” I said, but when I tapped on his door he mumbled something
about what the hell time was this, and couldn’t a boy get any rest, so I
abandoned that idea.

We
bundled ourselves up in coats and scarves, forced our blistered feet into
high-heeled boots, and went out. I bought coffee and a croissant, but Mel said
she wasn’t hungry. She looked drawn and anxious, and she didn’t chatter away
about the show – she didn’t talk much at all.

“Shall
we go to Selfridges and try on make-up?” I said. It was a prospect Mel usually
relished, making the girls on the counters apply a full face of products
neither of us could hope to afford.

“It
won’t be open for ages,” she objected.

“We
could get the Tube somewhere,” I suggested, realising that it had been weeks
since I’d been further than about a mile from the flat. “Or go to a movie, or
something. Somewhere warm. Or to the park.”

“Whatever
you want,” Mel said.

Because
we couldn’t decide, we ended up just walking along Shaftesbury Avenue and
through Soho, quiet and ghostly at this time, when the shops weren’t open and
the tourists hadn’t emerged. We walked along Oxford Street, but when I
commented on the contents of the windows, trying to engage Mel in our favourite
game of ‘when I have thousands of pounds to spend on clothes…’, but she wasn’t
interested; whenever I stopped she rummaged in her bag for tissues and blew her
nose. The first sign of enthusiasm she showed was when we passed Boots.

“Let’s
wait here until they open,” she said. “I need drugs.”

“Look,
why don’t you go home and go back to bed,” I said. “Tell me what you need and
I’ll get it for you. You’re not well.”

“I’m
fine,” she said. “I just need something stronger than bloody paracetamol and
I’ll be grand.”

But
she wasn’t. As the morning went on, she became paler and more miserable, and at
last, when even the prospect of the Chanel counter didn’t enthuse her, I
insisted we go back to the flat, and we spent the rest of the day slumped in
front of repeats of
Friends
drinking tea.

This
was my life, I thought gloomily – six days’ work a week, from ten in the
morning until almost midnight, with snatched breaks for fags and coffee. And on
a longed-for day off, being too knackered and skint to do anything fun. It was
what I’d longed for and worked for since I was six years old, and now I found
it hard to remember what I was supposed to enjoy about it.

It
was the worst kind of Sunday afternoon, last-day-of-the-holidays feeling – a
gloomy blanket overshadowing everything, blotting out the prospect of
pleasure. On the sofa next to me, Mel looked as sunk in depression as I felt. I
tucked my feet up, picking at a piece of loose skin on my heel, the legacy of
an old blister, feeling the satisfying twinge of pain as it came loose.

“Don’t
do that, for Christ’s sake,” Mel snapped. “It’s gross. Make an appointment with
the podiatrist if your feet need doing.”

“No
point polishing a turd,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me and
surveying them. All dancers have horrible feet, and mine, after a brutally busy
winter season, were even more of a mess than usual, covered in calluses, my
toes distorted from my pointe shoes. I’d stopped noticing them, and given up
entirely on painting my nails – what was the point, when I’d never be able to
take my shoes off in front of anyone who wasn’t a dancer too, and wouldn’t
understand?

“No
foot-fetishist lovers for us,” said Mel.

“No
lovers, full stop,” I said. My social life felt as drab and featureless as my
career. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since sixth form, and there wasn’t exactly a
proliferation of likely candidates for the role. “Felix doesn’t fancy me. Roddy
was just making shit up to make me feel better. Speaking of which, how are you
feeling?”

“Utter
toilet,” Mel said. She was pale – even paler then usual – and shivering.

“Go
to bed, then,” I said. “No point both of us sitting here feeling sorry for
ourselves.”