You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) Read online

  I half-listened to Anna’s instructions, flexing my stiff ankles and waiting for the music to begin.

  “One, two, three, and…” Anna gestured to the pianist and Schubert spilled into the room, as luminous as the morning. I felt the music enter my body, too, compelling my limbs out of their fatigue, swelling inside me and replacing the heaviness with a familiar bubble of excitement.

  Anna moved slowly among us, watching and assessing, dispensing a smile here and giving a word of advice there.

  “Good,” she said, as the final bar ended. “We’ll move on.”

  “See the new guy?” Mel murmured, catching my eye in the mirror. We’d become expert at lip-reading, conducting detailed conversations without making a sound while our teachers’ backs were turned.

  “Where?” I looked around. Morning class was full, but Mondays generally were, before the stresses of the week kicked in and drove people to Pilates or to the physiotherapist’s office instead.

  “Next to Jerome. Red jacket.” Mel dropped into a deep, perfect plié and I followed, instinctively keeping in perfect time with her and the music.

  I scanned the fifty or so heads in the room, looking for Jerome’s distinctive ginger one. He was one of our male Principals – this new guy must be either totally clueless or totally arrogant if he’d chosen a place next to Jerome on his first day.

  “Felix Lawson,” Roddy said, lowering his voice as the music stopped once more. “The boy wonder from the Bolshoi.”

  Sharing a flat with Roddy might have its disadvantages – his late nights and feral housekeeping standards, for example – but it was worth being woken up in the small hours and having dance belts festooned over the radiators for the stream of juicy and infallibly accurate gossip he provided.

  Roddy’s looks might be pure Mediterranean – his parents were Spanish – but his accent was deepest Essex and his manner high camp. He was a relentless and extremely successful shagger; a dizzying procession of strange men making tea in our kitchen in the mornings was another hazard of living with Roddy.

  “The Bolshoi? Really?” I said.

  “Most recently, yes. My spies tell me he’s from Warrington or Wigan or some such hell-hole originally. But he escaped to New York and trained there, and then the Russians snapped him up.”

  I broke my eye contact with Roddy and focussed on the far wall as I found my balance in the first arabesque of the day, feeling my leg wobble and then steady. I glanced around the studio again and located Jerome just as he relaxed out of the pose and turned back to the barre.

  Next to him was the man who must be Felix. A head shorter than Jerome, he was wearing a bright red down gilet over his black tights, and a knitted beanie pulled down almost to his eyebrows. London might be freezing, but surely Moscow was even colder – perhaps he’d come back to England in search of a bit of sunshine?

  But before I could speculate further, Anna said, “Move the barres please, and let’s come into the centre.”

  Mel and I sank to the floor. As we laced our pointe shoes, I snuck another glance at Felix, just in time to see him unzip his jacket and pull off his hat, releasing a shiny dark fringe that flopped over his face before he pushed it back.

  “What d’you reckon?” I said to Mel. “Fit?”

  “Short,” she said. “You might fancy him, but you’ll struggle to dance with him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You smug cow.”

  Mel was my best friend and she didn’t mean her observation to sting, but it did. At five foot seven and a half (God, I hated that half an inch), I was tall for a ballet dancer – almost too tall. Too tall for a soloist, unless I was exceptional, and I didn’t know yet whether I was. Too tall to dance pas de deux with men who weren’t well above average height. Mel herself was a perfect, sylph-like five foot four and could partner anyone. In that way, as in so many others, she had the edge over me, and we both knew it.

  “Come on then, beanpole,” Mel said, standing up from the floor without using her hands, as if pulled by a string. I followed her on to the floor, positioning myself further back in the room than usual so I could take a good look at the newest member of the company.

  Being surrounded by beauty all the time had inured me to it. I hardly noticed Roddy’s perfect body, six foot three of pure muscle – only the fact that his left leg didn’t turn out quite as far as the right. Mel, too, was conventionally pretty, stunning, even – with her blonde hair, blue eyes and tiny waist, she was an archetypal English rose. All the bodies in the room would have appeared perfect to a random observer, I suppose – honed, supple and above all young. But I’d grown so used to them that now all I saw was that Fabia was wearing a knee support, Lisa had gained a couple of pounds, and Connor was going to have to shave off what looked like several days’ worth of stubble before he put on his make-up for the evening performance.

  Felix was different, though. I told myself it was because he was new, but I couldn’t stop my eyes sliding towards him as we worked on our turns, and found myself getting dizzy because I wasn’t keeping my eyes fixed in the direction I was moving. I could have sworn he glanced at me, but then his eyes snapped back to where they were meant to be and, unlike me, he didn’t lose his balance and his line.

  He was beautiful. Now that he’d pulled off his woolly hat, I could see that his hair was dark brown, almost black, and long enough to flop over his eyes. I couldn’t see their colour across the room, but they were pale and bright – blue, or perhaps green. His skin was pale too, almost sallow in the bright lights of the studio, stretched taut over the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He seemed never to stop smiling – a grin of pure enjoyment that made me suspect that this class was just a bit of easy fun for him, not punishingly hard work as it was for me.

  “I think you’re forgetting to breathe again, Laura,” Anna said.

  I felt my face turn scarlet, and retreated to the safety of my bag, where I towelled my sweaty back and sipped water. This wouldn’t do. I needed to focus – I, of all people, couldn’t afford to show myself up. I breathed, I concentrated, I fixed my eyes on a point that wasn’t Felix, and I executed the sequence perfectly with the rest of my group.

  Then, when I returned to the barre, I saw him watching me. His gaze was steady and appraising, and when his smile amped up a notch, I smiled shyly back.

  The class moved on to jumps – the grands jêtés that wow audiences and leave dancers gasping for breath. I found myself in the wrong place – I’d have to go in the first group with Fabia and Tom, rather than hanging back with my friends for the safety of mid-class mediocrity. I waited for the music to give us our cue, then moved smoothly across the floor, imagining that the notes of the piano were a spring lifting me upwards, wings holding me, a cushion softening my descent.

  “Good!” Anna said. “Very nice indeed. Just a little higher in the front leg, Tom.”

  Sipping water, I watched the other groups go through the same sequence. Mel was text-book perfect, as usual, appraising herself in the mirror throughout and earning a nod of approval. Lisa seemed rushed and anxious, hanging her head as she walked back to join us at the barre. And the men, conscious of the presence of a newcomer, were showboating around, putting more energy than was necessary in a regular morning class into their jumps, aiming for the illusion of hovering weightlessness.

  None of them, not even Jerome, was as powerful or as graceful as Felix. His technique was perfect, but there was something else too – an exuberance, a nonchalance, an impression that he was doing this just for a laugh and could do far more if he put a bit of wellie in. He strolled back to the barre when he was done as if it had been nothing at all, and Jerome punched him lightly on the shoulder and grinned at him, but there was a hint of trepidation in his smile. Jerome was thirty-four. His career was at its zenith – there was only one way it could go from here.

  Mine wasn’t, though. I was twenty-one. I’d spent the past eleven years striving to get where I was, and this was just the beginning.
Of the twenty-five students who’d entered the Royal Ballet School in our year, only Mel and I had made it here. Promotion beyond the chorus was a dream, but it was a dream that seemed to become less distant with every day that passed, every smile from a teacher or director, every step I executed that made me think, “Yes!” I didn’t have the world at my feet – not at all. But I had the sense that if I were to go just a little further, just a little higher, there it would be, spread out in front of me, ready and waiting. For a moment I imagined what I’d be like when I was Jerome’s age, turning up to morning class because it was the right thing to do, an example to set to the junior dancers, as well as maintaining my by-then-flawless technique.

  I was jolted out of my daydream by Roddy saying, “God, I’m fucking Hank Marvin. I want a double sausage bap and a fat Coke. Coming, Meltdown?”

  “No chance,” Mel said. “It’s freezing out there and I’ve got rehearsal in less than an hour. I’m going to grab a yoghurt and a banana and check my costume for this evening.”

  “Laura?” Roddy said. I heard my stomach give a great, mortifying gurgle at the prospect of a sausage bap. As if – but maybe I could have a jacket potato. The menstrual munchies still had me well and truly in their grip. But then I saw Jerome make an unmistakeable gesture towards Felix and head towards the stairs leading up to the roof. Like moths to a candle, several of the dancers shouldered their bags and followed.

  “I think I’ll go out for a fag, actually,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  In the event, I met Zélide Campbell sooner than I’d expected. It was a typical morning – typically hellish, that is. Owen cried buckets when I dropped him off at nursery, and his piteous howls of, “Don’t leave me, Mummy!” were made no less heart-rending by the knowledge that he’d be playing quite happily with the other kids five minutes after I’d gone.

  Darcey, by contrast, came over all teenagery and ordered, “Don’t hold my hand, Mummy, it’s embarrassing,” and stalked off ahead of me to join her friends in the playground. She didn’t even let me kiss her goodbye. I was fighting back tears as I turned for home, and didn’t see Amanda appear next to me.

  “Hi, Laura!” she said, in tones of faux surprise. “You’re late today.”

  “Again,” I said. “Mornings in our house are mayhem – I’m sure you know how it is.”

  “I find having a routine helps,” Amanda said. “And being strict about bedtime, of course. When they’re tired it all goes to pot.”

  I wondered guiltily if she had some sixth sense that allowed her to envision the scene in our house the previous night, with both children in floods of tears, demanding to stay up until Daddy was home, and me taking the course of least resistance and drinking wine while I read them their stories in the sitting room.

  “Yes, well… It’s all still quite new to them,” I said. “We’ll settle in, I expect.”

  Then her mobile rang. She snatched it from her bag and answered.

  “Thank you for coming back to me, Lara. I’m sure you know why I’m calling. Yes, the cake sample arrived. However, I asked for shocking pink icing, and pale pink glitter. And that’s not what you delivered. It’s more a cerise. And the glitter’s too dark against it, it barely shows up at all. Well, if there are limitations to what you can achieve with paste colouring, Lara, you should have let me know when I placed the order – or rather, didn’t place it, because I would then have found an alternative supplier. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, it’s a bit late in the day for that now. What do you suggest I do? Don’t you think you’re making your problem my problem, Lara?”

  She unlocked her car and flung her Mulberry bag on to the passenger seat. I lingered, not sure whether it would be rude to head for home without saying goodbye, or ruder still to stand and listen, fascinated, to her conversation. I opted for the latter.

  “Lara, I’ll have you know you came highly recommended on SWmums.com – a community in which I am highly active. A reputation like that is entirely dependent on the goodwill of your customers, as I’m sure you’re aware. A few bad reviews could mean the end of your business. And I can make that happen quite easily. Not that I expect to need to, of course, because I’m quite confident that you will be delivering what I ordered, before close of play today, at no extra cost. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it, Lara? Yes, I thought so. You have the address. Goodbye.”

  She ended the call, and uttered a sentence I honestly thought no one ever said in real life. “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

  Suppressing a giggle, I said, “Having a party?”

  With a flourish, she pulled an invitation from her bag and handed it to me.

  “It’s Delphine’s sixth birthday on Saturday,” she said. “And I hope you’ll bring Darcey? We’re having a Barbie Princess theme, all the little girls will be dressing up and I’m hiring a pink marquee for the garden as a surprise. I had to have words with the marquee company earlier though. They weren’t keen to set up at night once Delphine’s in bed, even though that’s what I stipulated on my order. I gave them a piece of my mind, let me tell you! The man said he doesn’t do erections after dark.”

  I stifled a giggle. “I’m sure you persuaded him otherwise.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “One needs a firm hand with tradesmen.”

  “I… thanks very much,” I said, remembering that Jonathan and I had talked vaguely about taking both the children to Legoland. “I’ll check the diary. I’m sure Darcey would love it. It won’t be a problem if I bring Owen along too, will it?”

  Amanda looked aghast. “Laura, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but it’s girls only, I’m afraid. And even if it weren’t, we’re quite limited on numbers. The seating plan, you know? And everything’s been planned for just fifteen children – the party bags, the catering… And besides, you’ll want to be socialising with the other mums, won’t you?”

  About as much as I wanted to eat my own hair, I thought. “He’s no trouble, honestly. He’s very well behaved for three. But if it’s a problem…”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Amanda said. “But it’s no siblings. I did mention it on the information sheet I included with the invitation. I’d love to help, but it just won’t be possible. It’s Delphine’s special day and I must have everything just perfect for her. If Darcey’s not going to be able to come, you will let me know as soon as possible, won’t you, so I can give her place to one of the children on the B list?”

  And she swung her denim-clad bottom into her car and drove away, leaving me feeling like a bunting supplier who’d delivered the wrong shape of triangles.

  I rummaged in my bag for my own phone and called Jonathan.

  “Guess what? We’ve been invited to Amanda’s daughter’s Barbie Princess party on Saturday. It sounds like the seventh circle of hell, but she’ll love it and I can pick up some tips for Darcey’s party next month. So can you take Owen swimming?”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said. “I’ve said I’ll play golf with Rick from work.”

  “Golf? You don’t play golf.”

  “Yes, I do,” Jonathan said. “Well, I can, anyway. Haven’t hit a ball for years – not since before I met you. But I used to play with Dad, most weekends. And there’s a client golf day coming up that I can’t miss, so I need to get my eye back in.”

  “But we were going to take the kids to Legoland.”

  “But now you’ve had a better offer,” Jonathan said. “We can go another day, and you can take the kids to this party thing instead.”

  “No I can’t,” I said. “Turning up at parties with a sibling in tow is apparently the worst kind of faux pas imaginable. Owen’s not invited. Darcey is.”

  “They won’t mind, surely,” Jonathan said. “Or just drop her off and take Owen out somewhere, like we used to do.”

  “Yes, but… it’s her first party here. She hardly knows the other children. What if they’re horrible to her? She’ll need me to be there.”

/>   And, I thought, what about me? I needed to make friends, too. If I was going to cast my lot in with Amanda and her gang, then I needed to be there, drinking wine and nattering with them, not turning my back and allowing them to talk about me behind it.

  “So what are the other mums going to do, then?”

  “Their husbands will look after the other kid,” I said. “Or the nanny will, or whatever. I don’t know – we’ve always sorted it out between us, before. But we can’t do that now, can we? I’m not being unreasonable, Jonathan – if you can’t look after Owen, Darcey and I can’t go.”

  “But you didn’t much want to go, did you? Seventh circle of hell, you said.”

  “Darcey will want to go. She’ll be desperate to go.”

  “She doesn’t know she’s been invited yet, does she?”

  “No, but she will. All the little girls will be talking about it, you watch. And she’ll be gutted if she thinks she’s been left out. And I’ll have to deal with the fall-out while you bugger off and play bloody golf.”

  “Laura, it’s a work thing,” he said. “It’s not like have a choice.”

  “Yes you do. You said you know how to play – so turn up at your work thing and play. You don’t have to spend a Saturday afternoon working on your swing or polishing your putting or whatever. And I bet there are going to be drinks afterwards, and you won’t be home until stupid o’clock and I’ll have to do bedtime on my own. Again.”

  “Laura,” Jonathan sighed. “Okay, there are going to be drinks afterwards. But I can come home early – I’ve hated missing putting the kids to bed, you know I have. You get to have them all day and I get a phone call in the evenings. Do you think I like that?”

  “Do you think I like it?” I countered. “I’m knackered, coping with both of them on my own with no help.”

  “I have to go into a meeting now, Laura,” Jonathan said, and that was that.

  Furious, I stomped away and crossed the road towards home. Blinded by annoyance, I didn’t see the cyclist until it was too late – somehow, my mind just didn’t make the connection between the ‘LOOK RIGHT’ sign on the pavement and the possibility that there might actually be approaching traffic.