You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) Page 6

  I turned back into the forest and tried to retrace my steps, realising that what had felt like a headlong race had only in reality been a few yards. After a couple of false starts, I found the village again, and beyond it the Theban palace. And if I went back through the tunnel I’d find the bar and hopefully the loos.

  A few minutes later I was perched on a tree stump sipping another plastic cup of prosecco, examining a long scratch on my wrist that I couldn’t remember feeling but must have sustained on my dash through the trees, and wondering what to do next. It was nine thirty – there was only about an hour of the performance left. I was tired and chilly and my ankle hurt, but far more powerful was my regret at having missed out. I wanted what that woman had had – whatever it was. The mysterious interaction with someone who was, as I knew only too well, just a performer doing a job – but also not. Also a poor man under an enchantment on a summer night when the bounds of possibility were stretching and snapping. I wanted to know what would have happened if I had taken his hand.

  “Laura!” Zé appeared next to me, drink in hand. “God, isn’t this totally fucking amazing! How are you getting on? What have you seen?”

  “I saw the king and queen dancing,” I said. “I looked round the village thing, and I saw an amazing pas de deux – I’m not sure who the characters were, they went to sleep afterwards…”

  “Hermia and Lysander,” Zé said. “Fab! What else?”

  “Then I followed someone away from there, and I’m not sure what happened. I think I fucked up. The donkey guy – Bottom, is it? – did a thing where he tried to hold my hand, but I bottled it, and the other woman went instead.”

  “You missed the Bottom interaction! Gutting! I got Puck, it was mind-blowing. Look – he gave me a spell.” She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a tiny glass bottle, removed the cork and sniffed. I leaned over and sniffed too.

  “What is that?” I said. “It reminds me of… Something. But I can’t place it.”

  “Mmm,” Zé said. “They use scent a lot in their productions, it’s so evocative. But we need to get back in there, Laura, come on! And next time you’re offered an interaction, for God’s sake take it!”

  I gulped the last of my drink and stood up. I didn’t feel tired any longer – just eager to see more, and frightened of missing out again.

  “I’m off,” I said. “See you in an hour or so.”

  I hastened back through the tunnel, suddenly confident once more. I knew where I was going. I’d make my way back to where I’d lost Bottom, and see what would happen there next.

  But I overestimated my knowledge of the set. I decided to take a short cut through the palace, bypassing the rude mechanicals’ village, and soon I found myself lost in the trees. The full moon was high overhead, but it seemed to have moved, and anyway I’d been the shittest girl guide ever and if I relied on my night navigation skills, in the absence of Google Maps, I’d never even find my way home from the pub.

  There was still music, but it was faint and elusive. I tried to find its source, dodging between tree trunks, only the occasional glimpse of another spectator reassuring me that I hadn’t strayed off the set entirely. But I was beginning to feel anxious – anxious and frustrated, aware that I was wasting time wandering haplessly about and seeing nothing.

  I stopped, leaning against a tree, and wondered what the hell to do next. I could go back, start again – but then I’d be seeing stuff over, not discovering new things. And time was running out. Then I heard the faintest rustle behind me, the sound of stealthy feet on a carpet of leaves. I was about to turn around when a pair of warm, strong hands closed over my eyes.

  I wanted to scream, but, as happens when you try to scream in a nightmare, all that came out was a sort of strangled gasp. I could feel gentle breath on my neck, and for a second I thought that this was it, it had all gone horribly wrong, I was going to be raped and murdered in the middle of a sell-out immersive theatre production in South West London. The idea was absurd enough to make me relax slightly, and as I did so, the hands moved gently away from my eyes, but a blindfold was tied securely in their place.

  “Come, take hands with me,” a voice said. “Let your eyes be blind, lest you should be afeared.”

  The hand that had been over my left eye moved gently down and fingers clasped my own. I felt a strong arm encircle my waist. My eyes squeezed shut. I was led away across ground that felt surprisingly smooth beneath my feet. My heart was pounding; I was aware that my breath was coming in huge gasps, but I didn’t feel frightened any more, only avid to know what would happen next.

  I was guided through hanging branches that felt like they might be a willow tree, and I heard running water. For a moment my heart jumped again in my chest, and I thought, fuck, he’s going to drown me. But there was something about the calm assurance of my guide – who was just an actor, I reminded myself – that allayed my fear with eagerness. I felt hands on my shoulders pushing me down, and found myself sitting on something soft. My exploring fingers felt velvet, and then hands smoothed my face, removing the blindfold and brushing over my eyelids, and the smell of a garden on a summer night was suddenly everywhere.

  “I lay the love potion on my true love’s sight,” a voice murmured in my ear. “To charm her eyes. And what next she sees, she will dote on in extremity.”

  I took another breath, the fragrance filling my senses, and realised there was music playing now too. Part of me didn’t want to open my eyes; a more powerful part couldn’t help it. And when I did, there in front of me was Oberon, king of the magical wood. Oberon, in deepest green robes, a crown of oak leaves on his head. Oberon, who I suddenly remembered I’d had a massive crush on at school when I was eleven, thinking Demetrius and Lysander too laddish and gauche to bother with. It was Oberon who lifted his elaborate, horned mask and softly kissed my lips as the scent of flowers whirled around me. But it wasn’t really Oberon. It was Felix.

  Chapter 6

  April 2001: Recovery

  For the next couple of weeks, I followed Felix around slavishly, like a reality TV contestant going, “Pick me! Pick me!” I tried to be subtle about it, studying his habits and altering my routine ever so slightly so it coincided with his. I didn’t move from my usual spot at the barre in morning class, between Mel and Roddy, but when it came to the floor work I hung back, trying to find myself in the group just before his, which he’d be watching while he waited for his turn. I stopped buying my morning espresso at the canteen and settled for an inferior, more expensive takeaway version from Pret, because I’d seen him carrying their branded cups around with him and hoped I might bump into him there. I went to Camden on my day off and bought a Metallica sweatshirt off a market stall and wore it as a warm-up top, because I’d seen him in a similar AC/DC one.

  Still, our paths remained resolutely uncrossed outside work. The only place where I could count on finding Felix was on the roof, during every break, smoking Marlboro Reds with the health warnings printed in Russian. Before, smoking had been an occasional indulgence on a night out; now, I found my consumption creeping up to two or three, then five a day, then more. I noticed myself becoming slightly breathless when I ran up the stairs, but I wasn’t bothered – by smoking instead of eating, I was losing weight, my body becoming leaner and my line cleaner. A thin dancer, even one who wheezed after a series of grands jêtés, was a good dancer.

  And a fat lot of good it did me, because I wasn’t the only one in Felix’s entourage. The number of cigarette-smoking, Pret-drinking metal fans in the company had increased exponentially since his arrival. The weight had dropped off Lisa, too, and I noticed her casting resentful glares at me when I seemed to turn up in the same place as her all the time, because it was the same place as Felix. Even some of the soloists seemed to have succumbed to his allure – the normally taciturn Briony, who rarely cracked a smile when she wasn’t on stage, became positively skittish around him, chatting away and asking him for lights, even when I’d seen her spark up a fag
with her own Bic lighter just minutes before.

  Mel and Roddy mocked me mercilessly. For Roddy, Felix was an object of envy, not of desire.

  “Poncy git,” he said. “Okay, he can dance, but he’s got an ego the size of the Kremlin. Good luck with getting a shag there, Laura – not that you aren’t hot or anything, but you’ll have to take a number and get in line. Even if he does every girl in the company it could be months before he gets round to you.”

  “God, Laura, you reek of smoke,” Mel said one night as we flopped on the sofa in the flat after a performance of Giselle, working our way through a bottle of Rioja to take the edge of our post-performance adrenaline so we’d be able to sleep. “What are you trying to prove, hanging around Lawsonski like a dose of athlete’s foot?”

  “Don’t call him that.” I dug her in the ribs with my elbow. “He’s the man of my dreams. I’m allowed to have a crush, aren’t I? And besides, I think it’s working – he smiled at me in class today.”

  “Whoopee twang,” Mel said. “He smiles at everyone. He’s a right Mr Happy, that one. Mr Happy Lawsonski. If you want him to notice you, you’d be better off getting Marius to notice you first, so he gives you a good part. Lawsonski knows which side his bread’s buttered.”

  “I’m not sure I want Marius to notice me,” I said.

  We paused, and exchanged a mutual shudder at the idea of shagging Marius, the company’s all-powerful Creative Director, who terrified and fascinated us in equal measure. His lean, black-clad figure had a way of appearing in our peripheral vision just when we’d fucked up a step, were corpsing with laughter or were shovelling doughnuts into our faces after a particularly brutal class. Being acknowledged by him, even if only with the smallest nod, could mean we were about to shoot stratospherically through the ranks to stardom – or it could mean we’d been found wanting and our card was marked.

  “I do,” Mel said.

  “What? You never fancy him.”

  “Marius? Good God, no,” Mel said, but there was something about her tone that wasn’t quite convincing.

  “Mel and Marius, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s…” I began.

  “Oh, fuck off, Laura.” She lobbed a cushion at me, just as she always did when I teased her, but she sounded seriously annoyed, so I changed the subject.

  “Speaking of bread, do we have any in? I’d kill for a piece of hot buttered toast.”

  “There are some Ryvitas in the kitchen, I think,” Mel said. “Want one?”

  “Nah.” I poured more wine into our glasses, half-heartedly mopping up the bit that splashed on to the sofa with my sleeve. It was so stained already, a bit more damage would make no difference to our chances of seeing our deposit when we moved out – if we ever did.

  We’d been living in the flat for three years. When we first saw it, we’d been so elated at the prospect of living round the corner from work – work! Actually being paid to dance! Having made it into the company! – that we’d happily ignored the damp, the intermittent hot water and the mouse we’d seen scurrying along the skirting board on our first night there. It was only a matter of time, we told ourselves, until we were promoted, or one of us was, and then we’d move somewhere better, together like the Three Musketeers, sharing our good fortune.

  But we were still waiting. We’d seen our contemporaries move on, some promoted, some decamping to other companies and even other countries, some giving up ballet altogether and training as dance teachers, finding modelling work, or just quietly vanishing.

  “But we’re still here,” I said. “That has to be a good thing, right?”

  Mel knew me well enough to read the thought behind this random remark.

  “Sure,” she said. “You’re only twenty-one. Heaps of time yet. Only freaks make soloist at our age.”

  “Freaks and naturals,” I said gloomily, draining my glass. “Is there another bottle?”

  “Best not,” Mel said. “Marius is coming to watch morning class tomorrow, remember? You don’t want to be stinking of booze as well as fags.”

  “I’ll shower before bed,” I said, contemplating the prospect of ten minutes under a trickle of water with enthusiasm as lukewarm as it would be. I levered myself off the sofa, assessing a new click in my left hip, twin to the one in my right.

  “See you later,” I said.

  “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 wa
ter 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.”