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IT WAS A GREY DAY IN Paris and Veronica was feeling queasy. She put it down to the flaky croissant she’d had for breakfast. It was rich and buttery and wasn’t sitting well with the coffee, which was served stronger than she was used to. She’d felt exactly the same yesterday morning too. Her fingers were crossed inside the pocket of the sixties style houndstooth wool coat she’d bought from a local thrift store before the trip. It was her Paris coat and it made her feel hip and edgy. She’d hung it out to air for a day or two but the faint traces of musty flowers from its previous owner still clung to it. She didn’t mind though. Her hair was scraped back in a bun and she’d left her trademark black eyeliner off today. She felt exposed without it.
The pavement they were walking along toward the Palais Garnier was crowded with angular, sophisticated Parisians, all in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. The wide street rumbled with motorbikes weaving in and out of cars that, to the uninitiated, appeared to follow no road rules other than go. For all the chaos though, it seemed to work. Cigarette smoke mingled with exhaust fumes and the smell of fresh bread as people strode past eating baguettes for breakfast from brown paper bags.
Up ahead the palais bustled with comings and goings. The hopes and dreams inside the building were palpable and would be more so this time around, now they were within reach. Veronica looked at the golden statuettes either side of the building’s crowning, green dome—all of which was supported by the grand Grecian-style columns. There were sixteen columns. She’d counted them last time as they’d walked across the pedestrian crossing toward the palais to compete in the eliminatory round. It had taken her mind off her nerves. Underneath these columns, she could see the archways, and the orange glow of light beckoning them was welcome on this dull morning.
Gabe was quiet as they approached the building. Veronica knew him well enough to know this meant he was nervous. ‘You don’t need to worry, Gabe. Your Grand Pas Classique is going to be magnifique!’
He smiled at her faux French accent, both his hands thrust into the pockets of his green Army Surplus parker as he strode along. His hair was flopping in his eyes and Veronica saw a passing young woman take a second look. Miss Laverne, who’d dressed in a belted, red dress coat which made her waist look miniscule but also made her look like a spy or stripper depending on what sort of mind you had, hadn’t stopped talking from the moment they’d sat down in the hostel kitchen for breakfast. ‘Did you wear your flip-flops in the shower?’ she’d fired at Veronica as she’d sipped her too-hot coffee. ‘Yes.’ It had been drummed into her to do so because a ballet dancer could not risk a fungal infection from the less than sanitary showers the hostel they were booked in to offered. She’d yawned, her sleep had been broken due to the comings and goings of their fellow guests.
She was grateful she and Miss Laverne were sharing a room and not in the dormitory as they’d been on their prior audition visit. Gabe had his own room this time around too. There’d be no chance of any illicit liaisons under Miss Laverne’s watchful eye though. Veronica had found it a shock the first morning she’d awoken to see her dance teacher without her lipstick on, that first trip. She looked pale and uninteresting without her signature ruby-red lips.
Miss Laverne was still shooting instructions at them as they walked over the pedestrian crossing once more. ‘Be confident and show your passion for the dance, don’t deviate from your routine or decide to be clever. Remember to use manners at all times. Most of all,’ she said, as they entered the hallowed building, ‘perform as though your life depends on it.’
Veronica had had a month to rehearse the company’s chosen solo dance and she performed the Soirs de Fête from Coppélia with every fibre of her being.