Two weeks staying in the Lebedevs’ flat above the ballet studio flies by, lost in countless hours of ballet practice, evenings spent perfecting my turnout or training my leg to lift just a little higher. Ballet is my life, and always has been, but even I have found the lack of any break in routine tiresome on occasion. The only thing to break up the constant practising and striving to be better has been my visits from Grace. Every evening after her shift at the library, she has come round without fail. That was until last night. I waited up for her as long as I could, convinced that she would be over soon, but my eyes eventually grew so heavy that I had to admit to myself that she was not coming, and go to sleep. It is barely dawn, but for some reason, I find myself wide awake again. I lie in bed, listening to the sound of rain hitting the roof above my head. I rub my bleary eyes and peek through the curtains; the sky is still black, but in the darkness, I spot someone on the cobbled street below, and now I know why I have woken up.
‘Grace, what are you doing here?’ I hiss. ‘Is everything OK?’
She does not answer, but simply says, ‘Could you please let me in?’
I leap from the bed without a moment’s thought, and tiptoe down the hallway, cautious of waking Madame or Rudi, as he sleeps restlessly on the sofa. I creep down the stairs and past the dark, empty studio to the front door where Grace is waiting. Her hair is frizzy and bedraggled from the rain, and her cheeks are shining with moisture, though I am starting to think these may be tears.
‘Get inside, quick!’ I exclaim, grabbing her cold, wet hands and pulling her towards me. ‘What on earth are you doing wandering out by yourself so late at night?’ It is highly uncharacteristic of Grace to do something so careless.
‘I-I don’t know.’ She shivers.
‘Come on.’ I wrap my arm around her shoulder. ‘You’re freezing. Let’s get you a nice hot cup of tea and you can tell me what is going on.’
We sit at the kitchen table, and I watch Grace warily, cradling a cup of tea between her slender hands. She watches the steam rise and curl from the cup, not saying anything. I feel slightly uneasy in this role reversal – usually it is me who is struggling with a problem, and Grace is always the dependable one.
‘Is everything alright?’ I ask timidly, knowing that, of course, it is not. Otherwise, she would not have travelled halfway across London in the middle of the night to see me.
‘I just, I couldn’t sleep,’ she mutters, still not looking up from her cup.
I reach across the table for her hand. ‘What is it, Grace? Is it Mother? Whatever it is, we can work it out together, just like we always—’
‘August proposed last night,’ she blurts out suddenly, and whatever I was going to say falls dead.
‘And?’ I squeak. ‘Did you accept?’
‘I did.’ She says it firmly, and the stalwart sister I am used to is finally staring back at me. ‘It really seemed like the best decision. I know it is what Mother wanted, and I will finally be able to move out of that house, and you won’t have to stay here anymore, Clem. You can come and live with August and me. You could have the room with the lovely stained-glass window. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? We could fit a barre in there. I’m sure August wouldn’t mind.’
She is speaking too quickly, babbling as if to convince me that she has made the right decision, but the words just wash over me. I feel a little numb and I blink a couple of times.
‘Clementine?’
I blink again and realise that Grace is gazing at me expectantly, and that I have not responded to the news yet. The numbness starts to subside and is replaced by something else, something between disappointment and desperation. I feel an anxiety mounting in me like a wild animal caught in a trap.
‘If that’s what you want, then I am happy for you, of course,’ I say at last, but she does not look satisfied with my response.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ she replies with exasperation, and I have to hush her, worried that she will wake the Lebedevs.
‘Well, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ I counter. ‘Is this not what you have been working towards for months?’
‘It is not a case of want, Clementine, it is a case of what is necessary,’ she hisses, her blue eyes glinting slightly manically.
‘You think it is necessary for you to marry August?’ I scoff. ‘Who are you doing it for – me? Mother? I would rather you marry someone who will make you happy, and nothing you do will ever be good enough for Mother, so I wouldn’t bother.’
‘Do you really think it’s that simple? We have no money, Clem, not a penny. I can’t look after us both on my salary from the library.’
‘I don’t need you to look after me!’ I retort, my voice rising uncontrollably so that this time Grace must shush me. ‘I don’t ever want to be the reason you make a decision like this. If you choose to marry August because it is what you truly want, then of course I am happy for you, but if your heart desires something else, then I cannot support your choice.’
She looks torn, as if she is on the cusp of telling me something. She bites her lip and leans in slightly. I lean towards her, urging her to tell me whatever it is that is plaguing her mind, but then she shakes her head and rises suddenly from her chair.
‘You can be incredibly ungrateful sometimes, Clementine. Do you know that?’ she says sternly, and her blue eyes, which are usually so bright, darken as she furrows her brow.
‘I am not trying to be ungrateful,’ I counter. ‘I am trying to be thoughtful.’
She pauses with her hand on the door, then looks over her shoulder at me. ‘Try harder,’ she says matter-of-factly, then wrenches it open and leaves.
The next evening, Grace doesn’t turn up on her way home from the library. She does not come by the night after that either, and I start to feel a niggling sense of worry in the pit of my stomach. I cannot go home; if Mother gets hold of me again, that will be it, there will be no second chance for escape. I decide to go to the library myself, but when I arrive, Grace is not there.
Jacob is behind the polished mahogany counter, but he does not look his usual self. His dark brown hair hangs limply around his face like curtains, and his warm chestnut eyes have dulled to almost black. His skin looks grey, and when he looks up at me, he barely seems to recognise me, let alone produce a smile.
‘Clementine,’ he says monotonously, sifting through a pile of leather-bound textbooks and avoiding my gaze. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I was looking for my sister,’ I reply steadily. ‘Are you all right, Jacob? You don’t look well.’
‘Your sister doesn’t work here anymore,’ he replies abruptly and I falter in surprise. For a moment, I see a flash of the old Jacob and he glances at me in concern. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No, of course I did,’ I lie, trying to chuckle, but even to my ears it sounds false. ‘It must have slipped my mind. How silly of me!’
He looks as if he does not believe me, but he simply shrugs and returns to his stack of books.
‘Jacob—’ I start, but he interjects.
‘Clementine, I really have a lot of work to do, especially now that your sister has left. So, if you don’t mind, could you please try and look for her somewhere else?’
His words sting. Firstly, it is odd to hear him call me Clementine. It sounds so formal. He has always called me Clem, and with a warmth that is missing now. But something else is strange too, and then I realise what it is.
‘Why won’t you say her name?’ I ask, and he freezes, his hands hovering over the book before him.
‘You are being absurd now, Clem,’ he says crossly, but his eyes are softer when he looks at me at last.
‘Say her name.’
‘What difference does it make?’ he croaks.
‘If it makes no difference, why won’t you say it?’ I counter. ‘Just say it, say her name, say—’
‘Grace!’ he exclaims in exasperation. ‘Grace is gone, and she is never coming back because she is going to marry that ridiculous botanist.’
‘Are you not happy for her?’ I press, folding my arms and arching one eyebrow.
He lets out a low, humourless laugh. ‘Do you enjoy seeing me suffer, Clem? No, I am not happy about it, nor will I ever be.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because she belongs with me,’ he sighs, and as he finally admits it, I watch a weight lift from his shoulders, but he still looks so broken. ‘I love her, Clem. I love her with my whole heart, but it isn’t enough.’
‘Does she know how you feel?’ I ask, taking a step back towards him.
‘Of course she does,’ he replies with exasperation. ‘And if I am not mistaken, she loves me too, but she will marry the American out of some sense of duty to—’
He stops himself, his eyes wide like two chestnuts, but I know what he was going to say.
‘Is she marrying August for my sake?’ I muster at last.
‘It is not as simple as that, Clem,’ he tries to assure me.
‘But that is the main reason, isn’t it?’ I interrupt. ‘She thinks she needs to provide for me?’
‘She loves you very much,’ he says in return, but he cannot meet my eye anymore.
Days pass and I hear nothing from Grace. Jacob’s words resound in my head; he never did answer my question exactly, but the sentiment was still there. Grace is only marrying August for me. Opening night for Giselle is approaching quickly, and each rehearsal seems more tense than the last. Everyone can feel it, and it all comes down to the scout from the Vic-Wells Ballet. If I can just impress them, I could secure a scholarship, and Grace will be free to do whatever she wants with her life. I will finally be free to follow my dreams, and there is no way Rudi wouldn’t get accepted too. The two of us, dancing on the grandest stages the world has to offer: it is all we have ever hoped for. I can feel Rudi’s tension too, and it must be for the same reason. He grows more and more terse with each day, and Madame Lebedev is on his case more than ever. They fight a lot, something I have never witnessed before, but they manage to leave it all in the studio and go back to normal each evening in the cosy flat upstairs.
Day by day my strength begins to return to me, not just physically but mentally too. Now that August Draper is out of the picture, I am properly focusing on my dancing. Maybe Rudi was right all along: I never needed a husband to help secure my future, I needed to believe in my own ability and work hard. As for where that leaves me and my feelings for Rudi, I am not so sure. We have been so focused on rehearsing, that there has been time to talk of little else but the ballet. That does not stop the way my heart aches whenever he looks at me though, or the way his smile makes me feel like I am melting. There is a constant pull, drawing me towards him, no matter how hard I try to fight it. My brain tells me it is not sensible to fall in love with your dance partner, especially Rudi who goes through girls quicker than he goes through pairs of ballet shoes, but my heart tells me it does not care. Between the rigorous rehearsals and this constant internal battle over my feelings for Rudi, I am exhausted. I know I am stronger, but am I as strong as I was before? Will it be enough to impress the Vic-Wells Ballet scout on opening night?
We arrive at the Harcourt Theatre in Aldwych a few days before the show opens to begin dress rehearsals. It is such a lovely theatre, with red, plush velvet seats, just like the Royal Opera House, only on a far smaller scale and with a lot less filigree and grandeur. But to me, it is magnificent. Backstage is a warren of corridors and passageways, leading off to dressing rooms and costume cupboards, and I love the atmosphere of being behind the scenes almost as much as being on stage. There is an energy backstage, like the static in the air before a storm. Girls rush back and forth in their net skirts, there is laughter, there are tears, tantrums and arguments. We go through every emotion while preparing for a show, but when we step onto that stage, you would never know.
When opening night arrives, I have that oddly calm feeling of being in the eye of a storm. I know it will pass, I know the frantic worry is just around the corner. It doesn’t matter how much I have prepared; anything could go wrong, and tonight must be perfect. Rudi’s and my future depends on it.
I love being on the stage – the buzz behind the wings as we all bustle back and forth in our grand costumes, sequins and beads twinkling under lights, the rustle of a net tutu, the caustic smell of so much hairspray and greasepaint. During show week, even Alice Blakely does not get under my skin. We all have a joint goal – to pull off the show of a lifetime, bigger and better than before. None of us want to let Madame Lebedev down. She sits by the back door, smoking cigarette after cigarette, looking as tightly wound as a violin string. She is glamorous in a black and ivory silk gown, her sharp lips painted in a deep red, and her dark hair waved and styled in a low knot at the nape of her neck.
‘Clementine!’ she barks, as I glide past her in my net skirt. ‘Come here. You have a loose thread.’ She pulls the cigarette from her mouth and runs it along the frayed edge of the netting, melting it in place. ‘Do you feel ready?’ she asks, her voice low, her eyes intently focused on my skirt.
‘Yes, Madame.’ I nod. ‘I feel confident that I have caught up for my lost time. I feel as if I know this part inside out now. It is such a beautiful ballet.’
‘Everything rests on tonight, Clementine. Everything. Chances like this can be once in a lifetime. Do not let anything distract you from your dreams.’ Her voice is tough, and her eyes are sharp when she looks up at me.
I feel a tightening in my chest, and for some reason, the first thing I think of is Rudi. I wonder if he has had the same lecture already. I know she cares for me greatly, and it will do wonders for the school’s reputation if I get accepted into the Vic-Wells Ballet, but she must be even more eager that her son wins a coveted place too.
As if I have wished him into being, Rudi saunters past, already in costume. He stops when he sees us, and gives me a quick nod, then leans to kiss his mother on the cheek.
‘There is a gentleman in the foyer who has asked to speak with you, Mamasha.’
She nods and casts her cigarette out of the open door. ‘Run through the opening pas de deux once more,’ she calls after us as she swishes onto the stage and out through the theatre.
Rudi and I look at each other for a moment. It feels like an awfully long time before either of us speaks, and I can feel my heart beating rapidly beneath my leotard.
‘Did she tell you how your entire future rests on tonight?’ he says at last with a smirk, his eyes twinkling like silver.
‘She did,’ I sigh. ‘Somehow that only makes me feel less prepared.’
‘That is precisely what she wants, solnyshko,’ he replies, resting a hand on my shoulder. ‘She knows you well enough to know that will only have inspired you to work that much harder.’
‘I am already giving it my all, Rudi,’ I say, exasperated. ‘What more does she want?’
‘You know this is how it is, Clem.’ He shrugs. ‘This is the life we have chosen.’
I look down at my feet in their satin pointe ballet shoes. One of my ribbons has come loose. Rudi notices it too and kneels down to fix it back in place. I try to ignore the tingling sensation I feel whenever his fingers brush against my leg as he secures the ribbon. When he stands again, he is so close that the temptation to grab him and kiss him is almost entirely overwhelming.
‘Do you ever think …’ I start, but I don’t really know what I want to say. I think I was going to ask if he thought about whether this is what he wants. Is it what I want? I have already spent my entire life being undermined by my mother. Do I want to continue to let ballet teachers and rival dancers and critics chip away at what is left of me?
‘Ever think what?’ he asks, his eyes growing wide.
‘Nothing.’ I smile. ‘Come on, let’s practise the pas de deux one more time as requested.’
An hour later, I stand before the mirror, checking over the finer details of my costume one last time. I run a hand over my hair, smoothing any flyaways, and turn my head left then right to check my make-up has blended fully. I flex my feet one at a time, and rise up onto pointe. My ankles feel strong and steady. I wish I could say I felt the same on the inside. Madame’s words about the importance of this evening reverberate around my head like a flurry of flakes inside a snow globe, only they refuse to settle. The theatre feels alive, and I know that the rows of plush velvet seats will be filling up with people by now. I close my eyes and try to feel Grace’s presence, but I can’t sense her at all. I take a deep breath, savouring the sweet, decaying smell of the moth-eaten costumes, the salty tang of sweat, the sharp smell of leather. There is a knock on the dressing room door, and my heart stutters.
‘Who could that be?’ Alice asks impertinently, storming across the floor. ‘We can’t be anywhere close to curtains up yet.’ She swings it open and lets out a little squeak. ‘Rudolf! You can’t come in the girls’ dressing rooms.’
‘I have no desire to come in,’ he replies from the hall, and I can tell from his voice that he is smiling. ‘Is there any chance Clementine could come out?’
‘Of course,’ she replies, her voice tight. ‘Clementine!’
I am already at her back, and I feel a rush of unmistakable joy when I see Rudi leaning in the doorway. His face splits into a lopsided smile when he catches my eye, and he takes a step back into the hall, gesturing for me to join him. I step out into the hallway, and the temperature drops immediately. Alice still lingers by the door, as if she might hope to catch a snippet of whatever it is Rudi wants to say, but he leans forward with a broad smile and closes the door in her face.
‘Is something the matter?’ I ask, folding my arms across my body for warmth. I can feel the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck beginning to rise. ‘Did you want to run through the pas de deux again? You know, I think we can over-practise too if we are not careful.’
‘There is something I need to tell you,’ he says, his expression suddenly more serious, a deep crease forming between his brows.
‘Can it not wait until after the show? What could possibly be so urgent that you would force me to suffer the wrath of Alice Blakely?’ I laugh, but the sound stops dead in my throat at the look on his face. ‘What on earth is the matter?’
‘Here’s the thing, Clem …’ he starts, his head bowed, then he looks up at me in earnest from his hooded grey eyes through his thick lashes. ‘I love you. And I don’t just mean as my best friend, or my trusted dance partner. I am in love with you. You are all I think about … before you came to live with me, every morning, I would wake up and wonder if you were awake yet on the other side of London. I would fall asleep imagining that you were doing one last round of développés before calling it a night, and when we dance together … Solnyshko, I pour all my love for you into every movement.’
I blink, but remain silent. My heart is racing and it feels as if it is trying to escape from my chest and out through my throat, but my lips seem to be glued shut. Rudi shifts uncomfortably from side to side.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Clem?’ he asks, downhearted.
‘I-I …’ I stutter, searching in vain for the right words.
‘It’s quite simple,’ he says with an air of frustration. ‘You either feel the same way or you don’t. If the answer doesn’t come to you straight away, then I suppose you probably don’t.’
‘It’s not that, Rudi,’ I insist. ‘It’s just a lot to process right now. The show is starting any minute, there’s a scout from the Vic-Wells Ballet out there, and—’
‘Is that all you can think about?’ he says, aghast. ‘Clementine, I just told you that I love you and, still, all you can think of is ballet?’
‘It’s not all I think about!’ I reply hotly. ‘I just, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. We’ve been pretending for so long, I think you’ve just got muddled up in your head.’
‘I am not muddled up, Clem! I know how I feel,’ he insists more ardently.
I scrunch up my eyes. I do not want to hear it. I cannot hear it, because no matter how much he might believe it, and no matter how much I love him back, it simply cannot be true. My mother’s voice resounds in my head, blocking out whatever he is saying. Who would ever want you? I am unlovable. I cannot think about any of this now. I must secure a place with the Vic-Wells Ballet. Only then will Grace be free to be with Jacob, and I will be free from Mother forever.
‘You don’t love me, Rudi,’ I reply quietly. ‘You love Giselle, Odette, Juliet – the parts that I play – but not me, not really. It’s just that most recently the parts we have been playing were not created by Tchaikovsky or Shakespeare, they were versions of ourselves, but nonetheless they were fictional. You are confusing the stage with reality.’
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can’t bring myself to look at him a moment longer. I drop my head, but my careless eyes wander back to his. He opens his mouth to respond, but his words are cut short by the arrival of Madame Lebedev as she sweeps down the corridor.
‘Places, my dears,’ she coos, knocking on the dressing room doors as she passes. ‘Five minutes until the curtain rises.’