It really began with a goodbye.
Six months before, a wave of sudden nerves disorientated Vlada as she stepped into the dark corner behind the stage curtains of the Funtasia Melody’s main theatre.
It wasn’t the first time she’d stood there—she had performed that very segment over a thousand times in the six months she had worked on that very cruise ship—but on that particular night, she found her limbs trembling, her stomach churning, her throat dry and tight and her head a little dizzy.
Her hands were so damp, she had to grip the mic she was holding more tightly than ever because she could sense, with the amount of sweat fast emerging from her palms, it was at risk of slipping out.
Her heart was so jittery, she felt perpetually uneasy and practically afraid, with no reprieve in sight.
What she was feeling felt extremely similar to stage fright, except Vlada could tell it wasn’t just stage fright. She had overcome that very early on in her career, and hadn’t had much of a problem with it in the years since. This, on the other hand, was more intense and not quite as easy to shake. And she hadn’t had quite enough experience with it to have figured a means of stopping it yet.
She did know why she was feeling that way though. It hadn’t taken her long to figure it out because there was always a trigger, and on that particular ship, the trigger was obvious.
All it took was seconds of that trigger coming to mind or walking into the room and Vlada would find herself inundated with a mess of nerves for hours, sometimes even days.
On that particular day, in that particular moment, that trigger was directly opposite her, all the way across the stage, standing in darkness behind curtains herself, just waiting for the on-going dance segment to end.
To Vlada, the vague, dark shape of her trigger, with head somewhat bowed and eyes cast toward the ground, reminded her of an exquisite sculpture, radiating professionalism and that enchanting air of self-confidence a person only ever manifests after years of mastery. Vlada had to look away because the mere glimpse of her had amped up the velocity of those chemicals underneath her skin and she knew this was no time for that.
Not now; not when she had a show to finish.
The tune for the dance number that had been going on forever ended then. The lights went out, applause thundered and pretty soon, the entire theatre was cloaked in an inky blackness which emanated a silence thick enough to sound like it was ringing.
Along with the ringing, Vlada could hear the beat of her own heart banging furiously against the insides of her ears because she knew, in a few seconds, there would be—
—a voice. One full and rich in overtones, with a deepness that seemed to soothe and calm. One which very apparently had the power to elicit sensual notions within her.
Indeed, right on cue, the voice appeared like a beam of warm light in the unfeeling blackness, singing the first line of Shirley Bassey’s Where Do I Begin in the raw. Despite there being no instrumental music to adorn it, the voice managed to fill the theatre with a sudden air of grandiose melancholy powerful enough to compel the audience to applaud with unanimous approval almost at once.
Vlada trembled, then shivered, as the powerfully passionate, intense and booming sound, together with those words and the riot of heavy applause thundering clawed their way into her skin and flesh and made her feel as if she were no longer in control of the electrical impulses and chemicals within her body.
Her trigger’s voice was like its face—magical almost; bold, unique and sultry; full of an unparalleled power and reflective overtones, giving away none of the effort required to achieve such a sound even though Vlada knew the average person would most certainly founder trying to do the same.
The lights came on, like a beam from the heavens. Dim with a wash of red, but in the middle, there was the spotlight, shining down upon a lady dressed in blue feathers and glittery stilettos—with a split skirt, athletic legs on display and boobs out, and arms spread out in an extremely charismatic pose.
That was Vlada’s trigger—the sole cause of her recent difficulties with composure—looking terribly elegant and vintage with luscious dark locks swept to the side, eyes layered with a dramatic smoky shadow and full lips emphasised with bright red colouring. She stood tall, despite being all alone on a relatively large stage, radiating more magnetism than Vlada had ever seen on any other person.
The audience applauded again, with greater zest this time, and Vlada immediately felt like she might just die if she kept her eyes on her trigger a second longer. Seeing that face right in front of her, with that voice rippling over her skin, dragged to the surface emotions she didn’t even know she had. Her heart was galloping to the brink of exhaustion; her stomach, swimming out of control; goosebumps were everywhere.
The smart thing to do was to stop looking and listening, yet, somehow, no matter how much Vlada wished she could, she simply could not turn her head or eyes away from her.
There was just something about her, and how she moved and how she sounded... Something captivating and just… beautiful. Different but… nice, and yet way too distracting all at the same time.
The band behind her trigger began to play—the cue it would be Vlada’s turn next. With all the willpower she could find within herself, she forced her head towards the floor instead and willed her mind and body to think of and feel only the performance she was going to have to do.
A quick glimpse through a slit in the curtains, at the sea of faces below the stage, and she was wiping her hands down on her equally feathery grey dress, taking three long, deep, grounding breaths and finally, when feeling that little bit less awful, stepping out into the light, flanked by sweaty dancers in evening-inspired black and white outfits.
She sang. Her voice rumbled through the theatre—raspy, crackly and somewhat strained in contrast to the silky one that had been at the centre of attention before. She could feel that familiar pain in her throat each time she pushed through the high notes and the same old relief every time she made it through them without her voice cracking entirely.
Nobody applauded this time.
Most of the members of the audience had their eyes on the dancers and band now performing at full force around and behind her. They glanced towards her only periodically at best.
Same as always.
Unlike how it was with her trigger, singing wasn’t a God-given gift Vlada had been born with but a skill she’d picked up for the sake of profit-making. On the very day she graduated from high school, there had been a brand new opening for singers at the brand new pub opening right outside her parents’ apartment back in the Ukraine. Her mother said it might be God’s will for her and that was how her entire singing career got started.
God’s will or not, singing, for her, had always been a whole lot of work and near misses—she truly believed she’d gotten the gig on the Funtasia Melody simply because everybody else applying happened to be worse. Her trigger, on the other hand, was obviously the best—talented in ways few others could be; born to sing and entertain and… charm…
The duet segment began. As her voice blended into her trigger’s, becoming impossible to make out from the other, Vlada could feel her eyes creeping towards her trigger yet again.
She watched her, and watched her some more, gradually descending further into dismay when she saw her trigger singing only to the audience and never to her.
She knew, logically, that wasn’t at all unusual. It was always the audience her trigger looked at at that point in the song. It was just… on that particular night, at that particular show, perhaps because it was their last time singing together before they would be parting to spend the next year performing on separate ships—her on the sister ship, the Funtasia Symphony, while Dasha remained on the Melody, thanks to the stupid management decision to mix seasoned performers with new ones—Vlada couldn’t help but wish… for that night at least, her lovely, perfect, talented trigger would just… glance over? Even if only for a while? Even if it would impair her ability to perform for a little bit?
Because this particular trigger, unlike the ones she’d lost before, who obviously enough did not like her in that way, might just do so, wouldn’t she?
And since they were far away from the Ukraine this time, surrounded by liberal Central European beliefs, on a Chinese ship few Eastern Europeans would likely be on, Vlada couldn’t help but wonder if, maybe, this time, just this time, it might actually be okay for her to be… honest? For once? To say out loud what she never thought wise to say?
Should I tell her? Vlada wondered as she finished the last of her lines with practiced finesse and grooved as choreographed while waiting for the rest of the music and show to run its course. Do I dare say it?
Out loud? In actual words? Would I really dare to do it?
The show ended then and, right as Vlada was least expecting it, the most gorgeous pair of smoky eyes she’d ever seen in all her life turned towards her and twinkled as the bright red lips beneath them, half-shrouded by a dramatic bouquet of blue feathers, curled into a smile that seemed to glow with bliss, allure and open arms.
Yes, Vlada decided as another surge of electricity rushed through her entire person for the umpteenth time that night and left her cheeks quaking. I have to tell her.
It was now or never.