‘Blimey,’ said Greg, rubbing his face, feeling drained all of a sudden. ‘For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going through with it.’
‘Me too.’ Steffie was sitting down, clutching Jemima’s clothes on her lap, her head tilted in the direction of the door, listening, even though everything was soundproofed and there would be no clues as to the progress of the audition.
Greg gazed at the spot where Jemima’s rival had stood – her silver jacket draped over the barre as a lasting reminder of victory, like an expedition flag on a conquered mountain. He didn’t need to take a closer look at the jacket to know that it would be embossed with the logo of an elite dance academy in the Home Counties. The entire family was gathered near the barre: a weary-looking mother in flared jeans and sensible shoes, a greying father who kept consulting his phone, three sombre siblings sitting in a line reading Kindles.
The father had just walked to the middle of the room to speak on his phone. ‘No, I’m at my daughter’s audition … You’ll have to refer the patient to … Yes … Fine.’ And he returned to his family, his shoes squeaking on the vinyl floor.
So the father was a doctor – someone fairly important by the sound of things, Greg thought, eyeing the man.
‘I don’t think that girl was any better than Jemima,’ he whispered to Steffie. ‘Do you?’
Steffie shrugged. ‘Probably not. Jemima just got intimidated.’ She glanced about the room. ‘And who can blame her?’
Earlier, when they first arrived in the studio, they had been surrounded by slender children with groomed hair and sinewy limbs that as good as gleamed as they stretched. And all around the children were groomed parents and siblings whose interest in the proceedings had ranged from mild to obsessive.
Some of the parents and tutors had murmured encouragement and instructions; some had hissed through clenched teeth; one woman in the corner had actually shouted at her child: For God’s sake. Not like that!
‘We knew it would be intense,’ said Noella, who had been gathering her belongings from the barre.
‘Yes,’ said Greg, nodding.
Noella frowned at him regretfully. ‘I didn’t mean to push her,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t want her to blow this. We’ve worked so hard to get here and I believe she has a great chance.’
‘Sure,’ said Greg. And left it at that. After all, they were all feeling the pressure, feeling fractious.
He turned to Steffie. ‘If she’s going to be in there for a while, do you fancy a quick stroll outside?’
‘OK,’ Steffie said. ‘But what about all this?’ She held up Jemima’s clothes.
Noella stepped forward. ‘Leave her things with me. I’ll wait here. Go,’ she said, smiling.
She was acting subservient, meek – un-Noella-like.
Apology accepted, Greg thought.
They left the studio and went back down the corridor to the lifts.
Outside, they walked in silence, heads bent against the cold. ‘This way?’ Greg said, gesturing towards the thin path that ran down the middle of the lawn, like a hair parting.
Steffie nodded, wrapping her scarf around her face.
He glanced back at Danube House. It was handsome – similar to the school his mother had trained at, only in Kent. It felt very enclosed, safe-guarded, with security passes in the building and cameras on the grounds. Jemima would be well cared for here, he thought. And yet there was something about it that unsettled him.
It was the pressure, he suspected. The atmosphere was glass-like, precarious. Not only were the stakes high at entry level, but the standards of everyday life would be high too. Being in a pressurised container like this would only suit a certain type of child. The problem was that it was only afterwards that you knew for sure which type your child was.
At the end of the lawn, the path descended down a stone staircase to another lawn. ‘Shall we?’ Greg said.
Steffie nodded, then stopped and looked back at the building. ‘Where do you suppose she is? Which of those rooms?’
He turned to look, running his eye along the first-floor windows to the third room. ‘That one?’ he said, stooping and pressing his head close to hers and pointing.
Her scarf had dropped. His cheek was briefly touching hers.
‘Steffie …’ he said, reaching for her hand.
But she pulled her scarf up and turned away to admire the view that was presenting itself to them.
He stood still, inhaling the unpolluted air. Before them were hundreds of spruce trees. There was no life beyond, from this viewpoint.
The air was so refreshing, the view so enchanting, it reminded him of the Italian Alps, of where they had honeymooned; thirteen years ago now.
Memories like this – of happier times, before things had deteriorated – were painful to recall. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what that felt like: to be that free and light, before parenting had weighed in, slowly unpicking their marriage.
He took a sharp breath in, felt the cold air meet his lungs.
They had stayed in the Dolomite Mountains, north Italy, close to the Austrian border. Their mountain lodge had smelt of spruce and mountain larch, with dragons and eagles carved into the eaves.
He closed his eyes briefly in sweet memory, and then glanced at Steffie, wondering whether she looked at the landscape and saw the Dolomites too. It was unlikely, however. Her thoughts would be with Jemima.
So what she said next rather surprised him.
‘Do you remember the pool in the mountains?’ Her voice was muffled, wrapped in her scarf.
He looked at her, tried not to smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’
She wasn’t looking at him, was staring ahead at the view.
The pool in the mountains had been a still mirror of warm brine water in the meadows. By day, it reflected the Dolomites. By night, it was alight with Alpenglow – the golden glow on the mountain tips as the sun sank. Swimming, just the two of them, they had felt weightless, timeless.
Suddenly, he had to say it. ‘Please come home.’
She opened her mouth to reply, but didn’t.
He pressed on. ‘You have to forgive me, Steffie,’ he said. ‘It was a stupid mistake that I regret … You’ve no idea. If I could go back and change everything, I would.’
He stopped, waited for her to speak. But again she said nothing.
‘Do you think you can ever forgive me?’ he said.
She gazed at him, her rapidly blinking eyes the only sign of motion from beyond the scarf. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
He felt his shoulders sink. ‘Have you tried?’
She pulled the scarf down. ‘Of course I have!’ she said. ‘But it’s not that easy. As soon as I think we can give it a go, for Jemima’s sake, I find myself thinking about that woman – about you and her together – and then I feel like punching you. And I don’t want Jemima to have to live like that.’ She was angry now. Her gloved hands were curled in frustration.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said miserably. ‘I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to do.’ He felt the back of his throat swell. ‘I just want you to come home … I love you.’
She gazed up at him, bit her lip. One tear escaped down her cheek, landed in her scarf. The movement seemed to waken her. She looked at the building as though remembering Jemima. ‘We should get back,’ she said.
He made no move to leave. ‘Please try,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I am trying,’ she said. ‘More than you realise.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m seeing a counsellor.’
He smiled, bent his knees to level with her. ‘You are?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s great. But I thought—’
‘I don’t,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘I don’t like the idea at all. But I didn’t know what else to do. And I like the woman I’m seeing.’
‘Well, I’m pleased,’ he said.
This was the first positive thing he had heard in a long while about his marriage.
She suddenly looked worried. ‘Don’t tell Mum,’ she said. ‘She’ll make more of it than needs be. I’ve only been going a couple of months and it’s just a casual thing, you know?’
‘Course,’ he said. ‘But I’m still proud of you.’
She should have done this years ago, when things first went wrong. But she hadn’t been ready to.
It was a big step. They both knew so.
‘Thank you,’ he said, trying not to sound gushy, overblown. ‘This means a lot.’
Again, she shed a tear. She dabbed her cheek with her thick glove and the tear was gone.
‘So do you want me to go with you?’ he said. ‘Aren’t marriage counsellors supposed to be—’
She frowned. ‘It’s not a marriage counsellor,’ she said. ‘It’s a general one. It’s for me. Not for us. Not for our marriage.’
She said this very bluntly. He saw the regret in her eyes. But still it was done: the door had been opened a fraction and she had slammed it shut again.
The silence swelled between them, filling what they couldn’t say: that they had so much work to do and no idea how to do it.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
As they walked towards the building, Greg sensed that there was something else that she wanted to say. She kept glancing at him, her step faltering.
And then she said it. ‘Have you had any contact?’
‘Contact?’ he said.
‘With her?’
At that moment, the door of Danube House opened with a swell of noise from within, and closed heavily again. A family approached down the driveway. It was the man they had heard earlier during the auditorium meeting, speaking incessantly on his phone in Japanese. Greg had wanted to grab the phone off the man and tell him not to be so rude.
The man, presumably with his son and wife, was still on his phone. ‘Now, listen here, buddy …’ he was saying. The mother was scowling, the boy was tossing a ball into the air and catching it behind his back with one hand.
‘That’s the boy who winked at me,’ Steffie said quietly.
Greg tutted.
‘Come on, Zach,’ said the mother. ‘This way …’ Then she glared at the father. ‘For God’s sake, will you get off that bloody phone?’
Greg realised that he and Steffie had stopped what they were doing, what they were talking about, in order to observe the scene before them. The people here had a habit of doing that, he thought; they made you drop everything and stare, albeit discreetly.
But Steffie had remembered their conversation and was looking up at him, arms folded, waiting. Her eyes were deep green today, reflecting the spruce trees.
He recalled the conversation too, kicked the gravel underfoot, wondered how to give an honest response.
‘It’s a simple enough question,’ she said. ‘I would have thought—’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I’ve had contact.’
She looked stung, confused. ‘But …’
‘Look,’ he said, plunging his hands into his pockets. ‘You asked the question and I’ve been honest. I don’t want any more lies.’
‘But you …’ She looked about her, as though lost.
‘She started texting me a few weeks back and then calling,’ he said. ‘She’s been trying to meet up. But I haven’t. I haven’t–’
‘You haven’t what, Greg?’ she said.
‘I haven’t met her. I’ve tried to avoid her as much as possible.’
‘Avoid her?’ she said, raising her voice. ‘That’s not good enough! Try changing your phone number. Try not replying or speaking to her at all!’
He looked at his feet. She was right. He could be stronger.
But there was something else to this, something more that he couldn’t tell her.
He was lonely. He wanted contact – with Steffie. But failing that, Olivia might have to do.
And that, he knew, was the truth.
‘What is it, Greg?’ she said, staring at him, scanning his eyes. ‘Do you want to be with her? Is this what all this is about?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Course not. I want to be with you. I want you and Jemima to come home.’
‘Then why can’t you break contact? Why can’t I just trust you to do that?’
She began to cry and he felt ghastly. He stood with his hand in mid-air reaching forward to her.
And then the front door of Danube House opened again and another family trailed out. This family, however – like themselves, Greg sensed – were unremarkable, didn’t warrant a stop-everything stare.
Both parties passed each other without acknowledgement.
Steffie took off her gloves and pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed her eyes. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘This is Jemima’s big day and here we are, doing this.’
‘It’s not ridiculous,’ he said. ‘It’s our marriage. It’s the most important thing there is.’
She gazed up at him. ‘Yet look how you treated it,’ she said.
There was no comeback to that.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
As they went back up the marble staircase, he spoke to her, his voice low but hurried. There were people everywhere now, coming in and out of the academy. ‘I won’t ever see her again,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Of course it’s what I want,’ she replied.
‘Then it’s done,’ he said.
At the top of the stairs, just as they were about to go through the room to the reception, she turned to him, stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Then we’ve got a chance,’ she said, before disappearing through the door.
He was stunned.
Jemima had told him last week that the venom of an Egyptian cobra could turn a human’s insides to goo. How she knew such a thing, he didn’t know. Children knew all sorts of facts like that. The other day, he had found an old note in his wallet that said: Dear Daddy, I love you. Did you know that vykings ate pufins? From Jemima.
He felt like that now – as though he had been bitten by that cobra.
It was all he could do to summon the strength to make his way to the studio. Steffie didn’t seem to think this was a big deal, was acting as though nothing had happened. But he felt luminous, light.
That was all he had wanted – a hint of hope. And he had been given it.
They sat back down on the bench where they had sat before. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at Steffie, couldn’t remember having ever felt more love for her – not even in the Dolomites.
But she wasn’t on honeymoon, far from it; was looking worried, tapping her feet, consulting her watch.
Noella was pacing up and down before them. The studio was very quiet now, most candidates having been and gone, aside from a few lingering parents, hovering as their child stretched post-performance.
Just along from them, on the bench, a young girl was crying noiselessly, knees drawn to chest, fists to eyes. Her parents were crouched before her, murmuring soothingly. Presumably she had messed up the audition.
Greg felt for her, wondered if that might be them shortly, consoling Jemima. It couldn’t be the reason not to go to these things; and yet the thought of rejection – of witnessing your child’s pain and not being able to do a thing about it – was sickening.
‘She’s been gone longer than I thought. It’s a good sign,’ Noella said, not looking happy, though. ‘A very good sign.’
‘I wonder how she’s got on with the interview side of things?’ Steffie said. ‘I didn’t realise they were going to do that. We didn’t—’
She broke off. The studio door had opened and Jemima was approaching with a member of staff.
Greg tried to assess his daughter’s expression, but she was giving nothing away. The only difference between how she looked now and when they had last seen her was that her hair had come unclipped from Steffie’s carefully prepared bun and was hanging in frazzled strands around her eyes.
Jemima put her hand to her face to wipe the hair away, smiling shyly.
Steffie stood up. ‘How did you get on?’ she said.
Jemima frowned at them, curling her mouth, as though telling them to apply caution, discretion. They were surrounding her, the three adults, drawing closer with intrigue, unable to stay back.
‘Jemima,’ Greg said. ‘Tell us … Is it good news?’
She nodded, smiled.
Greg glanced at Steffie, who was making a high-pitched squeal.
‘Did you pass?’ Steffie said.
Jemima nodded again. ‘Yes,’ she said, beginning to wobble with the effort of keeping it all in, since the other candidates were glancing her way, hungry for information, to find out whether their chances were greater or lower with this latest result.
‘Mon Dieu,’ said Noella in a whisper.
And then Jemima burst into tears, and he and Steffie moved forward instinctively to embrace her. And somehow they ended up pressed together, the three of them – a bundle of heartbeats and tears, trembles and joy.
*
Had he known that in less than a fortnight his world would be smashed beyond recognition, he might have held them both a little tighter.
But he hadn’t known that, couldn’t have known that the sense of fragility in the air at the Phoenix hadn’t just been due to the pressure, but a sign of his own vulnerability – that his happiness was as weak as a crystal bauble on a demolition site.
And so at that time, with his wife and child secure in his arms, he knew nothing of glass and splinters and fractures; only knew pure, complete happiness.