Page 26 of The Unraveling

It’s kind of a nice change.

By Thursday, though, the director still hasn’t come by to see me dance, and I’m starting to freak out a little. Arabella tells me not to worry, that there’s no way Sarika isn’t telling him how great I am. On Friday, just as the barres are taken away and we begin to work in the center, Charlie Haydn-Cole appears.

He’s a tall, thin man with a dark complexion and a shock of bleached natural hair. He’s in a turquoise suit I recognize as one of Virgil Abloh’s designs for Off-White from a few years ago. Not what I had expected, since ballet—especially in England—is famed for being a bit on the traditional side. Which usually calls to mind boring white men with too much power and money.

After class, I’m discouraged again when Charlie disappears quickly. But Sarika tells me to meet him in his office.

Arabella and I head to her dressing room to change.

“This is it!” she says, grabbing me by the arms as the elevator doors close. “I know he’s going to hire you. I just know it.”

“I hope so.” I look upward at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

The elevator dings as we arrive on floor two. We hurry to the dressing room, and I put on my street clothes.

“Wait, wait, let me check you,” she says, holding my arms and standing back to take me in. “You look fucking perfect.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

She leans in and kisses me on the lips before saying, “Go get ’em, tiger!”

I giggle from her silly American phrase and I feel dazed from the kiss—clearly that’s just how she is with her friends—and then start to head out.

“I’ll wait outside for you!” she calls down the hall.

“Okay!” I wave. I feel like I’m being dropped off on my first day of school.

I get into the elevator and take it one more flight up.

It takes only a few seconds, and I’m out on another hallway upstairs, so similar to the one downstairs that it’s spooky.

I look for his office, find it, and his assistant points me through, and then I rap gently on the door.

There’s no answer, and I hesitate another moment before knocking again, more loudly this time.

Still nothing, then the door swings open.

Charlie takes expensive-looking headphones off and says, “I thought I heard something. Come in, come in.”

I do, and sit in the chair he offers. He moves to his side of the desk and sits in his own.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say. “Sarika said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, yes, I apologize, I had a quick casting emergency to sort. Water?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sparkling or still?” He stands and crosses to a small black refrigerator hidden behind a wooden cabinet door.

“Uh, sparkling,” I say.

He pulls out two San Pellegrinos and hands me one.

“I was just listening to the new orchestra’s most recent recording. We’re doing a new Swan Lake soon. I think it’s going to be exceptional. I really do. Okay, where were we?”

He claps his hands together.

He’s got such a strong, present energy. His scattered nature makes him seem less like he can’t stay focused and more like he thinks in a million directions at once. He’s like jazz, as a man.

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