Page 2 of The Virgin's Dance
“Oh, no,” Nelly shook her head, “it’salltrue. He is a junkie and a cheating asshole, but he’s also a genius artistic director. Really, he couldn’t be more clichéd if he tried, but Oliver Fortuna is determined to keep hold of him.”
“Who is Fortuna?”
Nelly smiled. “Our founder. God bless him, he’s wonderful, and he’s intensely loyal.” She sighed. “Too loyal, sometimes. Anyway, I digress. We were talking about ways to up our profile without referencing Kristof’s past, and a photographic exhibit of our dancers, shot by one of the best photographers in the work—you—would be a great start. Then, we’re working towards a major performance of work, calledLa Petite Morte. Kristof is putting it together—it’s an excerpt from erotic ballets with a dark twist.”
Pilot was nodding, but he wasn’t enthused. “I’m happy to help but it’s been done, recently too.”
“Wait until you see our dancers—there are one or two of them who transcend ballet. That’s all I’ll say now because I want you to find your muse in our company. Pilot, you were the first person I thought of for this—I’ve seen you get that glint in your eye when something or someone inspires you.” She squeezed his cheek, grinning. “Trust me on this—you will find it at NYSMBC.”
Later, as he walked home to his penthouse flat, he wondered about the job. The New York State and Metropolitan Ballet Company. He knew very little about dance, but Nelly had been their chief of publicity for many years, and he’d occasionally photographed their shows for them.
Kristof Mendelev was another matter. Pilot’s dealings with the man had only ever been negative—Mendelev had been one of Eugenie’s myriad lovers and had boasted about it whenever Pilot had been to one of their functions. He knew the ex-ballet dancer was loathed by his colleagues, but like Nelly had told him, Kristof was a genius on the ballet stage. Feted by every major ballet company around the world, Kristof knew his worth.
“He’s the reason we’re struggling cash-wise,” Nelly had told Pilot. “His salary is six figures, but he has to submit to weekly drug-testing. That’s the one unbreakable condition of his employment. So far—he’s clean.”
Pilot had told Nelly he would happily photograph the dancers for the company but he didn’t hold faith that it would be the key to unlocking his inspiration. When he got home, he checked his voicemails. Grady Mallory, just checking in. Pilot deleted that message guiltily. One message from his mom, Blair, asking him to call her. Three from his younger half-sister Romana, herself an up-and-coming photographer, and finally, seven messages from Eugenie, each more hysterical than the last.
Don’t give in to her. Don’t call her back.
Pilot sighed and flicked through his contacts, pressing the dial button. After a second, he heard her voice—and smiled. “Hey, little sis,” he said, his tone warm and loving, “what gives?”
Chapter Two
Boheme Dali battered her shoes against the stone wall, trying to break them in. She thought she had done so last night, hours of bending and stretching the shoes, but, as always with new shoes, they’d wrecked her feet after only one ballet class.
She looked up as a female voice called her name, and smiled. Grace Hardacre, one of the guest performers this year, came to sit down by her in the corridor outside the studio. “Hey, Boh.”
“Hey yourself. How’s mentoring going?” Grace was mentoring an apprentice of the ballet company’s in addition to performing with them.
Grace smiled. “Lexie is incredible,” she said warmly, “and such a sponge. I tell her one thing and she gets it.”
Boheme smiled. She remembered what it had been like to be an apprentice, even one with her talent; she was still put through the ringer by her tutor, former prima ballerina, Celine Peletier, who was now her champion and a formidable teacher at the company. It had made her the dancer she was today.
Grace nodded at her shoes. “The one constant in ballet—painful shoes. New?”
“Yup.” Boheme grimaced as she saw blood in the toe of them. “God,Liquid Skin,here I come.” She dragged the tube of liquid bandage from her bag.
Grace looked sympathetic. “Ouch.”
Boheme shrugged. “But necessary. Anyway, what brings you over here?” She sucked in a breath as she applied the liquid to her toes.
“The douche wishes to see me about the workshop. I think he wants me on his side about what ballets he wants to do.”
“Ah. They’re still fighting overThe Lesson?”
“Yup. Liz thinks it’s misogynist and too violent, whereas Kristof says that’s the point of the whole sex and death thing he’s got going on.”
Boheme rolled her eyes. “I hate to say this, but I kind of get where he’s coming from.” She bent over as far as she could and blew on her toes.
“Me too, but Liz arguesMayerlingorLa Sylphidecover the same ground.”
“Well, she’s right, but isn’t that point of this workshop? We’re doing three excerpts from three different stories.” Boh sighed. “Well, whatever. It’s not like we haven’t plenty of tragic ballets to choose from. Although I have to admit, I’m relieved not to have to doRomeo and Julietagain.”
Grace chuckled. “You’ve always hated that one. People love it.”
“It’s not a love story,” Boh said, “it’s a stupid teen angst story.”
“Philistine.”
