Page 32 of Pas de Don't
The slower you come back, the faster you come back, he reminded himself as, all around him, his colleagues dipped into enviably deep grand pliés and he simply bobbed up and down in his shallow demis. He had come this far, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t keep getting stronger. Still, he felt out of place today, in this room full of his perfectly in-shape colleagues.
Against his better judgment, he let his eyes drift over to Heather, who was wearing what he recognized as one of her new leotards, a slate grey V-neck with short sleeves. She had her garbage-bag pants pulled up high on her waist and her hair in a low bun. Around her neck, she’d wrapped a plush deep-red scarf.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, he watched her as she swept her right arm down in a wide arc, her gaze following her hand as it travelled in front of her body and up over her head. It was the most elementary of ballet movements, a grand plié in second position, but she made it look like breathing. Beautiful, otherworldly breathing. Her arm swam through the air, floating around her body, and energy seemed to flow seamlessly from her shoulder to her elbow, down through her wrist and into the knuckles of her long, slender fingers.
Marcus had spent thousands of hours of his life in ballet class, and he’d stood behind many of his colleagues over the years, observing their technique in hopes of learning what to do to get better—and what not to do. But watching Heather, he couldn’t see a single thing that was wrong. As he watched her rearrange her feet into fourthand readjust her hand on the barre, he felt his pulse quicken, and not because of the tiny pliés he was attempting.
Was he surprised to discover that one of the highest-ranked women at one of the world’s best ballet companies was a beautiful dancer? No, he wasn’t. Was he a little breathless just watching her warm up? He definitely was. Compared to this, watching her strike a few poses in a dancewear shop was nothing. Even doing something as mundane as a set of pliés, even in those unflattering garbage-bag pants with her long neck swallowed by a scarf, Heather Hays was unquestionably gorgeous.
The rest of barre passed in a blur. Marcus did what he could—some tendus, some petit battements, and some grand battements on his good leg. To his surprise and satisfaction, he wasn’t in any pain. His ankle felt stiff, like there was a blockage keeping him from bending his knee too deeply or rising too high on demi-pointe, but Sharon had said that was normal at this stage of recovery. He tried to keep his eyes off Heather, which wasn’t easy, especially when, after Peter had them repeat a rond de jambe exercise and the dancers on both sides of him were panting audibly, she unwound her scarf and peeled off her pants. He had a feeling he’d looked at her just a little too long that time, because when he turned away, he spotted Alice watching him curiously. He gave her a breezy grin and waggled his eyebrows playfully. She replied with a quick, close-mouthed smile.
When the music stopped, the dancers sharing his barre picked it up and transported it to the back of the studio. Marcus gave Alice and Heather a quick wave, collected his cane and bag, and slipped out the door. On his way to the change rooms, Sharon stuck her head out of the physio room.
“How’d it go?” she asked, taking in his flushed cheeks and damp T-shirt.
“Yeah, good.” He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “I took it easy, I promise.” He heard the grumble in his own voice andsilently reprimanded himself. He wouldn’t have made it half this far if not for Sharon and the rest of the physio team.
“Well, as long as it doesn’t hurt this afternoon or when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’re right to keep going back,” she said, ignoring his tone. “Come and see me on Friday morning and we’ll check your range of motion, okay?”
“Okay,” he nodded, giving her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Shaz, really. I know we’ve got a ways to go yet, but thanks.”
“You’re welcome, love,” she said, with real affection in her voice. “I’ll be glad to see you back on stage. We all will.”
After class, Heather took a short break, changed into a dry leotard, and snuck out for a coffee. Between the cafes on the Kirribilli main drag and the one in the lobby, she was getting accustomed to drinking at least two flat whites a day. Soon the freckled barista at the company café would know her order by heart, she thought as she tipped her head back to capture the last cold milky drops from the bottom of the to-go cup.
She arrived in Studio C feeling thoroughly caffeinated, if a little reluctant. It was the first day of rehearsals forGiselle, a ballet she’d be happy to never dance again. On top of the piano, she found a piece of paper with her name printed at the top and was surprised to see that it was the week’s rehearsal schedule. Her entire week had already been mapped out: the act one pas de deux today and for the next few days, and in the middle of the week a session with the dancers who’d trade off playing Myrtha, queen of the wilis. Then some solo rehearsal time on Friday.
“Peter?” she asked, once he’d settled in a chair at the front of the room, his back to the mirror and a notebook on his lap. “I assume this schedule is subject to change? Is there an email that goes out the night before, or...?”
“Oh, no,” Peter said with an affable wave of his hand. “We don’t do that anymore. It was one of the first things I changed when I took over. You’ll get your rehearsal schedule at the start of theweek, and we’ll stick to it. This way you can plan your week more than a few hours ahead.”
Another of Peter’s famous reforms. It certainly wasn’t the way she was used to rehearsing: at NYB, she never knew until the evening what the next day would hold after company class finished at noon. It was hard to have a life outside of ballet when the company dictated your schedule—and didn’t tell you what that schedule would look like until the night before. And even then, Mr. K could call an emergency rehearsal any time he wanted. Once, Heather had been in the middle of a haircut downtown when her phone had buzzed, calling her back to Lincoln Center for an unscheduled rehearsal. She’d rushed out of the salon with her hair wet and half cut, then had to return later in the week so the very perplexed stylist could finish. Evidently that wouldn’t be a problem at ANB.
But a few hours later, Peter’s reforms were the last thing on her mind, and she found herself wishing she’d asked for an extra shot of espresso in that flat white. She was exhausted, and rehearsal wasn’t going well.
It wasn’t her partner’s fault. Justin Winters was a principal dancer with a thick Australian accent, close-cropped blond hair, incredible feet, and a few inches on Heather. He seemed nice enough, if a little starstruck by her. He was a steady and capable partner, and unlike some of the men she’d rehearsed with, he’d made an effort to freshen both his armpits and his breath before they started working. He was more deferential than any partner she’d ever had, too. Whenever Peter told them to try a lift or an assisted pirouette again, Justin would ask, “You right?” before placing his hands on Heather’s body, which she quickly figured out was Australian for “Are you okay?”
Still, something feltoff, and all three of them could sense it. The first few times they ran through the pas de deux, they were behind the music every time. When Peter pointed this out, they overcorrected, and the next two runs felt rushed and frantic. Maybe sheand Justin needed a few more rehearsals to get to know each other and learn how to read each other’s little nonverbal cues.
Or maybe, that cold, treacherous voice whispered,you’re the problem. Maybe you don’t deserve to be here at all.
Heather tried not to think about how easy it had been to dance with Jack, how well they knew each other’s cues. No, how wellsheknewJack’scues. He’d been a fine partner, but if she was honest with herself, they’d worked well together because she was so attuned to him, even when it wasn’t reciprocated.
After almost an hour and a half, they had run the pas de deux six times, and neither Justin’s armpits nor hers were anything resembling fresh anymore.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Peter sighed at last, and the rehearsal pianist shuffled her sheet music away almost immediately. “Thanks, Kimberly,” Peter called as she pushed her stool under the piano and slipped out of the room.
Heather walked slowly over to her bag and eased herself onto the floor. Everything ached, and as she untied her ribbons and slipped her feet out of her pointe shoes, she resisted the urge to groan. Peter thanked them for their hard work, then gathered his things from the top of the piano and headed for the door. The moment he was gone, Justin flopped dramatically onto the floor in the middle of the studio and lay flat on his back with a loud moan. Heather laughed.
“My sentiments exactly,” she said. “He’s relentless, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he’s nice about it,” Justin said to the ceiling. “And if you ask for a rest, he’ll give you one. Plus, he’ll never let you dance hurt.”
That was another difference between ANB and NYB, Heather thought as she packed her water bottle and pointe shoes back into her bag. Mr. K would never make someone dance hurt if they didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t stop them, either. A few years ago, a fellow principal had insisted on dancing the second half of the season with a stress fracture in her metatarsal, and she’d come offstage in tears every night. Mr. K hadn’t said a word, and none of the dancers had suggested she take a break to let it heal.
Justin peeled himself off the floor and crossed the studio to collect his bag from under one of the barres, then turned back to face her.
“Listen, I’m sorry about today, I’m usually a little more on the ball than that.”
