Page 9 of Pas de Don't
She’d slept right through her first day in Sydney.
Sitting up, Heather pulled her damp hair from her face, and it only took a moment for her to realize she was absolutely ravenous. She rolled herself off the bed, feeling every one of the fourteen hours of the flight from L.A. in her hip flexors, then slipped on her sneakers and grabbed her phone, tossing it in her bag as she left in search of food.
Kirribilli, as it turned out, was a quaint and leafy old suburb built on a hill above the water, tucked right under the Harbour Bridge. The little house provided by the company was a narrowtwo-story sandstone row house, with a dark-green front door and three terracotta pots of riotous hot-pink geraniums on the tiled front porch. Inside, Heather had found a small, sun-drenched living room at the front of the house, and an equally small but recently renovated kitchen in back.
Heather walked a short way down her quiet street and soon found herself on a narrow main drag where shops and cafes crowded along the hill. Farther down was the harbor, now an inky blue under the cloudy twilight sky. She headed up the street, relishing the cool evening air against her skin, thinking she might wander a bit before deciding where to have dinner. But the very first restaurant she walked past was a tiny Thai place, and the scent of tom yum soup and green curry made her stomach rumble with desperation. She could explore later.
One large plate of pad thai and a cold light beer later, Heather sat contentedly at her sidewalk table, gazing down the hill at the shifting, shimmering water. For the first time since Carly had entered her apartment that awful Sunday morning two months ago, Heather felt truly relaxed.
What time was it in New York? Too late to call Carly? She screwed up her face, trying to do the math, then gave up and searched her bag for her phone. She checked the time and saw it was nearly 9:00AMin New York.
Heather, 6:47PM: Made it to Sydney fine. Exhausted but it’s gorgeous here.
Carly, 6:49PM:The couch misses you
Carly, 6:50PM: And I miss you
Heather, 6:50PM: I miss you too.
Carly, 6:53PM: Gotta get on the subway but glad you made it okay
Carly, 6:53PM: Love you, don’t forget your promise: I want lots of photos of hot Australian dudes
Heather laughed. Carly had, indeed, made her promise to send photos of hot Australian dudes as Heather was loading her suitcase into the cab to JFK.
Heather, 6:53PM: Don’t forget YOUR promise: I want lots of photos of my plant.
A moment later, a photo of her potted plant appeared. Heather spotted a few promising new leaves sprouting in the sunlight.
Carly, 6:54PM: I’ve named her ZZ Pot. She also wants photos of hot Australian dudes
Carly, 6:54PM: I should probably water her more if she’s going to be this thirsty
Heather smiled ruefully. She wasn’t sorry to be away from New York for a while, but she was going to miss Carly. She pulled up her mother’s number, and after a moment of hesitation, tapped out a quick text. Her mom hadn’t taken the news of the breakup well, probably because Heather hadn’t told her Jack cheated. Even before Melissa, Heather never had the heart to spoil the press-friendly fairytale that made her mother so happy and so sure of her daughter’s future. As far as Linda Hays knew, her sensible, predictable daughter had walked away from a stable seven-year relationship with the biggest star in American ballet, a man whose family had enough money to make sure she never wanted for anything—for no good reason.
Heather, 6:57PM: Landed safely in Sydney, all is well here.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
Heather had just signed the check when her phone vibrated and a long, unknown number appeared on the screen.
“Hello, this is Heather.”
“G’day Heather, it’s Peter McGregor at ANB,” said a voice with a broad Australian accent.
“Mr. McGregor, hello!” Heather sat up straight and snapped into obliging-and-attentive-employee mode. As the artistic director of the company, this man was now her boss, even if only temporarily.
“Oh, please, call me Peter, all the dancers do.”
“Uh, okay, Peter.” It felt strange to call an artistic director by his first name, and she certainly couldn’t call him “Peet-ah,” which was how he pronounced it. But this fit with what she knew about Mr. McGregor’s—nope,Peter’s—tenure at ANB. He’d been put in charge a few years ago and had set about reforming the company to make it more dancer friendly, doing his best to remove the strict hierarchy that defined so many ballet companies.
In the gate lounge at JFK, Heather had scrolled through articles about him and ANB, which had helped distract her from the enormity of the snap decision she’d made. One of Peter’s first acts had been to install an on-site counselor alongside the physical therapy team. As he’d told theSydney Morning Sun, he believed dancers’ mental health was inextricable from their physical health and wanted to eliminate the stigma attached to seeking mental healthcare. He’d brought in lots of women choreographers to create new dances for the company, pledging that for at least his first five years, the company would perform more works by women than by men.
Heather had stared in shock when she read that, and then counted quickly on her fingers—it only took one hand to name the few women choreographers whose works she’d performed at NYB in the last five years. Little wonder, then, that Carly’s instinct had been correct: of all the companies Heather had approached, ANB was the only one willing to hire her without Jack. For that, she was extremely grateful.
“How was the flight over?” Peter asked. “I know it can be grueling.”
“It was, but I’ve spent the day resting and the house is lovely, really,” Heather assured him. “Thank you for arranging all this atsuch short notice,” she added quickly.Thank you for throwing me a life preserver when I was drowning.
