Page 8 of Pas de Don't
They sat in silence for a while, and Heather checked the time on her phone. It was almost midnight. In a few hours she’d have to get up and go uptown for another morning of trying to concentrate on dancing, while her ex-fiancé and her replacement traded smitten smiles during degagés. Just like she’d done today, and the day before.
Heather had been about to suggest they both get some sleep when Carly gasped and turned to her, delight visible on her face even in the semi-darkness.
“There’s one company we forgot,” she’d said excitedly. “Better than any of those places. Well, farther away, anyway. And I bet they’ll say yes.”
A sparkle of light on water interrupted Heather’s memories. The taxi had wended its way through the city and now, out the right-hand side of the car, she saw Sydney’s famous, dazzling harbor for the first time. Sunlight bounced off the calm water, and large boats crisscrossed on their way to a big central wharf, leaving long trails of white water behind them. And then there was the iconic HarbourBridge, a huge, elegant gray arch teeming with cars, connecting two crowded shorelines. Despite her fatigue, Heather grinned. This place was her new home for the next month.
“Are we going over it?” she asked the driver.
“The Bridge? Yeah. Your first time in Sydney?”
“It is,” Heather said, craning her neck to see more of the water.
“Then you’ll want to look up as we cross. It’s a hell of a view up through all that steel.”
But as the cab rolled onto the bridge and under its graceful steel arch, Heather looked to the right, and gasped. Beneath her, on a piece of land jutting out into the water, sat the Sydney Opera House, home of the Australian National Ballet. Its iconic off-white sails curved into the blue sky, and through her exhaustion, Heather felt a thrill of anticipation as she gazed down at the bizarre, beautiful building. That theater was going to be her home for the next month.
But first, a shower.
Marcus sat on the swaying bus as it trundled over the Harbour Bridge, staring glumly out the window. Jammed into the seat with his backpack on his knees, he tried to keep his crutches from falling onto the woman next to him. When he could stand, he’d never noticed how packed the morning buses into the city were. Now that he had to hunt for a seat every morning, he felt rather claustrophobic.
The Opera House came into view, its sharp white peaks like jumbled teeth in the bright winter sun. Marcus turned away and focused instead on the brightly colored pattern on the upholstered seat in front of him. He put a hand on his knee and squeezed it tightly, trying to calm the flutter of anxiety he felt in his gut every time he looked at the building now. It helped, a little.
As the bus rolled into the city, Marcus reached over the beleaguered-looking woman sitting beside him with an apologetic grimace and pressed the redSTOPbutton. The bus crawled to a halt amid the morning traffic, opening its doors with a loud exhale,and his seatmate pivoted to let him pass. Awkwardly, he hiked his backpack over one shoulder and made his way off the bus, heading down the hill towards work. He didn’t particularly enjoy these slow, crutch-supported walks to the dance studios, but it was a relief to move a little more freely after so many months immobilized and in pain.
Twenty-five minutes later, Marcus eased himself into the lobby of the ANB, sweating slightly. Crutching downhill was still work, and the last leg from the bus stop was down a steep flight of a hundred and fifty sandstone stairs. Sharon, the company’s head physiotherapist, said it was good for him, but he was willing to bet she’d never tried it herself.
Marcus passed the dance studios, nodding to his colleagues as they hustled past him on their way to morning class. He tried not to envy his friends as they disappeared into Studio B to claim a spot at the barre. If he let himself think too hard about what his life used to be like—what it felt like to start every morning with fluid, pain-free pliés, what it felt like not to miss his dad every second of every day—he’d get dragged back down into the deep chasm of grief he’d only just begun to climb out of.
It had been a year since Marcus had shredded his left Achilles tendon, since that awful night on stage at the Opera House when he’d landed a tour jeté and felt a previously unimaginable pain rip through the back of his ankle. Sometimes, in his dreams, he still heard the audience’s horrified gasps, and then the little groan of shock and confusion that fell out of his body as he hit the floor in agony. He could still see the panic in Alice’s eyes as she watched him from the wings, suddenly on his hands and knees when he was supposed to be standing tall and proud and ready to dance the next section of their pas de deux.
He had been hurt before, every dancer he knew had been. But most of his injuries had been from overuse, little aches that ballooned into more serious problems over time. Despite the little injuries, and the short bursts of rest and rehabilitation he’d beenthrough before, he’d always felt...kind of invulnerable. He had been young and strong; he’d always bounced back. But he hadn’t seen this one coming, and it had knocked all the wind out of him.
The surgery to repair the busted tendon hadn’t gone well, and they’d had to go in a second time. And now, his rehab was moving more slowly than he’d imagined. Six months in—six months of hoisting himself around on crutches with his foot hanging uselessly in a boot—he was growing restless. This was the longest he’d gone without dancing since he was eight years old. Now, in his early thirties, every month counted, because who knew how much time he had left before the rest of his body gave out and he had to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life? He’d had a glimpse, now, of what life without ballet looked like, and it looked pretty fucking grim.
“Morning, Marcus,” called Sharon as he crutched his way into theclinic and shrugged his backpack onto the bench beside the door. The room was quiet, and like the dance studios, it had floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall. There were several massage tables, a Pilates reformer, and a large shelf in the back stocked with resistance bands and medicine balls. In another corner, a rack of kettlebells stood next to a small collapsible ballet barre.
“Morning, Shaz,” he said, gently testing his weight on his foot and deciding to limp his way to her. “Not bad, eh?” he asked, when he reached her, holding on to the massage table for balance.
“Not bad at all,” she said. Her short, blonde ponytail swayed along with her vaguely impressed nods. “I reckon we can start you walking without crutches pretty soon.”
Marcus beamed. “Really?”
“Nothing too major,” she warned. “I want to take it nice and slow. The slower you come back, the faster you come back.”
“I know, I know,” he grumbled, his little shot of excitement already fizzling out. It was Sharon’s mantra, one she’d been trying to drill into the company’s dancers for fifteen years.The slower you come back, the faster you come back.It rarely worked. Mostof his colleagues started taking dance classes because as kids they couldn’t sit still, and most of them still couldn’t. Others felt like they couldn’t afford to rest, even when they were injured. Especially the women. There was so much competition for jobs and for roles, and an endless supply of talented young dancers looking for a spot in the company.
Marcus didn’t think ANB was going to let him go on account of his injury; since Peter became artistic director, they didn’t do things like that anymore. But he had other reasons for wanting to get back on stage, even if the very sight of the theatre made him queasy.
“I know you know,” Sharon said, levelling her no-nonsense gaze at him as he climbed onto the table and lay on his back. “I want you back at full strength too, believe me. So let’s take a look at it and maybe today we’ll get you walking. Andmaybesome very gentle pliés.”
Marcus smiled to himself as she got to work, manipulating his left ankle. It had been the worst fucking year of his life, grinding dutifully through physio despite a grief so heavy it sometimes felt like it was pinning him to his bed in the morning. But maybe the worst was over.
From down the hall, he could hear the pianist for company class playing a Chopin étude. His colleagues were dancing. And soon, he’d be able to join them.
Chapter 3
Heather woke in a weak gray light and felt a momentary jolt of panic. Where was she?Whenwas she? She opened her eyes and scanned the dim bedroom. Her suitcase lay open on the floor, and she was lying fully dressed atop the still-made bed. Then she remembered: She had taken that much-needed shower, pulled on some jeans, plugged in her phone. She must have lain on the bed while she waited for it to charge...and now it was evening.
