Page 17 of Barre Fight
“First weeks are always hard, love, you’ll get used to the place, and then you’ll, uh, ‘smash it.’”
Ivy nodded and took another sip of her wine. As problems went, a family that believed in you even when they didn’t have good reason to wasn’t exactly a problem. There were worse fates than supportive parents who thought you could do anything you set your mind to. But everyone in the family had their roles. Luke was the roguish, shit-stirring baby who was probably goingto end up making more money than all of them combined. George was the eternal student, the mild eccentric who’d happily live in a falling-down shack if it meant he could stay suspended forever in academic adolescence.
And Ivy? Ivy was the example-setter, the eldest daughter who never complained and succeeded no matter what. The one time she’d deviated from that role, it had nearly crushed her. Not just the failure, but the disappointment and surprise on her parents’ faces when they realized that she wasn’t going to square her shoulders and soldier on this time. She would never forget the weight of that disappointment. And she knew she couldn’t bear to burden them with it again.
ChapterFour
Justin woke on Sunday morning to the sound of the lorikeets in the bottlebrush tree outside the window squabbling, his usual Sunday alarm clock. He lay for a few minutes listening to the colorful birds shriek and squawk as they hopped from branch to branch feeding out of the long, fluffy red flowers. They had rainbow lorikeets back home, too, and though he never went back to Hillstone if he could help it, he didn’t mind this reminder of the place where he’d grown up. He’d been in the city over a decade now, but he never stopped missing the hot stillness of the bush, the way you could stop in the middle of a clearing and hear nothing but the leaves stirring in the feeble breeze and the careful rustle of small creatures in the brush. As a kid, Justin always wanted to be moving, but when he could stand still enough to listen, the bush rewarded him with a million whispered secrets.
He stretched under the covers, feeling yesterday’s company class in his hamstrings and lower back. Peter had decided that the company needed to work on its arabesques, and the result was twenty minutes of long, slow extensions in the center, untilJustin thought he’d never be able to lift his leg up behind him again.
“So now you know what it’s like to dance ‘Kingdom of the Shades,’” Alice Ho had grumbled beside him, as they both stood panting at the barre at the end of class. Justin had watched in awe a few seasons ago as the women of the corps performed the famously difficult Act III sequence inLa Bayadere, in which they entered the stage one by one and performed a seemingly endless series of perfectly synchronized arabesques on fondu on a sloping ramp. As the very first dancer to appear on stage, Alice had performed 47 arabesques every night. Shaz hated “The Kingdom of the Shades”—“the bloody thing was designed in a lab so you’d all need L4-L5 surgery,” he’d once heard her grumble to Alice—but audiences loved it.
Justin rolled over as one of the birds let out a particularly emphatic squawk, relishing the feeling of simply lying there. Sundays were precious for dancers, the only day with no demands on their bodies. For years after he joined the company, Justin had a regular Sunday routine with Missy. They’d sleep late, then wander down Willoughby Road to a cluster of cafes that did a roaring brunch trade. They’d eat a slow meal—Missy was usually recovering from a night out, and during the performance season, he was recovering from a night on the Opera House stage—then stop at the supermarket on their way home and stock up for the week. In the evening they’d cook something easy, watch a movie, and get an early night. In the last few years, though, the routine had become less reliable. Missy would sometimes spend Saturday nights at her girlfriend’s place, or Justin would wake up on Sunday morning to find her and Beth already dressed and caffeinated and chattering happily in the living room. When that happened, he’d take advantage of the solitude and go for a long bushwalk.
This morning, he rolled himself out of bed and walked tentatively to the living room and found Beth sitting on the couch with a mug in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked up when he entered and smiled, her face still puffy with sleep under her messy black bun.
“Good morning, slugger,” she said, and he shook his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “Not before I’ve had caffeine.”
Beth grimaced apologetically and climbed off the couch to join him in the kitchen. “Sorry. I didn’t realize that was still a sore spot. There’s plenty of coffee left.”
Justin nodded and emptied the French press into a mug. “What did you two get up to last night?”
“Birthday party for one of my co-workers that turned into a bit of a pub crawl, and we didn’t get home until pretty late. You?”
“Quiet one. I’ve been trying to avoid pubs lately.”
“Right.” Beth nodded knowingly. “You doing okay? Missy said they’re trying to do some image rehab at work?”
Justin took a long gulp of coffee. “Theycertainly are trying.”
Ivy Page was trying so hard it looked like it hurt. Her presence pissed him off, but no one could say she wasn’t giving it her all. If she were anyone else he’d almost respect the effort, he conceded, against his will. But she was her, and her persistence was infuriating.
“Well, that’s good. Is it working?”
“Not really,” Justin grumbled.
“Why not?” Beth frowned.
“Because I’m not going to give her—I mean them—the satisfaction.”
“I see,” Beth said, eyebrows raised in obvious skepticism, and disappeared into the kitchen to refill her mug.
Justin followed her, already ready for more coffeehimself. As he poured milk and stirred in some sugar, Beth leaned her back against the counter.
“And why aren’t you giving her—I mean them—the satisfaction?”
Justin scowled. Because Ivy didn’t deserve it. What she did deserve was every grudging thought he’d had about her in the last five years, every time he’d mentally called her Poison Ivy, and avoided her when she’d come around the studios looking for her next story. Her next victim. “The woman they picked to work on it, she’s a former journalist. And I don’t trust her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s—” Justin started, then he heard how sharp his voice was. He let out a breath and tried again. There was no need to bite Beth’s head off. “She wrote a really shitty review of me a few years ago. And she’s the one who wrote about the video in the first place. I don’t trust her not to screw me over again.”
Beth tipped her head thoughtfully. “But she’s not a journalist anymore, right? She works for the company now?”
“Well, yeah, but…” He shrugged. “That’s just her job.”
