Page 31 of Barre Fight
Ivy opened her mouth, waiting for a rejoinder to present itself, but no words came. So she sat there, looking up at Justin Winters, who was sitting pink-cheeked in her living room, still in his dance clothes, having just promised to do whatever she wanted him to. Heat flooded her face again, and she felt her pulse kick in her throat.
“Well, um,” she managed eloquently after a few endless seconds. “I should get to bed—sleep. I should get to sleep. But I’ll tell Peter first thing tomorrow that we’ve come to an agreement. He can inform the board, and the backer, and hopefully that will be that.”
“Right,” he nodded. “I’ll get going, then.” He stood winced a little, then dug a thumb into the crease of his hip.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, looking down at the offending tendon. When he met her eyes again, there was a shrug in his voice. “You heard Shaz. It’s always something with us older dancers.”
“Got a foam roller at home?”
“Oh, me and my foam roller, we’ve never spent a night apart,” he said, with a rueful smile. “She’s my longest-running relationship.”
He walked towards the front door, and after a second of hesitation, she stood and followed him, then opened it for him. It wasn’t like they’d been standing on ceremony for the last half hour—she’d spent half of it sprawled on the couch in a fit of hangry pique—but still, it felt impolite to let him simply walk out her door without so much as a goodbye. Only now that she’d opened the door for him, they were standing here in the entryway with barely a foot of air between them, and she had to remind herself how to perform the rituals of seeing someone out of her home.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, a little stiffly.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice low. “And listen, thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“You say that now, but wait until I’ve made you sit through half a dozen Broadway shows.”
“If anyone can convince me to enjoy that, it’s you,” he said, with a grimace. “You’re like a pitbull in heels.”
“I’m going to pretend that was a compliment,” she said, putting her hand on the doorknob and closing the door a few centimeters. “Say hi to your foam roller for me.”
“I will. Say bye to the scary man-hating musical lady for me.”
Ivy let out an amused littlehmph, and he sidled out the door. She closed it behind him and realized that for the first time ever, she was leaving an encounter with Justin Winters with a smile on her face.
Chapter Seven
“I give up,” Ivy moaned, staring at the pile of clothes on her bed a week later.
It had been a frantic week of writing press releases and pitching the company to New York media outlets, then sending relentless follow up emails trying to nail down coverage and arrange interviews for Peter and the principals. When that didn’t work, she picked up the phone and called, then called again (after calculating the substantial time difference; no use calling theNew York Postat 3am their time). She’d spent her spare hours planning out all the places she wanted to go, all the things she wanted to see, all the restaurants where she wanted to eat. That had left her basically no time to pack, and now, the entire contents of her wardrobe lay on her bed, and her suitcase was just as empty as it had been when she pulled it out of her closet three days ago.
Her flight was in a little over twelve hours, and right now it looked like she’d be arriving in New York either naked or carrying every piece of clothing she owned.
Em rolled her eyes. She’d arrived an hour ago carrying a giant Ikea bag full of boots and warm weather gear, and forcedIvy to take a break to eat dinner before they tackled the task of packing. Em loved clothes and never left the house in an outfit that didn’t feel one hundred percent her. She’d once explained to Ivy that it was something she’d had to learn to do once she quit dancing and didn’t have to spend all her energy trying her damnedest to look like everyone else in her ballet class. Now, she only wanted to look exactly like herself, which meant she always looked absolutely fabulous. Yesterday, as Ivy’s pile of possible clothes ballooned, she’d begged Em to come over and help her decide out what to pack.
“Oh, stop panicking. You have a coat,” Em said now, pointing at the sumptuous deep navy wool overcoat she’d brought over, “and everything else is just a question of coordination and layers.”
Easy for Em to say, Ivy thought. She was one of the most stylish people Ivy had ever met, and she had corporate law money to pour into her wardrobe. She’d poured alotof it into that coat. It had a wide shawl collar, and was made of the softest lambswool, lined with watery cobalt silk. It was a little roomy on Ivy, because Em was a size or two bigger than her, but when Ivy had tried it on over her cut-offs, she’d cinched the belt tight at her waist and instantly felt like Audrey Hepburn. Or better yet, Katharine Hepburn.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Ivy sighed.
“Let’s start with day wear,” Em said, approaching Mount Closet and picking a few garments off the top. “You’ll be at the theater all day, or walking around the city, so you need to be chic and comfortable. And warm.”
“Chic, comfortable, and warm,” Ivy repeated, watching as Em pulled a few jumpers and a long knit skirt off the pile, then dug a pair of elegant black leather riding boots out of her bag. She held them up for Ivy to inspect. Thank god they wore the same shoe size.
“Love them. But no heels,” Ivy said glumly.
“No heels,” Em confirmed. “I don’t think you want to traipse all over New York in the snow and ice in a pair of heeled boots.”
“I guess not,” Ivy sighed, as Em dropped the boots on top of the several outfits she’d magically assembled out of the chaos on the bed.
“For evenings, you need warm dresses and you can probably get away with some heels. How about… these?” She pulled a pair of stiletto ankle booties out of the bag, black suede with pointed toes. Even by Ivy’s standards they were precarious, but she reached for them longingly anyway.
“I love these ones, I’ve wanted to wear them since the day you bought them.”
