The Yuletide Child

From around that time she began to feel very off-colour. She couldn’t think what was the matter with her. Her symptoms weren’t serious enough for her to go to the doctor, and they kept changing. One minute she had backache, the next she felt sick, then she had a headache. After half an hour gardening she suddenly felt dizzy, the world going round and round, and had to go indoors and lie down. All those little grumbling problems she kept to herself, because she didn’t want Ross to think she was a hypochondriac. Her health had always been so good. Was it loneliness and boredom that were making her ill?

‘Why don’t you join a club?’ suggested Ross.

‘The only one around here is the mothers’ club at the village church, and I don’t qualify.’

He laughed. ‘How about the golf club? I know Suzy’s a member. It’s only a couple of miles away. Have you ever played golf?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never really played any games—dancers are reluctant to risk injuring themselves, and playing games always seems to end in someone pulling a muscle or breaking a leg!’

‘I’d never thought of that, but it’s true—Alan is always doing himself an injury playing golf or football. He’s so clumsy. Suzy’s right.’

Dylan frowned. ‘Aren’t they happy, Ross?’

He looked surprised. ‘As far as I know. Oh, Suzy’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s fond of the old boy.’

‘He’s no older than you!’

‘You know what I mean.’

She wasn’t sure she did, but she dropped the subject. Ross seemed to like Suzy. Maybe she was imagining the tension between her and Alan? It was a pity she and Suzy didn’t get on—she could have done with a friend, someone to talk to about how she felt, the problems she had. She couldn’t talk to Ross; she was wary of letting him know what she was thinking and feeling.

The trouble was, she badly missed London and her old friends, and most of all, of course, she missed dancing. She did some ballet floor work every day, but it wasn’t the same on your own as working in a room full of others doing their exercises. Here, she had no barre to practise at, and no mirror in which to watch her reflection moving, make sure she was moving her body correctly, getting the right angles, making the right shapes.

In early July Ross looked up one Sunday morning and said, ‘Seen this?’ showing her the entertainments page of the paper he was reading. A large photo of Michael and a girl dominated the print.

‘What’s the story?’ Was i

t just that Michael had been seen out with that girl or...surely he hadn’t got engaged? Dylan averted her eyes from the fried egg and bacon Ross had insisted on cooking for them both. He would be hurt if she didn’t eat it.

‘He’s found another partner,’ Ross said with a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice.

‘You’re kidding?’ Dylan leaned forward to stare at the girl and caught the smell of the fried food, felt her gorge rise. Clutching her mouth, she fled from the table into the downstairs cloakroom where she was violently sick.

When she came slowly back to the kitchen, pale and shaky, Ross had cleared the table, thrown her cooked breakfast away, and was loading the dishwasher. Hearing her footsteps, he looked round, his eyes coldly flicking over her.

‘That much of a shock, was it?’

She looked blankly at him. ‘What?’

‘That he’s going to be dancing with someone else!’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Dylan said wearily. ‘I knew he would. I’m glad he’s found someone.’

‘Yes, I saw how glad you were!’ Ross bit out.

Dylan simply wasn’t well enough to argue with him. Wordlessly she took the Sunday paper from the kitchen table and went into the sitting room to lie down and read the story without Ross’s cold eyes on her.

Michael had been holding auditions for some weeks, seeing hundreds of girls, and had finally found a partner to take her place: a girl called Sasha Vienzini.

A faint smile curled Dylan’s mouth—that was never her real name! But then there had always been a tradition of ballet dancers taking foreign stage names, particularly Russian ones. English names hadn’t been considered exotic enough, although these days dancers chose more and more to use their real names, just as the choreographers and directors looked for more reality in the work they did. English ballet no longer felt it needed to apologise for not being Russian. It had struck out on its own and was a powerhouse of new ideas.

Dylan studied the girl’s background and previous career, then looked again at the photo and realised she had met her once or twice. Ballet was a small world, both nationally and internationally. Sasha Vienzini had already got something of a name.

While she was staring at the girl’s picture Ross came into the room and she looked up uncertainly at him. Was he still in that nasty mood?

‘She’s a dead ringer for you, isn’t she?’ he said in sardonic tones. ‘If he can’t have you, he’s obviously decided to have someone who looks like you.’

‘He picked her because she’s a brilliant dancer,’ Dylan told him. ‘I’ve seen her dance; she’s good. Better than good. And I’m sure she’ll interpret his choreography as well as I ever did. I hope their partnership is a terrific success.’