I take the earlier train to work in case there’s a delay and trip lightly up Charing Cross Road toward the Palais Theater. The sight of it always lifts my spirits, but today it makes my heart pound and brings an excited flush to my cheeks.
The performance goes off without a hitch. I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver but his presence is everywhere, as if he’s permeated the very air I breathe.
When I arrive at the theater on Wednesday morning for the matinee, Gregory wants the chorus to alter a number to suit a new set, and we rehearse it quickly before the show. Mr. Kingsolver is standing in the wings, arms folded, watching us. I’m the last one to file off past him, a smile glimmering around my lips. When I glance up at him, his expression doesn’t change, but he winks at me. My blood sings.
Half an hour before we go on, Gregory comes into our dressing room and tells us that one of the stars is leaving. She’s not a lead but she has a big part, a good part, as a dancing fairy, and everyone in the chorus is invited to audition for the role in front of him and Mr. Kingsolver after the matinee.
“There’s a sign-up sheet outside. Go and put your name on it if you want to audition.”
I hurry out and find that most of the rest of the chorus is clustered round the list, too. I suppose it makes sense—no one wants to be stuck in the chorus forever. I’ve got a good chance of getting the part, as Gregory made me the lead woodcutter a few months back and told me how much I deserved it.
But as I stand there, waiting to reach the front of the queue, doubts begin to needle me. I have to audition in front of both Gregory and Mr. Kingsolver. None of the other girls have made mistakes and been reprimanded. What if they think I’m not trustworthy enough for the part?
Mr. Kingsolver comes past and a few of the girls ask him questions about the role. I watch how attentive he is as he answers them. He’s taking them so seriously. I remember how flinty he can become when he’s displeased. What if I walk out onstage to audition and he gives me that look? Or worse, laughs at me?
I turn on my heel and go back into the dressing room. It’s not worth the stress, I tell myself. You stood up to your mother and you’re doing what you love. Don’t push your luck.
I spend the time between the matinee and the evening show ducking in and out of the dance supply stores in Soho, trailing my fingers over jars of sequins and the satiny ballet shoes. I can’t get enough of all the delicate, unspoiled prettiness. I buy some fabric flowers to sew into a flower crown, and then head back to the theater to get ready for the next performance.
I have on my makeup and costume and I am about to duck into the wings when Mr. Kingsolver appears out of the darkness and takes hold of my wrist. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and says, “My office, after the show.” And then he’s gone.
Have I done something wrong? Was I late? No, I wasn’t late. All the same, a tingle starts between my legs and I almost hope I have broken a rule, even though I’ve been doing my best to please him.
At a quarter past ten, I’m standing outside his office door. With a forefinger I trace the gold lettering of his name, mouthing each letter with silent lips. Then I take a deep breath and knock.
“Come.”
He looks up when I come in and lays down his pen. “Abby. Thank you for coming.”
He’s businesslike, brisk. I feel a twist of disappointment.
“I wanted to ask why you didn’t audition to be Cara’s replacement.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
His eyes narrow. “Uh, pardon, Mr. Kingsolver?”
“You’re a good dancer, Abby. I expected you to be there today. Do you not want the part?”
“Of course I do.”
He waits, one eyebrow raised.
“I—I just didn’t think I should. The other girls haven’t made any mistakes lately. Not like me.”
Getting up suddenly, he gestures for the door. “Come on. You can try out now. Gregory’s gone home but I can give him notes on your audition.”
I try to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that one of the other girls will be perfect for the part, but he doesn’t listen. He takes me down onto the stage and turns on the spots, then waits in the stalls while I change int
o my warm-up gear in the wings. When I come back onto the stage the lights are so bright I can’t see him.
“Do you know Cara’s part?” calls a disembodied voice.
“Yes,” I say, hoping that I do remember it all.
“Can you dance without music?”
Oh, god. I’m going to make such a fool of myself. “Uh—yes, I think so.”